Under other circumstances, he would have left and found somewhere else, but that wasn’t an option. He’d concluded his message on the forum by naming the pub and the time. For all he knew there might’ve been three instant replies, apologetic or otherwise, rejecting the plan, but he hadn’t been able to face looking to see if anyone had responded. The closest he’d gotten was scrolling down with one hand over his face, peeping through a gap between his fingers, as if he were looking at an eclipse.
He fiddled nervously with a coaster, eventually giving in to the urge to tear it into strips, leaving a pile of cardboard on the table like a hamster’s nest. He was suddenly very aware of how desperate he felt. He cringed at his cheery sign-off on the forum (Besides, it would be fun for us to actually meet up in person, no??), which now seemed glaringly ripe for dismissal and ridicule. It went against pretty much everything they stood for. The forum was a place where you could pretend to be someone else and, more importantly, do so naked while eating cheese if you wanted. How was real life supposed to compete with that?
He took a careful look around (remembering how Peggy had admonished him for his obviousness in the pub on her first day), hoping to see someone he thought might be one of the forum lot. He was doing his best not to make eye contact with the man in the leather jacket, who, when Andrew was ordering a pint from the grizzled barman, had turned to him showing his bloodshot eyes and grunted, “All right?” Andrew had pretended not to hear before scuttling away, also pretending not to hear the man muttering, “Wanker,” after him.
He straightened his coat lapel so that the little model train badge he’d affixed to it was visible. He’d hoped it was a subtle touch that would make him recognizable to the others without drawing undue attention. So it was all he could do not to burst out laughing when he looked up to see the man who’d just entered the pub was wearing a T-shirt bearing the slogan: “Model Trains Are the Answer. WHO CARES WHAT THE QUESTION IS?!”
Andrew half stood, half waved to the man, who—to his overwhelming relief—grinned back broadly.
“Tracker?”
“Yes! My name’s Andrew, you know, in real life.”
“Nice to meet you, Andrew. I’m BroadGauge—Jim.”
“Great!”
Andrew reached out and shook Jim’s hand, possibly a bit too enthusiastically judging by Jim’s expression, but Andrew felt too excited to be embarrassed. Somebody had come!
“Cracking badge, by the way,” Jim said.
“Thanks,” Andrew said. He was going to return the compliment about Jim’s T-shirt when evidently a goal was scored and the pub erupted into howls of disapproval. Jim briefly appraised the commotion, then turned back, his eyebrows raised.
“Sorry, it’s a rubbish choice of venue,” Andrew said quickly.
Jim shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. What are you drinking then?”
“Oh thanks, lager please,” Andrew said, waiting till Jim was heading to the bar before downing the last third of his pint.
As Jim returned with their drinks he was followed over by the young woman with purple hair, who’d just come out of the ladies’. Before either Jim or Andrew could say anything she’d sat down at the table and offered them a nervous hello.
“Um, sorry,” Jim said, “but we’re actually waiting for someone.” Andrew gave the woman an apologetic smile.
“Yeah, that’d be me,” the woman said.
Andrew and Jim looked at each other.
“Hang on,” Andrew said, “You’re . . .”
“TinkerAl,” the woman said.
“But . . . but you’re a woman!” Jim said.
“Well spotted,” the woman laughed. Then, when neither Andrew nor Jim could work out how to respond, she rolled her eyes and said, “The ‘Al’ part comes from Alexandra. But people call me Alex.”
“Well,” Jim said. “That’s, you know . . . good for you!”
“Thanks,” Alex said, smothering a smile before launching into a passionate monologue about her latest acquisition. “I honestly reckon it outclasses the Caerphilly Castle 4-6-0,” she said.
“No way!” Jim said, eyes nearly popping out of his head.
The three of them continued to talk trains, occasionally having to raise their voices over the men shouting at some perceived injustice on the big screen. Despite the occasional angry glare from leather jacket man, Andrew was beginning to relax. Though if BamBam wasn’t going to turn up, then that posed a big problem. He needed him the most.
It was during a melee of celebrations as the home team pinched an equalizer that a man sauntered through the door and pulled up a chair at their table with the nonchalance of someone who was meeting people he’d seen every day for twenty years. He was wearing a dark blue denim shirt tucked into some beige slacks and smelled of expensive aftershave. He introduced himself as BamBam, then Rupert—which the others tried and failed not to seem surprised by. Jim watched Rupert shake Alex’s hand and couldn’t help himself. “She’s a woman!” he said.
“It’s true,” Alex said. “I’ve got a certificate and everything. Right, who wants crisps?”
The four of them drank and ate from bags of potato chips that were democratically opened out on the table. As they talked about new purchases and various upcoming conventions—already promising to meet up at an exhibition day at Alexandra Palace—Andrew was starting to wish he didn’t have to upset the balance by bringing his plan into the mix. But after he returned from the toilet, the others clearly using the opportunity to discuss his message, Jim cleared his throat and said, “So, Andrew, you, um, invited us here for a . . . thing?”
Andrew had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say, but he could still feel the blood thumping in his ears. He’d decided to get everything out as quickly as possible, revealing only as much as he had to. He spoke rapidly without pausing to draw breath, so much so that he was actually light-headed by the time he’d finished.
“That’s it,” he concluded, taking a big gulp of beer.
There was a horribly long pause. Andrew grabbed another beer mat and started to tear and twist it.
Then Rupert cleared his throat.
“Just to be clear,” he said, “you need my house to host a dinner party in?”
“And for all of us to help you cook for said dinner party?” Alex said.
“And just generally be on hand to help out . . . and stuff,” Jim added.
“Because,” Alex said, “redundancies are on the cards and you need to keep your boss on your side.”
Andrew realized how mad it all sounded, laid bare like that. “I honestly can’t explain to you how insane my boss is. I thought he was just making us do these dinner parties because he wanted to be friends with us all, but it seems like it’s more to do with him trying to decide who he likes the most and who he can bring himself to let go. And I . . . well, I really can’t afford to be that person right now.”
The others exchanged glances, and Andrew sensed they might want to confer.
“I’ll get a round in,” he said. Despite worrying about what Jim, Rupert and Alex were deciding to do, he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he made his way to the bar. I’ll get a round in—so casual! As if it were the most natural thing in the world!
“I need to change the barrel for the pale ale,” the barman said.
“That’s fine, take your time,” Andrew said, realizing too late that this might have sounded sarcastic. The barman stared at him for a moment before heading to the cellar.
“You wanna be careful,” leather jacket man said. “I’ve seen him kick seven shades out of a bloke for less. He’s fine one minute, mental the next.”
But Andrew wasn’t listening. There was a mirror just above the row of spirits, and in the reflection he could see the others deliberating at the table. He was suddenly very aware of the ebb and flow of noise from the fans around him, as if the groans and expletives and shouts of encouragement were the soundtrack to the conversation he was watching.