How We Met (24 page)

‘YES, Yes! Of course we’ve just been friends and I take the piss out of her all the time for that night she stuck her tongue down my throat and she tasted grim – of raw onion!’

Karen shuts up and Fraser thinks maybe that was a step too far, an embellishment that didn’t go entirely in his favour. She says, ‘OK, it’s just today, there were a couple of things, Fraser, a couple of things that didn’t quite add up.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, for example, when we arrived, the way you were looking at her, almost staring at her. I thought there’s something simmering there, something unresolved …’

‘She was carrying two bags of shit, Karen.’

‘But I could
tell
.’ She was leaning forward now, her hand to her chest to stress her point. ‘I’m not totally stupid, you know. I know I’m only a “barmaid” –’ she puts this in inverted commas – ‘but I’m perceptive, too. Very perceptive. Remember, I see romance playing out before my very eyes, night, after night in the Bull. I see the way people look at one another.’

Shit, thinks Fraser, you’re telling me, all that Tarot card reading – maybe she did have special powers, after all.

‘And also, when I came looking for you to do the candles on the cake and I caught you on the stairs, and well, if I’m honest …’

Fraser runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

‘I felt like I’d
interrupted
something.’

The traffic has slowed down again now, and Fraser really wishes he didn’t need a wee quite so much, then he might be able to really think about this.

She looks at him with those big, pale brown eyes, those eyes that were pretty, actually, but held absolutely no mystique for him.

‘We were talking, that’s all,’ he says.

‘So, what about?’ says Karen. ‘Because I saw that letter, that letter in her hand.’

Fraser takes a deep breath through his nose. He’s annoyed now. How dare she grill him, in the car, when she knows he can’t get away?

‘Look, Karen, it was a private letter. A letter which had nothing to do with you, actually, about Billy and Mia and the fact that today was a pretty big day for them. Mia’s been through a lot this year, after Liv and everything. She was her best friend, you know, and I—’

‘I know. God, I’m sorry.’

She puts her face in her hands and Fraser has a rush of empathy for Karen – or is it pity? He’s not sure. It can’t be easy for her – Rebecca syndrome and all that – trying to take the place of a dead girlfriend. And she’s good about it, very good, actually. She asks him often, whilst stroking his hair in bed, what Liv was like, does he want to talk about it? But Fraser doesn’t want to talk about it and he feels doubly guilty because he knows – because Karen’s shown him – that there are women prepared to take on his baggage, but also, in this case, that that is not enough.

When they get home, at gone 11 p.m. that night, and he is lying next to Karen, blinking into the darkness, she strokes his hair away from his face and for the very first time, says, ‘I love you.’ Then she mumbles into the dark, half asleep, ‘What was that thing that Norm was going on about, anyway, something about her List?’

Inside the Last Word café, situated in the vast, red-tiled piazza that leads to the British Library in London’s King’s Cross, Fraser sits on a window-facing stool, waiting for Anna.

Uncharacteristically, he got here forty minutes early and has already used this time to acclimatize to his surroundings – mooching round an exhibition about science fiction, which posed the questions, What does it mean to be human? Are we alone in the universe? Before moving – brain-fried – to another gallery, where he happened upon some completely awesome, original manuscripts of the Beatles’ lyrics.

Fraser has relished this time alone. He enjoys culture, although at twenty-nine is still unsure of what form this ‘culture’ should take, and has often suggested to Karen that they should go to an exhibition or to the National Film Theatre to see something that doesn’t star Sandra Bullock, only to be shouted down with, ‘But it’ll be out on DVD in three months’, and then somehow spending his Saturday afternoon in Matalan.

Today then, it’s been a real treat to be left alone to feed his mind with things that interest him, and although Fraser doesn’t see himself as an ‘intellectual’ by any stretch of the imagination, just being in these cerebral surroundings gives him a kick: he likes the echoey air of the place, the sense of purpose and the loftiness of the entrance hall with
THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE
written across it, like just being here might spark an idea for a ground-breaking invention or an original philosophical thought. If all else fails, he’s discovered they do a mighty fine millionaire’s shortbread in the caff on the first floor.

