by S. E. Lynes
So we chatted away and that’s when I found out he was over at Heriot-Watt University studying for a Master’s in petroleum engineering.
“What’s an engineer doing in a panto?” I asked. “And if you stay in Edinburgh, how come you’re through in Glasgow? Don’t they have theatre groups where you stay?” My fifth question, I counted, and told myself to shut up.
“My girlfriend has a place here so I stay over and get the train back in the morning.”
Girlfriend, I thought.
Shit, I thought.
Served me right.
“What are you anyway,” he was saying, “some sort of journalist?”
“Lucky guess, Sherlock. I’m here with Jeanie aren’t I, so ...” For the second time I was floundering, this time on account of the girlfriend grenade. But – good thing about being Scottish in these moments? You can pass off any flirting you might have engaged in by mistake as pure Gallic friendliness. And I guess he could do the same: that famous cheeky Scouse charm.
“So you’re a hack then, eh,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He grinned – water off a duck’s back. “What d’you do then, go round digging in people’s bins? Doorstep the rich and famous?”
I shook my head, as if he were a sad, sad man, which made him grin all the more. “I’m interested in the truth, if that’s what you mean.”
“Truth and justice and all that?”
“Aye. Truth and justice. You cannae keep a good journo from the truth.”
“And what’s your drink?” he asked.
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Let’s see. Heavy? Stella? Guinness?”
“Wrong.” It was my turn to put on the posh voice. “You’ll have to give me your first-born child now. Mine’s a white wine spritzer. You see, I’m considerably more sophisticated than you think.”
There we were, then, being friendly. I found out he played keyboards, had become a Munro bagger since he moved north. I found out he’d met his girlfriend at uni, that she was reading Geology and came from Hampshire. She sounded clever, at home in the place her education had brought her to, since she’d always expected to get there. She sounded like she played a classical instrument, I thought, a cello or a harp or something like that. These things I imagined about her, along with flawless skin, killer body, cordon bleu cooking skills and wished her, only momentarily mind, involved in a fatal music-related accident – strangled by a cello string, maybe, or crushed to death by a massive harp.
THREE
Jeanie called me at my desk the day after the panto, having thoughtfully prepared a profile I never asked her for.
“OK, so he’s twenty-six.”
“Hmm, toy boy.” I turned to look at her – she was only across the office, on the features desk.
She pulled her glasses to the end of her nose, gave me a big wink, her voice still close in my ear. “Shut up, you’re only a few years older.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose and ran her pen down her notes. “Let’s see, he went travelling for a year after his first degree, which was at Sheffield where, get this, he was the lead singer in a band called The Electric Cavemen.”
“That’s absolutely atrocious.” Cradling the phone in my neck, I turned back to my screen, pretended to carry on with my article.
“This is all from Robbie. Let’s see, he’s mad into plays and cinema, apparently, so that’s right up your street.”
“What about that girl he lives with?”
“Only at weekends. She was Wendy, do you remember her? The blonde. She didn’t come to the pub. Had a ‘late supper’ apparently. At ten o’clock at night? Who has their tea at that time? All a bit la-di-da if you ask me.”
Wendy. I closed my eyes and tried to bring her to mind but no – couldn’t picture her at all. I cursed myself. Why hadn’t I taken any notice of her? Because I was all eyes on Mikey, that’s why. And he never said anything about her being in the panto, the chancer, even though I’d asked about her.
“They’re going through a bad patch,” Jeanie was saying.
“Are they now?”
“Uh-huh. He’s going to end it soon, according to our Robbie.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Isn’t it?”
He waited a month. It was January by then. I was at work when out of the blue he rang as if he’d seen me the day before and was calling to say how d’you do.
“So, Shona McGilvery,” he said. “How do you fancy coming out and getting really pissed one night?”
