His 'n' Hers

by Mike Gayle

  ‘That is the question,’ I echo.

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘None. You?’

  ‘None.’

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘Night, then,’ says Jim, moving from his back on to his side.

  ‘Sleep tight,’ I reply, in a whisper, and then I put my arm around Jim and pull myself closer.

  Nothing happens between us. It’s just sort of cosy. And as I drift off to sleep I hope that we’ll stay ‘cosy’ for the rest of the weekend.

  Sunday, 30 August 1992

  3.30 p.m.

  It’s the afternoon of the last day of the festival and Teenage Fanclub are on stage. Two hours earlier we all made a special trip to the supermarket in Reading town centre and bought what could only be described as a ridiculous amount of alcohol, which we ferried back to the festival site in two taxis. While most of the group are drinking at a level that keeps them somewhere around the ‘merry’ mark, Alison seems to be well beyond that point to the extent that I feel I’m not doing a very good job of Damon’s request to look after her.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re knocking it back a bit?’ I ask Alison, as she attempts to open a two-litre bottle of Woodpecker cider with her teeth.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she slurs. ‘You’re starting to sound like Damon.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But just watch out for yourself, okay?’

  8.21 p.m.

  The penultimate band of the festival – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – are now on the main stage and Alison is looking decidedly wobbly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  Alison nods unsteadily.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  She nods again and silently mouths the words: ‘I’m fine.’

  10.04 p.m.

  Kurt Cobain, in a hospital robe, is being pushed onstage in a wheelchair – everyone goes wild. Clearly mocking the rumours that have been going round about various hospitalisations he begins singing, then falls to the ground, flailing.

  ‘This is worth the ticket price alone,’ I say to Alison, over the roar of the crowd.

  She nods but says nothing. I can tell she’s going to be sick some time soon.

  10.37 p.m.

  Nirvana are playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. They’re just getting to the chorus when I notice that Alison has started throwing up.

  It’s like a fountain.

  Or maybe a volcano erupting.

  Either way it’s violent.

  Quite horrible.

  And exceptionally projectile.

  I look around for my friends, but everyone else has moved nearer the stage. I’m on my own.

  I look at Kurt on stage.

  Then I look at Alison, who is now on her hands and knees retching.

  I look at the demo tape in my hand.

  Then I shove it into my back pocket, pick her up and take her to the first-aid tent.

  Monday, 31 August 1992

  11.07 a.m.

  I’m in a phone box talking to Jane, telling her what a mess I’ve made of things.

  ‘So, what was your big plan?’ asks Jane. ‘Get drunk and try to snog Jim?’

  ‘I needed a bit of Dutch courage,’ I explain. ‘But I miscalculated and the sheer volume of cider I drank would’ve provided fearlessness for the whole of the Netherlands.’

  ‘I bet you’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  ‘The headache’s not the worst of it. I feel terrible because I made Jim miss the band he really wanted to see and his one and only chance of giving the lead singer a tape.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boys apparently came up with some silly plan to give Kurt Cobain a copy of their demo tape. They were hoping it would lead to fame and fortune.’

  ‘Well, that was never going to happen.’

  ‘I know, but they like to daydream, don’t they? I’m so mortified I can’t say a word to him. Not even “sorry”. The nicer he is to me the worse I feel.’

  ‘The thing between you and him just isn’t going to happen, is it?’ says Jane.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say sadly. ‘I don’t think it ever will.’

  1.33 p.m.

  We’re on the train going back to Birmingham and I’m lying with my head against the window and my eyes closed, not talking (and, if I can help it, not moving). I haven’t even made my usual trip to the smokers’ carriage at the rear of the train because I’m feeling too nauseous to smoke. Jim tries to talk to me several times during the journey to assure me that everything’s okay but this just upsets me more.

  2.45 p.m.

  We’ve just come into New Street station. When we’re all off the train everyone decides to catch the bus home to Selly Oak but Jim insists, given my fragile state, that I might be better off in a taxi. I agree and twenty minutes later we’re in the back of a Datsun Cherry on our way to my house.

  We reach Heely Road and the driver pulls up a few doors down. We sort out the money and the bags. Jim gets out, too, and follows me up the pathway to the house. I rummage in my rucksack for my purse, which has got my keys inside. ‘Well, thanks for an interesting weekend,’ he says.

  ‘I ruined it for you, didn’t I?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I had a great time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, and then I reach out and put my arms around him as if I’m going to give him a hug – which is what I’d intended to do – but all of a sudden I don’t. Instead I go for his lips and he goes for mine and we sort of kiss for a very long time. And when we stop I panic and immediately feel guilty.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say. Avoiding his eyes, I step inside my front door and close it behind me.

  Thursday, 3 September 1992

  5 p.m.

  ‘Hi, Alison, it’s me, Jim. Can you give me a ring when you’ve got a moment?’

