Low Expectations (8 page)

‘Yeah, it's very commercial but it pays the bills. Once Tin Can Bang takes off I won't need to bother with that shit any more.'

He leans against the wall with his arms crossed. One of his biceps is covered in tattoos; I hadn't noticed that before. He looks like a walking Levi's commercial. The kind of man
that men want to punch and women want to go down on in alleyways. Suddenly, I don't care if his music includes the cries of abandoned puppies.

‘You sound quite confident … cocky even …' I smile, one eyebrow raised flirtatiously. I try to lean back against the wall sexily, mimicking his pose, but fall over my left foot in the process before righting myself. Luckily, he appears not to notice.

‘It's not cocky if you're really fucking good, which we are.' God, what is it about grown men still utterly convinced they are going to be rock stars that is so damn attractive? I do love a textbook man-child.

I have dated musicians at various stages of failure before. It's definitely time to leave when the realization dawns on them that they are going to be living in a bedsit in Willesden for the rest of their lives, teaching guitar to spoilt posh kids in W11 and having the landline periodically cut off. Even if you don't care how much he earns initially, the depression that results from his unfulfilled egomania will get to you. You will start to see his future. He will spend his late thirties exaggerating his past accomplishments to impressionable but increasingly bored young girls. He will convince himself this is a sign that he's still got it, rather than the reality, which is that than no woman his own age is willing to put up with his bullshit. By the time he is sixty, he will be one of those alcoholic perverts you once mocked in Sixth Form.

I say none of this, as it would be unbearably rude and the key to a successful love life is to ruthlessly repress any thoughts or opinions that might cause offence for at least the first six months.

‘I'd say good luck, but clearly you don't need it. You play what …? Keyboard? Tambourine?' I let the question dangle in the air coyly, as if far wittier than it is.

‘Lead guitar, I sing a bit too.' He leans over me, with his hand pressed against the wall at my head. ‘But you knew that.' He leans his leg between mine and starts nuzzling my neck before we start kissing passionately. This is why I like cocky wankers.

I come up for air, breathless.

‘Lead guitarists and singers are the worst. Narcissists. Girls really like drummers. They're not so desperate for the spotlight. Or a bass player, someone able to share the stage a bit.'

‘You've got me there. When I want something, I don't like sharing.' He pushes me up against the wall. Oh my days.

We never do get round to making dinner.

‘Oh ho! Don't you just look happy as a clam!' Rose says, as she spots me walking towards their table in The Queen Vic Tavern.

There's nothing like a beer garden on an unusually sunny, crisp November day to bring a smile to my face, but there is a bit more to it than that. I take my seat on the bench, taking care to swirl the fabric of my full, knee-length skirt over my thigh-high easy access stockings. I am wearing them on the off-chance that Beardy rings me later tonight after my trial shift at the Newt. Only true lust would make me behave thusly with winter around the corner.

‘Yeah, a clam who's been fucked repeatedly,' Sarah adds dryly. Bingo!

‘What a beautiful day, what a beautiful world!' I put down my pint of organic cider and inhale the midday air dramatically.

‘Christ, it's amazing what a good rogering can do for a cynical soul. I've forgotten what that's like.' Sarah manages to sound happy for me and completely morose at the same time. ‘So, details, woman!'

‘Well, as you know from my ranting over the hair incident, I was expecting things with Beardy to fizzle out, but Saturday I went round to his and it was just … so hot. We were messing around and drinking wine. I managed to restrain myself and not just full-on go for it … it was really hard as part of me was thinking, “If this is my only opportunity to shag him I want to know what I'll be missing for the rest of my life!” At about three in the morning I was drunk and starving, so I made my excuses and went home and had a fry up.'

‘What! Why! You chose food over sex? Georgie, I thought we were on the same page on this one.' Sarah looks betrayed.

‘I was really fucking hungry, okay? I hadn't eaten since lunch! I wanted to keep the sexual tension going and didn't want to eat some massive meal then start kissing him again feeling all bloated.'

‘Yeah, but you wouldn't have to necessarily eat a massive meal …' Rose is one of those people who likes her food well enough, but doesn't, unlike me, spend a good deal of the time she's not eating planning her next meal.

‘No, it's so dissatisfying picking at something when you want to gorge to your heart's content. The point is – I made the right call because the next day he rang me up and we ended up spending all day in the pub, talking and playing Scrabble. Really nice relaxing Sunday. And then I saw him Tuesday night and pounced … I didn't have class and he sacked off work so we just stayed in bed shagging, watching telly and ordering takeaways until Thursday afternoon. It was amazing.'