“That’s what aristocrats do, is it?” I kept my voice low and steady, tried to act like this was normal, him ringing to ask me out. Meanwhile, I’d stood up and was making crazy faces over at Jeanie, one hand pulled up into my sleeve, one eye shut, one leg bent. I was hopping up and down in front of my desk by the time her mouth dropped into the emphatic O of understanding.
“We drink gin, mostly,” he was saying. “The quinine in the tonic keeps us warm in the draughty old houses, don’t you know.”
God, I loved that accent.
“Of course it does,” I said, too excited to think of a comeback.
“How does Friday sound?”
We arranged to meet in the Pot Still in town at 7pm. I shimmied around the block a couple of times so as not to be early. On the third lap, quarter past, I saw him standing outside the door, face set in anxious anticipation. I felt voyeuristic, to be honest, like I’d caught an illicit glimpse of a vulnerable core, something I knew he’d keep hidden as soon as our eyes met.
He spotted me and his face relaxed into its default confident grin. “You’re late, Miss McGilvery.”
Cocky bastard, I thought. You don’t fool me.
“And you,” I said, “have shaved your beard off.”
He looked about five years younger than when I’d last seen him, his face smooth against mine when he bent to kiss me on the cheek.
“Health and safety,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Don’t want any mad women making a grab for it.” He stood up straight, pulled his hand into the sleeve of his jacket and closed one eye. “I’ve kept the hook, though.”
“I’ll bet you have.”
I met his eye but immediately had to look at the floor. This was new: the two of us, here together on purpose. And there’s only so much you can pass off as Gallic friendliness.
The bar was pretty full, the Friday after-work crowd having one or five for the road.
“Have a whisky,” he said. “They do great whiskies here.”
I said yes, sure, as it was Friday. I knew fine the place did whiskies – it was what the bar was known for. To be honest, I would’ve preferred a white wine spritzer but I didn’t want to wreck his big line.
What did we talk about? Mostly literature that first time, I think, which surprised me. I don’t know what I’d thought a journalist and an engineer would find to say to each other, but I couldn’t believe he’d read so much. The crowd thinned. With our third drink we got settled at a small round table near the bar.
“Most people discover the world when they go travelling,” he said, elbows on the table top. I noticed his eyes were deep brown, that they sloped a wee bit at the edges, which made him look kind. I noticed too that he could be earnest when he wanted to be – after a few drinks anyway. “I discovered books,” he went on, shifting in his seat. “Everyone swaps so you read whatever you get. Sometimes I feel like I need to go to the cinema every night, or the theatre, whatever, and then spend the rest of the night reading. Every night, do you know what I mean? There are all these people out there who’ve read so much and know so much and I feel like I’ll be playing catch up for the rest of my life.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” I said. And, oh God, did I. “At uni there were all these folk who seemed to already know it – Latin, history, you name it – like they’d been born knowing it, you know?”
“I do know. I really do.”
We smiled at each other. After a mome
nt, he made a silly face, to save us both. “Want to know something embarrassing?”
“Go on.”
“When I got back from travelling, I wrote to Martin Amis and told him I was his number one fan.”
“Oh, now, that is embarrassing.”
“And that was before I read Misery.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, laughing. “I won’t tell anyone.”
When they called time, he said it had come too soon, that he wasn’t ready for the evening to end.
“There’ll be other evenings,” I said. “If you play your cards right.”
He leant forward and kissed me on the cheek, sat back and grinned, as if he’d done something naughty. “Will you come for a walk with me?”
“I will walk to the end of the earth with you,” I said.
No I didn’t, don’t be silly. I just thought it. What I actually said was, “OK.”
We were heading down Hope Street, towards the corner with West Regent Lane when a bunch of lads came hurtling towards us along the pavement. All limbs and scuffle, they could have been no more than five or six in number. The noise they were making, the speed they were travelling, this was the kind of drunk trouble you got in town at midnight on a Friday. Curses flew, fists rose and landed. My body registered the deep jolt that comes with impromptu violence. I pushed Mikey to the wall, into the shadows. We stayed still, stayed silent. I hoped they would rumble on by. But they stopped, dispersed a moment, catching their breath. In the middle, a young lad of about seventeen staggered into the road and fell into the gutter.
