‘Bloke new to the area wishes to make new friends,’ mumbled Rob.
‘Oh, mate,’ said Phil unable to hide his amusement. ‘That is
so
gay.’
‘I know,’ said Rob, ‘but—’
‘No buts, mate,’ Phil chuckled, ‘that really is
incredibly
gay. It’s like supergay. It’s like gay plus. So how would it have worked? Some guy you’ve never met before calls and tells you he likes the sound of your ad, you call him back and then you arrange to go out on a sort of date?’
Rob swallowed hard. ‘Yeah. That’s the long and short of it.’
Phil exploded with laughter. ‘That is
so
gay it’s almost beyond gay. It’s like a whole new level of gayness.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Rob, refusing to dignify Phil’s comments with a response, ‘I said no and went to a local pub on my own to do the
Guardian
crossword and have a pint. There I was, minding my own business, pondering six down or whatever, when I got talking to a girl called Jo.’
‘Hang on,’ Phil broke in, ‘what do you mean you “got talking” to her? You didn’t chat her up, did you?’
‘
No
,’ said Rob, defensively. ‘I’d met her briefly at a party a while back and basically she’d come to the pub with her boyfriend and they ended up having a row and she was crying and—’
‘Let me guess,’ said Phil. ‘You
consoled
her.’
‘Not like that! We just got talking, that’s all, and we had a few drinks and I went back to hers . . . and, well . . . I spent the night there.’
‘You spent the night with another woman?’ Phil sounded genuinely shocked.
‘Not like
that.
’
‘Like what, then?’
‘Like mates.’
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘On top of her bed –
fully clothed.
’
‘And where did she sleep?’
‘On the bed next to me –
fully clothed.
Look, I’d had a bit to drink – I must have been trying to phone a taxi to get back to mine when I fell asleep on the bed.’
‘Bobman,’ began Phil, clearly entertained by Rob’s plight, ‘only you could get yourself into a mess like this.’
‘It sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it? But there’s something about Jo that – we just clicked.’
‘As mates?’
‘Absolutely one hundred per cent as mates. Is that ridiculous?’
‘You’ve had female friends before, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rob, ‘but this is different somehow. For starters I haven’t made any new female friends since I’ve been with Ash. And most of the ones I had have sort of faded away over the last few years. You know how it is – you start seeing someone, they start seeing someone and then you drift apart.’
‘I wouldn’t know, mate,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve never had any female friends.’
‘What about Adele from the ad agency? You were pretty close to her for a while. And there was that girl who worked in the press office at EMI.’
‘I wouldn’t call them mates exactly,’ clarified Phil. ‘Truth is, they were more like ongoing projects, if you know what I mean. They responded better when my obvious charms were on slow release rather than fuel-injected. I don’t think I’ve ever had a female friend who wasn’t an ongoing project.’
‘Not one?’
‘Nope.’ Phil paused. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t fancy this girl?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Rob. ‘She’s definitely attractive. And I’ll admit that when I pictured myself finding a new drinking buddy I never saw them with breasts. But this is the twenty-first century and that stuff doesn’t matter, does it? Because when you’re making friends with people all that matters is that you click with them – that you get . . . I don’t know . . . that
feeling
about them. That’s what counts and that’s what I got last night.’
‘What about Ashley in all this?’ asked Phil. ‘Come on, mate, think it through, will you? What do you think she’s going to say if she discovers that your new bosom buddy is a girl you find attractive? She’s not going to get it, is she?’
‘First off,’ said Rob, ‘I didn’t say I
found
her attractive. I said she
was
attractive – it’s a simple observation of fact. And what’s the big deal? Loads of people have friends of the opposite sex.’
‘Only on the telly,’ said Phil. ‘Not in the real world, when you’re thirty-three and have a long-term girlfriend. How would you feel if Ash was suddenly best mates with some hunky doctor?’
‘She already is,’ replied Rob, ‘and his name’s Neil.’
‘And you’re fine with it?’
‘Well, I’ve got no choice, have I? She was friends with him before I met her. Anyway, Ashley’s not going to run off with Neil now I’ve moved up here, is she? Defeats the object, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose,’ conceded Phil. ‘But I know
I
wouldn’t like it. And I don’t think Ash will either.’