  This is probably the millionth message Jim has left for me since we kissed and I haven’t returned a single one. I’m deliberately avoiding him because I don’t want to talk about the kiss. Although the sole reason I’d got drunk at the festival was to do exactly that, I’m now convinced it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. A one-off. It didn’t mean anything in the real world. And although I’m still not sure how I feel about Damon I just know that I don’t have what it takes to split up from him either. We’ve been together for what feels like for ever. It’s the longest relationship of my life so far. And no matter how unhappy I am with us, I still can’t come to terms with the fact that we might be over.

  Saturday, 5 September 1992

  5 p.m.

  Jane and I have just come back from an afternoon in town shopping. The answerphone in the hallway is beeping. I press play and listen: ‘Hi, Alison, it’s Jim here. I know this is a stupid message to leave, given that all your housemates and potentially your boyfriend will hear it – I mean, you might all be standing there right now looking at the phone thinking. What is this guy on about? – but I’m just leaving you a message to let you know that I’ve got the Message. Even if you do like me – and I’m one hundred per cent sure that you do – not only do you already have a boyfriend, not only am I friends with the aforementioned boyfriend, but to top it all Damon’s a ridiculously nice human being. I can’t blame you for choosing him over me because at the end of the day I think I would probably choose him over me. That’s all I’ve got to say, really. ‘Bye.’

  Friday, 18 September 1992

  10.05 p.m.

  Nick, Ed, Damon and I are in the Jug of Ale about to have a post-gig pint. It was a really good performance tonight. We played well and Nick and I have been talking about maybe sending our demo tape to a few record labels. I’m about to go to the bar to get some drinks when Damon coughs like he’s got something important to say.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news for you, boys,’ he announces. ‘I’ve been offered a job in London.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asks Nick.

  ‘Recruitment consultancy.’

  ‘When are you off?’ I ask.

 
‘At the end of the month.’

  ‘What about the band?’ I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  ‘I’m really sorry, guys, I’m going to have to leave. You can carry on without me, surely?’

  ‘Well, actually,’ says Ed, ‘I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you but I’m going home to Portsmouth.’

  ‘To do what?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m going to move in with my girlfriend.’

  ‘But what about all the hard work we’ve done?’ I say to them both. ‘We can’t give up just like that. I think we could really make it.’

  ‘It’s just pipe dreams,’ says Ed. ‘University’s over now. We’ve got to get on with real life, mate.’

  10.45 p.m.

  Damon and I are standing outside the pub with the band’s instruments, waiting to go home. Ed and Nick are still inside, using the toilets. We’ve been talking about the band and he’s apologised a million times for leaving and I haven’t got the heart to give him a hard time because I think he’s genuinely upset about it.

  ‘Do you think you’ll start another band in London?’

  ‘I don’t know about start, I might join one.’

  I nod thoughtfully. ‘And what about Alison? Is she going to London with you?’ It’s been the one question I’ve wanted to ask him since he told us his news.

  ‘Hopefully,’ he replies. ‘Things are good between us. I kind of think that Alison might be the One.’

  ‘Well, best of luck and all that,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘I’m sure the two of you will have a great time down there.’

  ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘I really think we will.’

  11.45 p.m.

  It’s late and I’m sitting up in bed fully clothed reading over the lyrics to the last song I’m ever going to write. It is, like most of the songs I’ve written in the last few months, about Alison, although in a roundabout way it’s about love too, and getting older and political complacency and the band falling apart and getting a job and everything else that’s on my mind.

  The Smile On Your Face

  Why do you come to me

  With that smile on your face

  Saying that you’ve heard it all before?

  So full of the joys of life

  To care for thought at all

  But it’s you who has free rein.

  Why do you torture me

  With looks that could kill?

  My grieving heart can’t take much more.

  It is ironic to think that one who has it all

  Could just throw it all away.

  CHORUS: We’re on the rise again – and you can’t stop us now.

  Why do you think the future is so far away?

  You’re young but there are younger than you.

  I never thought idealism was such a crime

  Till you smashed my dreams in two.

  Don’t believe the patriot,

  I don’t believe the past,

  Don’t believe there’s anything to be gained in compromise,

  I believe in youth,

  But you won’t believe yourself,

  It’s funny you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

  Smash my dreams if you like but you can’t sell my soul (repeat)

  Take all my possessions and it might hurt a bit

  But that smile on your face will be gone.

  1993

  Friday, 26 February 1993

  8.15 p.m.

  I’m standing in the Kings Heath branch of Blockbuster with my girlfriend Louise, a second-year medical student at Birmingham University. I met her at a student night in a nightclub near Five Ways called XLs a few weeks ago. She’s nice but she’s nothing like Alison. All the time we’ve been together – three months in total – I’ve had this picture in my head of Alison bumping into me and Louise looking all shiny and happy and new. Alison will be so devastated at having chosen Damon over me that she will break down crying.

  For the past forty-five minutes I’ve been waiting for Louise to make a decision about which video we’re going to watch, and anyone who cares to take the time to read my body language will have observed that I am currently annoyed, exasperated and depressed – in that order. ‘Come on, Lou,’ I say to her. ‘You need to make a decision before the shop closes.’ I point to a video at random. ‘What about Cape Fear?’

  ‘Too scary.’

  I pick another at random. ‘Terminator 2?’

