Turning Thirty (11 page)

The first question that sprang to my mind after we'd parted from the hug and she and I were doing a long and intense will-you-look-at-you! look, was – of course – had she changed since I last saw her? Not really. And certainly not as much as I had. Her hair was a little shorter and there were the beginnings of a few lines around her eyes that enhanced rather than detracted from her good looks. The rest of her – the smile, the laugh, the mannerisms – were exactly the same. Clothing-wise, she looked interesting: she was wearing a black cardigan, a tight black top, black knee-length skirt and bright white Nike trainers. All very nice indeed. Did I fancy her? (This of course, was, the second question I asked myself as I stood staring at her.) I didn't know. Yes? No? Maybe? In the split second available to me I ran through every option. Twice. The jury was out.

‘How
are
you?' asked Ginny, excitedly. She was still holding on to my waist, not flirtatiously but in a friendly way, and when she asked the question her face was thoughtful, as if she really wanted to know the answer.

‘Good,' I replied. ‘Fine. Really good.' An old man attempted to squeeze between us to get to the bar, forcing her to release her grip. ‘It's been a long—'

‘Yes, it has,' she said, finishing my sentence. ‘Are you still in London?'

‘New York.'

‘Wow!' she exclaimed. ‘From King's Heath to New York. Not many people do that.'

I shook my head.

‘So are you back visiting your mum and dad?'

I nodded.

Ginny paused, wearing a puzzled expression. ‘Are you actually going to speak to me or do I have to guess? Like a game of charades, only not quite as exciting.'

I shook my head again instead of answering, mainly because I was still trying to work out if I fancied her or not.

‘Sorry,' I said, regaining my wits. ‘Yeah, you're right. I've come back for a while to see my folks. You know, spend a bit of quality time at the old familystead.'

‘How's it going?' she said, still beaming enthusiastically. ‘The spending quality time with Ma and Pa Beckford?'

‘Terrible,' I said, holding the palm of my hand to my head in mock anguish. ‘They're driving me up the wall. Any time I enter a room they insist on involving me in one of their strange-but-true conversations. So far the topics covered since my arrival have been as wide and varied as London house prices, my auntie Jean's dodgy third husband and which one of my siblings it is who likes sprouts. It's like I've walked into a surrealist nightmare. I love them but . . .' I paused, not wanting to dominate the conversation but she didn't pick up the signal. Her mind was obviously elsewhere now. ‘Anyway, how are you?' I prompted. ‘I mean . . . I don't know . . . what are
you
doing here?'

‘In the Kings Arms?'

‘Well, for starters.'

‘Oh, you mean here in Birmingham, don't you? Well, as far as the pub goes I'm here meeting a friend. It's still my local – that is, if I've got a local any more. I always seem to be working these days.'

‘Last time I heard anything about your toings and froings you were living it up in Brighton, weren't you?'

She nodded, and momentarily avoided eye-contact. ‘Yeah, that was a while ago, though. My mum died, which is why I'm back.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘About your mum. That's terrible.'

She smiled softly. ‘Don't worry. It's been eighteen months now. The worst of it's over.'

‘Your mum, she was a really nice woman,' I said. And I meant it. Ginny's mum was the kind of parent you could always talk to without the conversation sounding fake. ‘She'd always offer to make us beans on toast whenever we were round there, whatever time of day it was.'

Ginny smiled. ‘Yeah, Mum was good like that.'

‘Was it sudden?'

‘Not really. It was cancer. She'd been ill for quite a while, in and out of hospital all the time, and then when the doctors said it was serious I packed in my job and came back from Brighton to look after her. Because it's always just been her and me when she died I inherited the house. I thought briefly about selling it and moving on but then I thought, why not stay? So I did just that. I don't think I could have sold the house anyway . . . too many memories.'

‘I really don't know what to say, I'm so sorry.'

‘These things happen,' she said, and she gave a little shrug accompanied by an awkward half-smile, and somehow we ended up in another short embrace during which neither of us spoke.

‘So, how are you?' I asked, when we were just standing and staring again.

