Life and Soul of the Party (3 page)

She meant my housemates Seb and Brian.

‘Yeah,’ I lied.

‘Anywhere good?’

‘Some club in town.’

‘Indie or dancey?’

‘Dancey, I think.’

Another long pause.

‘Well, have a good New Year, yeah?’ she said. ‘I’ll be thinking of you come midnight.’

My heart still skipped a beat even though I knew that Freya would not be thinking about me at all come midnight. When the bongs arrived she would be thinking about whichever tight-trouser-wearing, big-haired, ‘Look at me I’m in a band’ loser that she’d selected as her next victim. ‘And I’ll be thinking of you too,’ I replied, realising just how much I didn’t want this call to end. ‘Are you going to make any resolutions?’

‘No,’ said Freya firmly. ‘I’m not into all that. You?’

‘I’m making a few.’

‘Like what?’

‘You know, the usual.’

There was a short silence, which was undoubtedly Freya considering digging a little deeper before deciding against it. ‘Well, good luck with all that then. And we’ll catch up soon, yeah? Go for a drink or something, yeah?’

‘Definitely. Let’s catch up soon.’

I put my phone down on the empty computer-printer box that doubled as my bedside table, picked up the remote for my CD player, pressed play. As ‘A River Ain’t Too Much To Love’ filled my ears I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and wondered whether Bill Callahan had ever had problems with ‘the ladies’ when he was twenty-four like me.

I’d never been entirely convinced that what I’d felt for Freya had been love (after all how could it be real love if she didn’t love me back?) but even so, what I felt now was torture.

I’d first got to know her when she took a job at the Duck and Drake at a period of my life when Brian, Seb and I virtually lived there. A lot of our mates used to go there and as we too became regulars we got to know most of the staff. So when I turned up one Saturday night and saw Freya standing behind the bar, it took me by surprise: she was absolutely amazing. She had shoulder-length black hair that, along with the way she dressed, made her look as if she had just stepped out of a time machine from 1963. She had that whole doe-eyed, sexy indie-chick thing going on and the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

I guessed from the way she dressed that she was into music and so over the course of a couple of conversations, as I got my round in, I’d drop in the names of a few bands that I thought she might like and when those worked, I dropped in a few more, then a few more. After about a month of name dropping bands like crazy she told me that a band we’d both been raving about recently were playing at Night and Day and asked me if I fancied coming along. I couldn’t believe it. A date. With Freya. This kind of luck was unheard of in my life. I was over the moon.

Though we’d arranged to meet at Dry on Oldham Street at eight, Freya didn’t turn up until minutes to nine.

‘I’m really sorry I’m so late.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. You see, the thing is . . .’ she stopped, a bit tearful, ‘the thing is . . . I’ve just had a massive row with Justin.’

‘Who’s Justin?’

‘My boyfriend.’

The news that she wasn’t single knocked me sideways, even though it made perfect sense that a girl like Freya would have guys throwing themselves at her left, right and centre.

On the way to Night and Day, Freya gave me a potted history of her and her boyfriend, right up to and including the fight that they had just had. I listened attentively and gave her advice on how to sort out the problem, even though this guy sounded an awful lot like some of the idiots who had been on my course at university – all rock-star poses and daft haircuts without a shred of personality between them.

At about ten o’clock, when the headline band came on stage, Freya suggested that we move towards the front and before I could say a word she grabbed me by the hand and led me right to the front of the stage. And from the band’s opening song to their closing encore she didn’t let go of my hand.

At the end of the night we filed out of the venue and headed to a fast-food place for curry and chips, which we ate sitting on a bench next to the bus stop before getting the bus back to Withington. Later, as we parted to go our separate ways, she told me she’d had a great time and that she would call me in the morning. The call never came.

The next I saw of her was about a week later, when I turned up at the Drake with Seb and Brian to find her behind the bar.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t call you, did I? It’s just that . . . well . . . Justin and I sort of got back together.’

‘Great,’ I replied, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. ‘I’m really, really pleased for you.’