‘God, that does sound amazing. I wish I were still at uni. And had a hot new love interest. So, what was the sex like?' Sarah waggles her eyebrows.

‘Pretty drunken and messy at first. We were basically just ripping each other's clothes off. It was really good though, he definitely knows what he's about … no awkward moments.'

‘Gosh, sounds perfect! Are you seeing each other again soon?' Rose asks. Sarah looks at her with mild perplexity. I don't think the word ‘gosh' has been included in her vocabulary since primary school.

‘Yeah, we're having a Scrabble rematch on Sunday. He tried not to be a sore loser but it was pretty clear my winning didn't sit well with him.'

‘Fucking hell, you've gone from a lovelorn single to properly coupled up in a week! When are we going to meet this hairy paragon?' Sarah says with an interrogative edge.

‘Oh, I don't know about that, I'm going to take things as
they come … but I also had a really productive tutorial today and I've got a trial at that pub I mentioned tonight, so life is going unexpectedly well! I'll have to leave soon to get there, though.'

‘Humph. That's so unfair. Tell me something bad about him. There must be something. Tiny dick? Granny fetish? Throw me a bone here.'

Oh dear. Things must not be going very well with Henry. When Sarah is content, she has an air of oneness with the whole of mankind; when she is dissatisfied, she likes to rip them all to shreds, starting with their penises. Lately, it's been rather more the latter.

‘Oh, come on Sarah, allow her infatuation to remain pure for the first week at least.'

Rose rolls her eyes while twisting a long lock of hair in her fingers, watching the gingery gold of it catch the light. It's something I've observed her doing when she has her eye on someone. Sure enough, there is a tall, geek-chic Lothario standing opposite us, smoking a fag, pretending not to be entranced.

‘I am totally infatuated … but I'm not blind. Okay, bad things: a) He wears those hipster glasses I mentioned not only by choice, but unnecessarily. The lenses are clear; I checked when he was in the loo. As a visually impaired person I find this offensive; b) He's a grower not a shower, that doesn't matter in any real sense but it might make you feel better.'

‘True, it does. Henry has a glorious cock, even totally flaccid.' Sarah is something of a penis connoisseur.

‘And c) He is a bit pretentious. I mean, confidence is hugely attractive, but he's a bit dismissive with it. I get the feeling that he's used to groupie-type women who don't necessarily have that much to say, so when I occasionally challenge him – in a jokey way – he gets annoyed.'

‘That's no good! Well, bitch, he'll just have to get used to a strong independent woman!' Rose purses her lips and clicks her fingers.

I nod my assent, but have decided to merely bite my tongue next time like a good Stepford Wifey. Good beards are hard to come by. Also, I've always secretly suspected that if you find someone you really like, it's wise to alter yourself to their desires to keep them.

The whole concept that you are special just the way you are and you should be unfailingly proud of your personality and beliefs with no regard for others is at best vastly overrated advice, and at worst detrimental to the human race. Well-intentioned, rather American in sentiment, it wants the best for everyone and inadvertently brings out the worst. Maybe traditions of shame and public self-restraint are more beneficial to society in the long run. Don't you think the world would be so much more elegant if people stopped inflicting even ten percent of their worst character flaws on each other? If rational criticism wasn't met with ‘Haters gonna
hate' swiftly followed by an Instagrammed photo of a raised middle finger?

‘I'm sick of being a strong, independent woman,' Sarah says. ‘Sometimes I just want a caveman who will tell me what to do with my life, has throwdown in the bedroom and falls asleep immediately after coming, not some pussy who curls up in my arms like a child and says he feels neglected and can we talk about it. All we do is talk! We barely fuck! I can't take it.'

‘Oh … dear. So things have come to a head with Henry, I take it?' Rose asks gently.

‘I just feel that, because I'm a confident woman who knows what I want, I somehow scare away confident men who know what
they
want – because what they want is an easy life with some bimbo. So I get the nice guy who is perfectly decent in every way and very good to me, but miss out on the thrill of someone with some sort of … personal power. I feel like I'm his mother half the time.'

‘Henry's lovely, but just because he's decent doesn't mean feeling like his mother is healthy! Maybe you should take a break?' I try to look concerned while concentrating on rolling my cigarette, a feat that after two years I have yet to master.

‘I know. But I want to be totally sure before I do, it's not fair of me to have one foot out the door, but it would be worse to realize I still want him after chucking him and mess him around like that.'

‘Do you think he'd definitely take you back if you dumped him, then?'

Rose takes a long, slow sip from her vodka and tonic, keeping eye contact with the Casanova across the room. It's pretty ballsy of her, but he doesn't approach.

