‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Sometimes life is just life. Things happen, then some other things happen, and often there are no extra things in the middle connecting them. She went to a restaurant, she went to a graveyard—’
‘A specific part of a graveyard.’
‘—and that’s all we know.’
I said that last part finally, so that whatever else was going on in Dev’s head just stayed there. It seemed to work.
‘Do you want some Kolacz?’ he sighed.
‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘Beer?’
‘Cheese.’
‘No thanks.’
And an hour later my phone beep-beeped. And I blinked at it, surprised, and carried it into the living room for Dev to see.
‘It is mysterious if a
baboon falls from a tree.’
Traditional Shona Tribe proverb, Zimbabwe
I don’t know what this baboon thing means. It was on a website with the others, my vague attempt to theme these blogs and keep all eight of you interested.
Having said that, it’s probably pointless me trying to somehow relate to you a story from my recent life that involves a baboon falling out of a tree because if I’d met a baboon and it had fallen out of a tree I’d definitely have told you already by now. I’d have been straight on Twitter, too. Just seen baboon fall from tree. It was so mysterious! So I’ll tell you something else instead: today I wondered if he’d tried to get in touch. I changed my number when it all crashed and burned. I actually ended up with a better calling plan, so maybe everything happens for a reason.
The strange thing is, I knew all along that it would end that way, because really, what was I expecting? For him to do anything else at all? Or for him to do what he’s always done? I guess it’s not mysterious if a baboon stays in a tree. Because people are predictable.
I feel quite clever now.
So there are eight of you reading these things these days. Eight! I wonder if we’ve ever passed each other on the street. I wonder if you’d know me if you saw me? My dad used to say he thought people could know each other with just a glance.
There are seven million strangers in this city, and I’ll smile at some of them today, just in case one of them is looking for me.
It would be an embarrassing thing indeed if none of them were.
Sx
TWELVE
Or ‘Don’t Leave Me Alone With Her’
Well, this was embarrassing.
I hadn’t known where to suggest to meet Abbey when she texted. I’d been thrown. She wasn’t supposed to call. Dev had convinced me. He’d said it had all been about the review, and I’d reluctantly, and in the sober light of day, conceded that, yes, it probably was. She was younger than me – cooler than me. And yet she’d texted, not once mentioning anything about The Kicks, and said she’d be in town at the end of the week for a friend’s birthday and did I fancy grabbing a bite, or something.
I’d replied quickly, worried the offer was somehow as permanent as dust on a window ledge, here one second, swirling and moving and gone the next.
How about Charlotte Street? I’d said.
Yeah, so there were reasons I favoured Charlotte Street. But I figured Charlotte Street gave the right impression, too. It was adaptable. You can go either way with Charlotte Street. You can impress someone. Buy them a double-figure cocktail from the Charlotte Street Hotel if they’re that way inclined. Buy them a pie from the boozer round the back if they’re not. But you need to start somewhere in the middle, so you know which way to head once you get the lay of the land. Something halfway between a pie and a cocktail.
Something mid-range.
‘Welcome to Abrizzi’s!’ said the lady on reception. ‘A magical slice of pizza heaven!’
I was a little early, and mildly distracted by this, but even so, her words seemed very familiar, though I struggled to place them.
‘Have you booked?’ she said.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said. ‘Table for two. Priestley.’
She started to scan her list, but then paused, and for the briefest of moments I thought I saw something explode behind her eyes. Her eyes flicked towards me.
‘Jason Priestley?’
‘Just so pleased you’re here,’ said Gino, the manager, a wiry man with a watch too big for him. ‘Really – welcome back.’
He had one hand on my shoulder and he kept trying to shake my hand with his other.
‘Not at all,’ I said, staring straight ahead.
‘Just, please, enjoy your meal, and let me arrange something special for you, too.’
‘Okay …’ I said, willing him away, and it worked, because he went.
This was horrible.
