I feel it. I can feel it like that.
I am an eyes man.
That’s it: that’s what I should have said when Becca was going on and on all those years ago about whether I was a bum man or a boobs man or whatever. I should have looked her squarely in the eye and said with all confidence and conviction: ‘I’m an eyes man.’
Was it love at first sight?
People used to ask us this, didn’t they?
You’d say, ‘Yyyeah … sort of …’
I’d feel a bit put out when you said that.
Anyway, is it a worse love, if it’s not love at first sight?
I look behind me at Becca and Laura, being bumped and shouldered by an unusually enthusiastic crowd for a Thursday night at the Queen’s. Becca’s smiling and clapping and looking at me and nodding.
‘Is that your new housemate?’ I say.
Becca is dancing deep within herself, and nods and smiles without taking her eyes from the stage. ‘She moved in after Christmas.’
‘Is she a mature student?’
‘Trainee nurse.’
I return my gaze to you, and you’re checking back behind you at your amp, and glancing across to the semi-interested sound-man to your right, before engaging again with the microphone and singing, eyes closed, settling into a rich harmony with your simple distorted chords. I can’t quite make out the words, but the effect is mesmerizing.
Your eyes open again, and again you’re looking over at me, and as your chord diminishes, your solemn face gradually warms into a smile, and I’m thinking, you’re smiling at me. Jesus, you’re smiling at me.
You’re too good to be smiling at me.
But it only dawns on me now that, no. No, no: all this time you’ve been looking over at Becca, because you live with Becca. And it’s so obvious that this is what you were doing. You don’t know me.
Becca leans in to talk directly into my ear. ‘Isn’t her voice beautiful?’
I smile and nod. When I thought you were looking at me, and you weren’t — it felt like the first bit of good, the first glimmer of something — I don’t know.
My phone buzzes, and I push my hand in my pocket and pluck it out. Mal. Again. Wanting to sort out a meet-up for later. I wonder about sending him to voicemail, but I don’t want him to know I’m deliberately saying no. I hold it and watch the name until it stops and the screen dips dark again.
I slot the phone back in the right pocket. Always the right.
In the left, I pat the fold of ten twenties. Two hundred quid to go out and get absolutely muntered tonight.
Mal will have the gear by now. The two-hundred’s as good as spent.
But I just — I don’t really want to do it. I mean, I’ll do it, but I’m not into it.
Frowning to myself as your next song sets in, I’m thinking, I’ve given up on myself. Without having realized, I’d given up on the idea that anyone might find me remotely appealing.
What would I be able to say if you asked me about myself? Well, I could tell you I’m on a final warning at a job I’ve stalled in at the local garden centre because of repeatedly coming in two hours late and being too wasted to get through the word ‘chrysanthemums’ on a Sunday morning. I’ve got a sickie lined up for tomorrow. What? Yes, I live with my mum, technically, apart from the nights when I live at my sister’s to get fucked up with my mate.
This is not me. It’s not who I set out to be. How did I become this total moron I’m playing?
There’s not many times when all things fall away and you start to see yourself for what you are, but that’s what I’m feeling now. The shimmering sound from your amp burns the deadwood in my brain, and I’m thinking: I can do this. If I can just — just break away from what Mal’s waiting for on the other end of the phone — I can have the confidence to say to Mal — No, no, I know I said I’d go out and get smashed again, but I don’t want to go out tonight. I’m doing all this for no reason. Everything I’ve been doing for — for years — I’ve been doing for no reason.
I want to press reset in my head, and I don’t want to — I don’t want to do this any more.
Is — is that all right?
I don’t know.
My spongey brain blooms in all directions at the possibilities. Whatever it is you’ve got, to get you up there on that stage, that’s what I know I want.
You finish your final tune, lay your guitar carefully in its case, and pick your way over to us, thanking and smiling at people who offer congratulations.
‘Oh hiya!’ you cry, ‘I’m so pleased you made it down!’
‘I brought a few friends,’ says Becca. ‘Everyone, this is Mia.’
You make your greetings and kind words, and I manage to chip in an insignificant ‘well done’, which you modestly acknowledge.
Becca invites you to come and sit with us, but I’ve clocked before anyone else that there aren’t going to be enough seats. Instinct makes me stand, and I weigh up the options. I think, if I just go — go to the bar maybe, then you’ll have somewhere to settle.
‘I’m off to get a round in,’ I say. ‘Here you go, sit here if you like.’
‘No, no,’ you say, with a soft northern accent I hadn’t quite imagined, ‘let me — I’m sure I can get a stool or something from somewhere.’ You look around for any vacancies.
I offer to fetch a spare chair on my way back from the bar. You smile up at me, and I don’t know where to look, so I look away. Look back, and you’ve looked away.
‘What’s everyone having?’
I look at you directly with a look that means you’re included too.
‘Um, I’ll have an orange juice, please? If I can buy you one back.’
‘Orange juice? Nothing stronger? I have just been paid …’
Oh, your eyes. That killer feline cut. Are they blue, actually? I thought they were blue, but they might be green. They’re sort of a mixture. Really striking. I’m definitely an eyes man.
Becca wants a snakebite and black for old times’ sake, and Laura settles for a white wine because red wine stains whitened teeth.
I take myself away and jockey for position at the bar, creasing my twenty-pound note unnaturally lengthways, the better to jab at the barman.
What was it? OJ, snake-bite, white wine, Beamish.
I chance a look back over at the table, but your eyes aren’t on me. I can see you watching Becca animatedly explain something, while Laura pouts and nods. Oh God, I bet Laura’s off on her relationship anxieties with Mal. She just has to go over it and over it, and it never changes.
My pocket buzzes again, and it’s Mal. It’s always Mal.
I could tell him. I could tell him now, I don’t want to go. I don’t want–
The two-hundred — no, the remaining one-eighty — burns a hole in my pocket. No choice.
OJ, snake-bite, white wine, Beamish.
Hurry up, hurry up.
‘Yes, mate?’
‘Orange juice, a pint of Beamish, a snakebite and black, and a white wine, please, mate.’
Four drinks. It’s an awkward number to carry back from the bar. As the barman lines them up in front of me, I hand over the cash and weigh up the differently shaped and sized glasses. Do a couple of test huddles to see whether I’m going to be able to manage them all at once. Nope. Not a hope.
Finally I opt for dunking fingers and thumbs into mine, Laura’s and Becca’s with one hand, and carrying yours normally in the other.
Laura is not impressed.
‘Ugh, Jesus!’
‘’Scuse fingers,’ I say.
‘Some sort of tray?’ you suggest.
‘Would have been an option,’ I say, and genuinely wish I’d been sharp enough to ask for one.