I’d hardly stepped off the pavement when I heard someone shouting. Sitting on a bench just a few feet along from the pub was a busker, woollen hat pulled low over his forehead, a guitar
case open in front of him with a few coins scattered inside.
‘Over here, Girl in window, over here!’
‘Malky?’ I asked, stepping towards the busker uncertainly.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, grinning as he pulled the guitar strap over his head. His eyes flashed with laughter as he stood up. ‘I’ve been waiting
ages.’
‘I was inside the pub, Malky, where we said we’d meet – remember?’
‘Oh, right,’ he said, leaning forward to scoop up the loose coins. ‘I didn’t actually say inside the pub, did I, Girl in the window? Just said I’d see you at the
Duke – and here I am!’
He threw his arms wide as if I might happily step inside them and consider everything forgotten, but I was too cross. I tucked my chin further into my scarf and kept my arms folded across my
chest. It wasn’t really my style to have screaming temper tantrums, but I hoped he could tell he was not forgiven.
‘Come on, Girl in the window,’ Malky said pleadingly; he had the same expression as when he had wheedled the tea out of the grumpy waitress. And, like her, I could feel myself
melting under his sea-glass stare.
‘My name’s Rory,’ I said, a final piece of resistance before crumbling completely, and he gave a little start and a nod. I wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten my name
until I reminded him of it; but his imploring smile was catching and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back.
“Course it is, Rory, I know that. Now what are we doing hanging outside like this in the middle of winter, eh? Whose stupid idea was that? Let’s get inside. Come on, drinks are on
me.’
He pulled at my gloved hand, and I allowed myself to be led back into the pub where Malky, despite his height, ducked past the horse brasses with practised ease.
‘You’d better not have brought that dog in,’ the landlord warned, stepping out from behind the bar as soon as he saw Malky approaching.
‘No, no, no,’ promised Malky, holding up a hand. ‘He refused to come, Charlie. Still too full of remorse to face you.’
‘Remorse doesn’t pay to get the carpets cleaned, young man,’ said the landlord, retreating back behind the bar again. He frowned. ‘You’re lucky I don’t ban
you
and all.’
‘Charlie, I swear,’ implored Malky, leaning over the bar to give the landlord the full effect of his grovelling. I wondered if his pretty eyes worked as well on men. ‘I can
hardly live with the guilt; it’s eating me up inside. But bygones and all that. Can’t we just have a few drinks and I swear I won’t make a mess in the corner, though I really
can’t speak for Rory here.’
Charlie chuckled reluctantly and began pouring a Guinness for Malky and another wine for me.
‘Are you okay here?’ asked Malky, ushering me over to the furthest, darkest table in the room. He grabbed two candles off the windowsill and lit them with matches he’d pulled
from his pocket. ‘This seat okay? You sure you don’t want to go and hang out with the fun crew over there?’ He nodded his head towards the Easter Island couple, who still
hadn’t moved except to occasionally raise their glasses to their silent lips.
I laughed, a little uncomfortably, as I recalled evenings that Martin and I had spent together in what I had thought was a companionable, contented silence. Perhaps we’d looked like them.
There was no chance of that with Malky, who was still arranging our corner of the pub to his satisfaction, like a dog that has to turn round and round in its bed before it can settle. He found a
place for his guitar, pulled off his hat, drew the curtain of the window behind us and moved the chairs closer; he didn’t stop talking the whole time.
‘So, Rory, are you much into music?’ he asked, pausing at last to sip his Guinness.
‘Er, a bit,’ I said hesitantly. I felt like I was back at a new school, being asked, without yet knowing which answer would condemn me to perpetual squareness, which was my favourite
band. I’d spent so many years trying to get the answer right, I’d never really given much thought as to what I actually liked. All the passion that other people gave to music, I’d
always given to art history. Like I said, I wasn’t the most popular teen. I’d let Martin buy all the music in our house and, since I didn’t know how to work our complicated
internet radio stereo, he’d always chosen what we listened to.
‘Music is my
life
,’ Malky declared, placing a hand on his heart. My own heart lightened immediately with the realization that he wasn’t going to ask me anything
difficult after all. ‘If you knew, Rory, the floors I’ve slept on, the obstacles I’ve faced, the idiots who’ve told me I’ll never make it. But I’m still here,
still making music.’