‘A magical slice of pizza heaven’ had, of course, been my official opinion on Abrizzi’s, in my dashed-out and only-out-of-guilt review. But it looked like they’d taken it seriously. Really very seriously indeed. Because ‘a magical slice of pizza heaven’ now seemed to be their official slogan. It was on napkins. It was on menus. It was on the T-shirts and shirts of each and every member of staff.
And not just that. But underneath every single one of them: my name.
‘Jason Priestley – London Now!’
They’d even added an exclamation mark, so deeply excited and inspired were they by my talk of magic.
Again: this was horrible.
When Abbey came in – all ripped Bowie T-shirt and skinny jeans and electric blue eyeliner – she would see me, Jason Priestley, surrounded by dozens of people carrying bits of paper or wearing bits of cloth with my name on. She would see a menu full of pizzas, with my name on every page, assuring her that whatever she chose, she was guaranteed a magical slice of pizza heaven. She would see balloons and notepads and one woman in a baseball cap – all proclaiming she was about to have the night of her life in what was – and this is what the quote should have been – one of London’s most average restaurants.
And worse, it would look like I was proud of this. I could hardly claim it as a mistake, or a weird coincidence. I could hardly say, ‘Actually, I’m not much of a fan of this place.’ I am clearly a massive fan of this place. And denying it would not only harm my journalistic credibility, but make her wonder why I’d brought her here if it’s so dreadful. It’s not like I could say, ‘I didn’t know if you were a pie girl or a cocktail girl, so I split the difference and thought I’d just lob pizzas at you.’
So I’d just have to sit here and wait for her to walk in and pray she didn’t notice. Because maybe she wouldn’t notice. That was possible. That was possible, right?
That was not at all possible.
‘Well, this is unusual,’ she said, sitting down and placing on the table the flyer she’d been given outside, which had my name in eighteen-point Palatino right across the top.
I’d hoped maybe she was talking about the fact that two people, strangers just a week before, could meet up and share a magical slice of pizza heaven, but no: now she was pointing at a waiter in what I will now refer to as a matching Jason Priestley T-shirt and baseball cap set and she was looking concerned.
‘I suppose it is a bit unusual,’ I said, before, adding quite urgently: ‘I didn’t bring you here to impress you. I’m not trying to impress you.’
‘Well, that’s nice to know.’
‘No, I mean, if I wanted to impress you, this isn’t the way I would impress you.’
‘Your name is everywhere,’ she said, looking at the menu.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘Look. They’ve taken other quotes and put them under the relevant dishes. The Margherita is “a delight!”’
I grabbed the menu and looked at it.
‘I guess it must be,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘which is strange, because I’m not usually a fan. Look, do you want to get out of here? Maybe you’d prefer a cocktail, or a pie?’
She wrinkled her nose at me. People don’t do that much.
‘Hello, sir. Hello, madam!’
It
was the manager. He was back. And he was bearing gifts.
‘With our compliments!’ he said, packed with pride and full of goodwill.
Two giant glasses, filled with prawns and lettuce, slathered in a bright pink sauce, and surrounded by little cocktail-stick Abrizzi flags with tiny Jason Priestley quotes on them.
Why? Why hadn’t I put more effort into that quote? Hemingway had hundreds, all brilliant. Wilde spat them out like pips. What if this is the only thing people remember me for when I’m gone? What if this is my legacy?
‘Oh, thank you, that’s …’ I began, and as I looked up, I could see the manager willing me to say something else, something nice, something they could get printed up on a flyer, or perhaps attach to the back of a plane and have flown around central London. ‘That’s a lovely big glass of prawns.’
The manager semi-smiled, going through the quote in his head, rolling it over and over, but knowing he probably couldn’t use ‘that’s a lovely big glass of prawns’ very effectively in his next marketing blitz. He backed away, never once taking his eyes off our prawns, just to make sure they were just right, still perfect, and we waited for him to disappear.
‘I think pie,’ said Abbey.