‘Good, because in a way it was all down to you.’

‘Really?’

‘I followed your advice to the letter and before I knew it we were having this massive heart to heart and we realised that we were just both really wary of getting hurt. Ever since that night things have just been perfect.’

It didn’t last though. Like most devastatingly pretty girls, Freya had spectacularly bad taste in men and soon Justin was superseded by a whole litany of poseurs who could smell her father-issues and lack of self-esteem from a mile away. And although the names changed (Oscar, Tom, Jamie and Lucien) the pattern remained the same. They’d fancy her, she’d fancy them, they’d get off together at some crappy indie club in town, then a few weeks later she’d find them snogging some other girl in the same club; or she’d find out they already had a girlfriend; or they would simply stop calling altogether. Distraught, she would turn to me for comfort and support. And while I’d be hugging her and telling her how it’d all be all right in the end, she’d be telling me how special I was and how different I was from the other guys. And all the time I’d be thinking to myself ‘If I can just hang on a bit longer maybe she’ll finally see just how mad about her I really am.’

Anyway, to cut a long story short, a few nights before Christmas Eve, following the demise of yet another short-lived hook-up with a skinny, scruffy, waste of skin and bone called Luke, Freya dropped round at mine to claim both consolation and a free bottle of wine. We joked about how love was a game for losers and made plans for a perfect New Year’s Eve.

‘How about I come to yours?’ she said. ‘We can order a takeaway.’

‘And drink as much as our livers can take!’ I added.

‘And then when we’re well and truly wrecked,’ said Freya, really getting into the rhythm of things, ‘we can watch
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
for the millionth time.’

At this particular moment we were the closest we had been in all the time I’d known her and so I decided that six months of unrequited love was more than enough for anyone and attempted to convert a good-night embrace into something more. Honestly, I couldn’t have misjudged the situation more if I’d tried. The second my lips touched hers Freya pulled away and was all ‘I’m really flattered, Billy, but I don’t really see you like “that”,’ and although I wished I had some kind of comeback, I didn’t say a thing because I was too busy willing the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

With five hours to go before midnight I still had no idea what I was going to do with my New Year’s Eve. I called Seb and Brian to see if there were any tickets left for the club night they were going to but apparently the whole thing had sold out months ago and tickets were now changing hands for ten times their face value. I didn’t really fancy the idea of bankrupting myself just so that I didn’t have to see the New Year in watching
Jools Holland
so I told them to have a good time and decided to put on yet more melancholy music, turn off the lights, climb back into bed and allow myself the indulgence of feeling totally and utterly depressed. After a few minutes realising that I wasn’t exactly being a man about all this I got out of bed, picked up my mobile and called my older sister Nadine.

Chatting to her about life in general for a bit to give her the illusion that I wasn’t after anything (covering topics as diverse as our parents, the love life of my middle sister Amy, and Nadine’s impending thirty-fifth birthday) I finally jumped in with two feet and asked her the big question.

‘So, sis, what are you up to tonight?’

‘I’m off to a party.’

‘You’re thirty-five!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do people your age still have parties?’

Nadine laughed. ‘You’re such a cheeky little sod sometimes.’

‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘But you love me for it, don’t you? So this party, is it local?’

‘It’s in Chorlton. My friends Ed and Sharon. Why?’

‘Well, I’m sort of at a loose end and I was wondering if I could come with you.’

‘You’d hate it,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not saying it’ll be a bunch of people standing around talking house prices and swapping notes from the Habitat catalogue but that’s not far off, Billy. There won’t be any drugs, raids by the police or young girls throwing up in the bathroom.’

Looking around my sad bedroom, I allowed my eyes to come to rest on the portable TV on top of the chest of drawers in the corner. Jools Holland could wait. A boring party full of boring people my sister’s age it may be, but at least it was somewhere to go.

‘It sounds perfect,’ I replied. ‘Give me ten minutes to sort myself out and I’ll be ready.’

