He Said/She Said(6)
‘Right,’ he said, sparking the joint. The lighter’s flare showed me Kit’s angles for a second: brows straight as rulers, an arrowhead nose above a set mouth. ‘There are about ten festivals in the West Country that week. They’re all still in the planning stages, but I’ve got as much information together as I can, to help us decide which one fits best with our ethos.’
I tried to catch Ling’s eye to share a smile at Mac’s pomposity but she was gazing in rapt adoration. I felt the usual sting of exclusion.
‘The big eclipse festival is in Turkey, but that’s way beyond our budget,’ said Mac. ‘Plus, how often does this come around on home turf?’
‘Less than once in a lifetime,’ Kit piped up from his corner. His voice was Home Counties, educated: Mac’s without the mockney drawl. ‘A total eclipse needs really precise alignment. It’s hard to average, but the last one here was in 1927 and the next one won’t be until 2090. And we didn’t have a single total eclipse between 1724 and 1925.’
‘All right, Rain Man,’ said Mac, going back to his list. He discounted three festivals where the music was ‘too mainstream’, and another where the sponsor was ‘too corporate.’ Ling, who had the predicted visitor numbers, ruled out a tiny gathering that wouldn’t be worth our while. We were left with one festival in North Devon, and another on the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall. ‘It’s too close to call,’ said Ling.
‘Bro?’ said Mac. Kit got to his feet without using his hands. He’s taller than me, I thought. Measuring men against my own five-nine frame was often the first sign I had that I was attracted to someone. From a leaning plywood bookcase with half the shelves missing, he produced a sheaf of computer printouts.
‘The thing about Cornwall, all of the West Country really, is that there are a handful of micro-climates. The weather conditions really can vary mile by mile. So I’ve correlated average sunlight and rainfall with all the festivals and plotted this against the path of totality. By my reckoning, this location gives us our best chance of seeing the sun.’ He unfolded a battered Ordnance Survey map of Cornwall, and pointed at the Lizard peninsula.
‘The Lizard Point Festival it is,’ said Mac, and Kit’s smile went from tentative to broad. ‘I think this calls for a celebration.’
The celebration consisted of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, passed around while Mac played DJ and Kit shuffled his papers. I was used to Mac and Ling’s public displays of affection, and I assumed that Kit would be too, but when they started snogging on the sofa, he was clearly mortified, blushing scarlet and eyes looking anywhere but in my direction. After a while he disappeared into the kitchen. I cleared my throat loudly.
‘Sorry,’ said Mac, smoothing down his T-shirt. ‘We’ll go next door.’
‘How am I supposed to get home?’ It was a long, dark walk back to our little flat in Stockwell and the last bus had gone. I hadn’t drunk so much that I was willing to risk the walk, and back then it wouldn’t have occurred to me to get a cab.
‘Kit’ll walk you,’ Ling said, getting unsteadily to her feet. Her bra was already unhooked. She winked at me over her shoulder. ‘Don’t shag him, though. It’ll make things really awkward in Cornwall.’
If I hadn’t already been entertaining the idea, I’d have decided to shag Kit just to spite her.
‘Oh,’ he said on returning to find me there alone, then retreated to his corner where he sat cross-legged, drumming his fingers in perfect time to the music.
‘That’s really clever, what you did with those charts,’ I said eventually, to break the silence.
‘It’s just maths,’ he shrugged, but his fingers stilled.
‘I really struggled with maths,’ I said. ‘In secondary school, I had this geometry teacher who was drawing shapes on the board, and she paused and clutched her bosom and said, “Of course the most beautiful shape of all is the circle,” and I felt locked out of the secret of it. Of the story of it.’
Kit tilted his head to one side, as if he could read me better on the oblique. ‘That’s better than what most people say,’ he said. ‘There’s a kind of pride in being crap at maths, an inverse snobbery about it, such a lack of respect. I don’t know if it’s a defence mechanism or what, but it drives me crazy. They don’t realise how beautiful maths is. Like, listen to this tune.’ I tried to give the music my full attention, but it was difficult with the bed next door squeaking on the offbeats.
‘They’ve been together, what, six months now,’ Kit said, his eyes travelling towards the wall where the sounds were coming from. ‘He’d better not cock this one up like he usually does.’
My head suddenly cleared. ‘Hang on, what?’ Ling and I were used to going into battle for each other. ‘Is he doing the dirty on her?’
‘God, no!’ said Kit, back-pedalling clumsily. If Mac had the gift of charm, poor Kit had barely grasped the tenets of tact. ‘It’s just. He hasn’t got the best track record. You know. With. Girls. Women. But I’m sure this is fine. Ling.’ He put the bottle to his lips and tilted, clearly dismayed to find it empty.
‘I can see who stole all the moral fibre in the womb,’ I said, to put him at his ease.
‘Hardly. Mac’s the one who goes on all the marches and stuff.’