‘But that’s not even fair,’ countered Rob. ‘It’s hypocritical
and
sexist. If Jo was a bloke, Ashley wouldn’t get a say in whether he could be my mate.’
‘Good point,’ said Phil. ‘But if Jo was a bloke and you’d just spent the night at his house you wouldn’t be calling me up at this time in the morning to ask my advice, would you? Bobman, what you’ve got to remember is that the way things are in life is the natural order. After all, you wouldn’t keep a fox in a chicken run and not expect him to make himself a snack.’
‘Did you just make that up?’ asked Rob.
‘No. I nicked it from a film.’
‘I can’t see her again, can I?’ said Rob. ‘You’re right. Ashley’s never going to get it, is she?’
‘My guess is no, but then again I’m not her boyfriend. You know her best. How do
you
think she’ll react?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Rob. ‘But I don’t think I can risk it. The last thing I need is for her to get cold feet about us because I’m hanging out with some bird. I’ve got to face it. I’m just going to have to forget about seeing Jo again.’
‘It’s the only conclusion,’ said Phil. ‘And then what you need to do is find yourself a nice, straightforward, uncomplicated bloke.’
Mirror mirror
‘What do you think?’ asked Rob, turning round 360 degrees.
‘I liked what you had on before,’ replied Ashley.
‘Really?’ asked Rob, studying himself from behind in the bedroom mirror. Ashley nodded.
‘But don’t you think the V neck is a bit . . .
trying too hard
?’
Ashley rolled her eyes. ‘Is “trying too hard” your new shorthand for “is this a bit gay”?’
It was a quarter to six on a Thursday night in July, a week after Rob’s conversation with Phil, and he was standing in front of Ashley, showing her the clothes he had chosen for his first ever bloke-date. He had decided to take Phil’s advice and find himself “a nice, straightforward, uncomplicated bloke” and knew he had to contact one of the respondents to his
City List
ad in the hope that at least one might be normal. He was meeting Veejay first, purely on the basis of chronology.
This
, he had thought, as he put down the phone having arranged to meet him in BlueBar at eight,
is going to be the longest night of my life.
‘How about I go with what I had on before,’ continued Rob, ‘but maybe swap the V neck for that T-shirt I bought in Aspecto last Saturday?’
Ashley shook her head – more in sorrow than sympathy, Rob suspected – and he began to change again. Over the following half-hour she helped him whittle down his wardrobe to two ‘dressed-down-look’ contenders: Levi’s, green Carhartt T-shirt, trainers, army jacket ensemble, or old G-star jeans, a grey V-neck jumper and a beige jacket he’d bought from Duffer of St George in Covent Garden. Ashley told him both outfits worked well – neither was ‘trying too hard’ but both displayed enough fashion sense to show that he wasn’t a complete idiot. ‘The best way to decide what to wear,’ she told him, ‘is to work out what you want to say with your clothes.’
Rob thought about it. ‘I think mostly it’s “Hi, I’m Rob, this situation is making me feel uncomfortable. I’m not gay but please like me.”’
‘And you think the clothes you’re wearing will tell someone that?’ said Ashley, grinning. ‘Anyone would think you were wearing a Technicolor dreamcoat the way you’re going on about this.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Rob. ‘First impressions are everything. If I was going out with a girl tonight I’d know exactly what to wear.’
‘Which would be?’
‘What I’m wearing now. The jeans, trainers and V neck.’
‘Why?’
‘The jeans and trainers say “casual” and women like us to be dressed casually on first dates because most can’t stand vain men. The V neck says, “Come and have a look at my neck,” because women like their sexual messages subtle – and my neck is one of my best features.’
Ashley looked puzzled. ‘So, if your V-neck jumper is so devastating to womankind, why are you wearing it for your date with Veejay?’
‘First, it’s not a date,’ said Rob, ‘just two blokes going for a drink. Second, with heterosexual men there’s no subtext in clothing. He’ll take one look at me and think, “Here’s a bloke wearing clothes that aren’t rubbish.” The only way he’d notice anything more than that would be if I turned up naked, in which case he’d think, “Here’s a bloke not wearing any clothes. I’m off.” Most men are straightforward like that.’
