Out Late with Friends and Regrets (47 page)

Fin realised she had been staring into space, probably with a stupid smile on her face.
 
Very unprofessional.
 
Today’s main task: stop thinking about Marie.
 
Well, try, anyway.
 
Would she get in touch? What if she didn’t? Surely she would.
 
Surely.

Home, and six before there was a text: “@ Boars Hd latr. C u?”

Very brief.
 
Marie didn’t sound that enthusiastic.
 
But what could you possibly tell from a fourteen-character text?
 
Fin studied it, willing it to yield a further nuance of meaning.
 
Fin, I’ve been thinking about you all day.
 
Fin, I can’t wait to get you into my bed again. Fin, you really blew my mind.
 
No, she would just be at The Boar’s Head later.
 
Perhaps Fin would leave it this time; it wasn’t good to seem over-eager.
 
She began preparing an evening meal, not hungry.
 
Except for Marie’s body.
 
Bloody hell, what was the matter with her, she wasn’t a teenager.
 
She could isolate the feeling.
 
Watch telly or a DVD, go to the gym.

Or perhaps go along to The Boar’s Head.
 
But later, much later, ten o’clock or so.
 
There was plenty she could be doing in the meantime.

By seven o’clock she found herself prowling the house, making hissing sounds through her teeth.
 
If she closed her eyes she could
taste
Marie in her imagination, feel the contours of those virginal nipples with her tongue.
 
God, this was bad.
 
She lay face-down on the bed, pressing herself down into the softness and craving resistance, then howling into the pillow, “Marie, I– WANT – YOU – NOW!”

She sat up, and sighed, caught sight of her wild reflection in the mirror, and laughed.
 
Very attractive.
 
How could Marie resist this vision of loveliness, with its red nose, anguished face, and hair in berserker tufts?
 
Time she did the roots, incidentally.

OK, then, give in.
 
She took another shower, and spent time getting ready, as slowly as she could manage.
 
If she tried hard, she could be there as late as half past eight.
 
She had put away the uncooked potatoes and lamb chops, all attempts at catering now abandoned in favour of a banana, which went down like cotton wool.
  

The Boar’s Head was not far from the University, a good mile upriver from the Triangle.
 
Should she take the car? Tempting, since it was trying to sleet; but she would be drinking, and parking was always a pain in the city centre, not to mention expensive.
 
Bus.
 
Yes, the bus would do, especially as she didn’t want to be there too early.

The taxi dropped her right outside the pub, attracting the idle curiosity of the hunched, pinched-fingered smokers by the door.

Inside, there was no attempt at a theme, or any sort of coordinated decor.
 
It was an honest-to-goodness scruffy pub, one that didn’t need the brewery’s consultants to tell the landlord how to run it at a profit.

Marie was singing “If You Could See Me Now”. To Fin’s embarrassment her eyes immediately filled with tears, and she made for the Ladies to pull herself together.
 
Marie hadn’t spotted her as she hung her coat and scarf up, and she had a whisky in her hand by the time she moved into Marie’s line of vision.
 
Certainly, this was a different situation from that at The Waggoners.
 
The customers, mostly young, were standing and sitting close to the performance area, and a bearded youth was playing along on his own guitar.
 
Marie looked up and smiled, and Fin felt her knees wobble.
 
So it was true, that did really happen, the knees going.
 
The lyrics tailed off, and Marie laughed. “Sorry about that,” she said to her audience, picking up on the next line.
 
She didn’t need Fin’s help at the end of the number; the applause was warm and spontaneous.

“This next one’s dedicated to someone special,” she said, after taking a sip of water and tightening one of the pegs on her guitar, “And I want everybody to join in, OK?”

She launched into a loping version of “How Sweet It Is”, and despite the chorus from the floor,
Fin was tuned in to the little growl Marie put in, which gave the song a sexy little edge. Every couple of lines, she flicked a glance in Fin’s direction.

Fin’s primitive self leapt on to the nearest table, jumped up and down, crowed with triumph, and screamed, “She wants me! She wants to have sex with me!
She wants me to fuck her!
”
 
Her civilised self smiled at Marie with a semi-wink, and breathed deeply into her glass.

During the interval, Marie spent time talking to a number of fans, and Fin didn’t approach her.
 
This was business, apart from anything else; quite a few CDs were changing hands. But absurd jealousy poked her in the ribs, especially when she thought she overheard someone say, “How’s Sid doing, then, Marie?”

The second half seemed never-ending.
 
Fin sat at a table at the other end of the bar, and watched Marie singing for other people.
  
At the end there was an encore, and then three more requests, before Marie claimed that her throat wouldn’t hold out any longer.
 
Then more CDs were sold, and there was some conversation with the audience.
 
Fin told herself it was exactly like the shop; Marie had to be friendly and available.
 

