In Real Life (29 page)

‘I'm really sorry, Loz,' the red-haired girl is saying in an extremely posh, serious voice, and I wonder if I should perhaps leave them to it, go and get another Grolsch, come back later.

‘It was a long time ago,' Lauren says, and then her eye catches mine and her face changes completely. ‘Hey,' she says, smiling.

I feel myself begin to smile, too.

The tall red-haired girl turns to look at me.

‘Ian, this is Emily,' Lauren says. ‘Did you ever actually meet Emily?'

‘I don't think so,' I say.

‘Emily, Ian.'

‘Hello,' I say.

‘I'll leave you dudes to it,' Emily says, raising her glass of white wine before turning and heading off across the emptying dance floor.

‘So you made it, then?' Lauren says.

‘Maybe,' I say, unable to stop grinning.

There's so much to say, I don't know where to start.

‘I don't know what to say,' she says.

‘Me neither,' I say.

‘You look good.'

‘Thanks. So do you.'

‘Have you seen
Paul
?' she says, leaning in a little and touching my arm, very lightly, up near my shoulder. ‘He's completely battered. He tried to ask me out earlier on, to convince me we should give it another go.'

‘Oh god,' I say.

‘I might be single, but I'm not
that
single.'

‘Ha,' I say.

She is touching my arm!

She is single!

My head spins and whirls.

‘So,' I say. ‘What are you up to now . . . I mean, um . . . what do you . . .'

‘I'm working for Cancer Research.'

‘Right,' I nod.

‘Don't worry. I'm not one of those charity muggers if that's what you're thinking . . .'

It's not what I'm thinking at all.

What I'm thinking is the thing I've been thinking, almost continuously, for the last ten years:
Lauren Cross, I am completely and totally in love with you
.

She seems so calm and grown up.

It's amazing.

‘What about you?' she says.

Her hand is still on my arm.

‘I'm . . .' I say, trying to think of a way to phrase what I'm about to say, that doesn't just sound like ‘I'm living with my mum'.

‘I'm living with my mum,' I say.

‘Oh god.'

I wait for her hand to move away in disgust, but it doesn't. She squeezes my arm, then rubs it gently, up and down.

‘Are you okay?' she says.

I feel someone tapping my shoulder, and I turn round and there's David.

‘Mate!' he says, offering his hand. ‘Didn't think you were going to make it.'

‘Congratulations,' I say.

David's hand is large and hot, and there's a small scar on his nostril where his nose ring used to be.

‘Cheers,' he says.

‘Where's Jenny?' I say.

‘Just nipped out. She wanted to change our status but there's no reception in here.'

‘Right,' I say, trying to work out whether he's joking or not.

I look across to Lauren; her eyes are wide and she's trying not to smile.

‘I don't suppose you'd like to . . .' he says, nodding at the stage.

‘What?' I say.

I honestly have no idea what he means.

‘Play a song or two?'

I laugh out loud. The idea's completely ridiculous. But David isn't laughing. Neither is Lauren. They're both just looking at me, eyebrows raised, like I might actually do it.

‘Why not?' Lauren says. ‘You should go for it.'

‘No way,' I say.

‘It'd mean a lot, mate,' David says, but I'm not really listening to him. I'm looking at Lauren, over his shoulder.

Please, she mouths.

My heart's pounding, just at the idea of it.

‘Alright,' I hear myself say. ‘Not right now though, in a mi—'

But David's already turned; he's bounding towards the side of the stage and then climbing up onto it.

‘Wait,' I shout, but he doesn't hear me.

‘I don't know about this actually,' I say to Lauren, panicking. ‘I really don't think I can . . .'

‘Shhh,' she says, smiling, putting her hands on both my shoulders now and drawing me towards her, so our faces are only inches away. Her eyes are large and green and shining. ‘You'll be great,' she says.

Then she kisses me, just on the cheek.

‘Excuse me?' David announces from the stage, tapping the microphone until everyone's stopped talking and turned to look at him.

‘I just wanted to say another quick thank you to everyone for coming and making this such a special day for Jenny and me.'

People clap.

‘And I also wanted to thank the band for doing such a fantastic job so far.'

More clapping. A few whoops.

‘And finally I just wanted to let you all know that, as a special favour, an old mate of mine is going to play us a song or two as well. This is someone I've known since uni, and he's really good, and it really means a lot to me that he's agreed to do this, alright, so I want you all to be nice and give him a big round of applause, okay?'

David starts clapping from the stage, and then everyone else joins in.

As I walk towards the small set of stairs at the side, it feels a bit like an anxiety dream.

I can feel everyone in the room – there must be about two hundred people here – all watching as I begin to climb the steps. I pick up the band's electric guitar, put it on, then switch on the amp. A whistle of feedback. I strum a couple of chords with my thumb, the chords of that song that appeared in my head, and guess what, they sound exactly how I imagined – just as good in real life as they did floating around my skull. Then I pretend to adjust the levels of the amp with my back
to the room, but really I'm just buying time, scanning through the old Postcards set for a song I can still remember from start to finish. The acoustic one, I think. The one about talking in your head. The one that made her cry.

I walk up to the microphone.

‘Hi, everyone,' I say. ‘I'm actually just going to play one song. This is for David and Jenny . . .'

It's not, though.

It's for Lauren.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank: everyone at Canongate, especially Joanna Dingley and Francis Bickmore for their editorial input, the other two-thirds of Metal Man: Joe Stretch and Socrates Adams, Sian Cummins, Nick Iles, Ben Brooks, Tao Lin, Cathryn Summerhayes, Sam Mills (and anyone else I might have accidentally forgotten) who read an early draft and offered their feedback, John McAuliffe and all the University of Manchester's Centre for New Writing, Katherine Potts for the photo, and all my family and friends, in particular Jessica Treen and my mum, Joan Killen.

Finally, I would like to also dedicate this novel – in loving memory – to my dad, Michael John Killen.