‘Haha!’ said Paul. ‘Fallen on hard times since
90210
?’
‘Haha!’ I generously ha-ha’d.
‘He’s been covering the band. Wants to do an interview, I think?’
She flashed me an apologetic smile and Paul matched it with one of boredom. There was something not right about Paul. Good-looking, yes. Stylish, too, I suppose. He looked like he fitted in, here, in his skinny jeans and Topman check-out trinkets. But he also looked like he could quite easily grow a goatee and a ponytail. He sounded like a goatee and ponytail man. That they were not there was perhaps the most unsettling thing about him.
‘Journos,’ he said. ‘You like flashy things. Shiny things with lights and mics. Not so big in my world. But then I’m not so big in yours.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘When’ve you seen a puppeteer on the cover of
Time
Out?’ he said, and I realised his eyes were hooded and bored.
‘That’s a good point,’ I said, trying to be friendly.
‘Suppose it’s not a bad job actually, journalist,’ he said. ‘You get to look important at something like this and then you look important when you write it and it comes out but you’re not actually making anything, are you?’
This puppeteer was starting to grate. I started to want to grate this puppeteer. He smiled, pleased with himself, probably proud of being one of those people who thinks they tell it like it is, that if you’re offended it’s your problem, that they’re ‘only being honest, that’s just me, I’d rather say it to your face’. Of course you would. Because that’s what makes
you
feel important.
The amount of people he must’ve belittled, sitting crosslegged on ethnic throws at basement-squat dinner parties, who’d seen that very same, thin only-being-honest smile.
‘But you go ahead and do what you do,’ he said. ‘Sell us the next big thing so that they can then sell us Carlsberg and Pepsi.’
I couldn’t help but notice he was drinking Carlsberg. I saw Abbey’s eyes flick to his pint glass too, but she bit her lip and looked back at me, apologetically.
I am pretty sure my face gave away exactly what I was thinking. Which was, ‘Are you kidding me, Abbey? This is your boyfriend? His stage name
better
be Captain Dickhead.’
It was a face that said, ‘No longer will I accept relationship or life advice from someone wise-beyond-their-years sitting by canals in Camden or on buses through Bloomsbury or outside cafés near my flat. For you are going out with Britain’s biggest tool!’.
It was a face that was interrupted by Paul’s monotonous barrage of hostile, unasked-for opinion.
‘In a way I admire you for it,’ he said, and this is where I punched him to the ground, except I didn’t, ‘but ha
ha
, tell you what, gents: I could never ever do what you do.’
He shook his head and avoided our eyes, as if to say, ‘Yeah, I
did
just say that. End of story’ and other smug, self-satisfied phrases. This wasn’t entirely comfortable.
I stared out at the gig, silently, my fist choking the neck of my bottle.
‘So, do many people come and watch you control your toys?’ asked Dev, innocently, and Paul blinked hard in mock-shock. ‘Must be a great job. I’d love to just play all day. Must be a great stress relief. Unless one of the strings breaks.
That
must be stressful.’
Paul immediately knew what Dev was doing.
‘And what do you do?’ he said.
‘I work for the Ministry of Defence,’ said Dev. ‘Much more than that I can’t say.’
‘You’re implying you’re a spy,’ he said, flatly, unimpressed. ‘Why do I imagine you’re probably the receptionist?’
‘Haha!’ said Dev. ‘So are you doing any magic shows soon?’
‘Theatre,’ corrected Paul. ‘It’s theatre.’
‘Because I’ve got a four-year-old nephew who
loves
puppets. I got him started on the Muppet-puppets. He loves the Muppet-puppets!’
‘They’re just called the Muppets. Not the Muppet-puppets.’
‘Well, you’re the expert. You must know all about puppet-muppets.’
‘The Muppets are not exactly my—’
‘What first got you interested in the Muppets?’
I caught Abbey’s eye. She was quietly enjoying this.
‘I’m not sure four-year-olds really appreciate my approach.’
‘Why are you approaching four-year-olds?’
‘Very funny.’
‘What’s your best puppet? Have you got a monkey?’
‘It must make you happy, making fun of me?’ asked Paul, and this was Abbey’s moment to step in, to say, ‘Come on, Paul, you were being a dick and needlessly patronising. These are my friends’, but instead she said, ‘Paul’s got a point. Grow up, all of you.’