Eventually, it was quiet, and Fin walked round the bar, to see Marie sitting back in one of the booths, looking utterly exhausted. Dr. Footlights had left the building.
 
Fin sat beside her, said nothing, and held her hand.

“Oh, Fin.
 
I thought you’d gone.”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s good to see you.
 
How are you?”

“Been missing you all day.”

She hadn’t meant to say that; very uncool.

“I was so hoping you’d be here.”

“And here I am.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“Actually, I’ve been nursing a damned drink for the past hour or so, I don’t feel like another one.
 
But let me get you one.”

“OK, a brandy, please.
 
Small one.”

“Nobody asked you to have a large one,” said Fin with a smile,
 
“Anything in it?”

“Ooh, ginger I think.
 
Might perk me up a bit.”

“Perk you up for-”

“Sex maniac.
 
I won’t be up to a session like last night.
 
Got my period, amongst other things.”

“Oh, just my luck.”

“But you can still come home with me, if you like.
 
Lie back and think of England, while I play you gently like a guitar.”

“Woooh! I can think of worse ways to spend the evening.”

“Hungry?”

“For love, yes,” said Fin, working her eyebrows up and down.

“Silly. Actually, I could murder a king-sized portion of fish and chips.
 
I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m feeling a bit limp.”

The late-night chippie, a bright, bustling island of chrome and neon in the dark, spilt light and its hallmark fragrance across the street. Fin remembered that she, too, hadn’t had anything to eat except for the unappreciated banana, and was salivating by the time their takeaway was cooked to order.
 
As soon as they came to a shop doorway out of the wind they fell on the food, feeding each other chips and burning their fingers on the hot crispy batter around the fish.

“I can’t tell you how good this is, Marie,” said Fin.
 
“I wasn’t in the slightest bit hungry before, either.”

“It’s a great chippie. The fish is always nice and fresh.”

“Not kidding.
 
D’you know, Marie, I think there must be something in our DNA that responds to fish and chips.
 
Suddenly I feel like a new woman.”

“I thought I
was
your new woman.”

“You’re that all right, if you’ll have me,” said Fin, balling Marie’s paper wrapping, and closing it with her own inside the polystyrene box.

Marie put a hand inside the trenchcoat, and stroked Fin’s breasts through her shirt.

“Oh, yes.
 
I’ll definitely have you,” she said.
 
“Let’s go home.”

“There are always a few good Christmas and New Year parties – Rachel and Dave’s is a must, I would say,” said Ellie,
 
“June’s got one on the Sunday before, bit of a posh do, lots of booze but pretty short on talent. I always have a mulled wine gathering at my place on Christmas eve, just my closest friends, always a bit of a squeeze, I just happen to have so-o-o many of the buggers.
 
So, got any plans?
 
Thought I’d start early with the arrangements this year, to make sure I get in first, Hamish has a terrible habit of trumping everyone else before they’ve had time to send out the invites.”

“Just put me down for all the recommended ones, Ellie.
 
I suppose I can bring a friend?”

“A friend? Would that happen to be a close friend? Would it even happen to be a really, really close friend?”

“Well, it’s only been ten days, but I’m quite taken with her.”

“So that accounts for the fact I haven’t seen you in ages. You never even called to
tell
me, you rotten trollop!”

“Well, you know, Ellie, a fragile little seedling, exposed to the harsh light of publicity – once it’s on the college telegraph it’s no longer the sweet secret thing it is now.”

“Ooh, I’m cut to the quick.
 
I can be totally discreet, if specifically warned.
 
But who is it?”

Fin wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Ellie just yet.
 
But it was probable that she wouldn’t know Marie anyway, and she couldn’t deny Ellie’s good-natured if proprietorial interest in her love life.

“Come on, Fin, I have to know! I’m your mentor, remember?
 
Slept with her yet?”

“Cheek.
 
Of course I have.”

“Well, get the of course!” said Ellie, “Quite the blasé woman of the world, after five minutes, aren’t we? Just remember, kid, I made ya.
 
Now, who is she, what does she do, who was her last lover, and is she any good?”

Fin wanted to say that it wasn’t that sort of relationship, that it was special, but was aware how wet that would sound.

“I see,” said Ellie, dropping the bantering tone.
 
“It’s love, is it?”

“It may or may not be
love
, Ellie, but I have to admit I’m smitten.
 
No, it’s OK, of course I’ll tell you, her name’s Marie, and she’s a musician.”

“Oh, arty farty, eh? Not one of the Harford Chamber Ensemble? I know they’ve got a couple of fit females.
 
Have you noticed how many leggy blondes there are with cellos nestling sexily between their knees these days? Someone should write a paper on it - me, perhaps.”

“Not that sort of musician, Ellie.
 
She’s a plays guitar and sings in pubs.
 
She’s very talented.”

“Ah.
 
I see.
 
Nothing wrong with that.
 
Which pubs?”