It was just after eight when I arrived at the Old Grey. The pub – a favourite with the older crowd in Chorlton – was packed out as it would be just before last orders on a Saturday night. Vicky and Laura were at a table near the jukebox, hemmed in on all sides by large groups of what Laura liked to call ‘people like us’ but who could equally be labelled ‘slightly worn at the edges,
Big Issue
-buying, left-leaning, thirty-something graduates who still feel like students even if they aren’t’. Searching around the bar for an empty stool, I eventually located one and made my way over to my friends.

‘So where are the boys?’

‘At the bar,’ replied Laura. ‘Although they seem to be taking forever about it.’

I looked at Vicky. ‘And still no word of Paul and Hannah?’

Vicky shook her head. ‘Not yet but I’m sure they’ll be here soon.’

I think it must have been obvious that I couldn’t work out whether I was relieved or not because Laura reached across the table and touched my hand. ‘What do you want to drink, babe?’

‘I’m fine for the minute,’ I replied. ‘Maybe a bit later.’

‘Don’t be silly. Getting drinks is what boys do best.’ Laura pulled out her mobile and dialled. ‘Coop, it’s me. Melissa’s here now, can you get her a drink?’

Cooper and Chris, waiting patiently to be served at the bar, smiled and waved at us.

‘What are you drinking?’

‘I’ll have a Becks if that’s all right?’

Laura rolled her eyes as though my politeness was trying her patience. ‘Melissa wants a bottle of Becks and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps and be quick about it!’

I poked her in the elbow with my finger. ‘You tell him right now that I don’t want any crisps . . . least of all prawn cocktail.’

‘You might not . . . but I certainly do. I’m starving.’

Vicky looked perplexed. ‘I thought you were on that Courtney Cox diet? Are prawn cocktail crisps part of the menu?’

‘Tomorrow,’ grinned Laura. ‘The diet starts tomorrow.’

Laura and I had been friends for as long as she had been going out with Cooper, which give or take a few months was about six years. Cooper had met her when he’d first moved to Manchester after splitting up with his girlfriend. I hadn’t been too sure about Laura at first; she seemed much more of a boys’ girl than a girls’ girl, thriving on any male attention that was available. And although she’d probably be the first to admit that this was true, she was also a lot of other things besides and it was these that made me warm to her over time. For starters, she could be really funny when she wanted to be which I consider a good sign; beautiful people like Laura rarely bother cultivating a sense of humour. She was also burdened with more than her fair share of insecurities (she hated her nose, was a borderline bulimic through her teenage years and constantly put herself down for not being smart enough). And so once I discovered her human side, I found it much easier to like her and, with the minimum of adjustment, space was made to include Laura in the tight bond that existed between Vicky and me.

While we waited for our drinks we exchanged stories about our various days.

‘Well, my highlight,’ Vicky began, ‘was watching Chris trying to teach William how to fly the kite we got for him for Christmas. It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t been so cold. Chris was running around like a demon trying to get the thing in the air and William kept asking if it was time to go home because he was freezing to death.’

‘Well, given that I only got out of bed about four hours ago,’ began Laura, ‘I’m guessing this is probably the highlight of my day.’

Vicky could hardly believe it. ‘Four hours ago?’

Laura nodded sheepishly. ‘I went out with a few of my old work friends from Albright High last night and it turned into a bit of a late one. I didn’t get in until three.’

‘How about you, Mel?’ asked Vicky. ‘What have you been up to today?’

‘Nothing much,’ I sighed, ‘I read about ten pages of that Monica Ali book that you lent me, watched a double episode of
Deal or No Deal
and finished off the entire top layer of the selection of chocolate biscuits that my evil stick-thin sister Mia gave me for Christmas. Not exactly the most fruitful of days but I’m not complaining.’

Vicky laughed. ‘I’d kill to spend the afternoon watching Noel Edmunds and eating biscuits.’

‘You’re welcome to my life any time you want it. Really, just say the word and it’s yours. You have my life and I’ll move into yours and raise William as my own.’

‘You do realise you’ll have to sleep with Chris, then, don’t you?’