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We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.
I waver.
‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.
It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.
‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.
‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’
I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’
She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’
And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.
Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.
‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’
The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.
I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.
‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’
I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.
‘Robbie…’
‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’
I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’
She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’
I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.
The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.
‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.
‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.
‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.
‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.
‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.
I blink.
‘Are they all the same temperature?’
He frowns. ‘Yeah.’
I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.
It’s black.
I panic.
‘It’s black,’ I say.
He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.
I walk back to the table with the drinks.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’
‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’
We wade through the Guinness. The music gets louder and so does the crowd. I go to the loo and come back. Then Robbie goes. She buys a pack of cigarettes and we bum a light. A couple of spotty city boys try to pick us up. The girls across from us leave with the guys at the next table. It’s 10.10.
I look at Robbie. ‘Well…’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not worried.’ And she lights another cigarette, even though she has one burning in the ashtray.
At 10.20 a man appears in the doorway. He’s stocky, wearing a pair of round John Lennon glasses and sporting a shock of spiky, sandy-coloured hair. He’s carrying a slightly crushed single rose in clear plastic wrap.
Robbie spots him and stands up. Walking over, she takes the rose from his hand. ‘This is not a bouquet, Hughey, is it?’ She lets it drop to the floor, where it becomes a chew toy for someone’s dog. ‘Now, are you going to buy me a drink or what?’
He smiles and wraps an arm round her waist. ‘I’d have come sooner if I knew that you were going to look like this.’
‘You should’ve seen what I looked like an hour ago.’ She shoves him in the direction of the bar. ‘By the way, we’re drinking champagne.’
He whistles under his breath and saunters up to the bar.
Robbie winks at me. ‘I told you it would be OK.’
That’s when I notice the guy behind him. Tall and slender, dressed in a faded suit and T-shirt, he stands, lingering by the door, running a hand through his long black hair.
He looks up at me, tilting his head sideways. ‘Hey’ His voice is quiet but deep.
‘Hey’ My voice has gone quiet too.
He holds out his hand. ‘Jake,’ he introduces himself. He has soft dark eyes and the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.
‘Raven,’ I say, holding out mine.
He wraps his fingers round mine. He holds them just a moment too long.
And I let him. As far as I’m concerned, he can hold them as long as he wants.
‘No!’
‘Well, what about some toast, then? Most of the superheroes I know have toast for breakfast. Often with a little peanut butter and banana on it.’
Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘Mummy, nobody knows a real superhero!’
‘I know you, don’t I? And you’re going to have to sit down properly. No standing on the kitchen chairs. Now, with peanut butter or not?’ I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
‘Good morning, mate!’ Allyson’s dressed in a white towelling bathrobe. She swoops down on Alex, scooping him up in a great big bear-hug. ‘Hey, mister! Where’s my kiss!’ she demands, tickling him under the arms.
‘Ewww! Gross! Ugly Aussie girl germs!’ He giggles hysterically. ‘Ewwwww!’
‘No quarter, mate! Give it up! Say, “I love Allyson!’”
‘Never!’ he screams, delighted. ‘Never, ever, ever! You stinky poofter!’
I whip round. ‘Hey! Where did you learn that word? That’s not a word I want to hear again, do you understand me? Where did you hear that?’
He looks at Allyson who, in turn, stares at her toes. ‘Sorry mate. Must’ve been me,’ she admits. ‘I’m really going to try to clean up my language. Promise.’
Sometimes I hate being Mom. ‘Well, it’s not a word I want to hear again from either of you. Do you understand?’
They look at each other and giggle.
The toast pops up and Bunny breezes in, carrying a stack of old magazines, which she plops down on the kitchen table. She’s always the first to wake, the one who puts the coffee on and rescues the milk and morning paper from the front doorstep. ‘I’m off,’ she announces. ‘Allyson, please pass me a plastic bag from that right-hand drawer, will you? I’m going to drop these by the surgery. I went the other day to have someone look at my toe and all they had were a bunch of copies of Horse and Hound. Can you imagine how depressing?’
I pass Alex his peanut butter toast, carefully cut into strips rather than squares, squares being for some reason entirely inedible. ‘What’s wrong with your toe?’
Bunny pops an apple into Alex’s school satchel.
He removes it again when she’s not looking.
‘Nothing, as it turns out. It just looked odd. And that’s all I’m going to say, as you’re dining.’
Allyson and I exchange a smile; only in Bunny’s world is peanut butter toast considered ‘dining’.
‘Oh!’ Bunny swirls round, hands on hips. ‘And someone’s been smoking in the house!’
‘Smoking!’ Allyson gasps, throwing her hand in front of her face for protection. ‘This is a non-smoking household! We don’t smoke in here!’
‘Yes, but there were ashes in one of my favourite china planters; the one with the white orchids. I know it couldn’t possibly be one of you girls.’ She eyes us sternly anyway. ‘I must have another word with Piotr. Damn, the dry cleaning! I’d forget my own head, girls.’ And she darts off, her high heels clicking against the flagstones of the kitchen floor.
Allyson glares at me.
It’s my turn to feel like a child. ‘Stop it! It wasn’t me! OK?’
‘Well, someone had to do it! Probably that beast upstairs.’ She pours herself a coffee and settles down at the table. ‘It’s a disgusting habit!’ she continues, flipping through back issues of Hello!. ‘I cannot live in a smoking household! It plays havoc with your voice…God, what are these people like! Look Evie, “My Plastic Surgery Torment” by Jordan Halliwell. Jesus! Just look at the size of those tits!’
‘Ally!’
It’s too late.
‘Let me see! Let me see the tits!’ Alex bounces up and down, brandishing a piece of toast and pulling at Allyson’s sleeve.
She covers her mouth. ‘Oh, shit! Sorry, darling! I completely forgot!’
I flash her a look.
‘Oh, bugger!’ She giggles.
I’m fighting a losing battle. ‘Sit down, Alex, and finish your breakfast. We’re going to be late and I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning.’ Whatever brief authority I possessed is quickly draining away. Alex ignores me and dances around the table instead, chomping on toast and repeating the word ‘tits’ as many times as he can.
‘Listen.’ Ally’s desperate to make it up to me. ‘I’ll walk him over today. Give me one minute while I pull on some clothes!’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Come on, Evie. Give me a break!’ she challenges. ‘What can be so difficult about walking a child to school?’
‘Well, he’s got to have his gym things today and he needs to go in the side entrance rather than the front because of the road works on Ordnance Hill, and he’s not to give any of his lunch to that little Indian boy with the nut allergy; it was a close call the last time. And he’s going to bug you about going into the newsagents for sweets but I don’t want him having any, Ally…’
She’s laughing at me.
‘I’m serious!’
‘That’s exactly why you’re so funny!’ She rubs Alex’s hair and he beams up at her. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
She rushes upstairs with her coffee.
‘And no more swearing!’ I call after her.
‘Mummy!’ Alex yanks my sleeve. ‘I didn’t give him the sandwich, Mummy. He took it,’ he reminds me.
I rub my fingers over my eyes. ‘Yes, darling.’
She’s going to buy him sweets, I just know it. She always does.
Oh…bugger.
And sitting down at the table, I nick a strip of Alex’s toast, skimming through the abandoned magazines. These people live in another world…socialites, Hollywood actors, royalty, rock stars…
‘Mum? Mummy?’