We were over the road from Percy Passage and I was secretly pleased Abbey was a pie girl and not a cocktail one. You find me a pie girl and I’ll show you a girl who knows about life. Find me a cocktail one, and I’ll compliment her shoes, because all I know is, they get very funny with you if you don’t.
‘So what’s the official verdict on this place?’ she said, looking around the pub, fork in hand. ‘Is someone going to come out wearing a full Jason Priestley body suit, and then start singing the Jason Priestley song, all about quality pies at low, low prices?’
I laughed, embarrassed.
‘What kind of quote did you give these guys?’ she said.
‘I swear to God, I had no idea Abrizzi’s were launching some kind of elaborate Jason Priestley campaign. If I had, it would literally have been the last place in London I would’ve taken you.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Sure sure.’
And she smiled.
I liked the fact that she’d called me. Out of the blue. I was flattered she’d want to hang out. And pleased that there’d been no mention of The Kicks or their review. It was refreshing to meet someone and be free of subtext or implications. Yeah, so now, in the cold light of day, our differences were clearer. She was young and cool and hot and I was a man who’d lent his name to bad baseball caps in an average restaurant. But this was just a meeting of two people who liked each other, pure and simple.
‘So I wanted to ask you a favour.’
Forget everything I just said.
‘Shoot,’ I said, nodding vigorously, to show that yes, of course she did, I never thought this was just about hanging out with someone who seemed to like me, but she must’ve seen my face fall.
‘Oh, God, that’s not why I wanted to meet up,’ she said. ‘I didn’t arrange this so that I could ask you a favour. Is that what you think?’
‘Well, I mean, I didn’t expect to hear from you at all, really. Or if I did, maybe not until the review came out.’
She looked at me very seriously.
‘Jason, I’m not after you for your reviews. I’m not even after you.’
She finished her last bite of pie and I tried not to look disappointed.
‘I just think you’re bruised.’
‘I’m not bruised,’ I said, a little too quickly and before I’d really had time to consider what she’d meant.
‘Of course you’re bruised. The other night I asked you to tell me something about yourself and what was the first thing you told me?’
‘The camera thing?’ I tried.
She smiled, and sat back in her seat. A gap opened up – an awkward, yawning pause she didn’t seem in a rush to fill.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m a bit bruised.’
‘Most guys would’ve tried to impress me,’ she said. ‘If I’d said, “Tell me something about yourself”, they’d’ve said, “I once saved a life”, or “I love animals”, or “My greatest fault is sometimes I’m just too kind”. But you decided to show me how bruised you are.’
‘What favour do you need?’ I said, trying to move things on.
‘Jason …’
‘Come on, anything. What favour do you need?’
‘I want to have a child.’
She sat back in her chair and stared at me, hard. The music seemed to get louder, the place more confusing.
‘I … what?’
‘I know it’s weird, but listen: do you want children?’
Oh, terrific. A nutjob. She was a nutjob.
‘Well, I, eventually,’ I stumbled, nodding, trying to pretend that almost everyone else in this pub was probably having a very similar conversation. ‘You know, but … not tonight.’
‘It wouldn’t be tonight,’ she said. ‘It takes nine months. Bloody NHS. So when do you want children? Narrow it down for a girl.’
‘Well … I want them. I want them eventually. I … I’ve thought about it sometimes, I won’t lie, but—’
I shrugged and waved my hands a bit. It was the absolute best I could do.
‘And that’s your final answer, is it?’
I just need to finish this drink and I could be home in twenty minutes.
‘I think so, yes.’
She thought about it. A frosty moment. And then a snigger.
‘Jason, I don’t really want to have a child, I’m about three hundred years younger than you with my whole life ahead of me.’
And the relief and the joy on my face must have been obvious, because she laughed and said, ‘I’m messing with you! You looked terrified! I do not want your child!’
And while I struggled to find a response without the word ‘hallelujah’ in it, she took a sip of her pint and said, ‘I just want you to talk to me.’
I took a moment, studied her face.
Why would someone who was not interested be so interested? I thought, despite myself.
