Part 8 (1/2)
She followed me into the kitchen, her face a picture of uncertainty; although it was pretty close to a certainty that the useful part of the evening was already over.
”I've a feeling I've done something to offend you,” she began gently, ”but I can't say I know what it is.”
”No, it's not you,” I sighed.
”Well, that's good to hear,” she commented, with a healthy twist of sarcasm.
”It's just ... oh, I don't know.”
”Well, if you you don't know, then ...” don't know, then ...”
”Sorry,” I muttered, taking a swig of wine. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I thought I'd seen the back of this kind of discussion.
”Is it your ex?” she asked suddenly.
”My ex?”
”Well, in the pub you said your ex had pretty s.h.i.+t taste in music.”
”Well ... yeah, but not really,” I dithered. ”But I suppose it does still kind of depress me that, um ... it begins with having s.e.x to Kings of Convenience, then finishes with fighting for the CD player over Queens of the Stone Age versus KT Tunstall.”
”Uh-huh ... it sounds like it is is your ex.” She picked up her mobile and checked her text messages: always a sign that an evening is going well. your ex.” She picked up her mobile and checked her text messages: always a sign that an evening is going well.
”But then, you think ... if it begins begins with fighting for the CD player, then where does that take you?” with fighting for the CD player, then where does that take you?”
She looked up, appalled.
”Oh, what the f.u.c.k is your problem? For a start, we we weren't fighting for the CD player; weren't fighting for the CD player; you you were. And plus, what makes you think this is the beginning of anything? We were having fun, having a laugh, and now suddenly you've made it into something awfully heavy and boring.” were. And plus, what makes you think this is the beginning of anything? We were having fun, having a laugh, and now suddenly you've made it into something awfully heavy and boring.”
”Oh.”
”And what the h.e.l.l is wrong with KT Tunstall?”
”Um, nothing, it's just ...”
”What?”
”Um ... what she represents.”
”Oh, do yourself a favour, Clive, take a load off.” Gathering up her bag now.
”You going?” I asked, downcast.
She shrugged. ”You tell me.”
And then for some reason I still can't really understand, maybe because I correctly figured that the evening couldn't get much worse, I did this: ”I'm writing a book about Lance Webster. I'm trying to interview him. That's why I volunteered to work at the vet's for the day.”
Now here's the interesting thing, if you're interested in atmospheric s.h.i.+fts. Instead of storming out, hurling abuse (”How dare you deceive me!,” etc.)-she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs with her bag on her knee, her facial expression flattened, and she nodded, bidding me to continue. But from that split second onwards, it permanently ceased to be a romantic evening.
”I discovered he lives on this street, so I followed him on Sat.u.r.day.”
”Why do you want to write a book about him?”
”Vindication. Among other things.”
”For you, or him?”
I smiled at this. ”Him, really.”
”Why does he need to be vindicated?”
I sighed. ”Because everyone's forgotten who he is.”
”How do you know he's not pleased about that?”
”Well, I don't. But that's what I want to find out. Do you remember ... well, maybe you won't, but ... he had a bit of trouble, just before the band split up ... he got drunk onstage at a festival, had a fight, got arrested ...”
”Actually, yeah ... I've a vague memory of something.”
”Well, after that, the Magpies were forgotten within six months. Virtually erased from the rock history books, as though Lance had been arrested for child molesting rather than simply having a p.i.s.sed punch-up.”
”What was the fight about?”
”No one knows. There are all sorts of rumours.”
”Like?”
”This friend of his had vanished a few months previously. People reckon he was told she'd been found dead that night, or something. The guy he punched was just a security guard. It's pretty clear he was just ... you know.”
”In the line of fire?”
”Yeah.”
”Did he go to jail?”
”No, but I think he got fined or something. But that was basically the end of his career.”
She shrugged again, and stood up. ”Well, I don't know ... but if I were you I'd be careful. People don't usually enjoy reliving s.h.i.+t like that.”
”Do you want another gla.s.s of wine?” I asked, aware of the fact that I'd enjoyed the last minute or two more than I had the rest of the evening.
”No, I'd better be going, Clive. It's really late.”
As I let her out, she gave me a look such as you might give someone who's about to climb a skysc.r.a.per without a rope.
”Take it easy, will you?”
”I'll try. Oh ... and sorry.”