Chapter 2
MICHAEL
I’m tangled in the blue duvet I lost my virginity on.
Not the beige double Sarah picked out. If things had gone to plan, I’d be lying under that, still living in the house we were saving up to put a deposit on.
I’d still have my old job too, not swinging my thirty-year-old legs off the top of my brother’s bunk bed.
I sidestep Carl’s festering boxers, almost tripping over his bony ankles hanging off the bed. I sigh and shove my sketches under my mattress like dirty bleedin’ secrets.
Still, every day I go to the job centre with a shred of optimism.
Since Sarah left, and Dad got sick, I’ve taken whatever jobs I can find.
Worked on the roads. Did a year at a factory making engine parts.
Worked in a music shop until it went out of business.
Mam and Dad are barely making ends meet, and as much as I’m desperate to move out, for now, I’m stuck.
‘What about this one?’ Sandra, my ‘job searching specialist’, says through a mouthful of gum, scratching the back of her gigantic hair with a chewed pencil.
She slides the card across the desk. Her yellow nail varnish makes it look like she’s dipped her fingers into a jar of Coleman’s.
‘You said you like art, and look!’ She taps the card like it’s the winning numbers for the pools.
I drag the card towards me. ‘Apprentice?’
‘Well, yes!’ She beams. ‘Look at it as an opportunity to live your dream.’
‘It’s only a few quid more than my dole.’
‘But your dream…’ she says enthusiastically, mustard nails tap-tap-tapping on the pink card.
I’m really regretting sharing that bit of information about myself.
Call it a moment of madness. ‘What is the dream job?’ she’d asked.
‘Art,’ I’d replied. ‘I like to draw. Paint.’ Why I told her this when I’ve only ever mentioned it to Kate, my best friend of twenty years, I’ll never know.
And that was after too many cans and a victorious win by Sheffield Wednesday.
Kate used to live next door. We grew up together.
It’s strange being back and not hearing them all through the thin mid-terraced walls.
I take the card and fold it into my jeans.
‘That’s the spirit!’ She claps her small hands together, victorious.
Aye. Victory. This is what my life has come to. An apprentice at a painting and decorating firm for twenty-five quid a week. Living the dream.
* * *
It’s Friday night and the club is packed. I shoulder my way to the bar, Kim Wilde’s ‘Kids in America’ thrumming in my bones as the lights pulse, red, blue, green, each flash landing with the beats.
‘Two pints of Tennent’s and half a Carling and lime,’ I say, raising my voice across the sticky bar.
The girl behind nods, reaching beneath for the glasses, red plastic earrings swinging beneath her dark permed hair.
I turn back to the dance floor; Kate is dancing, hands raised, laughing at something a guy in way too much denim is saying in her ear.
‘That’ll be two thirty-three.’ My attention is pulled back. She leans forwards on the bar, elbows resting on the Tetley’s beer mat. I pull out my wallet. Ah, shite. I dig out the remaining fiver from my dole and pass it over. Kate dances her way through the throng towards me.
I turn to my right. I recognise the man next to me; he’d done a stint at my last job as a bricky. He’d only lasted a few days before he’d had an accident. I glance down as he tries to take out his wallet, his hand fumbling and the wallet falling to the floor. I bend down and pass it back.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
I nod.
He looks up to the till, then back at the coins in his palm. There’s a deep scar running along the middle. ‘Can you knock off the packet of dry roasted?’ he pauses. ‘Probably shouldn’t anyway. Too much salt, right?’ He smiles at the barmaid who begins to turn back.
‘Ah, you’ll need it,’ I say. ‘You’ll be ropey as shite if you don’t have something to soak up the beer. I’ll get it,’ I say, reaching into my pocket and handing over fifty pence.
‘Thanks. Michael, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Bobby.’
‘Have a good one,’ I say as Kate bounds up to the bar, takes the half pint and downs most of it.
I shake my head as she wipes the froth from her mouth with the back of her hand and lands a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
A cloud of the Ana?s Ana?s Mam bought her for her birthday follows her as she grabs the other pint.
I follow her furiously back-combed blonde hair back to the table.
‘Took you long enough!’ Danny, Kate’s better ’alf, as he likes to remind anyone who listens, pulls on his ciggie and blows it across the table. ‘Don’t You Want Me’ starts playing.
‘I love this song!’ Kate, still standing, offers me her hand.
I shake my head. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Oh, come on, you mardy git. It’s Friday night!’ She starts singing about working as a waitress in a bar. I pick up the beer mat, put it on the edge of the table and flip it.
