Part 32 (2/2)

'Ever been to Durham?' I ask.

'No,' she says. 'You?'

'No,' I say. 'I'd like to, though. Lovely cathedral apparently.' The coach rumbles past us, belching exhaust. I contemplate throwing myself under it. Then finally, with a whirr and a click, the machine spits out the strip of photographs, which are sticky with developing fluid and smell of ammonia.

Some primitive tribes believe that having your photograph taken steals a little bit of your soul, and looking at this strip of photos it's hard not to think that maybe they've got a point. In the first, my hand and my hair are obscuring most of my face, and the only thing you can see clearly is the acne round the corners of my mouth, and the great fat mottled tongue lolling out obscenely, as if I've just been punched. Number two, the 'comedy male-model shot', is possibly the most grotesquely mirthless thing you've ever seen in your life, an effect that's reinforced by one, just one, of Alice's eyes rolling back into her head. Number three, ent.i.tled 'laughter!', is horribly bright and over-illuminated, so that you can see up my nose, past matted nostril hair into the black centre of my skull, and down into the pink-ribbed roof of my mouth, past the stubby silver-grey fillings on my molars all the way down to my epiglottis. Finally, in number four, I'm kissing Alice with a chapped, puckered haddock mouth while she winces, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

One for the wallet then.

'Oh dear,' I say.

'Lovely,' says Alice, flatly.

'Which two do you want?'

'Oh, I'm all right, I think. You keep them, as a souvenir.' And there's that word again, souvenir, noun, from the French 299.

I.

DAVID NICHOLLS.

Ai verb souvenir, to remember. 'Sorry, Bri, I've got to run.' And '

she does. She runs.

Sat at home that evening, putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the poem, and looking at the strip of photographs Blu-Tacked to the wall by my desk - me kissing Alice, her wincing it strikes me that our fun-day-out has only been a partial success. I should forget about it of course, but I'm worried that I won't be able to sleep unless I speak to her again, so I pull on my coat and head off to the student bar, in the hope that I'll accidentally b.u.mp into her after rehearsals.

She's not there, of course. When I arrive the only other person I know is Rebecca Epstein, surrounded by her little coterie of f.u.c.kingangryactuallys. She seems pretty pleased to see me, and gets her comrades to redistribute some of the s.p.a.ce on the bench so that I can squeeze in next to her, but the table's covered in empties; she's been alternating lager and whisky all night, and seems pretty drunk.

'Have you seen Eisenstein's Battles.h.i.+p Potemkin^ I say, keeping an eye out for Alice.

'Can't say I have. Why, should I?'

'Absolutely. It's amazing. They're showing it at the Arts Cinema all this week.'

'Okay then, let's go, shall we? I'll bunk off lectures tomorrow afternoon . . .'

'Well, actually I went to see it this afternoon.'

'On your own?'

'No. With Alice actually,' I say, as casually as I can. But Rebecca can spot that kind of thing a mile off, and pounces, 'Well, you two are awfully friendly at the moment, aren't you? 'S there something I should know?'

'We've just been spending a bit of time together, that's all.'

'Is that right?' says Rebecca, sceptically. She starts to roll another cigarette, even though she still has one glued to her lip, and it's like watching someone load a revolver. 'Is ... that. . .'

300.

(licks the Rizla) '. . . right? Well, Jackson, you certainly know how to show a gal a good time, don't you? A masterpiece of Soviet propaganda in the afternoon, then maybe on to Luigi's for prawn c.o.c.ktail, half a barbecue chicken and two pints of Lambrus...o...b..anco. It really is the high-life. I only hope, after a magical day out like that, she at least let you have a wee feel of her t.i.ts . . .'

The clever thing to do, of course, would be not to rise to the bait.

'Actually, we're sort of going out with each other,' I say.

Rebecca raises her eyebrows and smiles to herself. She lights her new cigarette before speaking again.

'Are you now?' she says, quietly, and picking tobacco off her lip. 'So how come I haven't seen you together round at our halls of residence?'

'We're being discreet. Taking it slow,' I say, unconvincingly.

'Right, right. So was that you who phoned up in the week to talk to her?'

'No!'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes!'

'Because it sounded awfully like you . . .'

'. . . well . . .'

'. . . putting on a funny voice . . .'

'. . . well it wasn't . . .'

'So have you s.h.a.gged her yet?' she snarls, rollie dangling from her curled lip.

'What?'

'Have you had s.e.xual intercourse? You know - congress, coitus, the beast-with-two-backs. Come on, you must have at least heard about it. After all, you're going on University Challenge - what are you going to do if it comes up as a question? ”Jackson, from Southend-on-Sea, reading Eng. Lit, what actually is s.e.xual intercourse?” ”Ummmmmmm . . . Can I confer with the rest of the team, Bamber? Alice, what's s.e.xual inter ...?”'

3O1.

9'.

”I know what it ts, Rebecca . . .'

'So, have you done it then, or are you saving yourself for your wedding day? Or maybe she's worried about your s.e.xual history; after all, you can't be too careful these days. Except as I recall you don't actually have a s.e.xual history . . .'

And before I even know what I'm saying, I say, 'Yeah, well, it's not like yours is anything to write home about, Rebecca.'

She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, rests her hand against the edge of the table, and is silent for a moment.

'Good point, Jackson. Good point.' She downs the last inch of j her pint, winces. Touche, Jackson!' And then we sit in silence.

<script>