‘That’s really great, Malky,’ I said, impressed. It was amazing to meet a real musician, a properly creative person; someone so different from Martin. Malky had such presence,
it wasn’t hard to imagine him commanding an audience. ‘So are you in a band, then?’
His hands tightened around his pint glass. ‘I
was
in a band, Rory,’ he said stiffly. ‘We were on the verge of making it pretty big – had a manager, some good gigs,
a few record companies sniffing around.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘The guys sold out.’ He shrugged. ‘They weren’t prepared to make the sacrifices I was. But which of us is still a musician? Only me, Rory, only I stuck it out. I
wasn’t about to give up on fifteen years of hard work like that.’
‘Wow,’ I said. Fifteen years without getting your big break? I could hardly imagine that kind of dedication. This must be how it felt to be creative, instead of someone like me, who
just admired the creativity of others from the outside. ‘So, how do you make it work without a record deal? Do you play a lot of gigs?’
I imagined myself coming to see him play: standing in the audience as he dedicated a song to me. All the other girls jealous of his attention.
‘The thing is, Rory,’ Malky said, leaning forward urgently and jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. ‘Any fucker can strum a few notes on a guitar playing gigs for
money
, but you can only be a
musician
if you feel it in your soul. Know what I mean? It’s not all about recording contracts and capitalism and
money
.’
‘No, of course not,’ I said. I hadn’t meant to offend him with my innocent question – as a wage slave I was just intrigued by anyone who managed to live on their
creativity alone. I didn’t expect I’d have got very far on mine.
‘People just don’t understand the compromises you have to make for music,’ said Malky, sighing and throwing himself back in his seat. ‘I mean – I bet you work in an
office, right?’
‘R-right,’ I stammered. He was looking at me with a dark intensity that made my insides flip-flop with nerves. Nerves and, unless I was mistaken – it had been a while –
actual lust. I didn’t entirely trust my ability to speak without falling over my words. ‘I work for
Country House
magazine, it’s a family-owned magazine
in—’
‘Yeah, see, you’re working for the Man,’ Malky interrupted, with a satisfied nod.
I had to stifle an unwelcome snort of nervous laughter. Malky was pretty passionately worked up and I didn’t think it was quite the right time to tell him that I did indeed work for
someone called Man. Although not
the
Man, she was definitely married to one of them – a hedge-funder called Hugh who had been at Eton with the Prime Minister.
‘And if you take the Man’s money, then you’ve got to live by the Man’s rules. Whereas me – I don’t take the Man’s money, so I get to live by my own
rules.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, wondering whether a failing magazine about stately homes and art history actually represented the worst of corporate Britain. But I wasn’t a creative
person, so no doubt I didn’t really understand.
Malky pulled open his battered suede jacket to expose an inner pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of postcards, one of which he handed to me with great import. I took it with
what I hoped was sufficient gravity, inclining my head to examine it properly.
‘It’s me,’ said Malky, pointing at the picture. It was indeed, though he looked much younger. Those green eyes were unmistakable, though, and the photographer had managed to
capture both Malky’s brooding depth and the hint of laughter that saved him from being too intense.
‘Wow, look at you,’ I said, turning the postcard over. In the bottom corner I read
Malky: Smoking Letters, the single, released October 2004
.
‘I can sign it for you if you like,’ offered Malky.
‘Oh yes please,’Isaid quickly. His apparent confidence seemed less convincing now, more of a veneer over his struggle to make it in music. Strangely it made him seem more attractive
to me, rather than less. He’d been prepared to show his vulnerability to me. As someone who was feeling fairly vulnerable herself lately, it made me want to take his hand and tell him
everything was going to be fine. And then maybe take that hand and— But since I wasn’t that sort of girl – or at least, I never had been before, who knew who I would become once
the unsuitable-men project was over? – I went to the bar instead, in the classic British tradition of expressing emotions through the medium of alcohol.
By the time I returned from the bar, Malky’s mood had lightened as he waved the signed postcard at me. I put it in my bag for safekeeping.
‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘God, sorry, Rory, I really went off on one there. I just feel so passionate about what I do, you know? It gets me so fired up. Sometimes
it just comes across a bit strongly.’