‘Aye. And that’s why I let you drag me out.’
Danny gulps his pint. ‘Right. I’m going for a slash.’
‘Come on!’ Kate carries on singing; I laugh and shake my head. She starts dancing backwards, crooking her finger. I take a long draw on my pint then get up. She turns, reaching out her hand behind her. I take it and let her lead me across the dance floor.
I’m not much of a dancer, but after the week I’ve had, I could do with letting loose a bit.
Kate manages to find a spot, and we work into a rhythm.
No need to talk or think about the train wreck of my life, just the music, and the four pints making their way through my bloodstream.
Kate squeals and waves to a friend, leaving me dancing on my own like the sad sack I am.
I try to look through the crowd for her, but she’s already lost in the smoke and lights.
The floor is sticking to the soles of my Nikes and sweat is already forming at the back of my neck.
I make my way to the table and take a small sip of my pint – better make this one last. I look back to the dance floor. The song has changed; ‘Sweet Dreams’ begins.
In the middle of the dance floor is a woman.
She’s tall.
A tight blue dress leaves her shoulders bare and clings to the curve of her waist. Long, dark, wavy hair is clipped up at the sides, and large gold hooped earrings are swinging in time to the music.
Her hands are stretched towards the lights above, her eyes are closed, a small smile at the corner of her mouth.
I take another sip of my pint and look away, but find my eyes trailing back towards the dance floor.
She moves fluidly, like the music is being formed around her.
My heart is racing. It’s like I’ve met her before, but that’s probably just the beer.
‘Aye, aye,’ Danny sits back down and leans across the table. ‘What’s got you looking like Bugs Bunny with heart eyes?’
I pull my eyes away and give him the finger. ‘Ooh, touchy, touchy!’ He lifts himself off the seat and scans the dance floor.
‘Give over, will you?’ I say. Something primal in me doesn’t want him looking at her. I risk another glance over, but she’s gone. The song has finished. Something strange is happening to my chest as I look around the club. Then I catch a glimpse of her dark hair: a flash of blue, the glint of gold.
‘Back in a second.’ I’m up out of my seat, my feet making their way across the room. I don’t know why I’m getting up, what I would even say, but there is something like panic, like loss, at not being able to see her again.
I let out a long, ridiculous breath.
She’s still here, reaching for a coat, already heading for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Kate asks, stepping in front of me. I scan for the blue dress above Kate’s head.
‘I… I’m going to call it a night.’ She follows my line of sight.
‘Right. And that’s nowt to do with Phoebe Cates over there?’
Since watching Gremlins last year, Kate refers to anyone with dark hair as Phoebe Cates. I meet Kate’s eyes and she shakes her head. ‘Well, I’ll be here when she blows you off.’
I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. ‘See you later.’
‘I’ll get you a pint in!’ Kate’s words follow me as I quicken my steps through the smell of smoke, spilt pints and perfume.
Outside, the cool air hits me. The road is quiet. The sounds inside the club are muted except for the low pulse of the bass line. The street lights are on, and she’s there. Spotlit. Waiting.
OK, genius. What now?
‘Do you have the time?’ Her voice is confident. There’s a lilt of a different accent, a bit Noddy Holder, but softer. I step forwards.
‘Yeah, it’s…’ I check my watch. ‘Just gone half twelve.’
‘Shit.’ She looks up and down the street. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know if there’s another bus soon? I need to get back…’
‘Not tonight.’
She shakes her head, presses her lips together. ‘I’m Alice.’ She puts out her hand and shakes mine. Firm grip, cool, smooth hand.
‘Michael.’
I watch her take a deep breath then exhale. ‘Do you have, I mean, is there a phone close by?’
I gesture down the road with my head. ‘There’s a phone box, not far. I’ll walk you, if you want?’
She quirks a red-glossed smile.
‘I’m going that way anyway…’ I trail off.
‘Yeah. Why not. You seem decent enough.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I’m decent?’
She assesses me; the corner of her mouth lifts.
‘You smell like washing powder.’
I snort. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yep.’
We begin walking, her high heels clipping along the path.
‘So serial killers don’t wash their clothes?’
‘Oh, they do, but they don’t usually have sharp creases in their jeans.’
I don’t mention I had a row with Mam about this before I left. No matter how many times I tell her I can do my own washing, she goes steaming in with her can of starch and her iron.
‘So, what do you do, Michael?’
I pull at my ear. ‘I’m a… painter.’
‘What, like an artist?’