Chapter Fourteen Say Hello, Wave Goodbye
The record shop was a dingy affair located on the corner of Murray Grove and Cropley St. It had the brown-brick facade and arching lines of an original Edwardian spared the Blitz, but what would have been charming, great big shop windows were almost entirely obscured by layer upon layer of peeling band posters.
The faded white lettering on the authentic wood marquee half-heartedly proclaimed the shop to be Collier Vinyl.
The bell jangled cheerfully overhead when Michael swung the thick wooden door open.
The interior was muted and sepia toned from the light filtering through the poster-obscured windows.
Smoke gathered in banks towards the beamed ceiling even though no one in sight was currently smoking.
Short rows of record racks faced the glass counter at the back of the shop like soldiers queued up in front of their sergeant.
Behind the glass counter, which was itself caked in layers of scratched stickers and yellowing flyers, sat the two oblivious shopkeepers.
One leaned far back with his battered Converse trainers propped up on the countertop, his aquiline nose buried in a heavily dog-eared volume of Nabokov.
The one beside him was bent over a music magazine, unnaturally dark hair obscuring his face from view and nearly touching the glossy pages.
Neither one of them stirred at the shop bell’s toll.
Nor did they stir as Michael strode up rows of records, the heels of his oxfords clicking smartly against the chequered tiles.
It was only after he came to a stop right in front of them and loudly cleared his throat that either of them deigned to lift their gazes.
And Julian’s face immediately erupted into a riotous grin.
“Michael! What’re you doing here? You never came all the way down here to see me.”
“Of course I did,” Michael replied, unable to keep a grin from his own face.
He wasn’t often prone to open displays of emotion, but Julian’s smiles were infectious.
“I remembered you telling me the other night that your shop wasn’t far from the Wenlock Mason.
I was in the neighbourhood and thought I might take you out to lunch. ”
“Lunch!” Julian exclaimed as if it were a clever, novel idea of Michael’s own invention. “That’s genius, that is. I’d love a lunch break.”
“But you only just got in an hour ago,” came the acerbic voice from Julian’s side.
Rahul looked less than impressed by Michael’s sudden appearance.
In fact, since he’d become aware of Michael’s presence, his narrowed eyes hadn’t left Michael’s form for even a moment, as if he suspected Michael might nick something when he wasn’t looking.
Hostility radiated off him in waves so hot Michael feared he’d be sunburned before long.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t time for lunch,” Julian retorted, unmoved by Rahul’s cynicism as he was already rounding the counter.
“And I’m meant to mind the shop all on my own then,” Rahul whinged.
“But you’re so good at it.” Julian’s brightness shone on Rahul like the beam of a spotlight and even he had to sigh in defeat.
There was no staying mad at Julian when he aimed the full wattage at you.
Besides, he was already walking out with Michael, so there was really no stopping him even if Rahul had wanted to.
* * *
The curry place was packed with lunch-goers and the savoury scents of spices and freshly cooked chicken.
Michael and Julian had to squeeze themselves into a booth by the draughty door.
It wasn’t the sort of establishment Michael would have normally chosen for himself.
But none of these impositions fazed him as much as they might have otherwise thanks to the way Julian’s leg pressed up against his own under the cramped table, warm and firm and deliciously real.
Or the way his elbows kept knocking into Michael’s as he plunged eagerly into his curry, eating as he always did, as if he might never have the chance to eat again.
There was a spot of sauce in the corner of his mouth that Michael’s gaze kept landing on, waiting for a flash of pink tongue to dart out and lap it up.
Instead, a continuous stream of nonsensical words escaped him between heaping mouthfuls -- “and really, the only way I’d ever go back is if they made it into a kind of bouncy castle.
You know the type. Red and yellow and blue and stuff.
Why are all bouncy castles in primary colours?
Is it ‘cause they’re for kids? And kids are in primary school?
Ohhh, I reckon that’s it. But what if grown-ups want to use them?
Do they have them in grown-up colours? What would grown-up colours even be?
Mauve? And… beige? Ochre. I reckon ochre’s a grown-up colour.
Fancy a little boy saying ‘ochre.’ ‘Please, sir, can I have the ochre-coloured teddy bear?’ They’d throw him out of the shop!
