by Katey Lovell
She noticed a half-smile playing out on Joe’s lips, and as the excited kids started singing along it broke out into a full beam of a grin. Tariq was slurring in his best Shane MacGowan impression and Clara laughed at how the usually cold hall suddenly seemed so much warmer. The tree, the music, the atmosphere … it was what Christmas should be about. And as the Irish jig kicked in and Kirsty MacColl›s inimitable voice rang out across the room, Clara couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be.
‘Scumbag!’
‘Maggot!’
‘Cheap lousy faggot!’
The kids revelled in legitimately shouting insults at the top of their lungs (even Deirdre couldn’t complain about them joining in with a classic festive hit) whilst Clara fretted in case any of the parents found out and complained about the non-PC lyrics. She hoped that by the time the adolescents got to the more innocent Christmas tunes like ‘Little Drummer Boy’ they›d be too busy a-rum-pa-pa-pumming to remember the start of the evening.
‘You hadn’t thought this through, had you?’ said a teasing voice in Clara’s ear. Joe’s breath tickled her skin. ‘They’re basically hurling abuse at a hundred decibels.’
‘The next song’s more sedate,’ she promised, although the truth was she couldn’t remember which track was coming up after Queen Kirsty and The Pogues.
The ball skimmed her cheek as Tariq shouted ‘Get in!’ at the top of his lungs.
‘Watch it,’ Joe warned the boy with a point of his index finger. ‘You could have had Clara’s eye out.’
Tariq looked sheepish, knowing he’d taken advantage of Clara’s distraction.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, placing the dimpled bat down on the table before sloping off in the direction of the tuck shop.
Clara set her bat down too and turned to face Joe as the opening chords of ‘Stay Another Day’ started playing. She giggled, remembering Joe›s comment about Dean’s coat looking like something East 17 would wear. Once the giggles took hold, she couldn’t stop, her whole body shaking as Brian Harvey’s wide boy London accent crooned away. Soon Joe was laughing too, bent double in a fit of giggles as Clara clung to his shoulder to stop from falling to the floor in uncontrollable hysterics.
The Christmas bells were tinkling out from the stereo as Deirdre rolled her eyes to the heavens.
‘You two are worse than the kids!’ she declared, before turning on her heels and heading back to the calm of the office.
That only made Joe and Clara laugh all the more, until they gave in and sank to the floor, unable to remain upright for a moment longer.
Joe
Thursday, December 7th 2017
‘I can’t believe you’ve brought me somewhere this swanky when I’m dressed like this!’ Clara’s voice squeaked with disbelief as she drank in the fancy chandeliers, the hipster barmen complete with waistcoats and neatly trimmed beards, and the extortionate prices of the cocktails on the gold-embossed menu. This was the newest of the cocktail bars springing up in Manchester city centre, each trying to outdo the other with upmarket fixtures and fittings to match their diverse drinks menus.
‘You look great,’ Joe reassured her. Her flared black dress was understated and lacked the ostentatiousness of the surroundings, the white Peter Pan collar adding a girlish innocence, which contrasted starkly with her punky lace-up biker boots. ‘I love your style.’
‘Thanks.’
She flushed slightly at the compliment, which along with the dress and her petite stature made her look cuter still in his eyes. She could front a punk band, Joe thought, with her super-cool hair, her nose stud (and the trail of piercings that followed the outer curve of her right ear) and her clompy no-nonsense boots. Not to mention the sass. That was something she had in abundance.
Thinking about Clara’s attitude reminded Joe of the conversation they’d had in the previous bar. She’d been part way through regaling him with a shocking tale, which had made him see her in a whole new light, when they’d been politely interrupted by a waitress keen to get them to order more drinks. Naturally they’d been swayed, especially Clara, who’d loved the festive drinks menu (selecting an Ice Blast – a concoction of vodka, schnapps and cranberry over crushed ice, although she’d hummed and hawed about whether to plump for a Chilly Nipple instead, purely because of the comedy name), and Joe had, in his mildly inebriated state, forgotten the conversation until now. Between the two of them the original purpose of the night, planning their presentation for the church committee, hadn’t taken too long. They’d still need to get together to finalise the power-point presentation and add in the numbers Clara hadn’t been able to recall from memory, but the night had descended into pleasure rather than business sooner than expected.