‘I know he would, absolutely. Which is the problem. Who wants someone whom you're one-hundred percent sure of? Where's the challenge in that?'

‘So are you just waiting for the repulsion at this point?'

You all know of what I speak. It can strike after a betrayal, the passage of time, or even one too many bad jokes. The moment when after days, weeks, months or years, you turn to your erstwhile lover, the scales fall from your eyes and they fill you with, well, The Repulsion. This is something from which you can never recover.

‘Basically. I think I'm nearly there, to be honest. Every little thing he does fills me with irrational rage, and because he's so goddamn nice I hate him even more. The other day I mistook one of his socks for my own and even just putting it on halfway made me shudder with disgust. It wasn't even dirty. So you can imagine how I feel about his dick.'

‘That's not ideal.'

‘Excuse me, ladies, I'm sorry to interrupt you … Do you by any chance have a lighter?'

Rose's seduction technique has finally paid off. I approve of his approach; nicotine-related icebreakers are classic,
the Bogart of come-ons. They have just the right amount of smoothness while, crucially, providing a dignified escape if met with cold impartiality. If they then light your next cigarette while holding steady eye contact at that sweet spot between flirtatious and creepy, you're golden. I shall dearly miss them should I ever give up.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you look like a painting by Rubens?'

Aaand he had to ruin it by conflating his artists. Rose has a lovely figure but like every woman is highly sensitive to any ‘fat' connotation. She blanches.

‘Do you mean the Pre-Raphaelites?' Sarah says, trying to save him.

‘No, no, Rubens.' He grins widely at his cheek. ‘Definitely Rubens.'

‘Are you negging me, cause I warn you right now that shit only works on girls with very low self-esteem,' Rose ripostes with a steely glint in her eye.

‘Kiddos, I've got to go. Can't get too pissed before I go to work.' Winking at Rose, I leave them to it.

*

The Pissed Newt attracts a mixed crowd typical of East London. There are a few disgruntled old Cockney men sitting in a corner downing pints of bitter and reminiscing about the good old days before gastro pubs changed their corner of the world for ever. Students talk loudly about last night's
sexual adventures, vainly trying to distract themselves from the likelihood that student loans will be the financial highlight of their lives. A few artfully unwashed types lounge about debating whether or not Leipzig is the new Berlin, looking from their threadbare but chic accoutrements as if they are either destitute or absolutely loaded. It's possible they are both; squatting in an old factory in Bow doesn't mean you can't also weekend in Surrey with the family. But it does mean that when you tire of running from the money you come from, you will eventually die of asbestos poisoning.

With Gary showing me the ropes, I settle into a rhythm working the bar, trying to present my most confident and shiny self. I am certainly shining with a sweat beard if nothing else – nervousness has made me flustered and I find it impossible to pull a pint without a huge head. This would make me an instant success in Belgium but in England my efforts receive barely concealed disgust. I try to keep up a stream of friendly chat with the customers and my fellow barmaid, Joy, who has been given a terribly misleading name. A sullen girl in her early twenties, she manages to be nearly mute, yet shout her displeasure at my presence through a series of rolled eyes, sighs and muttered asides that drip with disdain.

Although a strong profile on a lady can be very striking, I can't help but think uncharitably that her face would benefit from a nose job. She has that slightly inbred look typical of English aristocrats, with sloping eyes too far apart and a weak
chin. Though her azure-blue irises and strong cheekbones give shades of beauty to her features, her conker obscures them to any but the most determined observer. It leers menacingly out of her forehead, casting its malevolent shadow over her other more attractive characteristics like a tiny Voldemort.

Despite this, she has clearly never been short of male attention, as her body is quite frankly one of the most magnificent and undeserved I have ever seen. She leans back against the counter eating a packet of pork scratchings; her low slung jeans reveal an expanse of concave stomach; the thin fabric of her shrunken Iron Maiden T-shirt clearly shows the outline of her large, perky, braless breasts. I think of my own sunken torpedoes with despair. Sometimes it seems like everyone has aggressively lofty nipples, while I've been tempted to staple pencil rubbers to the uppermost point of my bra and swan around in a wife beater just to see what that would feel like.

By closing time, we have firmly established a dynamic whereby I try valiantly to remain pleasant and she pretends I don't exist. At least she hasn't singled me out for her hatred – in that respect she is quite democratic. When a forty-something Phil Collins doppelgänger in a bad suit leers a little too close to her while she pours his Carling, she snaps loudly, ‘Do you mind? I have an irrational fear of bald skin.'