His 'n' Hers (4 page)

‘Morning, Jim boy,’ says a voice from behind me, in the middle of ‘The Milkman of Human Kindness’.

I turn to see a tall, sombre-looking lad, whom I recognise as being one of the many people I’d told my A-level results to the previous evening by way of making conversation. For the life of me I can’t remember his name and it obviously shows.

‘The name’s Nick,’ he says, reading my nonplussed features. ‘Nick Constantinedes.’

‘Nick, of course I remember,’ I lie. ‘How are you, mate?’

‘Good,’ he replies, and then looks puzzled. ‘Are you going to a fancy-dress party?’

I laugh because it’s the only reaction I can think of to maintain my cool. I can see that he doesn’t mean anything by it. Ordinary people not ‘getting’ it, I reason, is all part of being a fashion visionary. ‘This is the way I dress,’ I explain.

‘Oh,’ he replies, and then, realising his mistake, adds sheepishly, ‘I like your boots. Where did you get them from?’

‘Afflecks Palace in Manchester.’

He nods. ‘Cool.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Did you enjoy last night?’ he asks. ‘I saw you talking to a very pretty girl.’

‘Did she look like a Goth?’

‘No. She was wearing a Smiths T-shirt.’

‘Ah, that one.’ I shrug. ‘She wasn’t my type. Too normal-looking.’

He nods as if he understands what I’m talking about, and as we walk along we talk about the next official get-together on the Freshers’ Week party-planner. Outside the Barber Institute we come to a halt.

‘The engineering department’s this way,’ he says, pointing up the hill.

‘The School of Economics is this way,’ I say, pointing towards the clock tower.

He gives me a cheerful wave. ‘See you around, then.’

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘See you around.’

He walks about ten feet away and then I shout, ‘I don’t suppose you play an instrument, do you?’

‘The bass guitar,’ he replies. ‘I was in a band back in Sussex but we weren’t very good.’

‘Excellent,’ I reply. ‘Fancy being in a band again?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, why not?’

An hour ago – with Ed, a second-year biologist, on drums, Ruth, a first-year maths student on guitar, Nick on bass and me on vocals – all my dreams came true. Captain Magnet, the band I dreamed of forming, played their first gig on the small stage in the upstairs room at the Jug of Ale in Moseley to a crowd of ten people. It was fantastic. Better than I could ever have imagined.

It’s all over now. Ed and Ruth have gone home and Nick and I are sitting in the downstairs bar. We’ve been talking about the gig solidly since we stepped off stage and now that the topic is wearing thin I decide to offer up another conversational gambit on a subject close to my heart. ‘It’s all very well being the lead singer in a band,’ I say, more loudly than advisable in an overcrowded pub, ‘but I need a woman. And I need a woman now.’

‘Things can’t be that bad,’ says Nick.

‘They’re awful,’ I say. ‘I thought university was supposed to be a hotbed of depravity. I want my share. Do you know how many girls I’ve been involved with since I started university?’

‘No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’

‘One,’ I reply. ‘Linda Braithwaite.’

‘The dodgy semi-Goth from Freshers’ Night who you managed to get off with a further two times?’

‘I know,’ I say, shaking my head sadly. ‘I have no shame.’ I take another sip of my pint.

‘Your love-life’s a mess, mate.’

‘I know it is, which is why . . .’ My sentence trails off as the most beautiful girl in the entire world walks into the pub. She is stunning. Absolutely beautiful, in a million different ways. A goddess. She’s with a tall, moody-looking guy – who, it occurs to me, should look a lot happier given the company he’s keeping. The girl and the guy walk over to our table and stop.

‘Nick!’ says the girl. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ he says coolly. ‘How are you?’

‘Great,’ she says. ‘Really good.’

Nick and this beautiful girl talk for about three minutes about nothing in particular – work, living arrangements, friends in common, life in general – and then she looks at the moody guy standing next to her, and says, ‘Oh, I’d better be off,’ and disappears to the other side of the pub.

‘Who was that?’ I ask, as soon as they’re out of earshot.

‘Who was what?’ replies Nick, just to wind me up.

‘That girl. That absolutely amazing girl.’

Nick laughs. ‘Oh, her? That was Anne Clarke. She lived in halls of residence with me in the first year . . . She’s a bit of a babe.’

‘That’s the understatement of the year. She’s gorgeous. Why have you never introduced me to her?’