‘I think we might have been here before, Matt,' she said, arching her left eyebrow sardonically. ‘I'm fine now, honest. Really good.' Her eyes flitted briefly across the room to the door. ‘You know how it is. You have your ups and downs but today's an up day.' She smiled. ‘Anyway, what do you do in New York, you flash git?'

‘I work in computers.'

‘What? Building them? Using them? Wearing them on your head? You always were hopeless with details.'

‘It's really boring,' I said, wanting to get off the subject. ‘I promise you.'

‘Try me.'

‘I design software for banking systems. Very tedious.'

‘But essential all the same,' she said agreeably. ‘Without people like you I'm sure my wages would take much longer to arrive in my bank account. Obviously that would probably mean I wouldn't spend it quite as quickly as I do. But I think, generally speaking, you're probably more an asset to my life than a hindrance.'

‘How about yourself?' I asked quickly. ‘What are you up to?'

‘I teach art.'

‘An art teacher? Respect due. Art teachers are the coolest type to be – floating about with their easels, generally being groovy, encouraging thirteen-year-olds to reach their inner muse.'

She laughed.

‘Where do you teach?' I asked.

‘Have a guess.'

‘Not King's Heath Comp?'

‘The very same.'

‘How weird is that?'

‘Very. On my first day there I walked into the staffroom and immediately felt like a fraud. Right there, slap bang in front of me, were Mr Collins, Mr Haynes, Mrs Perkins and Mr Thorne.'

‘Don't tell me,' I said laughing. ‘Let me see – Mr Collins, geography, Mr Haynes, physics, Mrs Perkins, maths, and Mr Thorne, English?'

‘Nearly,' she said laughing. ‘Mr Haynes teaches history.'

‘They must be nearly a million years old now because they were half a million when we were there.'

‘I know,' she said, ‘and now I'm one of them.'

We halted the conversation to allow me to get the drinks for which Gershwin and his friends must have been desperate by now. It was also at this moment that it occurred to me that Ginny was still waiting for her friend. I wasn't going to ask her if this friend was a man because it would've been too obvious. But Ginny was apparently as curious about me as I was about her because as the barman began my order she asked me questions of a more personal nature.

‘Anyone special in your life?' she began. ‘Any kids? Any pets?'

‘Special people, one ex-girlfriend back in the States. Kids, definitely nil, and, er, pets, nil.' I was relieved to get it over. ‘What about yourself?'

She took a deep breath and began. ‘Er . . . special people, one boyfriend who is extremely late. Kids, none – that's discounting the hundred or so I teach, of course. Pets, yes, two boy cats – Larry and Sanders.'

There was a break in the conversation again while the barman checked the drinks order with me. I used the time to make a decision. The question was: do I want to see her again? The answer was: yes.

‘Listen,' I began, ‘how late is your bloke?'

‘Put it this way,' she said, ‘when he arrives I'm going to have to have a right strop with him for at least half an hour.'

‘Well, feel free to say no, if you want to, but why don't you come over and say hello to Gershwin? He's here as well. It's his thirtieth today. He'd love to see you.'

‘Thirty,' she said, ‘I had my thirtieth back in December. It was all right, actually. Good fun.' She paused. ‘Are you sure?'

‘About Gershwin having his thirtieth birthday?'

She stared at me menacingly. ‘No, about joining you. I don't want to crash the party.'

‘You'd be doing me a huge favour,' I explained. ‘It's just me, Gershwin, Zoë and a whole bunch of new Gershwin friends who I don't know and who don't listen to my supposedly amusing anecdotes.' Ginny looked confused. ‘I'll explain on the way. Come and join us, or I might be forced to do something really drastic.'

‘Like what?'

I raised my eyebrows, grabbed a tray for the drinks and left the question hanging there. Ginny followed behind.

‘Gershwin!' I called, as I reached the table. ‘Guess who I've just bumped into?'

He looked up and, once his brain had got into gear, practically leapt out of his seat to hug Ginny.

‘I haven't seen you since our wedding!' said Zoë, giving her a kiss too. ‘Oh, it's great to see you.'

