Part 9 (1/2)

'Because the other night you said that might happen.' I'm getting nowhere fast here, and I know she's not in the right frame of mind to grant any concessions, but I push it anyway.

'I said nothing of the kind.'

'You did! You did! You said there was a chance! That's the same as 'might'!' Jesus. This is truly pitiful.

'Rob, I'm at work. We'll talk when . . . '

'If you don't want me to call you at work, maybe you should give me your home number. I'm sorry, Laura, but I'm not going to put the phone down until you've agreed to meet up for a drink. I don't see why things should be on your terms all the time.'

She gives a short, bitter laugh. 'OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK. Tomorrow night? Come down and get me at the office.' She sounds utterly defeated.

'Tomorrow night? Friday? You're not busy? Fine. Great. It'll be nice to see you.' But I'm not sure she hears the positive, conciliatory, sincere bit at the end. She's hung up by then.

Thirteen

We're messing around at work, the three of us, getting ready to go home and rubbis.h.i.+ng each other's five best side one track ones of all time (mine: 'Janie Jones,' the Clash, from The Clash; The Clash; 'Thunder Road,' Bruce Springsteen, from 'Thunder Road,' Bruce Springsteen, from Born to Run; Born to Run; 'Smells Like Teen Spirit,' Nirvana, from 'Smells Like Teen Spirit,' Nirvana, from Nevermind; Nevermind; 'Let's Get It On,' Marvin Gay, from 'Let's Get It On,' Marvin Gay, from Let's Get It On; Let's Get It On; 'Return of the Grievous Angel,' Gram Parsons, from 'Return of the Grievous Angel,' Gram Parsons, from Grievous Angel. Grievous Angel. Barry: 'Couldn't you make it any more obvious than that? What about the Barry: 'Couldn't you make it any more obvious than that? What about the Beatles? Beatles? What about the What about the Rolling Stones? Rolling Stones? What about the f.u.c.king . . . f.u.c.king . . . What about the f.u.c.king . . . f.u.c.king . . . Beethoven? Beethoven? Track one side one of the Fifth Symphony? You shouldn't be allowed to run a record shop.' And then we have the argument about whether he's a sn.o.b obscurantist, are the Fire Engines, who appear on Barry's list, really better than Marvin Gaye, who does not?, or whether I'm a boring old middle-of-the-road fart.) And then d.i.c.k says, for the first time ever in his Champions.h.i.+p Vinyl career, apart from maybe when he's gone somewhere miles away to see some ludicrous band, 'I can't make the pub tonight, guys.' Track one side one of the Fifth Symphony? You shouldn't be allowed to run a record shop.' And then we have the argument about whether he's a sn.o.b obscurantist, are the Fire Engines, who appear on Barry's list, really better than Marvin Gaye, who does not?, or whether I'm a boring old middle-of-the-road fart.) And then d.i.c.k says, for the first time ever in his Champions.h.i.+p Vinyl career, apart from maybe when he's gone somewhere miles away to see some ludicrous band, 'I can't make the pub tonight, guys.'

There's a mock-stunned silence.

'Don't mess about, d.i.c.k,' says Barry eventually.

d.i.c.k sort of smiles, embarra.s.sed. 'No, really. I'm not coming.'

'I'm warning you,' says Barry. 'Unless there's an adequate explanation I shall have to give you the Weedy Wet of the Week award.'

d.i.c.k doesn't say anything.

'Come on. Who are you going to see?'

He still doesn't say anything.

'd.i.c.k, have you pulled?'

Silence.

'I don't believe it,' says Barry. 'Where is the justice in this world? Where is it? Justice! Where are you? d.i.c.k's out on a hot date, Rob's s.h.a.gging Marie LaSalle, and the best-looking and most intelligent of the lot of them isn't getting anything at all.'

He's not just trying it on. There's no little sideways glance to see if he's. .h.i.t the mark, no hesitation to see if I want to interject; he knows, and I feel both crushed and smug at the same time.

'How did you know about that?'

'Oh, come on, Rob. What do you take us for? I'm more bothered about d.i.c.k's date. How did this happen, d.i.c.k? What rational explanation can there possibly be? OK, OK. Sunday night you were in, because you made me that Creation B-sides tape. I was with you Monday night and last night, which leaves . . . Tuesday!'

d.i.c.k doesn't say anything.

'Where were you Tuesday?'

'Just at a gig with some friends.'

Was it that obvious? I guess a bit, on Sat.u.r.day night, but Barry had no way of knowing that anything had actually happened.

'Well, what sort of gig is it where you just walk in and meet someone?'

'I didn't just walk in and meet her. She came with the friends I met there.'

'And you're going to meet her again tonight?'

'Yes.'

'Name?'

'Anna.'

'Has she only got half a name? Eh? Anna who? Anna Neagle? Anna Green Gables? Anna Conda? Come on.'

'Anna Moss.'

'Anna Moss. Mossy. The Moss Woman.'

I've heard him do this to women before, and I'm not sure why I don't like it. I talked about it to Laura once, because he tried it with her; some stupid pun on her surname, I can't remember what it was now. Lie-down, lied-on, something. And I hated him doing it. I wanted her to be Laura, Laura, to have a nice, pretty, girl's name that I could dream about when I felt like being dreamy. I didn't want him turning her into a bloke. Laura, of course, thought I was being a bit dodgy, thought I was trying to keep girls fluffy and silly and girly; she said I didn't want to think of them in the same way that I thought about my mates. She was right, of course - I don't. But that's not the point. Barry doesn't do this to strike a blow for equality: he does it because he's being spiteful, because he wants to puncture any sense of romantic well-being that Laura or Anna or whoever might have created in us. He's sharp, Barry. Sharp and nasty. He understands the power that girls' names have, and he doesn't like it. to have a nice, pretty, girl's name that I could dream about when I felt like being dreamy. I didn't want him turning her into a bloke. Laura, of course, thought I was being a bit dodgy, thought I was trying to keep girls fluffy and silly and girly; she said I didn't want to think of them in the same way that I thought about my mates. She was right, of course - I don't. But that's not the point. Barry doesn't do this to strike a blow for equality: he does it because he's being spiteful, because he wants to puncture any sense of romantic well-being that Laura or Anna or whoever might have created in us. He's sharp, Barry. Sharp and nasty. He understands the power that girls' names have, and he doesn't like it.

'Is she all green and furry?'

This started out joky - Barry as demon counsel for the prosecution, d.i.c.k as defendant - but now those roles have started to harden. d.i.c.k looks guilty as all h.e.l.l, and all he's done is meet someone.

'Leave it, Barry,' I tell him.

'Oh, yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? You two have got to stick together now. s.h.a.ggers United, eh?'

I try to be patient with him. 'Are you coming to the pub or what?'

'No. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'Fair enough.'

Barry leaves; d.i.c.k is now feeling guilty, not because he's met someone, but because I have n.o.body to drink with.