Authors: Danny Gillan
They both looked directly at me. It was horrible. They seemed so ...
united
.
‘Remember when you used to give me forty pounds a month dig money?’ Mum smiled.
Did I? I only earned about seventy-five quid a week at the time, it was a nightmare.
Oh. Shit.
‘It’s not dig money anymore,’ my dad said. ‘It’s rent. Seventy a week, starting today.’
‘Today?’ I said. ‘But I’m just in the door.’ This was an outrage, sort of. A bit. Maybe.
‘Payable every Friday.’ For the first time in too long my dad looked genuinely happy. The Bastard.
I looked at Mum, hoping for support. She smiled. Firmly.
Jesus. The whole point of moving back here was to save cash. I could rent a flat for seventy quid a week, for Christ’s sake. Certainly a bed-sit at the very least. Probably. Maybe not a very nice one. Possibly not in a great area. Still.
It was wrong, in a very fundamental way, to be charged rent by your parents. A bit of bill money, that was only to be expected. But actual
rent
. I’d be lucky to walk out with 150 quid a week after tax from The Basement, and they wanted nearly half of it? In whose world was that fair?
‘We can get a tenancy agreement written up if you’d like, to clarify everything.’ This was my
mum
. She was always the one who took my side, and she was very clearly
enjoying
herself. She also very clearly meant it. This was bad.
It would need some serious manoeuvring to distract them away from this.
Okay
, I thought.
They think you’re
a tit
. That you can’t deal with being a grown-up, so they’re treating you like a child to wake you up. They think you don’t understand adult responsibilities so they’re trying to teach you a wee lesson. They don’t
actually
want seventy quid a week; they just want you to prove you’re mature. Give them something that proves that, and everything will be fine.
‘I’ve stopped smoking.’
What?
‘Seriously?’ They said in stereo.
‘Eh, yeah?’
Fuck!
Chapter 11
‘Did they fall for it?’ Terry passed the ashtray over.
‘Oh yeah, cheered them right up.’ I stubbed out my Marlboro Light. ‘They still want seventy quid a week, though. Now I get to pay them a fortune to live in a house I can’t even spark up in.’
‘Well, I guess you’ve finally got your wish about starting all over again. You couldn’t smoke the last time you lived there.’
This was true. I had only admitted my habit to my parents once I was firmly ensconced in my own flat, secure in the knowledge they might not approve but could no longer forbid me my vices with the old ‘not under my roof’ edict. Despite my numerous other failings, smoking had always been my prime sin in their eyes.
I had escaped to Terry’s shortly after dinner. Terry lived in a two-room tenement flat in
Rutherglen
that had seen better decades, but, as it was now about the only place in the city I could have a smoke indoors, I wasn’t inclined to disparage the décor.
‘Do you want to hide your fags here in case your mum goes through your pockets after you’re in your bed?’ Terry asked.
‘I think I’ll cope. Fancy going for a pint?’
‘Not tonight, mate. I’ve got a meeting with Patrick first thing.’
This statement was astonishing for two reasons. Firstly, I had never, and I do mean never, heard Terry refuse an invitation to the pub. Secondly, why the hell would meeting with Patrick be a reason for such a refusal? Actually come to think of it, thirdly, why was he meeting Patrick anyway?
‘Why?’ I said, covering all three burning issues.
‘He arranged it on Friday night.’ I remembered wondering what the two of them had been whispering about in The Basement. Terry shifted uncomfortably. ‘I think he’s going to offer me your old job.’
‘Why, what did he say?’
‘That he was going to offer me your old job.’
‘Not too ambiguous, then?’
‘Eh, no. Is that a problem?’
‘I suppose not. Not about you getting it, anyway. It smarts a bit that he did it at my leaving do.’
‘You know Patrick, if he couldn’t justify it by including some business he probably wouldn’t have turned up at all. You could say he did it deliberately so he’d have an excuse to say cheerio to you. You could view it as a compliment, sort of.’
‘I think you’re pushing it a bit, there.’
‘Aye well, maybe. It’s not, like, an issue, is it? Between us?’
Terry could look quite endearing when he was nervous, like a grubby, chubby orphan child. Oliver Twist without the hunger. It was his version of the puppy-dog.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘That extra 450 quid a year is going to change your life, though. I hope you’re prepared for the move into the lower middle classes.’
‘Oh aye, I’ve already picked out a villa in
Govanhill
where I plan to summer.’
‘Good stuff. Seriously though, you’re not going for a pint?’
