Part 19 (1/2)
”Ha,” Webster snaps. ”Gonna start taking it seriously now?”
I pick up the notebook again. This potential interest seems to have nothing to do with his being Lance Webster, so maybe he's genuinely got something. I still think it's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, though. And I can't imagine Sainsbury's wanting to advertise that their shops are crawling with insects.
”Um ... the Concorde doesn't exist anymore,” I volunteer, spotting another glitch. Webster waves this away.
”Doesn't matter. Kids still know what it is.”
I sigh and have a final scan, running out of straws to clutch at.
”I guess you're really not into kids' stuff.”
”Not really,” I admit, ”not since I was ... you know.”
”A kid?”
”Yeah.”
”Not enough beer involved, perhaps?”
”I'm sorry?”
”Ever think about having kids?”
Uh-oh. Here comes his ”life coach” act again.
”Well, I probably would do, but ...”
”I understand. There's an essential ingredient missing.”
”Yup.”
”Did you enjoy your own childhood?”
Who is he now? Freud?
”Yeah, well enough,” I grumble. ”You?”
Suddenly the cafe has gone very quiet, and I'm certain the five or so people present, Marzy included, are hanging on our every word. How I long to be elsewhere.
”Tell you what,” says Webster. ”Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon?”
”Sat.u.r.day?” I reply, mentally flicking through my packed diary. ”Not a lot. Why?” One thing that can be said for all this: at least it gives Alan (the real one) a kick up the a.r.s.e. I'm on the bus when he rings me, about halfway down Mare Street.
”Clive-ist!”
This is Alan's new thing, putting ”-ist” on the end of everything. Much like a few years ago when he added ”-ster” to everyone's name: I became ”the Clivester,” Polly ”the Pollster.” For a short time Liz was ”the wifester,” which was where the craze abruptly met its end.
”Meet me for a jar!” he trumpets. ”Liz went to her mum's for the avo with Jocasta-I got let off 'cos of my sore throat.”
”I can't,” I tell him, reluctant to go into too much detail.
”What you up to?”
”I'm meeting someone.”
”Who?”
”Just someone.”
”You're meeting Webster again? again? Didn't you meet him yesterday?” Didn't you meet him yesterday?”
”Yeah.”
”Aren't you guys getting a little friendly?”
”p.i.s.s off. It's actually all getting a bit annoying. He's taking me on a 'mystery tour.' Says he wants to reacquaint me with my childhood.”
”Wow. Can I come?”
”No.”
The line goes a little quiet; when Alan speaks again his voice has lost its edge of mockery.
”What's he like?”
”Alan, I can't really talk about this when I'm on the bus. I'll meet you later if you like.”
”How long you gonna be?”
”Dunno. Depends what he's got in mind.”
”It must be quite cool to hang out with him, though?”
I groan, and take a quick look round the bus to see who's listening. No one looks remotely interested, but I turn back and lower my voice to just above a whisper.
”He is cool to hang out with-as long as you can stand the way he continually asks you probing questions about your life, kicks his legs over to your side of the table, keeps banging on about children's books, eats the most boring food known to man, never suggests meeting in a pub ...”
”Why don't you suggest it, then?”
”He says he's on the wagon at the moment. I've also got to keep up the act of not knowing virtually everything there is to know about his life and career, and not having been his biggest fan for the past seventeen years, and not even knowing very much about b.l.o.o.d.y music at all.”
”You seem to be managing okay so far, man.”
”Yeah, but it's b.l.o.o.d.y hard work! I feel so ... suppressed when I'm talking to him. I'm not me. I trip over my words. My face aches from this perpetual grin. I spilt my tea ...”
”Well, that does sound a little bit like you.”
”And I keep wanting to say stuff about his songs. He ... when ...”-I lower my voice still further-”when we were paying in the caff yesterday he handed me a fiver and said, 'There's my contribution,' and I swear I was within f.u.c.king molecules molecules of saying-” of saying-”
”'... to this pretend revolution'?”