(What's the Story) Morning Glory?

[Lady_Mornington]

This thread is closed for Daedalus_X​

“I’ll see you around them.”

He smiles as he stands up, and offers me a wink as the bus pulls up by the kerb. I can still feel the soft pressure of his lips against mine even now. The faint taste of tobacco mixed with spear mint lingers even now that he’s standing well away from me. He’s wearing a pair of blue denim trousers, white trainers a black shirt and a Ben Sherman jacket. Quite far from the rest of the Indie boys I usually hang out with.

What is this feeling called love? Why me? Why you? Why here? Why now? It doesn’t make no sense no, It’s not convenient no. It doesn’t fit my plans and it’s something I don’t understand. L.O.V.E – what is this thing that is happening to me?

“Yeah I guess we’ll do.”

My gaze lingers on his face as I hop on the bus and take a seat by the window. He’s still standing by the bus stop. Perhaps I’m imagining things but I would like it to be because he wants to savour the moment as much as I do. But then again that probably counts as wishful thinking at best. David and I aren’t the kind of people who see each other. Not as far as the general understanding of the word goes. We’re on different ends of the playfield and crossing over to meet won’t be easy.

Who said love was an easy thing?

***

I spent most of last night staring at the wall, insomnia yet again. I sometimes wish I didn’t think as much as I do, it seems that as soon as I relax my mind start to wander. I worry quite a lot as it is. About not performing as well as I should academically and thus blowing the chance of getting into uni. Or it’s the gnawing of a guilty conscience which is my constant companion these days. The problem with being the quiet, detached type is that you’re rarely offered the opportunity to confess to all your sins. Not that anyone’s suspecting such things from me, which sort of makes it harder to come clean about it. Appearances counts for a lot and losing them, which I would inevitably do should it become known, would be a social disaster. Depending on where you are standing the individual ranking of the same will differ; I know that mum and dad will be not take too kindly (understatement!) to the fact that I occasionally use cocaine for recreation. They will, on the other hand not be able to comprehend that actually liking Oasis is tantamount to being an advocate of cruelty to animals. My friends won’t take it lightly; as a matter of fact they will see it as little better than an outright betrayal of everything that is important. Alex and Mandy, who are my closest confidants, would throw a right fit, not to mention that my cred as a girl in the know would be utterly ruined. As for the crush on David Tarrant there at least my friends and my parents would be acting in unison in their sincere condemnation. Girls like me just don’t fall for his kind.

All in all I didn’t sleep very well and when I finally succumbed it was almost time to get up. I seem to be genetically programmed to fall asleep just before the alarm goes off, and mornings are the most traumatic time of day as far as I’m concerned. By now my family has learned to work around this, and the ritual of getting Imogen out of bed an extremely sensitive affair all in all. Then again we’re something as odd as a rather considerate group of people thrown together by chance. I suppose that I ought to assume a more critical stance viz. the whole family issue, I’m not. I’m actually quite pleased with them all things considered. My parents, Kate and Gary are, strangely enough, still living together. One would have thought that English middle class 1995-ish should have found some reason not to stick to the traditional family but apparently they haven’t come across one yet. Perhaps proof that genuine love and affection can exist even in one’s parents. I shouldn’t speculate too much, after all everyone’s better off having some part of their existence which isn’t subject to the critical observation of others. Someone (it could have been Alex at one of her brighter moments) once remarked that the hardest choice we make is the choice of one’s parents and I suppose I didn’t do too badly there. In addition to the two parental units there’s also my brother Iain. I suppose that the PC term would label him ‘special’ in a slightly derogatory-holier than thou kind of way. All things considered, he is special, but not ready for the loony tank. He’s autistic (or perhaps more so than the rest of us) which in turn means that there has to be a certain amount of routine in our interactions. Then again his quirks aren’t necessarily any stranger than mine, and as far as I can tell he’s no worse off than I am.

As mentioned I’m not really a morning person, and even after the standard cold shower, which is a necessity to get me into some kind of functioning mood I’m still not able to make coherent conversation. What little energy I have is usually devoted to choosing what to wear. I wouldn’t necessary call myself a snob but what you wear signals who you are. I normally stay well clear of denims, while Justine Frischmann can wear such with style, I can’t.