Now, though, as he drains the last dregs of his double espresso, he detects a slight slump in mood. He knows as soon as Anna arrives, that that will be the end of his ‘me’ time. Also, just a few minutes ago, he was standing in the queue of the library shop, buying a nice notebook and some pens, when he was informed by some pompous American – or was he Canadian? – that, ‘You can’t use pens in the Reading Room, if that’s what you’re buying it for …’ He felt like saying, ‘No, I’m buying it so I can crack on with my graffiti all over the toilets
, you IDIOT.’

It’s really got to him: how dare some random stranger patronize him? Did he look like a vandal? He was already thinking he would rather look at the exhibits and the manuscripts than sit in a stuffy reading room learning Wordsworth poetry off by heart, and now he’s convinced of this fact, but Anna was very insistent.

‘Come on, Morgan, you’re my only close friend who lives in London, and anyway, it’s for the LIST, after all,
your
girlfriend’s List.’

Fraser really wishes people would stop saying this. It makes him feel more responsible than he is comfortable with – and he hates to be pedantic but wasn’t the List Mia’s idea? Let’s face it, too, so far it’s like the List is doomed: Vegas, even Billy’s birthday to some extent, which wasn’t exactly the ‘massive party for my wonderful, wonderful friends’ Liv would have wanted, more an endurance test: two hundred and fifty miles down the motorway with a moody girlfriend; having to watch as Eduardo threw Billy up in the air when people were watching. Twat. He was really hoping Billy would throw up on him.
Go on, Billy, chuck up those Wotsits all over yer dad’s Ray-Bans … I dare you!

If he’s honest, though, he’s already losing sight of what Liv would have wanted, full stop. Sometimes he feels that doing the List makes him feel further away from her, rather than closer. Did she really want to learn the works of William Wordsworth off by heart? As much as she loved her English degree, as much as she probably had a lot of time for the works of William Wordsworth? Wasn’t that just written on a whim, and probably when drunk? Wouldn’t she be laughing her head off now if she could see him, moody and awkward, knowing he’d rather saw off his arm than spend his Saturday learning poetry?

Also, Fraser has had to tell Karen some pretty extravagant lies to get here in the first place – something about helping Anna with a job application. He certainly couldn’t say anything about the List, and she wouldn’t have believed he genuinely wanted to spend his afternoon in the British Library, even though he genuinely did. That was the point.

Karen hasn’t mentioned the List since bringing it up, half asleep, after Billy’s party three weeks ago, and he wants to keep it that way, but Fraser’s conscience is alive and kicking as ever and it’s getting harder to keep the truth from her.

Just the other day, he came back from town with a roll of material from Laura Ashley – spotty and a bit twee – but it might as well have been a wedding ring to see the look on her face.

‘I fancy making a Roman blind,’ he announced, as easily as that, as easily as, ‘I fancy watching the match this afternoon.’ Karen had barely been able to contain herself. He was ‘
nesting’, she announced. Fraser is not stupid, he knows this is woman talk for ‘committing’, and he’d thought how scary it was, how fast things could escalate in a woman’s mind. One mention of a Roman blind and they were moving in together. This was all made far worse by the fact that, of course, he had no idea how to make the Roman blind and so Karen had to help him and he had somehow found himself spending an entire Sunday afternoon cutting and drilling and putting a blind up and, damn it, if he had been Karen, he’d have
thought he wanted to move in together too.

He wouldn’t mind but since his run-in with Anna in the Merchants back in March, at Liv’s birthday reunion, things have been lukewarm between them to say the least. They’d had one or two excruciatingly awkward phone calls, and the only words she’d spoken to him at Billy’s birthday were mirroring Steve’s epic monologues spouting spiritual shit – why did she want to spend the afternoon with him, anyway? It all seemed a bit forced.

Still, here she is now, flicking her hair and skipping down the steps towards him in that coquettish way she has. Never mind dance like someone’s watching, Anna lives her life like someone is watching, with every movement, Fraser suspects, practised in a mirror. Today, she’s wearing a knee-length pleated skirt, brogues, a truly awful cardigan. Even at the best of times, there’s something about Anna Frith that looks like it needs a good scrub, and this ensemble isn’t helping. She really was going in for this granny look of late, and Fraser doesn’t get it at all. Also, what’s with the Woody Allen specs? Spanner didn’t wear glasses, did she? He watches her and feels a little stab of shame nonetheless. He really went for her, that night in the Merchants; he slagged off her squeeze in front of her and lashed out when really, the anger he felt was towards himself. He must try to be nice to her today.