“Kick him,” one of the others shouted. “Come on.”
“It’s four against one,” I whispered to Mikey. “That’s no’ fair.”
“Shona, you’re ...” he hissed but I was already striding forward, into the light.
“Oi,” I shouted. “Don’t you dare. You’ll do no such thing.”
I was in amongst them. Maybe my woman’s voice was a shock to them – the wrong pitch, the wrong time of night, because they paused, still breathing heavily, caught in an ugly game of musical statues. Maybe they were trying to figure out who’d shouted. I’m barely five foot two.
“He’s only a lad,” I said. “Go on with you, go on. You don’t want to do be doing this.”
“What’s it to you?” It was the one who’d suggested they kick the poor kid to certain brain damage. He was big, looked like he played rugby or did weights.
“What’s it to you, yourself, Big Man?” I looked up into his face, one step shy of wagging my finger. All I had was my diminutive height, the fact I could have been someone’s older sister. “Come on. He’s nae more than a wee scrap. Go home now, on you go.” I took a step closer, saw in the flicker of the big fella’s eyes that it was over. But still I worried he might hear my heart knocking against my ribs. “I’ll make sure he’s OK. OK, pal? Trust me, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
I reached up and put my hand on his shoulder. It was a risk, it was all a risk, but I wasn’t thinking, hadn’t been thinking for the past few minutes. “Listen, there’s two for one on pints in The Corinthian tonight. They’re open till two. You want to get over there, pick yourselves up a nice girl instead of hanging out here on the street all night, eh? What d’you think?”
He shrugged me off, then turned to his crew.
“What’s she say?” said one.
“Says there’s two for one down The Corinthian.” He then turned back to me. “Is that true?”
“’Course.” I put my hand to my chest. “Guide’s honour. Ask for Craigie. Tell him Shona sent you.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Shona by the way.”
“Davie.”
“Davie? My wee brother’s called Davie.”
We shook hands. I waved to his pals, said hello – all of it bullshit, all of it saving face.
“And that’s Mikey by the wall,” I said, thumbing over my shoulder to a shadow with a pair of feet. I nearly said he was English but thought better of it and anyway they were off, on to the next scrape.
Once they’d gone, Mikey came over and helped me pull the lad up. He was OK. Drunk, shaken and bruised, but OK.
“Let’s get him home,” I said.
I hailed a cab and we took him back to his digs. Over on Kyle Street, I think it was. To be honest, I was relieved we made it there without him puking all over us. We watched him shamble across the pavement, watched him scribble around the door with his key before finally sinking it into the lock. Once the door shut behind him, I gave my address to the driver – I was still staying with Jeanie in town then – and threw myself back in my seat.
Mikey, who had apparently lost the power of speech up to that point, sat forward and looked into my eyes.
“What?” I said.
His face came close. His edges blurred. “Was that true about the two for one?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re amazing.”
I closed my eyes for his kiss. Beneath us, the wheels gargled on the Glasgow street. He came home with me and stayed, stayed again and never quite left. We never stopped talking, except when we were eating supper in front of a movie or all over one another in bed. There were nights he had to sleep in Edinburgh – he had to sit his finals and of course the train fares were expensive – but then in the summer he got a bar job in Glasgow. He told me he wanted to chill for a bit, didn’t want rush into a career. But I know he got that job for me. No one can take that away from me, not even now. And when he told me his parents had bought a flat for him, did I want to move in, I said yes please, which is up there with telling Martin Amis you’re his number one fan. But I didn’t care.
Joy made me careless.