  ‘It’s a boys’ film.’

  ‘My Girl?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s got Macauley Culkin in it and some girl I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand him in Home Alone.’

  ‘JFK?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘JFK,’ I replied tersely.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Who’s JFK? Are you telling me that you managed to get into medical school but you’ve never heard of John Fitzgerald Kennedy? He was President of America in the sixties.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds boring.’

  ‘Thelma and Louise?’

  ‘Saw it.’

  ‘Right,’ I say forcefully. ‘That’s it. I’m going to choose the film we’re going to see. Nick was banging on about some French film he saw ages ago called Betty Blue. You wait here and carry on looking and I’ll go and see if it’s any good and if it is we’ll watch that, okay?’ I look around the store. ‘Now where’s the art-house section?’

  8.17 p.m.

  The art-house section turns out to be more of an art-house shelf, featuring the following empty video boxes: Tampopo, 8 and a Half, Bicycle Thieves, La Dolce Vita, Jean de Florette and Betty Blue. I pick up Betty Blue and study the cover to try to work out what it’s about. After five minutes or so I’m none the wiser. I have, however, come to the conclusion that there’s a strong chance the lead actress – Béatrice Dalle – might be naked in it. Given that the French are, perhaps, some of the best purveyors in the world of on-screen nudity I end up putting the box back on the shelf. Is it a good idea to watch a self-confessed ‘erotically charged’ video with Louise when there’s a good chance I’ll be calling time on our relationship before the evening’s out? Still undecided, I reach out to pick up the box again and reread the back when an alien hand enters my line of vision, attempting to do the same. I look round abruptly, and I’m surprised to discover that the hand belongs to someone I know.

  ‘It’s you,’ I say, still clutching a corner of the video box.

  8.19 p.m.

  ‘It’s you,’ I reply, still holding a corner of the box.

  I haven’t seen Jim since we kissed that day after the Reading festival, although I’ve imagined bumping into him a million times. Each and every time I imagined such an encounter I was always looking fabulous. Never in a million years did I imagine myself to be as I am now: wearing trainers, an old pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a faded Birmingham University Women’s Hockey hooded top, without any makeup and my hair tied back with an elastic band because I couldn’t find a scrunchie when I’d got up that morning. I’d only intended to be out of the house for a few minutes. I’d been sneezing all day, Damon was staying in London for the weekend, Jane had gone to see her parents and my other housemate was going clubbing, so my plan had been to get a video and an extra large bag of popcorn, have a night in and feel sorry for myself.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks Jim.

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question.’

  ‘Me and Nick moved to Kings Heath a couple of weeks ago when the lease on the house in Selly Oak ran out.’ He pauses. ‘I thought you’d moved to London with Damon.’

  ‘No . . . well, it didn’t work out,’ I say. ‘Jane and I moved here a fortnight ago when the lease ran out in Heely Road.’

  ‘Whereabouts are you living now?’ asks Jim.

  ‘Mitford Avenue.’

  ‘What number?’

  ‘Sixty-five,’ I s
ay, observing the huge grin spreading across Jim’s face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re—’

  ‘I live at thirty-six,’ says Jim. ‘I think we’re directly across the road from you.’

  ‘You’re not the house with the blue door and the Jim Morrison poster in the bay window, are you?’

  ‘And are you the house with the green door and the scooter in the front garden?’

  ‘It’s Jane’s boyfriend Peter’s scooter. He leaves it at our house because he thinks it’s less likely to be nicked there. I can’t believe we’re neighbours,’ I say.

  ‘And I can’t believe we haven’t bumped into each other before now. So how’s Damon?’

  ‘He’s good, thanks.’ I scratch the side of my face. ‘And are you . . . seeing anyone?’

  ‘No . . . well, no . . .’ he replies, ‘. . . not really.’

  Suddenly we both become aware that we’re still holding the video box. Unsure what to say or do next, we remain motionless, as if playing a childhood game of statues.

  ‘Are you going to rent that or are you just browsing?’ I ask eventually.

  ‘Rent,’ he replies, and pulls the box from my grip.

  ‘Actually, I think you’ll find I had it first,’ I retort, and snatch it back. We’re laughing as we do this, but at the same time there’s something serious going on. We’re flirting again.

  Jim grabs the video, pulls the band of his Jeans away from his stomach and lodges it down the front of his trousers.

  ‘You’re such a child,’ I say, staring at the bulge in his jeans. ‘An absolute . . .’

  ‘Juvenile?’ offers Jim, grinning like an idiot. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll give you twice the rental if you give the box to me,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Tell you what, how about a compromise? I’ll let you watch it at my house. But only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.’ He held out his hand for me to shake. ‘Agreed?’

  I shake his hand. I feel his skin on mine. I can already see what’s going to happen and I don’t want to fight it any more. ‘Agreed.’

  8.25 p.m.

  I can’t believe it, I think, imagining what it would be like to kiss her again. Here I am leaving Blockbuster with the girl I adore most in the whole world when less than an hour earlier I’d entered with a girl I didn’t even like that much . . . Louise!