‘If that’s her boyfriend, and he lives in London, why did she stay at ours that night?’
We were leaning over the balcony as the roadies tinkered with huge keyboards marked Play&Record.
‘On-again, off-again. They must’ve been off-again. Plus, he’s quirky and bad-tempered. Sometimes that works.’
I don’t know what I’d imagined Abbey’s boyfriend to be like. I suppose I’d imagined that he was probably quite conventional. A little stuffy. That she’d have been attracted to the not-so-obvious, and would’ve revelled in the juxtaposition, the way you sometimes see supercool Japanese girls walking through Shoreditch arm-in-arm with cumbersome nerds.
And I was a little annoyed that he was suddenly here, in our group, unannounced. We’d gone from being a happy three to a frosty four, and all thanks to a chippy puppeteer.
It seemed like Abbey wanted us to meet him, but didn’t want us to meet him. She wasn’t seeking our approval. Perhaps she was seeking our disapproval.
Suddenly, from behind, a tap on the shoulder.
‘All right?’
‘Mikey!’ I said, and then: ‘How ya doin’?’
I’d never said ‘ya’ before. Mikey was on his own as far as the other Kicks were concerned, but there were plenty of people nearby, buzzing off him, eager to talk.
‘Yeah, not bad, man,’ he said, and then, spotting Dev: ‘All right? Mikey.’
‘Dev,’ said Dev, with unexpected confidence. ‘I’m a musician, too.’
Jesus.
‘Yeah? What do you play?’
‘Music.’
Mikey did that thing people do where you nod your understanding but at the same time manage to imply you have not really understood at all. He turned back to me.
‘Hey, we gotta thank you,’ he said.
‘What? You haven’t gotta thank me,’ I said, modestly, but pleased for whatever he was about to say.
‘Nah, man, you’re part of our story now, yeah? We stapled your review to about two hundred EPs, delivered ‘em all over town by hand, one of them ended up in a pile on a man’s desk. He chucked most of them out but your thing caught his eye so he stuck it in his bag, listened to it in his car, gave us a call that nigh …’
I smiled a big smile. He kind of had Abbey to thank for that review.
‘We’ve got our first airplay, we’re here with Play&Record, we’ve got journalists saying we’re the new whatevers—’
‘Who are The Whatevers?’ asked Dev, but we ignored him because we’re cool.
‘It’s all coming together, man! I was saying to Phil the other night, we should get Jason to be our official rock biographer. You can tell it how it was, from the start! He said I might be getting ahead of myself.’
Over his shoulder, I could see people observing our conversation. They were watching Mikey. He was becoming someone, and they could sense it.
‘So, anyway, we
owe
you, yeah? Beer soon?’ he said, backing away, a twenty-year-old with the world at his feet, pointing his bony fingers at me and smiling, like I was someone, too.
‘Deffo!’ I said. ‘Deffo, man.’
We watched as Mikey was swallowed by the small crowd. Hipsters and girls younger than Abbey, with homemade Kicks shirts and bangles.
I turned to Dev, proud.
‘Do you think he knows you listen mainly to Hall & Oates?’ he said.
In the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Abbey push through some double-doors, hiding her eyes.
We stayed to watch Play&Record. I composed my review in my head. Mikey had inspired me. I could make a difference! I could be a part of things! I might only be a cog in what Paul would probably disparagingly call ‘the machine’ before smiling at his own originality, but I could make of my cogness what I liked. And maybe it’d mean Play&Record would like me, too. I must be a terrific music journalist, to have spotted The Kicks so early on, and to have played such a part in their story.
Play&Record, I decided, blended emphatic, anthemic powerhouse rock with downbeat trip-hop melodies. Also, that’s what their publicity flyer said.
I cast my eye around the room, looking for Abbey. She was nowhere to be seen. Paul remained by the bar, arguing with a blonde girl, probably about Proust and his influence on European puppetry. I really did not like Paul one bit.
In fact, I suppose if I were still a teacher, I would mark him like this:
Paul: is a knob
.
And then I’d blame it on one of the kids.
‘We should’ve got Matt out,’ said Dev. ‘He could’ve found a metal post and smashed all Paul’s puppets. Did you call him?’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘No answer.’
‘Why the hell is she going out with him?’ he said, as we shifted our collars in the wind that buffets you up Pentonville Road. In six minutes, we could catch Oz before he closed and stuff our faces with chilli sauce. ‘I mean, people are funny, aren’t they?’