Valentina suggested we go for coffee in my car as hers was at the garage for repairs. Sure, I said. No problem. Before we moved north, Mikey had traded in the Golf for a second-hand Cherokee Jeep. For practical reasons, he’d said, though I suspected he secretly fancied himself in it – as a country squire or some such nonsense.
“Aberdeen is quite grey isn’t it,” I said as we walked down to the car. It was true. The houses, offices, shops, all the buildings looked like they’d been sculpted from rock, not built brick by brick.
“It is on a day like today,” she said. “But, I tell you what, when the sun comes out, it’s like there’s diamonds in the walls.” She linked my arm, leaned into me. The gesture felt too intimate for the few minutes we’d known one another but I brushed it off as a cultural difference and told myself to relax.
“All that glitters isn’t gold though, eh?” I said. “It’s your basic igneous rock. Granite’s volcanic. That’s why it glitters like that.” I smiled, felt my cheeks flush. “Sorry, that’s Mikey talking. He’s my other half, you know? Works in oil so I must’ve learnt something along the way.”
“Impressive,” she said, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t know a rock from a lump of wood.”
We’d reached the jeep. I unhooked my arm from hers and clicked on the key. The lights flashed, the doors unlocked with a thunk.
“No way,” she said. “Is this yours?”
“I hope so, otherwise we’ll be in big trouble with the police.”
She laughed, the way you do when you don’t know a person well, and climbed in alongside me. “I tell you what,” she said, buckling herself in. “Nah, forget it. It’s a crazy idea.”
“What is?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“You want to go clubbing, is that it? Twenty-four hour whisky binge? Go on, out with it.” I was wiping my side of the windscreen with my sleeve pulled over my hand. Now that we were together in the car, I found it hard to look straight at her – she was too close range, the space too cramped for the both of us.
“I so love this jeep.” She bounced on the seat. Like a kangaroo, I thought, but didn’t say. “Reminds me of back home. I feel like we could roll over all the little cars like a tank. Get out of my way! No? Crush!”
“Aye right, it’s great for traffic jams tha
t way.”
She laughed again while I concentrated on getting the key into the ignition. “What’s this crazy idea you’ve had anyway?”
She rubbed her hands together. “I was thinking, what if we get a couple of takeaways and you can show me that lovely cottage of yours?”
“Really? You want to go to my place?” I’d only just got out of there and didn’t exactly have going straight back in mind. But I’d never had anyone take an interest in where I lived before. Wow, you live in a flat, I’d love to see it, isn’t exactly a phrase you hear every day but maybe wow, you live in a cottage in the country was. “Are you sure?”
“Listen, I’d invite you to my place but it’s three floors up, no lift, and the pavements are full of litter. Union Grove, you know? Bloody seagulls are terrible, tearing through the trash, waking you up with their squawking. I’d love a place in the country.”
“OK,” I said. “You’re on.”
On the way to the cottage, we spoke mostly about our babies. Valentina seemed to find everything I said amusing and I guess I was flattered by that. Being with her wasn’t like being at the mother and baby group back in Glasgow. I guess, if I’m honest, no matter how friendly everyone had been there, a lot of what they said was really all about what clever parents they were. Daisy walked her first steps yesterday; Hamish has twenty words now – that kind of thing. When Valentina talked about Zac, she admitted to a more flawed, a more real experience.
“He’s like his dad,” she said. “Whines on and on and on until I’m banging my head against the wall and it’s all I can do not to throw him out of the goddamn window. The baby, I mean.” She gave a sad laugh.
“I totally know what you mean,” I replied. It was true, I found such relief in what Valentina was saying I could have rolled down the car window and shouted the words to the wind.
We’d reached the South Deeside Road. To the left, a grand, leafy driveway, all that was visible of Ardoe House Hotel; to the right, the River Dee, flowing down from the Cairngorms out to the North Sea, to the rigs, to Mikey.
Valentina tucked one leg up under the other, turned to me as I drove. “What do you do to get Isla to shut up, you know, when she won’t stop crying?”