‘You never finished telling me about Dean and the car.’
Clara twitched. ‘I probably shouldn’t say anything. If he wanted to, he could go to the police over it.’
‘Criminal Clara strikes again,’ Joe joked, taking a sip of his drink. It was pretty potent, his throat burning as the fiery mixture hit, before a warm and wonderful numbness took hold. ‘So come on, spill the beans.’
She giggled as she took a large glug of her own cocktail, leaning forward with a naughty gleam in her eye. ‘I keyed it. I keyed his precious convertible.’
Joe was shocked at the revelation, but it manifested itself as a nervous laugh.
‘You’re having me on,’ he said eventually. His mouth was dry, so he turned back to his drink, hoping it’d offer him more insight. If not, at least it would act as a distraction, and as long as the slender black straw was in his mouth he didn’t need to worry about floundering for words.
She shook her head, her choppy bob swinging from side to side. ‘I swear, I did it. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Clara raised her index finger above her left breast and traced a large and wobbly cross. ‘I didn’t plan to. I’m not that callous. But when I saw his car in the supermarket car park … I don’t know what came over me. I was like a woman possessed.’
‘I’m lost for words.’
‘What can I say? One minute I’m sweetness and light, the next my wild and untamed streak is unleashed.’ Clara raised her hands in front of her face in a claw-like fashion and let out a roar before chuckling once more. ‘You don’t need to look so disapproving, it’s not like I go around doing that to random vehicles just for the hell of it. It was one impulsive moment.’
‘How much damage did you do?’
Clara’s attention shifted to her drink and Joe wondered if a smidgen of shame was catching up with her. Then she smirked, a devilish twinkle in her eye. ‘Enough. I ran the key all the way along one side. The paintwork was wrecked.’
‘You are so naughty. I think I’ve got the measure of you, then you go and drop a bombshell like this and I feel I’ve got a lot still to learn about you.’ Joe clucked his tongue, but he couldn’t hide his amusement. ‘Do you think he knew it was you who did it?’
‘Nah, probably thinks it was a kid messing about.’
Clara sucked the remnants of her cocktail up through her straw, the noisy slurping causing Joe to raise an eyebrow.
She scooped the squidgy fruit by dragging the end of her straw along the inside of the glass, popping a raspberry into her mouth.
‘I’m a good girl at heart. I don’t make a habit of scratching cars.’
‘That’s what’s so funny, you’re totally dedicated to the club and you’re such a great role model for the kids, and then I find out stuff like this.’
‘You know what they say? It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch. I think you’ve got to be a bit anarchic to work with teenagers. Or a lunatic.’
‘I’ll tell Deirdre you called her a lunatic.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Clara squealed. ‘Even though she totally is.’
‘Me and Billy used to think she was so old and boring, because she was always nagging us about something. It’s only as I’ve got older myself I realise how cool she actually is.’
; ‘She’s incredible,’ Clara agreed. ‘I sometimes wish me and her were the same age. I bet she was a right hoot on a night out.’
‘Her tales are hilarious,’ Joe agreed. ‘Did she ever tell you about the time she climbed the fence to get into Glastonbury?’
‘When she was caked in mud and tried to get on the stage with Van Morrison to do backing vocals?’ Clara threw back her head in hysterics. ‘Yes, once or twice.’
‘I’m never sure which of her stories actually happened and which are wild fantasies. Either way, she definitely believes she’s experienced this stuff.’
‘Exactly. Lunatic.’ Clara winked.
‘We all need a bit of crazy in our lives now and again,’ Joe said, whilst recognising he was one of the least crazy people he knew.
Joe Smith. Even his name was nondescript.
