скачать книгу бесплатно
‘You should.’
He smiles again, but his smile is different again. There is warmth, worry too … but also pity. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact he thinks I need it or the fact that he clearly sees himself as the stronger one in this situation.
Some more clearing of throats. I tell him I’m going to get changed. As soon as I step into my walk-in wardrobe, I feel myself levelling out a little, because it’s my space. Zach has never even been in there. No one has but me. And the bloke who fitted it. And Kat Moss. It was the first building work I had done as soon as the sale of the property had gone through. The cost meant I couldn’t afford a new boiler or a fridge, but a lack of the former meant it was cold enough for me not to need the latter until the summertime. Besides, what was the odd game of ‘dairy roulette’ with a carton of milk kept on the window sill, when I had my own wardrobe next to my own bedroom in my own flat?
Everyone said it would be impossible for me to buy my own place when I was earning so little—at the time I was still only a junior at Catwalk—but I was determined to save up enough for a mortgage deposit. So I made some changes. I moved into a two-person room share within a house share. I worked nights in a sauna. Weekends in a club. I only bought food and beverages from (the economy range in) supermarkets and not from any form of restaurant or ‘snack’ emporium; especially coffee shops. I had to think of a daily visit to Starbucks as the equivalent of grinding up a five-pound note in a percolator. I didn’t go partying. I’d seen enough of all that. I wanted my own home. One that no one—mortgage company withstanding—could ever ask me to leave.
My walk-in wardrobe is not packed full of clothes. Yes, I am obsessed with fashion but I don’t relentlessly throw money at it. Although, recently I may have been PayPaling a little more than I used to. But it’s not as if I’m one of those girls who buys ‘outfits’. That’s too expensive and too obvious. Crimes Against Fashion No. 23: a head-to-toe look (unless sitting front row at the actual designer’s show. Or it’s your own label, e.g., Stella McCartney.) Guilty: The Kardashians. All of them. Plus Caitlyn Jenner. Girl really does need to be way less matchy matchy. Everything I own is carefully and eclectically selected from all spectrums of fashion retail: designer, vintage, high street, market and online then combined to achieve a look I would hope could be classed as edgy statement chic. I look after each item. I either dry clean or I hand wash, rinse, dry, iron, fold and place back in the allocated spot. My mother’s wardrobe started out like that … she said you should respect clothes as if they were your friends. ‘Because many of them will be in your life a lot longer.’
I reach up to get a fresh Snuggle Suit off the top shelf. On the level above is my collection of The CR Fashion Book. Carine Roitfeld is a genius; and that is not a word I bandy around lightly. In a world where so many are told they are fabulous … she actually is. No one does edgy statement chic like her. Almost mannish but oh-so-sexy. And subtle. Fitz gave me a framed photo of Ms Roitfeld to place on top of my accessories cupboard, just to remind me that a little more is nearly always too much. But there is not much chance of me over-accessorising at the moment as I can’t open the bottom two drawers. There is a fake Louis Vuitton suitcase lying on the floor which I have no other room to store. It was sent to me last week by Sheila. I don’t need to open it because I know what is inside. Exactly what was in there when I unzipped it all those years ago. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to show my best friend. But the second I flipped the lid, she turned to me.
I looked at her face. I knew this face almost as well as my own. With its wide, wise, eager eyes which looked even bigger when she scraped her hair up into a messy top knot, which I had recommended she did as it was classic ‘off duty model’. Much better than the overly straightened, overly hair sprayed bob which was her go to style. I’d told her many times. Crimes Against Fashion No. 28: chemical processes during grooming clearly evident. Guilty: Christina Aguilera (the Genie years).
Suddenly, a mottled rash spread across her skin.
HER: I need to tell you something.
ME: What? What do you need to tell me, Tanya?
Four (#ulink_3507a59f-fe50-5548-ab96-636b48ce3777)
TANYA
I can hear the band playing as I leave the station. They’re doing a cover of that Mumford & Sons track which sounds as if it should be played in a village square on May Day by locals drinking scrumpy and wearing neckerchiefs. The lead singer’s voice is raspy. Sexy. He doesn’t quite manage to hit the high notes with full precision, but this inevitably makes him sound even sexier, because maybe he is too cool to care. As I open the door, the band attacks the final chorus and the vocalist clutches his microphone stand. His faded (purposefully crumpled) grey T-shirt is patchy with sweat and clinging to his torso. His hair is also damp and hanging messily in his eyes. He glances down into the audience; a mixture of local twenty- and thirty-somethings on the tail end of a drink-up after work. Most of them would have been in the pub drinking anyway, even if they hadn’t known there was going to be some sort of musical entertainment. They’ve stayed, which is a positive thing. But it’s unlikely the majority of them had the gig diarised on their mobiles … even though a few are being held aloft in video mode. The frontman acknowledges these ‘fans’ with a nod, then wipes his brow. The chunky man bracelet he is wearing flops forward then back to his wrist. I can see in his eyes that the situation isn’t perfect for him. He’d rather be looking out across a sea of fans at the O2 who have bought tickets—months in advance—specifically to see him play his music. I admire him for still having that kind of, well, hope. Because, let’s face it, at this stage, ambition alone is not going to make him—my true love—a star.
