“That’s the problem,” she says gently. “And the thing is … well I was thinking … it might be better if I came home on Saturday mornings in future.”
“You’re kidding?”
The know it’s a pain,” she says, ‘but there’s a ton of stuff to get in place before the campaign starts, and I’m not sure I’ll
always be able to get away early enough. I’ll just have to see how it goes.”
We take a short pause.
“Well then,” I say, scuffing my foot on the pavement and trying not to sound as disappointed as I feel, “I suppose it’s not for very long. And it’s all good experience, isn’t it? If you make a success of things in Bruges it probably means you can get something much better when you come back to London at the end of the year.”
“Just more of the same, really.”
“Yeah, but it’s good money, though, isn’t it?” I say, trying to sound encouraging.
“Yes,” she says, ‘it is.”
“And we need it, don’t we? Just until the band thing takes off.”
“Yes,” she says, turning her head and gazing back out over the river. “I suppose we do.”
I’m knackered. I don’t usually have much trouble getting off to sleep but I did last night. I tried everything: watching a programme about plate tectonics on The Learning Zone, flicking through my Virgin Encyclopaedia of Rock and Pop, eating half a packet of Alison’s Nytol Extra and washing it down with some medium-sweet cooking sherry, but nothing did any good. I ended up falling asleep on the sofa at around 6.30 this morning and waking up just in time for the one o’clock news. I feel like shit. I feel achy. I feel jet-lagged and cranky. And anxious.
Three things: firstly, Alison and I didn’t have sex again the whole weekend. Secondly, I thought she seemed a bit distant and withdrawn. Thirdly, she wanted to go to the cinema yesterday afternoon instead of going out for a late lunch at Banners and spending some quality time discussing the pros and cons of flared trousers. Fourthly’I thought you said there was only three things.”
“OK, OK, I meant four, then, I meant to say four.”
“Well, you should say what you mean. You shouldn’t give a bloke the expectation that he’s only going to have to sort out three problems for you when he is, in fact, being asked to sort out four.”
“Actually there’s five, now I come to think about it.”
“Five?”
“Yeah, five.”
“Well, that’s no good, that’s nearly half a dozen. That’s significantly more than three. Significantly more than a few. I’d have to say that we are now entering into the realms of many.”
“Can I carry on now?”
“Yes,” says Vince, tinkering with a piece of feta cheese in his salad, ‘y u can carry on.”
“So, fourthly,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him in case he tries to interrupt me again, ‘she was wearing a new dress.”
“A new dress?”
“Yeah, brand new.”
“Nice, was it?”
“Yes, very. So nice you could practically see her whole body through it. It was all tight and see-through. But that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it is I’d never seen her wearing it before.”
“So what?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? It means she must have bought it while she was away in Bruges.”
“So? They do have dress shops in Bruges, don’t they?”
“Yes, of course they do, but what was she doing buying herself a sexy dress while she was away? Who was she buying it for? Who was she trying to impress? Why did she wait until she was just about to make the train journey back before she decided to go upstairs and put it on?”
“Hmmnn,” says Vince. “That is a bit suspect.”
“Exactly,” I say, stuffing some curly fries into my tuna melt and taking a bite. “Ezaggglee.”
“So, what’s the other one?” says Vince, tucking into his third portion of pitta bread.
“How d’you mean?”
“Five, you said. “Come to think of it”, there were five things that were bothering you.”
“Well,” I say, ‘the last one’s not strictly to do with Alison. It’s more to do with my mum.”
“Your mum?”
“Yeah. Alison found an old message from my mum that I’d forgotten to wipe off the answer phone and she guessed that I probably hadn’t bothered to call her back yet.”
“So now you’ve got to submit yourself to an hour and a half of top-quality earache.”
“Exactly. Alison won’t stop giving me grief about it unless I do.”
“Still on the antidepressants, is she?”
“Who, Alisonr
“No, you plank. Your mum. Still knocking back the Jelly Tots, is she?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I think she probably is.”
I’m just about to launch back into a detailed description of the low-cut nature of Alison’s brand-new dress when I spot Matty coming into the cafe with Kate. He seems amused by something. Very amused.
“What’s so funny?”
“Baldy, baaaldeey.”