He took the straw out of his glass and knocked back what was left of his drink, blinking as he feared he might choke on the half-melted ice cube, which lodged in his throat. He spluttered in panic at the prospect. So much for living la vida loca, he couldn’t even down a drink these days without causing a scene.
‘We do. But you keep on being yourself. You’ve got me. I can be crazy enough for the both of us.’
Keep on being yourself.
You’ve got me.
The words stirred something within him, and Joe began to wonder if maybe he was a bit crazy after all. Because despite all the scandalous revelations, the quirks and the flaws, he couldn’t deny he was finding himself drawn to Clara.
***
‘I might be a bit drunk,’ Clara slurred, at the same moment as her ankle slipped off the edge of the kerb. She fell with a bump, landing in a pretzel knot of a heap and laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world.
‘It’s Christmas. Well, near enough. You can get away with it,’ Joe said, offering his hand to pull her back onto her feet.
Clara wasn’t the only reveller looking the worse for wear. As they made their way down Oldham Street, past the party people spilling out of Dry Bar and Night and Day, the two stumbled together.
‘Look!’ Clara pointed towards the window of a record shop. Album covers were pressed against the glass, and Joe wondered what had caught her eye. There was no Avril Lavigne, as far as he could see, and the bands that made up the display were predominantly obscure indie artists favoured by Radio 6. He couldn’t imagine any of them would appeal to Clara, who despite her edgy appearance seemed to favour the cheesiest music around.
‘What?’
‘Look at that record player! It’s so cute!’
The turquoise box was propped open, looking like a toy suitcase but for the turntable and arm, and seemed cheap alongside the professional decks.
At one time Joe had considered buying a record player – swayed by an article he’d read in a music mag about vinyl’s big comeback – but he couldn’t get past the inconvenience of the format; not only the ability of records to get scratched and damaged, but also the faff of turning the record over halfway through. Music was so easy to access these days. All he had to do was either dock his iPod or click on one of his Spotify playlists and he’d have music sorted for the night.
‘You don’t strike me as a hipster. And you’re not old enough to remember records being in fashion the first time around.’
‘Yeah, but my gran was forever listening to records when we lived there. Never anything I liked – all really old Rat Pack stuff – but even though I’d rather have listened to chart music, the crackles and the static used to send shivers up my spine.’
‘Static does that,’ Joe replied, deadpan.
‘You’re not funny.’
‘I’m hilarious,’ Joe laughed. He felt lightheaded, and although he was aware that the cold air slapping his cheeks should be sobering him up, it seemed instead to be helping the alcohol in his bloodstream take hold.
‘You’re really not. Anyway, before you rudely interrupted, I was trying to tell you a story.’ She planted her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin. ‘I asked for a record player for Christmas once, way before they were back in fashion. I don’t think any of the singers I liked were even bringing out their music on vinyl, but I still wanted one. I liked the way the needle moved along the grooves of my gran’s records, I found it relaxing. Never got one, though,’ she added sadly, reaching out to place her hand against the record player, the grimy glass the only thing between her and the object of her desires.
‘Sounds like me and the limited edition Game Boy I wanted. It was ice blue and clear so you could see all the electronics inside. My mum was dead set against games consoles, though. She thought they’d rot my brain and distract me from my studies, so I was never allowed one. That Christmas morning I cried, and I never cry. That’s how devastated I was. I didn’t get a console until I earned enough money to buy a Wii when I was an adult.’
‘I don’t remember crying about the record player. I got given a doll whose hair grew when you twisted her arm, which was a pretty cool alternative. I’d forgotten about the record player by the time we sat down to eat Christmas dinner.’
‘Maybe I wanted the Game Boy more than you wanted the record player, because I never forgot.’
Joe spotted a taxi with its light on passing along the street and seized the opportunity to flag it down before anyone else snapped it up. He didn’t fancy getting the last bus home with all the drunks, even though over the course of the night he’d probably matched them drink for drink.
‘Clara!’ he called, opening the door to the black cab and sprawling onto the pleather seat. ‘Come on!’