Set finished, he jumps down from the makeshift stage onto the floor. I go over to give him a kiss. As he leans down, I think I can smell cigarette smoke.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, babe, I’m well sweaty.’
‘Don’t care.’
I plant a smacker on his mouth. Yes, he’s been smoking. I sense other women in the bar looking in our direction. They were looking at him, but now they are looking at us together; assessing our compatibility. Greg has become very good looking. To me, he always was, but over the last couple of years, I have noticed that a lot of—almost all—women do as well. He finally quit smoking marijuana, lost two stone and toned up to the point where you can see the sinewy outer line of muscle tissue through his clothes—which consequently, took on a more streamlined edge. I was surprised when he told me it was time ‘to hit the gym’. Previously, he’d been more the type of guy who would only look at the cover of Men’sHealth if he was ripping it up for roach material.
I kiss him again and come away from his face with a sticky chin.
‘Eww.’
‘So, what did you think of the set?’ he asks, pulling away. ‘Personally, I thought it went pretty well …’ He lowers his voice as the rest of the band start dismantling their equipment ‘… except for the Oasis tribute. The two new guys were on point but Jez fucked up the riff at the beginning of Wonderwall. I mean, seriously! You could give a monkey a banjo for half an hour and I guarantee it would be able to strum that out, no problem. Did you hear me do my solo on the guitar?’
‘Sorry, I’ve been running late all day.’ I had to wait for ages to get my procedure done at the hospital. ‘I’ve only just got here. Was it an, erm … acoustic …’ I cringe. ‘… spot?’
‘Yeah. Then the two newbies came in at the end. Nothing went wrong vocally or instrumentally, not surprising considering that numbnut wasn’t involved.’ He glances over at Jez. ‘Am thinking we need to have words. I don’t see how the band can progress with him as part of the unit. Don’t get me wrong, I love him as if he were a brother, but I already have a brother, and I choose not to see him, so I don’t need another holding me back. You wouldn’t want another sister, would you, babe?’
‘God, no.’
He kisses me again. ‘You know I hate going on about it, but I don’t suppose she’s … erm, managed t—’
‘No, no, she hasn’t. You don’t need her though. You need talent and that’s what you have. That will bring you success.’ I say this as affirmatively as possible. ‘You’ve got it, Greg.’
‘Mmm …’ Greg gazes at the punters, no more or less excitedly guzzling their drinks then they were during the gig. ‘Shall we do the offski?’
‘Are you not cashing up tonight?’
‘Nah. If I hung around till closing, I’d explode the rock-’n’-roll mystique for my “fans” …’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘… that in real life, I manage a gastro pub and the only instrument I usually carry around with me is a portable chip-and-pin machine, not an electric guitar. Have a drink whilst I grab my stuff.’
I order an orange juice and chat to the new barman. He’s ‘cute’, but I’ve never been attracted to boyish good looks. I like men. Greg is manly. And like I said, there was even more man at the beginning. He was solid physically. That was what drew me to him, because on a very basic level, I was looking for someone who was solid mentally.
The night I first saw Greg, it was a Thursday. As we did on this day every week, Suze, Maddie and I would go to The Croft after work for some drinks. Suze saw him first, then Maddie and then me. With almost choreographed perfection their eyes swivelled from him to me, as if to say, ‘He’s SO your type!’, which was a fact, and I suppose quite sweet of them. But I could already sense the patronising exchange that was about to follow. It did.
‘Go and talk to him,’ said Maddie.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied (only semi-)sarcastically. ‘I can’t do that. It is considered highly inappropriate for clientele frequenting drinking establishments to speak to the staff working there … except in extreme circumstances, like ordering a beverage.’
‘… and don’t attempt to distract the situation by making shit jokes,’ said Suze, snorting.