Terry’s cheeks reddened. ‘This is your fault, making me be responsible again.’
‘How
d’you
work that out?’
‘It’s your job I’m getting.’
‘So, me growing down is the reason you’re growing up?’
‘Christ, I’m not am I?’ Terry sounded scared.
‘It would certainly appear so.’
‘Shit.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it. Around the time you get next month’s payslip would be my guess.’
Terry laughed. ‘Aye, no doubt. You’re welcome to stay and smoke for another couple of hours.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir.’
‘As long as you don’t mind sitting on your own while I have a bath and iron my clothes for tomorrow.’
‘Seriously?’ Now I was worried.
‘Fuck off. A lack of hangover is the only concession I’m prepared to make to the corporate monster, just yet.’
‘Thank God for that.’ I lit another cigarette.
‘So anyway, what’s going on with the beautiful Ms Fraser?’
I sighed. ‘Nothing new. She said she’d see me in the pub at some point, but I’m not holding my breath. She was only there to see Sammy, and he’s not going to be working there for much longer apparently.’
‘I thought you said you had a
moment
?’
‘I think that was the tequila talking, unfortunately. She never even gave me her number.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
Bing bong
.
It was Simon Fraser. Terrific.
- pint
stube
thirty minutes yes no -
As succinct and unpunctuated as ever. ‘It’s Bruce Lee’s agent,’ I told Terry.
‘What incredible fact is he enlightening us with tonight?’
‘None, he wants to get a drink.’
‘You’re on your own I’m afraid, mate.’
‘Do you think I should?’ I wasn’t sure. Meeting up with Simon before Paula came home had made some sort of sense (at least to me). Now she was back, I couldn’t help thinking that going for a beer with her dad was a bit, well, weird.
‘You said you fancied a pint.’
‘Yeah, but ...’
‘You should know something before you make your decision.’ Terry sounded nervous again.
‘What?’
‘I think I am actually going to have a bath and, possibly, iron.’
- See you in there. -
***
Stube was relatively quiet and there was no sign of Simon Fraser when I arrived. I bought a pint and settled at the same table we’d used for our first meeting a few weeks previously.
I hadn’t spoken to Simon since the day we’d watched the football together, and his texts and emails had thankfully tailed-off to only one or two an hour. I knew far more than felt healthy about Bruce Lee by that point and was glad Simon had calmed his communications down. I wondered what had prompted his text tonight. I didn’t think I had said anything to upset Paula at my leaving do, though when tequila’s involved you can never be sure. I hoped being in a house all day with two women had simply prompted a desire in Simon for some male company. At any rate, I was sure he’d be pleased about the progress I’d made with my parents. I decided not to tell him about the smoking thing.
I was idly wondering what he would want me to call him tonight when I was, once again, surprised by an Irish accented voice behind me. I really needed to start facing the door on nights like this.
‘Hi, Jim.’
‘Paula?’
Paula Fraser slipped into the booth opposite me. She smiled gorgeously. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said stunningly.
‘
Ack
,’ I replied inanely.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked beautifully.
‘But ...’ I countered idiotically as I looked around to see if she was alone.
‘
Shit
, you thought I was my dad.’ Her eyes widened with ravishing understanding. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Jim. Your number was in his phone so I used it to text you. I forgot you wouldn’t know it was me. Christ, I’m so sorry.’
‘No, it’s okay. It’s
fine
!’
‘Are you sure? Do you want me to go?’
‘
No!
’ I shouted, causing Paula to flinch with grace and finesse.
‘Okay.’ She looked both uncomfortable and enchanting.
‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to get it together. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see you. How are you? You look great. Is everything okay? Can I get you a drink?’
‘Just a beer, ta.’
The trip to the bar gave me time to calm down a little and I felt relatively composed as I retook my seat and smiled.
Paula smiled back.
I smiled some more. This seemed to be going quite well.
‘So,’ Paula said after a while. ‘Can I have my drink?’
I realised I was still clasping her bottle of Becks in my hand.
‘Shit, sorry.’ I slid the beer quickly across the table, spilling a fair proportion of it over the side onto her lap in my haste. ‘Oh shit! Sorry.’ I thrust my hand out and caught the wobbling bottle before it disappeared after its contents. ‘Sorry.’
And there was that special smile on Paula’s face I’d missed so much. The one she’d always reserved for me. The one that told me exactly what she was thinking.
‘The word
wanker
has just popped right to the front of your mind, hasn’t it?’ I said.
‘In big red capital letters.’
‘Flashing on and off?’
‘Oh yes.’