‘I did want that record player,’ she said, clambering into the taxi in an ungainly motion, her eyes still fixed on the little record player.
‘It’s never too late. You could ask Santa for one again this year?’
Clara smiled. ‘Maybe. You’ll have to take me to see the big man so I can ask him.’
‘And you’ll have to start upping your game. Santa doesn’t bring presents to people who misbehave.’ Joe waggled his finger in warning. ‘Belt up,’ he added, as the taxi pulled away.
‘I always behave,’ Clara slurred as the taxi took a sharp bend. She slid along the slippery seat covering, her fastened seatbelt failing to stop her sliding into Joe with a crash.
Joe closed his eyes to block out the blur of the passing streetlights. Partly to stop the dizziness he was experiencing, but partly so he could pretend he was on a high-speed spinning waltzer; rather than being mildly turned on as a drunken Clara crushed him on the back seat of a black cab heading home via Mancunian Way.
Clara
Friday, December 8th 2017
Surprisingly, Clara had woken up feeling fresh. She knew she barely deserved it after the five strong cocktails she’d sunk the previous night. Despite her small stature she prided herself on being able to handle her drink, but the super-strength concoctions had got her rapidly drunk and left her with a throbbing head.
The sweet aftertaste of peach schnapps still lingered in the furthest crevices of her mouth and Clara was convinced her teeth were eroding even more with each passing second.
She was thankful she’d had a peaceful afternoon adding ideas she and Joe had brainstormed to the presentation and unpacking the novelty tat they were going to use for the Christmas cracker craft session at the club that night. Cutting small slips of coloured paper ready for jokes to be written on had been therapeutic (she’d have to check that none were too rude – the finished crackers were being donated to a local old folks’ home. She wouldn’t want the kids’ risqué jokes pushing the geriatrics over the edge), and boxes of chocolates that she’d removed all the hard-centred ones from, for fear of dentures cracking. The last thing The Club on the Corner needed was a hefty dentistry bill landing on their doormat. Who knew there was so much to consider when making a few crackers out of the goodness of your heart?
Her eyes rested on the pristine white envelope propped against the mug she used to keep her pens, p
encils and highlighters tidy. She’d written the letter on her lunch break, but now it was ready to be posted – right down to the Christmas stamp placed firmly in the upper right- hand corner – she was having second thoughts. She must have been drunk to have considered writing it in the first place. Or perhaps she was just desperate. Yes, that was it. She was desperate.
‘Hiya.’ Joe breezed in as fresh as the proverbial daisy, and Clara unthinkingly turned the envelope around so he wouldn’t spot the address. His eyes narrowed. ‘Been writing that letter to Santa? You’ll be on the naughty list if he was watching last night. That taxi driver wasn’t impressed at having to pull over so you could throw up.’
Clara buried her face in her hands, humiliated beyond belief. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Oh, the shame!’
‘At least you managed to get out of the cab before spilling your guts. How’s your head?’
‘It’s been better,’ Clara admitted, ‘but being sick helped. I’m tired, more than anything. Deirdre reckons I’m coming down with a bug because I look so pale, and I didn’t correct her. She doesn’t need to know we were playing at being dirty stop-outs.’
‘It was a good night. Feeling confident we can get the presentation up to scratch by Monday?’
Clara nodded. ‘It’ll be Sunday night before I can put the finishing touches to the slides, but yeah. I feel better now I know what needs to be done.’
‘I’m happy to help you with it. It’ll be a quicker job if we do it together. Two heads are better than one and all that.’
‘Thanks,’ Clara smiled.
Joe clocked the resources for the evening’s session, piled high on the desk. ‘Need a hand with anything for tonight?’
‘There’s not much more to do, I don’t think. Once we move this lot into the hall we’ll be ready to go.’
Joe scooped up a wicker basket full of novelties and plopped two half-empty tubs of chocolates, much like the one Clara had given him, on top.
‘I’m looking forward to tonight,’ he said, as they teetered down the staircase, arms laden. ‘Simone is too, she was talking about it when I spoke to her earlier.’