‘This could be fate,’ added Maddie. ‘He may have been sent to our pub for you. Everything happens for a reason.’
I rolled my eyes at her. ‘You know who started that expression? The fairies at the bottom of the garden. They came up with it shortly after finishing off that day’s twelve horoscope predictions which would apply to the world’s population of seven billion.’
Another snort from Suze. ‘Whatever, T, get on with it. When was the last time you dated?’
‘I went on a date last week.’
‘I mean, seriously dated.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Actually, I remember … it was before Jasper had taken his exams for prep school. In fact, you came to his last sports day with the guy you were seeing. Jasper bit his teacher. She had to get a jab. Then Evie threw your bloke’s car keys into the swimming pool.’
‘You’re right, Suze, I forgot you had a calendar in your kitchen which correlates your children’s advance through the education system with my love life.’
Suze laughed.
‘We only want you to be happy,’ added Maddie, who had recently made things official with her boyfriend, Kian.
I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Surely it is a given that everyone should want that for everyone else as standard. But for some reason, as soon as a woman becomes part of a couple, she automatically morphs into this beatific altruistic creature who roams the land wanting happiness for all women. Maddie, suffragettes died on your behalf so that our gender could flourish in their lives without being reliant on men for anything, least of all happiness.’
‘Until you start thinking about kids,’ she replies. ‘If you want to have a baby, you’ll need a man. It’s a simple fact. And you’ll need one that you can rely on.’
I stiffened. Suze sensed my reaction immediately. I know this because a second later she was replying to Maddie so I wouldn’t have to.
‘Bullshit, you don’t need to rely on a man to have a child. You only need one temporarily.’
‘You mean a donor?’ Maddie shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I could do it. Not from a moral point of view, of course, it’s not for me to cast judgement in that sense. I mean, plan on being a single parent. I’d find it overwhelming. Within a day of meeting Kian, I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. Two months in, I still do. But I want to wait until I am absolutely sure that the environment I am bringing that child into is right. Would it really be fair if I didn’t?’
‘Fair?’ I blurt out. ‘On who?’
Maddie shrugs. ‘Well, the child.’
‘If you are intending on having one out of love, it doesn’t matter how many people are involved. One or one hundred!’ My voice rises. ‘And who are you to say what environment is right or wrong?’
‘I was only saying that I think it would be tough doing it on your own … and that the better scenario is a two-parent family. It’s a wider support system. You must agree with that?’
I tutted at her for being so … well, so typically Middle England Maddie. But deep down, I agreed with her. Of course, it would be tough doing it on your own. It would take a brave woman to do that. If you were a scared girl, forget it.
Suze clocked my expression and stepped in again.
‘Anyway, I think this is all getting a bit Loose Women. Are we going to get a drink or what? At this rate I’m going to die of thirst …’ She reached into her bag for her purse. ‘Oh, and if I do drop dead, you can have one of my children each. And then, trust me, neither of you will ever want one of your own!’
So, Suze got the first round. Then Maddie got the second. They found out the new barman was called Greg and had been posted here by the brewery from another pub across town. I kept quiet. There were so many variables that simply weren’t in my favour to do something as rash as speaking to him. For a start, it would have been too obvious. And, therefore, embarrassing. And, consequently, awkward for both of us. And then, painful for any of us to come back to a pub which had been our regular hang-out for years. Ultimately, I would be creating a ‘situation’. The girls knew this was how I would be thinking, so after two drinks they stopped badgering me. The following Thursday, we arranged to meet at our usual time … but when I turned up (five minutes late), they weren’t there.
I saw him though. His back was to me as he changed an optic on a bottle of vodka. I knew it was him as I had stared at every part of his anatomy so hard the previous week, I could have given Crimewatch an exact E-fit of the nape of his neck. I was about to spin round and leave when a text pinged through from Suze:
If you walk out you’re officially a TWAT. FYI Maddie is with me, so don’t think about calling her.
I approached the bar, purple heat rash prickling.
ME: Erm … hi.
HIM: (Turning round.) Hey.
It was a generic I-don’t-recognise-you “hey”.
ME: I’m Tanya. I was in last week. You were talking to my friends, Suze and Maddie. We’re here every Thursday, but they haven’t turned up yet s—
HIM: Oh, right, yeah. How’s it going?
ME: Great, in fact. You?
HIM: Yeah … good.
ME: That’s, erm … good. Really … great.
Move over Dorothy Parker.
HIM: That’s all decided then. I’m good and so are you. No, you’re—in fact—great. What do you want?