So he smiles and waves, slowly, and goes outside to meet her and they have one of those dreadful faux-hugs where neither person actually touches the other.

Fraser steps back. ‘Have those got lenses in them?’ he says.

‘
No
,’ says Anna, defensively. ‘It’s called fashion, Fraser. Ever heard of that? No, I didn’t think so.’

Fraser nods, resignedly. After ten years, he’s used to her brittleness on occasions, especially when she feels silly; especially, perhaps, when she feels a little hurt. ‘Oh, OK, so they’re just for effect, then? Part of this whole intellectual look you’ve got going on. I like it, though, Anna.’ He smiles, a little naughtily, giving her the once-over. ‘Very appropriate.’

Anna huffs and tosses her hair. ‘Very wearing, Fraser, that’s what you are,’ she says, and she nudges him with her shoulder towards the entrance and he nudges her back. ‘Really fucking tiresome, actually …’

They have to get a Reader pass in order to use the Reading Room and there’s a very ‘tiresome’ ten-minute wait at the registration desk where Fraser tries to ignore the frosty awkwardness between them. Clearly, she hadn’t quite forgiven him.

He stands in the queue, which snakes out of the registration room, staring at Anna’s back and feeling unnerved. He’s always known where he was with all the girls: Liv and Mia obviously and, despite having his fair share of showdowns with her in his time, also with Melody. At least Melody was consistent with her keeping up with the Joneses; she made no bones about having moved seamlessly from student into middle age, about liking
Songs of Praise
and having kitchenware parties. Anna, on the other hand, could be a much more unpredictable and furtive creature, all bravado and defensiveness, especially today, and Fraser can’t work her out. Also, there’s something about the way she’s backcombed her mane of red-dyed hair to make it look like a bird’s nest that says potential ‘loose canon’ to Fraser, and he’s not messing with that, no way. No, he shall just continue mildly irritating her; it seems to be the way they roll.

He leans over and whispers in her ear: ‘So what poems do you know, then, apart from the Daffodils one?’

Anna shakes her head, as if to shake away this imbecilic comment and looks around to check nobody heard. ‘It’s “I wandered lonely as a cloud”, even though everyone calls it “that Daffoldils poem”, and I know
loads
more, I did a degree in English Literature, Fraser. That’s how I met Liv, remember? We both did literature of the 1790s as a specialist module.’

Fraser inhales through his nose and nods to himself, momentarily impressed.

‘Go on then, what other poems should I have heard of?’

‘Well,
The Prelude
, that’s really famous. Surely, you’ve heard of that?’

Fraser sticks his bottom lip out. ‘Nope, but it sounds like a good one to start with.’

Anna rolls her eyes

‘There’s
Lyrical Ballads
– he and Coleridge, as in Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who wrote “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” …?’

‘All right, I’m not a
total
philistine.’

‘Well, they worked on that one together. Changed the face of English poetry with that collaboration.’

‘Cool. Is that a bit like me and Norm changing the face of music with our collaborative album for the Fans?’

‘Er, no,’ says Anna. ‘Not really.’

Fraser tuts, mildly irritated by Anna’s pomposity on the matter. OK, so she did a degree in English Literature, but it’s not like she ever used it and, anyway, he seems to remember Liv complaining that she had to help her with her Wordsworth dissertation, that she practically wrote half of it. Since graduating, Anna has had an array of temp jobs: marketing, advertising, event organization (currently she was doing some work experience at a fashion house as well as concentrating on her Buddhism, which didn’t seem an obvious union). She once did a course in counselling, too, which everyone was
stunned
by. But none of these have secured her interest for long and Fraser strongly suspects this is because Anna Frith thinks she’s above actual work and should simply sit in cafés wearing fake glasses and mingling with ‘interesting people’ for a living. At least Liv taught English to secondary school students; at least she was genuinely interested in literature.