‘It's good to see you both too,' said Ginny. ‘I should've kept in touch. I'm just really crap at it.'

‘I think we all are,' said Gershwin.

‘I'm the reason for the delay in your drinks,' Ginny explained, for the benefit of the rest of the table, who didn't know what was going on. ‘I bumped into Matt and we were just trying to fill in the last six years or so.' She laughed and looked over at me. ‘Gershwin, Matt and I used to go to school together.'

‘Everybody, this is Ginny,' said Gershwin, gesturing to the entire table. ‘And, Ginny . . .' I could see from his face that he was trying to work out whether it was worth introducing them all individually. He decided against it. ‘ . . . this is everybody.'

Once Gershwin sat down, conversation at the table started up again almost immediately. The first topic of conversation that sprang up was an offshoot of Ginny's arrival: what had Gershwin been like at school? Out of politeness everyone looked to Ginny to give the first illustration, so she told them the story about when we were thirteen and Gershwin, Pete, Elliot and I went to see
Breakdance
–
The Movie
. Even though we couldn't dance, let alone spin on our heads to save our lives, we were so worked up by the film that we thought we'd be able to do it right there in the cinema. We thought we looked fantastic in our silky tracksuit bottoms and heavily logoed T-shirts, but all we got for our troubles were carpet burns, headaches and a four-week ban from the cinema. This started off a new round of school-based anecdotes, beginning with Sarah (of Sarah and Neil), then moving on to Polly (of Dom and Polly).

It was at this point that Ginny decided to take the opportunity to go in search of her boyfriend. When she returned five minutes later, with a man in tow, she didn't do an ‘Everyone, this is . . .' because that would have been embarrassing. Instead she dragged him to the table, allowed everyone to do that kind of cool raise-of-the-eyebrows acknowledgement, then introduced him properly to our end of the table, which consisted of Zoë and Gershwin and me.

‘Ian,' she said, gesturing to her man, ‘this is Zoë, her husband – and my old schoolfriend – Gershwin, and Matt, another old schoolfriend.' She paused and gestured to us. ‘Everybody, this is Ian.'

Ian wasn't what I had been expecting. Ginny always told me that she had a thing for guys who looked a bit seedy. I remember her once saying that her dream man was of the type whose natural instinct on waking up was to reach for a cigarette and a lighter. Ian wasn't like that at all. He was tall and clean-looking, handsome, in a girlish way, and somewhere about my age.

‘So, you guys went to school with Ginny,' said Ian.

‘Yeah,' said Gershwin. ‘Seems like years ago.'

‘That's because it was years ago,' said Zoë, ruffling Gershwin's hair fondly. ‘You're an old man now,' she teased. ‘Your schooldays are ancient history, mate.'

At the other end of the table a conversation about programmes that were on TV when we were kids gradually enticed Gershwin and Zoë to join in. I would have loved to participate in it so that I could show off my ability to name all the main characters in ‘old-skool' cartoons like
Battle Beyond the Planets
(Mark, Jason, Princess, Tiny, Keyop), but I knew I'd never get a look in. Instead I started my own version of the conversation between Ginny, Ian and me. Ian was not only impressed by my
Battle Beyond the Planets
naming skills but he earned my respect and admiration by being able to recite all the words to the theme tune of
Hong Kong Phooey
, even the really difficult bit. That conversation eventually led to an entirely different one about music, and before I knew it we were waxing lyrical about our favourite female singer-songwriters, praising the practicalities of dark blue/black clothing and the importance of having exactly the same haircut every time you go to the barber's.

Of all the new people I'd met that evening Ian was far and away my favourite. Eventually we left our favourite things and got on to the so-tell-me-about-yourself tack.

‘I'm a teacher, too, for my sins,' said Ian. ‘That's how Ginny and I met. I'm a supply teacher. You know, it pays the bills and all that.'

‘You're not just a supply teacher!' said Ginny, reprimanding him jokingly. ‘Ian's doing a part-time Ph.D.,' she explained. ‘Go on, Ian, tell him.'