Sweet Sorrow(30)
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got a job.’
‘That’s exciting. Where?’
‘Petrol-station attendant.’
‘Ah, and what first drew you to that world?’
‘The smell on the forecourt. I like the way it gets into your clothes and hair.’
‘That and the confectionery.’
‘Exactly: the crisps, the sweets, the pornography …’
‘D’you get to help yourself? Not the porn, the sweets.’
‘Well, the porn they keep wrapped up in cellophane—’
‘Like some beautiful gift.’
‘—but the sweets, no. Occasional Twix, but no.’
‘Well, you’re a professional. Good money?’
I glanced at my fingernails. ‘Three twenty an hour.’
She whistled. ‘And how many hours?’
‘Ten, twelve.’
‘Well, there you are, we can work round that. It’s not an excuse after all. In fact there are no excuses.’
We had reached the bottom of the hill now, the junction with the main road, the concrete bus shelter to our side. ‘This is where Dad picks me up. We live that way,’ she said, and mentioned a village, a hamlet of twenty or so houses, thatched and whitewashed and enviable. Yes, I thought, that makes sense, that fits. ‘Do you want to wait here with me? He’ll be a while yet.’
But I was aware of the rest of the company passing us now, nodding and grinning, and I felt furtive, awkward and keen to be gone. ‘No, I’d better head off. I’m working tonight.’ I climbed on my bike, snagging my inside leg on the saddle, suddenly inept.
‘You all right there? Having difficulties?’
‘Nope, fine, fine.’
‘Well. I’m pleased we spoke.’
‘Me too.’
‘And here –’ She held out the play script in both hands. ‘You can’t say I don’t try.’
I glanced towards the bus shelter where the company grinned and giggled, then turned back to Fran and spoke in a low, urgent voice, like a spy.
‘Look, I’ll be honest, I’m not coming back on Monday.’
‘Why not?’
I shrugged and peered the length of the road. ‘I’m just not much of a joiner.’
‘Yeah, everyone likes to think that. No one ever says, the thing about me, I’m a real joiner, I’ll join in with any old shit, me.’
‘No, but in my case—’
‘This not-joining thing, is it because you’re a maverick or a loner?’
‘Bit of both, I like to think.’
‘I bet you do. Well, it’s no good,’ she said, and held the script out again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with joining if you join the right thing.’
‘And this isn’t right! The only reason I came today … well, can I … I don’t know, take you for coffee or tea or something? Either really, I don’t mind. Or we could try and get into a pub, I know somewhere, they’ll serve practically anyone – I don’t mean, I just – just as long as we keep our heads down and sit in the beer garden, whatever you want really, but I just can’t do this Shakespeare thing. I’ll make a tit of myself. Even more than I’m doing now.’
During this, I’d watched as she raised her eyebrows, knitted them, squinted, pulled her hair into her mouth and bit it then tucked it away, each expression derailing me, compelling me on into some other half-finished phrase, with some words barely more than sounds until they ran out like the last drips from a hose.
‘So. Anyway. What d’you think?’
And when they’d finally run dry, she said, quite clearly, ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Well, fair enough.’
She shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘Is it a boyfriend?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is it Miles?’
‘What? What? No!’
‘Okay.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Why would it be Miles?’
‘I don’t know, I just – maybe you don’t like the idea, that’s fine.’
‘It’s not that either.’
‘Well, tell me, ’cause it’s embarrassing to keep guessing.’
‘I haven’t got time! I’m doing this, I’ve got lines to learn …’ She wafted the pages of the script.
‘Well, it is the eponymous role.’
‘Exactly! I want to do it properly.’
‘But surely weekends …’
‘No, that’s when I see my friends. The only way you’re going to see me …’
‘Go on.’
‘Come back Monday.’
I looked left and right, saw the faces watching from the bus shelter. ‘Just Monday?’
‘No, let’s say the whole week. You have to make it to Friday.’
She held out the script at arm’s length and, like the poet, I said, ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
She laughed. ‘Sorry, that’s the deal.’
‘But on Friday we can go out?’