And then:
‘Jason,’ said a voice, a stern one, breaking the silence.
I’m not keen on stern voices, piercing silences. They don’t generally bring great news. I looked up.
Anna.
Anna? What was Anna …? Words whizzed through my head.
‘I just think you need to take a long, hard look at yourself and maybe reign in the drinking because it’s not healthy, all this drinking, Jason.’
My grip on the pint glass tightened.
‘A pint does not solve anything, and you also need to let Sarah and Gareth live their lives because you had your chance and you need to be a grown-up about it.’
‘Hello, Anna,’ I said, and if I’d been in a cartoon, it would’ve been through gritted teeth. Anna had a way of talking to me that made me feel like I’d somehow been caught doing something I shouldn’t, and here it was happening again: a quick flush of embarrassment rushed through me. Anna was Sarah’s best friend. At least until I’d been on the scene. She hadn’t taken to me particularly well, nowhere near as well as she’d apparently taken to Gary, I’d been told. Gary and his stupid man’d face.
Now Sarah was rid of me, Anna had been doing her level-best to get back in with Sarah. Sarah and Gary. And I’d always suspected that was through badmouthing me. Never again would she let Sarah go. Anna thrived on information. By which I mean gossip. You give Anna some gossip, Anna will use it well and make it last.
I suppose if I was still a teacher, I’d mark her like this:
Appearance: Thin mouth, thin eyebrows, thin nose, thin body, thin skin. Pockets stuffed full of Kleenex. Perpetual cold and perpetually cold.
Conversation: Overuses the phrase ‘I’m only being honest!’ as if this is some kind of get-out for rudeness and we should all in fact applaud her wonderfully open attitude because she’s only being honest. Does not like it when other people are honest with her, and gets v
ery honest with them if they are. Overall: Avoid. Avoid avoid avoid. What? I’m only being honest.
‘How are you?’ I said, faux-beaming, knowing I just had to brave this out, give nothing away, and she’d be gone soon.
Anna made a tsk sound and extended her arm to Abbey, using it as an excuse to take her in, study her, steal a glance at her ripped Bowie T-shirt and electric blue eyeliner and all the other things that really didn’t seem very me at all.
‘Sorry, he’s so rude, isn’t he?’ She laughed, lightly, but what she really meant by that was that I’m rude. ‘I’m Anna. I’m a friend of Sarah’s?’
She put a question mark on the end of that. She didn’t need to. It was a fact, not a question. She was fishing; trying to get Abbey’s reaction; trying to work out who she was by what she knew. Did she know about Sarah? wondered Anna. Had I told her the full story?
‘Svetlana,’ said a voice immediately to my left, in a deep and heavy Russian accent. Which was odd, because Abbey was immediately to my left, and her accent was not deep, or heavy, and it was British, and what’s more, I was pretty sure there was no one called Svetlana here.
‘Oh!’ said Anna, seemingly impressed.
‘I am Russian prostitute.’
I turned and stared, shocked.
‘Jason visit me often, but sometime he just want to meet up and cry.’
Anna’s eyes widened slightly.
‘Today is just lot of crying. Crying and pie. I call these night a Jason Priestley night. Just crying and pie. CryPie.’
Anna took a moment, nodded, grinned at her shoes, looked up and looked annoyed.
‘Seems you’ve met someone your own age, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your pie.’
I watched her leave, wondering if she’d perhaps forget this, and Sarah might never hear about it.
‘And crying too!’ shouted Abbey, after her. ‘Pie and cry!’
I turned back to her, speechless.
‘I thought that was your ex,’ she said, stifling a giggle.
‘So you thought you’d say you were a prostitute I visit so I can cry a lot?’
‘Yeah, man!’ she said. ‘Girls love that shit!’
‘Do they?’
‘Not many of them. She didn’t look your type anyway. She’d been shopping at Crabtree & Evelyn. The minute you start buying anything that smells of lavender you might as well book your Saga trip, too.’
Charlotte Street Page 16