The am not bald.”
“Yeah you are, baaaldeey, you look like you’ve been scalped.”
“What’s this, then?” I say, bending my head towards him over the table. Till tell you what it is, shall I? It’s hair. I clearly have hair. I am not bald. At all.”
“Oh yeah? So what did you chop it all off for? Must be because you thought you were going bald.”
Look at him. Look at him with his baggy trousers and his tight T-shirt and his stupid beady necklace tied round his neck. Just because he still has a hairline that starts halfway down his forehead he thinks it’s OK to sit there and take the piss out of me and my number 2. haircut. Well, it’s not on.
“I am not going bald,” I say firmly. “I am not now, nor have I ever been, suffering from alopecia or premature male-pattern baldness. I simply had a nasty scissor incident with a vindictive hairdresser called Patio.”
“Patio?” says Matty thoughtfully. “Isn’t that something you make out of chicken livers?”
“Well, I like it,” says Kate. The think it really suits you.”
“What are you eating there, Vince?” “What does it look like I’m eating?”
“Well, it looks like a salad, but that must mean…”
“That I’m on a diet?”
“Right.”
“Something wrong with that, is there? All right for you lot to spend all day worrying about the size of your minuscule arses and the teaspoonful of cellulite round your knees but it’s not OK for a bloke to take pride in his appearance once in a while?”
“Well, no. I think it’s good that you’re trying to eat more healthily. I have a gluten allergy myself so I understand all about listening to the needs of your own body. I could lend you a pamphlet, if you like.”
“That’s not it. I’m not trying to eat more healthily, I’m just trying to get myself back down to Iggy Pop weight before we go on tour.”
“I see.”
“Soon as it’s over I’m straight back on the chips.”
“Right.”
“Back on the meat and two vcg.”
“Right.”
“Back on the bacon, back on the eggs, back on the sausage, mushrooms, kidneys, grilled black pudding and fried bread. So, Kate,” says Vince sadistically, ‘how’s that no meat, no wheat, no milk, vegan thing working out for you, then?”
“Good,” she says, trying not to lick her lips. “As a matter of fact I’ve never felt better in my life.”
Kate and Matty head over to the counter to order themselves some drinks and I have a quiet word with Vince while they’re out of earshot.
“Calm down, Vince,” I say. The mean, she might be a bit of a loon but there are times when I’ve even thought about going veggie myself.”
“Well, she winds me up,” says Vince, ‘the way she thinks it’s OK to lecture everybody all the time. And that whole gluten allergy thing, what’s that all about? Matty says she was reading
some poncy article about wheat intolerance and she suddenly decided that she didn’t like bread. Apparently it aggravated her negative energies. And there’s something else,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in over his olives. “Something you might want to think about.”
“What?”
“Well,” he says, rubbing his lips together, “I just think you want to be a bit careful around her at the moment.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He’s just about to start telling me when he spots Kate and Matty heading back towards us with their drinks.
Till tell you later,” he says under his breath. “I’ll tell you later.”
“So,” says Matty, stretching his muscle-bound arms over his head and yawning, ‘how’s everyone getting on with raising money for the tour?”
“Not bad,” says Vince. “I think my savings are gonna cover most of it and my uncle’s offered me a few extra jobs to make up the change.”
“Cool, cool, me too. I reckon I’m pretty much sorted. A couple more nights on the turntables and I’ll be nearly there.”
“What about you?” says Kate, looking straight at me.
“Er… well, you know, haven’t had much time to think about it really, what with Alison being home and everything.”
“Are you going to do some extra work at the video shop?”
“No, I don’t think so, there’s only so much work Kostas can give me.”
“Well, what about Alison, can’t she lend you the money?”
“No … I mean, I haven’t asked her. I don’t want to if I can help it.”
“Don’t worry, mate,” says Vince, “I’m sure we can work something out between us.”
“Cheers,” I say, “I’m sure I’ll come up with it somehow.”
“Woah,” says Kate, ‘hang on a minute, I’ve just had a fantastic idea.”
“You have?”
“Yeah. I think I know a way you might be able to make yourself some extra cash.”
“You do?”