‘Maybe she loves him.’
‘She can’t love him. What’s to love? He’s like one of those tennis ball launchers, firing chippy opinions into your face from three feet away then looking over your shoulder. Every time he looks back at you it’s just to fire another ball into your face.’
‘He’s pretty tiring.’
‘He’s worse than that. He’s like … he’s like something worse than that.’
‘Hey, why was your dad at the shop the other night?’
‘My dad?’
‘Yeah. Abbey said she saw him at the shop, and—’
We turned as we thought we heard someone shout something behind us, but quickened our pace. What was it? A fight? A mugging?
We saw Abbey padding up the road, her bag flinging itself around her as she ran.
‘Can I stay at yours tonight?’ she asked. ‘Paul’s got to be up at five.’
‘Puppet emergency?’ I said.
‘Shut up.’ She laughed. ‘So can I stay at yours?’
I tried to see if she looked like she’d been crying, but the air was cold and we all did.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘I brought treats!’ she said, brightly, and patting her bag.
‘We’re off for a kebab,’ I said.
‘Of course you are,’ she said, pushing into my arm, affectionately. ‘Of course you are.’
Back at the flat, Abbey had laid out her treats on the table, next to mugs of milky, sugared tea.
We shared the sofa, but not the treats. Abbey jumped straight in.
‘Spacecakes,’ she said, anticipating them, welcoming them, the way I’d say ‘Big Mac’.
Not since university had I had a spacecake. They just didn’t seem to figure in the real world of traffic jams and tube strikes and pay-as-you-go. I was tempted for just a second, just to remember that one night of staring, blank-eyed, at a Leicester University halls of residence doorknob, but declined. Dev looked frightened by them, as if Abbey had just revealed she was a heroine dealer and all her friends were coming round to stay. Abbey munched on, undeterred.
‘So The Girl. What’s happening with The Girl?’
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Dev, excited. ‘We found the man. The man from the photos.’
‘Her man? Chunky watch man?’
She sat up, delighted.
‘We don’t know if he’s her man. We just know he’s a man.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Fate!’ said Dev, finger-in-the-air.
‘But really?’
‘He was on Charlotte Street. He works there. And then we followed him into a restaurant and started chatting to him.’
‘OhmyGod are-you-serious thatis
brilliant
,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘You followed him! What did you talk to him about?’
It was exciting, to see her excited.
‘Did he mention The Girl?’ she said, pressing on.
‘Nope,’ said Dev. ‘But he will! We’ve been going to events where we think he’ll be, only it turns out he doesn’t go to them, but one day she’ll be there and we’ll
pounce
!’
We all pretended that didn’t sound sinister.
Abbey smiled, then stifled a yawn. She sat back in the sofa, wriggled herself comfortable.
‘That’d be amazing if that happened,’ she said. ‘I wish I had a dream to follow. Like, a practical one. Not just a dream dream, but a dream you can make come true.’
‘An ambition?’ said Dev.
‘That’s a better word. Yeah, I wish I had an ambition. I just sort of drift. Or help other people with their ambitions. You know, Paul had never written a serious theatre piece before I made him do it? Then I forced him to sit down and a week later
Osama Lovin
’ was done. I’m a dream-facilitator without a dream of my own.’
‘That would be a terrific line in a musical,’ said Dev. ‘You should suggest it to Paul.’
She yawned again.
‘What are we doing tomorrow?’ she said.
I shot Dev a look, a
please-no
look.
‘It’s Sarah’s engagement party tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Are you going?’ said Abbey. ‘You should go. Are you invited? You should be invited.’
‘I’m invited. I’m going.’
‘He’s bricking it,’ said Dev, finishing the last of his tea.
‘I want to come with you,’ she said, her eyes closing. ‘Let’s all go. I want to see what you’re afraid of.’
‘I’m not afraid,’
‘You’re
so
afraid of these people, because you can’t control them. They control you. You shouldn’t be controlled by people. You should be free. We should all be free.’
I think the spacecakes had kicked in.
‘Being free to do what you want is the important thing. That’s why you should find The Girl. That’s being in control. You should definitely find her, Jase. For me. No, for you.’
And by the time I’d worked out how to respond, and tapped the rim of my mug in thought, Abbey was asleep on my shoulder.