‘She’s bad news, mate,’ he says cryptically. ‘You’ll only go and fall in love with her and she’s guaranteed to break your heart.’

I’m at a Valentine’s Day party in Selly Park. As a rule I don’t go to student house parties if I can help it. During my time at university I’ve discovered the first law of student house parties: for every female who attends there will be at least ten sexually frustrated rugby-playing engineering students, who will label non-rugby-playing engineering students as a threat to their attempts to get off with a member of the opposite sex.

I discovered this law in the first week of my first year and, not believing that such Neanderthal behaviour could exist at such levels of higher education, continued to learn this lesson at Sam Golden’s nineteenth-birthday house party, Elaine Doon’s house party to celebrate the end of exams, and Michael Greene’s Christmas house party. I hadn’t been to a house party since Michael Greene’s when several rugby-playing engineering students had taken umbrage at the flowery shirt I wore and the fact that I’d had my tongue down the throat of Linda Braithwaite, who turned out to be the twin sister of rugby-playing engineering student Gary Braithwaite. I’m at this party with Nick for two reasons: first, he has promised me on pain of death that no engineering students have been invited; second, he mentioned that there’s a good chance Anne Clarke will be here. And she is.

She’s dancing exuberantly in the living room – glass of wine in one hand, cigarette in the other – to the Happy Mondays. When the song ends she walks over to a group of guys in the corner of the room. Within seconds she’s laughing and giggling with them. They’re all clearly infatuated with her. It’s odd watching them because it’s almost as if she has them mesmerised. Their eyes follow wherever she goes. It’s snake-charming at its most obvious. I determine that although I’m desperate to talk to her there’s absolutely no way I’m going to walk up to her and begin a conversation. I’m going to play it cool. Not cool in an I-like-you-do-you-like-me? way but cool in an I-have-no-interest-in-you-and-am-impervious-to-your-charms way. I choose my moment carefully. She leaves the group of guys and walks into the kitchen where she heads to the sink and fills her glass with water.

‘Can you pass me a glass from the draining-board?’ I say, behind her.

‘No problem,’ she replies. And then she turns and adds, ‘Nice shirt.’

I’m wearing a peach-coloured cheesecloth short-sleeved shirt with a huge seventies-style collar – if a sudden strong wind enters the kitchen, I may take flight. ‘Cheers,’ I reply, and smile – but not too much. The opening for a hello-who-are-you? conversation is right in front of me but I ignore it, smile again and walk away.

Two hours later I find myself in conversation with a group of people from the history and geography honours course, who are friends of Nick’s. Anne suddenly appears at the edge of the group. I notice her immediately but don’t make eye-contact. After a while the conversation gravitates to a forthcoming field trip so I turn to my left to speak to Anne and I’m pleasantly surprised to see her smiling at me.

‘I’m Jim,’ I tell her. ‘I think I’ve seen you around.’

‘I’m Anne. We met in the kitchen.’

We fall into conversation, covering such general topics as who we know at the party, what courses we’re studying and where we live. Soon, however, under Anne’s direction, the conversation becomes less general and more personal. Unprompted she begins telling me about her life: the odd snippet about her ex-boyfriend, bits about her parents’ divorce, and about how she’s never really got on very well with her sister. For the most part I listen and occasionally respond with the few nuggets of wisdom I’ve collected during my life on earth. They seem to have the desired effect of either cheering her up or making her laugh.

Anne and I have been out at the Varsity. Since the party back in February we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Most evenings she’s at my house or I’m at hers. Everyone, including Nick, and Anne’s ex-boyfriend, believes that we’re an ‘item’ or, at the very least, on the verge of being together. Flattered as I am I tell anyone who will listen that there’s nothing going on and we’re just good friends. The reaction is always the same: they laugh as if they think I’m lying. I can’t blame them because as time has passed I find it more and more difficult to believe it too.

Anne has taken it upon herself to flirt with me outrageously.

We walk around hand in hand.

But nothing ever happens.

I’ll stay over at her house and sleep in her bed while she wears nothing but a bleached-out Stone Roses T-shirt and a smile.

But nothing ever happens.

She kisses me on the lips for no reason and on one occasion even puts her tongue into my ear.

But nothing ever happens.

Tonight, however, as we have both had too much to drink, I decide that something is going to happen. So, when we’re sitting on the sofa at her house, half watching
Central Weekend Live
, half falling asleep, I lean in towards her and kiss her lips.