“Yes. They’re always having trouble finding models for the life drawing classes at my art college and I reckon you’d be perfect. It pays quite well, I think, around fifty quid a throw.”
“Really? Do you think they’d have me? I mean, don’t you have to look like … I don’t know, Johnny Depp or something?”
“No, of course not. They’ve got a class this afternoon. I think they might still be looking for someone to fill in.”
“Right,” I say, wondering why Vince is kicking me under the table.
“Tell you what,” she says, “I’ll give my tutor a quick ring and find out what’s going on. If they’re still short for today, shall I tell them I’ve found someone?”
“Yeah… em… OK then. Why not?”
“Cool. I’ll just pop outside and use my phone.”
Vince rolls his eyes and lowers his head into his hands.
“You plank,” he mutters underneath his breath. “You complete and utter plank.”
“OK,” says Kate excitedly, ‘you’re on. If we head off now we can just about make it for the three o’clock class.”
“Right,” I say, ‘and am I all right in what I’m wearing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know, should I bring a change of clothes or something?”
“I don’t think so,” says Kate. “There’s not really much point.”
“I’m OK as I am, then?”
“Yeah, I mean, of course. Come on, we’ll be late.”
Why is he laughing? Why is Vince pissing himself? What’s so fucking funny all of a sudden?
“Naked? What do you mean I’m supposed to pose naked? You must be fucking joking.”
Oh God. Oh God. This cannot be happening. What am I going to do? Why didn’t Vince say something in the cafe? He knew they’d be expecting me to get my kit off? What a bastard. What a complete and utter bastard.
“Are you all right in there, Mr. McQueen? I think we’re almost ready for you out here.”
“Fine,” I croak, “I’m absolutely fine.”
“OK then. Whenever you’re ready.”
I am not fine. I am very bloody far from fine. I am stark naked bar my socks and I’m hiding in the art room stationery cupboard with a box of horsehair paint-brushes digging into the gaps of my goose-pimpled ribs. It’s cold in here. So cold that my knob has shrunk. More than usual. It looks like it does when I’ve just come out of the sea. I have no knob. I have micro-penis. It’s the size of a wrinkled windfall acorn.
What if I get an erection? Fucking hell. What if I get an erection} I mean, it’s not like being on the beach, is it? I can’t just lay on my front or cover it over with a towel. What if one of the students is really good looking? What if she starts sucking the end of her pencil in a sexy manner. What if I catch her looking at my knob? What if I catch her sniggering at my shrivelled-up, pint-sized, laughable, Lilliputian knob?
Maybe I should try mustering up a bit of quarteri so it looks bigger. Good idea. Need to think of something midly
erotic but not too juicy. Somewhere between waking up in the middle of Destiny’s Child and wan king into a basket of dead kittens. Maybe I should try thinking about those French women on the train. No good. Too stimulating. Ugly French women, then. French women with hairy backs. French women with hairy backs and hare-lips. No, that’s no good either. It’s not working. I mean it is working. Too well. I think I’m even turned on by ugly French women. Shit.
“Erhemm… are you still in there?”
“Yes… I’ll be out in just a second.”
“Everything all right?”
“No problem, none at all. Be right with you.”
“There’s really no need to be embarrassed, Mr. McQueen. Just try imagining you’re at the doctor’s surgery.”
“Right, good, no problem. I’m not embarrassed. At all.”
“OK then.”
“OK then.”
“And don’t worry. I won’t let any of the students in until you’ve got yourself completely comfortable.”
I ease myself out of the cupboard with my sweatshirt held round my waist and inch towards the low wooden plinth in the centre of the room. So far so good. The art tutor must be fifty if she’s a day and there’s something about her manner that makes me feel less nervous. Less like I’m about to be viewed naked by a troupe of trendy teenage art school students and more like I’m about to be examined by a vet. I wonder if she’d mind moving the easels a bit further away from the plinth. I wonder if she’d mind turning off a couple of the overhead strip lights before we start.
“Now then,” she says, peering at me over the top of her glasses, ‘if you’d just like to remove the last of your clothes I’ll ask the students to come back in and take their seats. Adopt any pose that feels natural to you. Any pose at all.
“Now… Mr. McQueen, when I said any pose at all, I probably meant any pose except that one.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”