He smirked. Negatively? Positively?
ME: Oh, God, erm … nothing really. I got here early, so thought I would say hello, since I was in here. Waiting. For Suze and Madd—
HIM: I meant, what do you want to drink?
ME: Right. Of course. Prosecco?
I HATE PROSECCO!
HIM: Coming up. So, tell me, Trisha …
ME: Tanya.
HIM: Sorry … Tanya. What do you do?
ME: I’m a content writer for corporate websites.
HIM: Ah, cool.
ME: It’s not. But I have a crazy boss who is obsessed with Star Wars. It’s really funny, he does impersonations of Yoda.
Yeah, he’s a lunatic. Because not even the vaguest sci-fi fan does that, do they?
HIM: Sounds it. Hey, maybe you could do a new website for my band? Pretty please!
ME: Band?
NOT what I wanted to hear.
HIM: Yeah, I’m a singer. The band is pretty successful, but I like to work behind a bar still. Keeps me grounded. I’m just hoping that I get to enjoy this sort of freedom for as long as possible before things sky rocket and we l—
ME: (Interrupting to tie up the conversation.) Well, that sounds like you’re keeping it, erm … real. The fans must appreciate that.
I physically recoiled at my use of muso speak.
HIM: I’m sure they would if I had any.
ME: What?
HIM: I was winding you up! The band … it’s a hobby. We play covers at weddings … not original material on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury.
ME: OH! (Warming to him again.) So, erm … what kind of traffic do you get on your current website?
HIM: Traffic? (Rubbing his chin.) Well, metaphorically speaking … you know if you take a left at the roundabout before Lidl, and then go right past the old recreation ground and take that spindly lane which snakes round the back of the church up towards the farm which is basically only used by the occasional agricultural vehicle? That’s pretty much the type of traff—
ME: Yep, I do. Actually, my parents use that lane too … they live just off it.
HIM: Poor them. That’s where Howard Dinsdale lives, isn’t it? In that mock-Tudor monstrosity. His company bought the youth club I went to as a kid and turned it into luxury flats. He’s an arsehole …
ME: Try having him as a father.
HIM: Ha! Nice attempt at getting me back. Now you’re winding me up. (Peering at me.) Oh. Shit. Oh, shit.
I smiled at him. He smiled too. At that moment, my stomach didn’t simply flip. It did a full-on exquisitely executed Olympic-level triple flickflack into a double backwards somersault with a twist. One which had been perfected by a dedicated Russian gymnast who had spent her entire childhood in a Moscow training camp, but who knew if she nailed a flawless routine she could move to the United States once the Games were over and be free to watch Miley Cyrus pop videos. And visit the Dash store. And eat Ben and Jerry’s.
I disappeared to the toilets and shut myself in a cubicle to call Suze. I told her everything Greg had said. Everything I had said. She informed me that she and Maddie were on their way, and ordered me to go back out to the bar and talk to him until their arrival. I left the cubicle. At the same time, another girl vacated the other cubicle and we both went to the sinks to wash our hands. As she rinsed hers, she stared at me. She was an Eva Mendez-esque exotic beauty with sloping features and olive skin. There was not a dab of make-up on her face—not even a very light mineral veil or BB cream. (I know my subtle cosmetic camouflage, they are the only products I use.) But she didn’t smile back, and left the lavatory without drying her hands. When I returned to the bar, she was sitting on a stool, chatting to Greg. He waved at me.
HIM: Hey, Tanya, this is Sadie. (He passes Sadie a pint of beer.) Sadie, meet Tanya … one of the regulars here.
Sadie raised her glass and gave me a look. This look told me that she’d heard every word I’d said in the toilet. It also told me everything about her relationship with Greg. But moreover, my relationship with myself. She knew I wasn’t going to compete with her, as I was the type of girl who avoided competition. The sort who lived within the remit of her capability but didn’t push herself further than that. She was right. My approach to life since my late teens had become: get through it. Full stop. Not, live it! Certainly not ‘to the full’ or ‘to the max’ or with the pressurising pre-cursor, of ‘you only have one, so …’. And that is what I had been doing, getting through it. No highs. No lows. Anything to avoid … feeling.
‘Do you think I should call myself something else, babe?’ Greg asks, as we pull out of The Croft’s car park and head home.
He is driving. I had a silly spate of fainting a while ago, so I don’t feel fully comfortable behind a wheel. Besides, I like watching Greg drive. It says a great deal about how sexy he is that he is still sexy when zipping about in my Ford Ka.