He hit me once again with one of those imploring smiles, and I couldn’t help smiling back. He was just so different from the kinds of men I’d met before. One minute laughing, the
next so impassioned and angry. So brilliantly unsuitable, I realized. Hadn’t Ticky specifically suggested I should date an aspiring musician? This must have been what she meant – the
creative temperament, the mood swings, the passion. He didn’t have Teddy’s impeccable manners, but then he didn’t have Teddy’s pensioner’s bus pass or his extra
poundage. This unsuitable man was a lot more exciting. And attractive.
After three more drinks Malky had become a lot more fun, and so had I. Even the female Easter Island statue had cracked a smile in our direction, seeing us sitting there giggling at each other.
Malky was fascinated by the idea of Auntie Lyd’s boarding house – I suppose he recognized fellow creative spirits in the actors who lived there – and demanded endless detail about
all of the residents, past and present. He turned out to remember Auntie Lyd from
Those Devereux Girls
, and managed a brilliantly accurate impression of Ma Devereux in her wheelchair by
scooting himself across the carpet on a wooden stool. He even suggested we run outside to re-enact the famous mud-wrestling scene on the Common, but I persuaded him out of it. Our faces were
getting closer and closer with every new story we shared, and it felt completely natural when he put his arm around the back of my chair. It wasn’t hard to pick up on the signals this
time.
His hypnotic eyes were so extravagantly lashed that I felt almost envious. I gazed into them for so long that eventually I forgot to speak at all.
‘Shall we go?’ whispered Malky, after we’d been staring at each other for what seemed like hours.
We got up together and moved towards the door; I wasn’t looking at Malky, but I was intensely aware that he was following me as closely as if we were tied together. As soon as we were
outside, he dragged me round the corner of the pub to the dark alley and pushed me up against a wall. There was no question of me wanting to stop this unsuitable man, but we grabbed at each other
almost as if we were fighting. He held my wrists above my head and kissed me until my head ground into the bricks behind me. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble scratched at my chin. It
wasn’t just like kissing a different man from Martin, it was like kissing a whole different species.
Suddenly I imagined what Martin would think if he saw me here, drunkenly snogging a stranger. Opening my eyes, I saw that Malky and I were grappling by a rather unromantic row of dustbins. It
felt sordid and dirty; I wasn’t sure if that was exciting or frightening.
‘I should go,’ I whispered, pulling my coat around me.
‘Can’t I come back with you?’ Malky said, his curly hair brushing against my cheek as he kissed me again.
‘No!’ I laughed, wriggling out of his grasp. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow. And didn’t I tell you there’s a bunch of aged thesps at home waiting to hear how my date
went?’
‘Next time,’ he said, pressing me against the wall for one more kiss. No excuses.’
‘Maybe,’ I laughed, escaping to run across the road towards home. But I didn’t mean it. I just thought it was probably a bit uncool to say, ‘Definitely next time, I am
warm for your form, please please call me tomorrow.’
Next time, Rory!’ Malky bellowed across the street, illuminated by the pub lights as if under a spotlight. Next time!’
I skipped home with my heart pounding. It had all felt so wrong, so dirty and passionate, instead of the safe routine that was my relationship with Martin. I couldn’t imagine Martin
grabbing me like that; he’d have been far too concerned about germs and dirt from the bins. He’d have said, ‘Why fool around outside a pub when we’ve got a perfectly good
bed at home?’ But why was I thinking of Martin when I might have met a man who’d help me to get over him? As confused as I felt in my head, my body had a far more primitive reaction to
my unsuitable man. It had been months since I’d felt myself like this, my knees properly weak with the certain knowledge that Malky wanted me and wasn’t afraid to show it. Whatever my
head felt about Martin, my body wanted Malky too. There was definitely going to be a next time.
So certain was I that the entire office would be waiting to hear about my date with Teddy – and so certain too that I would stun them with news of another unsuitable date
within forty-eight hours – that I walked across Covent Garden Piazza with a sense of keen anticipation that I hadn’t felt since I very first started at
Country House
. It was
funny how working in the heart of London blinkered you to all of its charms. Instead of seeing the neo-classical Covent Garden market as beautiful, most days I just cursed how its design caused
packs of French schoolchildren to cluster in the narrow walkways, making it impossible to pass. Rather than finding the cobbles a charming link to the past, I deplored how many pairs of shoes they
had ruined by trapping my heels between them. It was ironic that while my job was about the beauty of historical architecture, I rarely noticed that I was surrounded by it even on the walk from the
tube.