Both of the women who are not Charlie are beautiful, not pretty, not attractive, not appealing, beautiful—and to my panicking, blinking, twitching eye virtually indistinguishable: miles of dark hair, thousands of huge earrings, yards of red lips, hundreds of white teeth. The one wearing the white silk blouse shuffles along Charlie’s enormous sofa, which is made of glass, or lead, or gold—some intimidating, un-sofa like material, anyway—and smiles at me; Charlie interrupts the others (‘Guys, guys … ’) and introduces me to the rest of the party. Clara’s on the sofa with me, as it were, ha ha, Nick’s in the brick red jacket, Barney’s in the linen suit, Emma’s in the trousers that look like a dress. If these people were ever up my street, I’d have to barricade myself inside the flat.
“We were just talking about what we’d call a dog if we had one,” says Charlie. “Emma’s got a Labrador called Dizzy, after Dizzy Gillespie.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “I’m not very keen on dogs.”
None of them says anything for a while; there’s not much they can say, really, about my lack of enthusiasm for dogs.
“Is that size of flat, or childhood fear, or the smell, or … ?” asks Clara, very sweetly.
“I dunno. I’m just … ” I shrug hopelessly, “you know, not very keen.”
They smile politely.
As it turns out, this is my major contribution to the evening’s conversation, and later on I find myself recalling the line wistfully as belonging to a Golden Age of Wit. I’d even use it again if I could, but the rest of the topics for discussion don’t give me the chance—I haven’t seen the films or the plays they’ve seen, and I haven’t been to the places they’ve visited. I find out that Clara works in publishing, and Nick’s in PR; I find out too that Emma lives in Clapham. Anna finds out that I live in Crouch End, and Clara finds out that I own a record shop. Emma has read Wild Swans; Charlie hasn’t, but would very much like to, and may even borrow Emma’s copy. Barney has been skiing recently. I could probably remember a couple of other things if I had to. For most of the evening, however, I sit there like a pudding, feeling like a child who’s been allowed to stay up late for a special treat. We eat stuff I don’t know about, and either Nick or Barney comments on each bottle of wine we drink apart from the one I brought.
The difference between these people and me is that they finished college and I didn’t (they didn’t split up with Charlie and I did); as a consequence, they have smart jobs and I have a scruffy job, they are rich and I am poor, they are self-confident and I am incontinent, they do not smoke and I do, they have opinions and I have lists. Could I tell them anything about which journey is the worst for jet lag? No.
Could they tell me the original lineup of the Wailers? No.
They probably couldn’t even tell me the lead singer’s name.
But they’re not bad people. I’m not a class warrior, and anyway, they’re not particularly posh—they probably have mothers and fathers just outside Watford or its equivalent, too. Do I want some of what they’ve got? You bet. I want their opinions, I want their money, I want their clothes, I want their ability to talk about dogs’ names without any hint of embarrassment. I want to go back to 1979 and start all over again.
It doesn’t help that Charlie talks bollocks all night; she doesn’t listen to anyone, she tries too hard to go off at obtuse angles, she puts on all sorts of unrecognizable and inappropriate accents. I would like to say that these are all new mannerisms, but they’re not; they were there before, years ago. The not listening I once mistook for strength of character, the obtuseness I misread as mystery, the accents I saw as glamour and drama. How had I managed to edit all this out in the intervening years? How had I managed to turn her into the answer to all the world’s problems?
I stick the evening out, even though I’m not worth the sofa space for most of it, and I outstay Clara and Nick and Barney and Emma. When they’ve gone, I realize that I spent the whole time drinking instead of speaking, and as a consequence I can no longer focus properly.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Charlie asks. “She’s just your type.”
I shrug. “She’s everybody’s type.” I help myself to some more coffee. I’m drunk, and it seems like a good idea just to launch in. “Charlie, why did you pack me in for Marco?”
She looks at me hard. “I knew it.”
“What?”
“You are going through one of those what-does-it-all-mean things.” She says “what-does-it-all-mean” in an American accent and furrows her brow.
I cannot tell a lie. “I am, actually, yes. Yes, indeed. Very much so.”
She laughs, at me, I think, not with me, and then plays with one of her rings.
“You can say what you like,” I tell her, generously.
“It’s all kind of a bit lost in the … in the dense mists of time now.” She says “dense mists of time” in an Irish accent, for no apparent reason, and waves her hand around in front of her face, presumably to indicate the density of the mist. “It wasn’t that I fancied Marco more, because I used to find you every bit as attractive as him.” (Pause.) “It’s just that he knew he was nice-looking, and you didn’t, and that made a difference, somehow. You used to act as though I was a bit peculiar for wanting to spend time with you, and that got kind of tiring, if you know what I mean. Your self-image started to rub off on me, and I ended up thinking I was peculiar. And I knew you were kind, and thoughtful, and you made me laugh, and I loved the way you got consumed by the things you loved, but … Marco seemed a bit more, I don’t know, glamorous? More sure of himself, more in with the in-crowd?” (Pause.) “Less hard work, ’cause I felt I was dragging you round a bit.” (Pause.) “A bit sunnier, and a bit sparkier.” (Pause.) “I don’t know. You know what people are like at that age. They make very superficial judgments.”
Where’s the superficial? I was, and therefore am, dim, gloomy, a drag, unfashionable, unfanciable, and awkward. This doesn’t seem like superficial to me. These aren’t flesh wounds. These are life-threatening thrusts into the internal organs.
“Do you find that hurtful? He was a wally, if that’s any consolation.”
It’s not, really, but I didn’t want consolation. I wanted the works, and I got it, too. None of Alison Ashworth’s kismet here; none of Sarah’s rewriting of history, and no reminder that I’d got all the rejection stuff the wrong way round, like I did about Penny. Just a perfectly clear explanation of why some people have it and some people don’t. Later on, in the back of a minicab, I realize that all Charlie has done is rephrase my own feelings about my genius for being normal; maybe that particular talent—my only one, as it happens—was overrated anyway.
Twenty-two
The band is going to play a gig, and he wants to put a poster up in the shop.
“No. Fuck off.”
“Thanks for your support, Rob. I really appreciate it.”
“I thought we had a rule about posters for crap bands.”
“Yeah, for people who come in off the street begging us. All the losers.”
“Like … let’s see. Suede, you turned down. The Auteurs. St. Etienne. Losers like that, you mean?”
“What’s all this I turned them down? It was your rule.”
“Yeah, but you loved it, didn’t you? It gave you great pleasure to tell all those poor kids to take a running jump.”
“Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I? Oh, come on, Rob. We need the regulars from here, otherwise there’ll be nobody.”
“OK, what’s the name of the band? If it’s any good, you can put a poster up.”