‘You can call it a meeting of minds,’ teased Ashley. She kissed him, then began to get ready for work. ‘You can call it two roustabout young bucks drinking at the same waterhole – you can call it what you like – but it’s still a date. And you know it.’ She smiled. ‘Wear the V neck. You’ll look great.’
Small town boy
It was five to eight when Rob entered BlueBar, holding a rolled-up copy of
City List.
It was packed with after-work drinkers and early weekenders, and the air was buzzing with conversation. Although Rob wasn’t usually the kind of person to worry about whether or not his breath was fresh, he’d been popping mint Tic Tacs into his mouth at the rate of two or three a minute since he’d left the house.
He spotted a couple leaving a table near the window – and several other drinkers with designs on it. He was in need of a drink but even more in need of a table: he’d made up his mind that talking to a complete stranger standing up was less heterosexual than sitting down so he therefore had no choice but to battle for the table. Fortunately the male half of the couple leaving the table made eye contact with him and did the ‘Oh, do you want this table?’ mime, involving hand gestures and raised eyebrows, to which Rob replied with his own ‘Well, if you don’t mind I would actually’ semaphore in reply. The other drinkers had watched this exchange and, in accordance with the rules of social etiquette in bars, reluctantly relinquished their claim. Rob smiled at the couple as he squeezed past them and sat down. He could feel the eyes of the tableless drinkers boring into his back as they tried to work out why a man on his own would need an entire table to himself.
Just as Rob was settling into his seat, a man wearing a dark grey pin-striped suit, a white shirt with the top button undone and a blue tie – just as he’d described – came into the bar. The look said, ‘I’ve just finished work and I’m dying for a pint.’
This was it.
Veejay.
Rob’s date with a bloke was about to begin.
‘Hi,’ said Veejay, waving his rolled-up
City List.
‘Are you Rob Brooks by any chance?’
‘No,’ said Rob, adopting a Yorkshire accent, ‘I’m afraid not, mate. You must have mixed me up with someone else.’
Veejay apologised profusely for disturbing him and, unable to hide his embarrassment, scuttled off to get himself a drink. Barely able to breathe Rob waited at his table until Veejay was being served, then slipped out of his chair and made his way to the door. Outside, he leaned against the wall, breathing so heavily that he thought he might faint. Did he feel bad about what he had just done to Veejay? Yes. Was he going to return to the bar and explain that he had lost his nerve? No. He’d walk home and feel sorry for himself instead. But then a silver Peugeot, with an Express Star Radio Cars sticker on the door, pulled up at the side of the road and beeped its horn.
‘Taxi for Mr Moloney?’ asked the driver, as Rob approached.
‘Yeah,’ said Rob climbing in.
‘Where are you going, mate?’ asked the driver, as Rob put on his seatbelt.
‘A friend’s house,’ he replied. ‘Birdhall Avenue, Levenshulme.’
Twenty minutes later Rob was in Jo’s road, scanning the front doors and trying to remember which was hers. Then he recognised one – white uPVC with orange and white leaded lights. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. The light came on and a figure moved along the hall.
‘Rob!’ exclaimed Jo, as she opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was in the area,’ he said, ‘and I was wondering if your offer’s still open. You know, the one about you and me –’
‘– being friends?’ said Jo, grinning as if she’d just won the national lottery. ‘Absolutely.’
Something to talk about
It was now just after midnight and Rob was still on a high after his second best night out in Manchester. He and Jo had stayed in drinking, laughing, playing music from their youth and talking about the meaning of life. There was no doubt in his mind that he had finally found the friend he was looking for. Rob liked the way Jo ‘got’ him. She was on his wavelength and he was on hers. He had lost count of the times when she had voiced an opinion that matched his.
She, too, thought that
Scarface
was the world’s most overrated film.
She, too, thought that Radiohead hadn’t done a decent album since
OK Computer.
And she, too, couldn’t understand why people were so down on reality television when it was clearly the greatest art form of the last hundred years.
It was constant validation in stereo.
At the end of the evening when Rob’s minicab arrived, he had kissed Jo’s cheek, then spent the journey home trying to work out how he was going to break the news to Ashley, without making it into a big deal, that he was going to hang out with a funny, attractive, single girl.