Chapter Eight If There Is Something #2
Rahul jumped as the Mango’s door crashed violently into the wall. Julian stormed in like hellfire and brimstone, the trailing smoke from his cigarette giving him an infernal halo.
Up on the stage, Mel and Kwambe exchanged unreadable glances. Rahul looked back as Julian mounted the stage, throwing his rucksack down with questionable force.
“In a good mood, are we?” Rahul offered sarcastically.
“Fucking shit fuck tits,” Julian muttered darkly.
“Ah, yes,” Rahul said in a sage tone. “The ol’ shit fuck tits. Of course. Why hadn’t I guessed?”
“I don’t give a toss if you’re on your period or somebody’s gone and kicked your dog,” Mel said, knowing full well that Julian had no dog. “So long as you can get through rehearsals, I’m happy. Got it?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Julian sulked, pulling papers distractedly from his bag.
It was rare to see him in a brown study for so long. Especially one as deep as this one. His dark interludes tended to be flashes, like clouds passing over the sun. That he was this moody was definitely cause for concern.
Rahul put down his Stratocaster and approached, lowering his voice. “Everything all right, small fry?”
“Does everything look all right?” Julian snapped back, voice high and eyes stormy.
He deflated as soon as Rahul reeled back, clearly aware of the effect he was having on those around him. “It’s Aisling, innit?” he revealed glumly.
Oh. Of course. That explained it. Except… “Again? I thought the two of you had just made up.”
“We had, hadn’t we! Except she came round with this crazy idea that I’ve been cheating on her. Imagine that! As if I’ve got time to go around cheating on her. As if I’d want to,” he amended after the fact.
Rahul took a calculated risk. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Cheating on her?”
“Get stuffed! Not you, too,” he cried, hand tugging at his hair in the way he only did when genuinely upset.
“All right, all right,” Rahul said, holding up placating hands. “Just checking.”
“I’m not cheating on her. She’s just gone and lost her mind.
So we broke up. For real this time.” He must have seen the dubious look on Rahul’s face because he insisted, “I mean it, Rahul. We’re through.
Well and truly through this time. She crossed a line, she did.
I wouldn’t take her back even if she begged. ”
He seemed to mean it. But Rahul had seen him mean it more times than he cared to count.
Every time was the last time. Every line was the line too far.
He’d given up hope at this point that Julian would ever be well and truly done with Aisling.
They’d probably end up married and he’d still find himself, weekend after weekend, comforting his best mate and telling him there were plenty of other fish in the sea.
Then again, the timing was rather suspicious. They had only made up a handful of nights ago. What could have brought this on so soon? What could have brought it on if not… the truth?
Rahul clapped Julian on the back in what he hoped was a manly fashion, reassuring him that there were plenty of fish in the sea and she didn’t deserve him, etcetera ad nauseum.
Then they took their positions behind their instruments and prepared to rehearse their mediocre material.
Julian surprised them all by supplying notes for a song he’d just written, to commemorate the occasion of his and Aisling’s most recent split.
It was titled “Fuck Off, You Slag.” It was a bit derivative, but the beat was killer and the bassline fresh.
Rahul felt it could be a single, if they ever released an album.
When they were done rehearsing, Julian’s temperament seemed much improved. He was glistening from exertion and smiling with pride. It was times like these when Rahul found it hard not to stare at him.
“Cheers, Jules,” Kwambe said with a pat on Julian’s back. “That was brilliant. Do that again tomorrow night and they won’t know what hit ‘em.”
“Cheers.” Julian grinned back.
Kwambe and Mel left together, talking about the latest episode of EastEnders.
Rahul was snapping his guitar back into its case and folding up his keyboard.
Julian was hanging back like usual to wait for him.
He was amusing himself by studying the fliers and faded posters tacked to the hall leading out of the club.
“This one’s for Hamlet,” he exclaimed as Rahul approached, keyboard under one arm and guitar under the other. “It’s auditions. Didn’t you always fancy playing Hamlet?”
Rahul recalled the numerous, drunken nights they’d had where he’d enacted impromptu Hamlet soliloquies to the delight of his shitfaced friend. “A bit.”
“You should go in for it.” Julian tore a phone number tab from the poster and held it out to Rahul. “You’re a genius actor. They’d hire you in a second.”
“They don’t ‘hire’ actors, Jules,” Rahul corrected, without taking the proffered tab.
“Whatever. You’d still be brilliant. You should try.
” Julian pushed the little slip of paper into Rahul’s pocket.
“You used to really be into acting. I mean, you left me behind to go and learn about it, so you must’ve been.
But ever since you came back, you haven’t so much as talked about it.
I saw you in that play that one time. You were brilliant. Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“Oh, you know,” Rahul began grandly, gazing off enigmatically into the middle-distance. “I can’t be contained. I’m a leaf on the wind of destiny. Where the breeze blows, I follow. You can’t stand against destiny when she comes a-knocking, Jules.”
“All right.” Julian rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Big man with his big notions. Let’s get a wiggle on. We gotta drop your kit off and make it to the Barber before the football crowd move in.”
Julian stalked ahead, whistling “Fuck Off, You Slag” between the gap in his teeth. Rahul looked after him for a moment, suddenly feeling years older.
Why’d I give up acting? he thought tiredly. Because of you, you great big burk.