Laura rings in the middle of Robocop 2, from a callbox. This is very interesting, but maybe now is not the time to talk about why—not with Laura, anyway. Maybe later, with Liz or someone, but not now. This is obvious to anyone but a complete idiot.
“Why are you ringing from a callbox?”
“Am I?” she says. Not the smoothest answer. “Did you have to put money or a card into a slot to speak to me? Is there a horrible smell of urine? If the answer to either of these questions is yes, it’s a callbox. Why are you ringing from a callbox?”
“To wish you a happy birthday. I’m sorry I forgot to send you a card.”
“I didn’t mean … ”
“I was just on my way home, and I … ”
“Why didn’t you wait till you got back?”
“What’s the point of me saying anything? You think you know the answer anyway.”
“I’d just like it confirmed.”
“Are you having a good day?”
“Not bad. Naked Gun 2½: very funny. Robocop 2: not as good as the first one. So far, anyway.”
“You’re watching videos?”
“I am.”
“On your own?”
“Yep. Want to come round? I’ve still got Terminator 2 to see.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to get back.”
“Right.”
“Anyway.”
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s not too bad, at the moment, thanks for asking.”
“Good.”
“Have a nice day, OK? Do something good with it. Don’t waste all day in front of the TV.”
“Right.”
“Come on, Rob. It’s not my fault you’re in on your own. I’m not the only person you know. And I am thinking of you, it’s not like I’ve just jumped ship.”
“Tell Ian I said hi, OK?”
“Very funny.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do. Very funny.”
Got her. He doesn’t want her to phone, and she’s not going to tell him she has. Cool.
I’m at a bit of a loss after Terminator 2. It’s not four o’clock yet, and even though I’ve plowed my way through three great crap videos and the best part of a six-pack, I still cannot shake the feeling that I’m not having much of a birthday. There are papers to read, and compilation tapes to make, but, you know. I pick up the phone instead, and start to organize my own surprise party in the pub. I shall gather a few people together, try to forget I called them, take myself off to the Crown or the Queen’s Head around eight for a quiet pint, and get my back slapped raw by well-wishers I never expected to see there in a million years.
It’s harder than I thought, though. London, eh? You might as well ask people if they’d like to take a year off and travel around the world with you as ask them if they’d like to nip out for a quick drink later on: later on means later on in the month, or the year, or the nineties, but never later on the same day. “Tonight?” they all go, all these people I haven’t spoken to for months, ex-colleagues or old college friends, or people I’ve met through ex-colleagues or old college friends. “Later on tonight?” They’re aghast, they’re baffled, they’re kind of amused, but most of all they just can’t believe it. Someone’s phoning up and suggesting a drink tonight, out of the blue, no Filofax tohand, no lists of alternative dates, no lengthy consultation with a partner? Preposterous.
But a couple of them show signs of weakness, and I exploit that weakness mercilessly. It’s not an ooh-I-shouldn’t-really-but-I-quite-fancy-a-pint sort of weakness; it’s an inability-to-say-no sort of weakness. They don’t want to go out tonight, but they can hear the desperation, and they cannot find it in themselves to respond with the necessary firmness.
Dan Maskell (real first name Adrian, but it had to be done) is the first to crack. He’s married, with a kid, and he lives in Hounslow, and it’s a Sunday night, but I’m not going to let him off the hook.
“Hello, Dan? It’s Rob.”
“Hello, mate.” (Genuine pleasure at this point, which is something, I suppose.)
“How are you?”
So I tell him how I am, and then I explain the sad situation, sorry it’s too last-minute, bit of a cock-up on the arrangement front (I manage to resist telling him there’s been a bit of a cock-up on the life front generally), be nice to see him anyway, and so on and so forth, and I can hear the hesitation in his voice. And then—Adrian’s a big music fan, which is how I met him at college, and why we kept in touch afterwards—I steal a trump card and play it.
“Have you heard of Marie LaSalle? She’s a very good folky country kind of singer.”
He hasn’t, not surprisingly, but I can tell that he’s interested.
“Well, anyway, she’s a … well, a friend, and she’ll be coming along, so … she’s great, and she’s worth meeting, and … I don’t know if … ”
It’s just about enough. To speak frankly with you, Adrian’s a bit of an idiot, which is why I thought Marie might be an enticement. Why do I want to spend my birthday drinking with an idiot? That’s a long story, most of which you already know.
Steven Butler lives in north London, doesn’t have a wife, and doesn’t have that many friends either. So why can’t he come out tonight? He’s already rented his video, that’s why.
“Fucking hell, Steve.”
“Well, you should have called me earlier. I’ve only just come back from the shop.”
“Why don’t you watch it now?”
“No. I’m a bit funny about watching videos before my tea. It’s like you’re just watching for the sake of it, do you know what I mean? And every one you watch in the daytime, that’s one less you can watch at night.”
“How d’you work that out?”
“ ’Cause you’re wasting them, aren’t you?”
“Watch it another time, then.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve got so much money I can give two pounds to the bloke in the video shop every night.”
“I’m not asking you to do it every night. I’m … Look, I’ll give you the two quid, all right?”
“I dunno. Are you sure?”
I’m sure, and there we have it. Dan Maskell and Steve Butler. They don’t know each other, they won’t like each other, and they have nothing in common apart from a slight overlap in their record collections (Dan’s not very interested in black music, Steve’s not very interested in white music, they both have a few jazz albums). And Dan’s expecting to see Marie, but Marie’s not expecting to see Dan, nor does she even know of his existence. Should be a cracking night out.
Marie’s got a phone now, and Barry has her number, and she’s happy that I called, and more than happy to come out for a drink, and if she knew it was my birthday she’d probably explode with joy, but for some reason I decide not to tell her. I don’t have to sell the evening to her, which is just as well, because I don’t think I’d be able to give it away. She’s got to do something else first, however, so there’s an agonizing hour or so alone with Steve and Dan. I talk to Dan about rock music, while Steve stares at somebody getting lucky on the fruit machine, and I talk to Steve about soul music, while Dan does that trick with a beer mat which only the truly irritating person knows. And then we all talk about jazz, and then there’s some pretty desultory what-do-you-do kind of stuff, and then we run out of petrol altogether, and we all watch the guy who’s getting lucky on the fruit machine.