The Things We Do to Our Friends(3)
2
Everyone was starting a new life in that first week and there were structures to help us, because we were still children, untethered from our parents with no idea of how to live. There were social activities, stilted mixers and society nights, but during those early days, I struggled to fit in with the people I met.
We’d speak. They’d ask me questions and listen to my responses intently, almost running them through a checklist in their heads to see if I was like them. State school or private? Funny, a joker? Pretty? Boyfriend (yawn) back at home? Horsey? Medic? Sporty? Then there would be a pause, and I’d see their eyes dart behind me, looking for the next person to suss out, because it was hard to place me in a category. I didn’t make jokes because I don’t like them, and I often laughed too late or too quickly in the group—a forced, chaotic giggle even to my own ears. The conversations always petered out.
It was a clear case of not fitting in, and I was out of practice when it came to socializing with people my own age, so I told stories alone in my room, testing them on myself in front of the mirror—light anecdotes and stilted introductions that I tried to pull off breezily, but they sounded rehearsed, of course, my voice awkward and tense.
I felt observed in those first weeks. It sounds paranoid to say so, but it’s true. I felt eyes on me when I walked and would look back over my shoulder, but I saw nothing of note. I thought of what my granny would have said if I’d voiced my concerns: “You’re in Edinburgh! Why would anyone be interested in what you’re doing? For heaven’s sake…” And she’d have been right because not much happened at the start. The days were heavy with administration, form after form, and I brandished my chewed pen for each one. Sign here, sign here, now just here where we’ve put the “x” for you. Do you have a GP? Where’s that accent from? Would you like to pay extra for the insurance, or set up a direct debit, perhaps? Just a quick picture of you for this card. No, no, don’t worry about reading the terms and conditions, nothing important there.
There was a wave of dull paperwork. I made decisions when prompted, but after a while I stopped caring. I put my name down for lectures: An Introduction to Dutch Art; Garden Design of the Eighteenth Century. With little thought, I signed away my whole year on an impressive-sounding title, my name, today’s date, and it felt like I was “getting things done,” whizzing through the days in a blur, buying books and batteries and extension cords.
The memories that come back sharper and sweeter are when I think of the bar. That tight knot of anticipation high in my chest as I turned up for my first shift, the slosh of amber triple sec and tequila when I learned how to make a margarita, squeezing fresh limes into glasses as the juice stung where the skin around my nails was broken, leaving my hands red and raw. The bar was where it all began for me. First with Finn and then, later, with them.
Finn was a sign that things might go my way. He came about because of my more significant problem: money. A distinct lack of it. That was easily solved. I decided I’d work in a bar and that would be an answer to some of my problems. A job would give me a task to do and a way for people to understand me—I’d be a girl who works in a bar, who pours drinks and stays out too late. Perhaps I’d make friends with art students covered in tattoos and Australians with deep tans. It seemed like a good plan.
I’d heard about a place in passing that was looking for staff. It was hidden away down an alleyway in the Grassmarket, squeezed in between sandwich shops and newsagents, so you could walk past and barely notice it was there. I pushed open the glass doors, even though it seemed like the place was closed, and made eye contact with a tall man in a checked shirt who froze behind the bar when he saw me, as if I was an intruder. He had an ice bucket in hand and his brow was furrowed.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a tone that wasn’t friendly but wasn’t unfriendly. I took a deep breath and broke into a smile, one that hurt my cheeks it stretched so far. I hoped I was being inviting; I hoped my smile said, I’m easy and happy, but the skin felt too tight at the sides of my mouth and it probably looked more like a grimace.
The man smiled back at me. It reached his eyes and small crinkles came out around them. I asked him about the job, and he wiped his hand down the side of his jeans and took my CV. He had a soft Scottish accent that I liked straightaway. I gave the flesh of my tongue a sharp bite to remind myself how to draw out my vowels and clip my syllables. I’d watched television for hours each day in Hull to smooth out my accent.
He asked me what experience I had.
“Not much,” I conceded. “But I’m a quick learner.”
“Okay.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned. It seemed a little suggestive, but not seedy. I tried to work out his age, which I decided was around late twenties.
“So, no experience with cocktails? I mean, we’re a cocktail bar, which, to be honest, is a total pain. Endless mojitos, crushing ice for hours, all that kind of thing. We can teach you all that, of course.”
“No, no cocktails.” I kept it short. There was no point in mentioning I didn’t think I’d ever drunk a cocktail before either.
“Okay.”
He seemed to be a man of okays. And I didn’t mind that.
A moment of silence, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable. He looked at my CV again, which was a jumble. I didn’t quite know what to do, so I tapped my foot while I waited.