‘You’re a full-grown man on his knees pretending to be a little boy,’ the shopkeeper’d say --”
“I don’t think Rahul likes me very much,” Michael interrupted, still haunted by the memory of Rahul’s dark glare.
“No way,” Julian dismissed, positivity radiating off him in pleasant, cooling waves. “You’re brilliant. Everybody loves you.”
“Really?” Michael asked, amused. “Who’s ‘everybody’?”
“You know, everybody. The curry man.”
“The one who just sold us the curry.”
“Right. He thought you were tops. I could tell.”
“Anyone else?”
“My sister. Mel. She only talked to you five minutes and even she could tell you were something special.”
“She told you that, did she?”
“I mean, not in as many words. But I could --”
“Tell. Right. Of course you could. Rahul doesn’t like me, does he?”
“No,” Julian admitted, deflating slightly. “Not really. But!” He perked up again, a Labrador retriever after a ball. “I bet he’d love you as much as I do if he got to know you. You know, one on one. You’re best one on one.”
“So you love me, do you?” Michael smirked, feeling like crowing a little.
Julian ducked his head, embarrassed, just like Michael thought he would. “You’re all right,” Julian mumbled, smiling shyly down at his curry-laden fork.
Michael finally gave in to his urge and reached across the small vinyl table, rubbing away the spot of sauce from the corner of Julian’s mouth. Julian watched with wide eyes and reddening cheeks as Michael sucked his thumb clean.
A cheeky grin worked its way onto Julian’s sharp features.
Under the table, Michael felt Julian’s boot travel up his leg, playfully stroking his shin.
Michael jumped a little and threw a mock-stern glance Julian’s way.
Julian bit his lip innocently and continued the covert assault, escalating to trapping Michael’s leg between the two of his, squeezing. Michael choked on a laugh.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked quietly, nearly inaudible over the din of the restaurant.
Julian shrugged, just kept worrying his lip between his teeth, his eyes boring intently into Michael’s.
“Someone could see.”
Another shrug. He was being so petulant that Michael wanted to kiss that smug little smirk right off his face.
Michael gave the shop a cursory glance. No one was looking.
Of course they weren’t. Everyone was always more concerned with their own lives than anyone else’s.
He grabbed Julian’s pointed chin and planted a hard, chaste kiss on his lips.
He pulled back before the latter could react, intent on making it more of a statement than an event.
It had the desired effect. As Michael turned his attention back to his lunch, Julian’s pale cheeks bloomed an attractive pink and he spent the rest of the meal in a dreamy silence, flashing coy glances at Michael from under his fringe every so often.
* * *
Aisling arrived at the Mango Club not long after Ghostly Unknown Octopus (Julian’s band name of the week) wrapped up their set. She sauntered backstage and up to the greenroom entirely unhindered. If only fans knew it was that easy. Not like Julian’s band had any fans to speak of.
The narrow, red-walled room was empty save for defunct amplifiers, towers of folding chairs, and Rahul, who sat by the half-open windows, smoking furiously.
His dark eyes darkened further when he caught sight of her.
Rahul had never made any secret of his distaste for her.
Which she’d always found quite rich considering he was the one who’d ruined her relationship.
When she first started following Julian around like a lovesick puppy back at uni, Julian would still occasionally mention his “best mate,” but it was always quickly cut off with a rueful smile or a creased brow, like someone who’d accidentally referred to a loved one in the present tense before remembering that they’d passed on.
She’d assumed they must’ve had a row and stopped being friends.
This alleged best mate never came down to visit, even during holidays, and after a few months Julian had stopped mentioning him at all.
Shortly after she’d dropped out though, that so-called best friend reappeared.
It was an awkward first few months back.
Rahul was sleeping on Mel’s sofa and there was this odd tension in the air as if he expected Julian to ask him to move in with him.
It had almost felt as if Julian knew about Rahul’s expectation but was purposefully ignoring it.
For all that they exclaimed to others what good friends they’d been as children, they were unaccountably shy around each other, like little kids who’ve been apart for a while and, when reunited, hide behind their mothers’ skirts.
It was around this time when Aisling and Julian had had their first fight.