Forty minutes later I’m all set, dressed in a grey skirt, white blouse with a bluish pullover to match it. I wear my hair in a slightly longer page-ish kind of style, a hairpin securing the fringe to my right temple. A bit of make-up to accentuate my good features and hide the ones considered less so. I have my mother’s darkish hair and my father’s green eyes, I’m petite but with an ok bum and chest and all things considered I guess I’m considered pretty rather than beautiful.

That’s what Imogen Summers looks to the world.

We have breakfast in relative silence and to the backdrop of BBC on the radio. It suits me fine since I’m not really talkative at the best of times, never mind mornings. The conversation is thus kept to a bare minimum. I guess we’re quite an odd constellation; after all how many families in England eat breakfast together these days? I have absolutely no idea but I know from empirical studies that the number must be quite low indeed.

“Are you and the girls going out tonight Imogen?”

Dad looks across the table as he asks the question. My weekends (and most of my weekdays for that matter) are usually fully booked. My parents usually take an interest, not the sticky kind of putting their noses where they don’t belong, but they still.

“Yes we are Dad, there’s a concert at the Indigo.”

I suppose that Dad can actually understand what it’s like; he still maintains a healthy interest in music even though the only band we can agree on being worth listening to is the Beatles. Mum on the other hand is of the variety that whatever’s on the radio. Hard to understand but I guess that there are other things that vies for her attention. Perhaps I should be setting less store by what music people are listening to, not to mention what I listen to. Like the whole issue with my secret Oasis addiction. If it was to be known it would render me a pariah among my peers. You see it’s not just about what kind of music you’re listening to but rather what band. Oasis is per definition the music of the lads. It’s about boys who are drinking copious amounts of lager and only recently changed their footballs boots for a guitar. It’s really too sad, especially when the whole culture which surrounds that particular aspect is simply stupid. Thinking people just don’t buy it, neither the cd:s or the ethos. And yet I can’t help but finding a definitive attraction with Oasis. It’s not smart, it’s not witty, it’s definitively not what you’d call great music but there’s something.

***

All your dreams are made. When you're chained to the mirror with the razor blade Today's the day that all the world will see. Another sunny afternoon. Walking to the sound of my favourite tune. Tomorrow never knows what it doesn't know too soon

The white powder stings as I inhale it through the rolled up ten pound note. The reaction is instant. My eyes start watering and then my nose starts running and within a heartbeat the buzz hits my central nervous system. I tilt my head back and wipe the tears from my cheeks before I check my appearance in the mirror. I look smashing, I feel smashing. No longer do I need to feel constrained by lack of self esteem. Right now I’m sassier than Sarah Cracknell and wittier than Julie Burchill.

The Indigo is crammed with people, even though the main act is King Dice. A bland and poor attempt at Manchester guitar pop. To be honest it can only be labelled pathetic. My partners in crime; Alex and Mandy are standing by the bar sipping their drinks with the carefully applied looks of being bored beyond comprehension. But to be honest none of them are doing very well at it. Mandy is too much of an enthusiast to ever be able to pull off the act, and I suspect that Alex doesn’t even care about the music as such. Like so many women before her she’s only in it to get her dose of appreciation. It may sound like I don’t like them very much and perhaps I don’t. There’s a certain element of competition prevalent in our relation which has the potential of being detrimental to our friendship. I guess that we’re all aware of it and that it’s a calculated risk, but for now we’re sticking together.

“So what did you think about it Im?” Mandy maintains her expressionless face as she pops the question, yet it’s plain to see that she actually liked the King Dice, probably because the singer had a certain boyish appeal about him. I suspect that Mandy’s picked up that too and if I was into betting I would place my money on her rather than Alex getting snogged.

“Absolute tosh Mandy.” I scan the room: the band’s just left the stage, and they’re probably patting each other on the back as they prepare for getting back to perform another number. It’s ok when established acts do it, but a bunch of gits like the King Dice? Then it’s just pathetic.

“Yeah hardly worth the admission” Alex offers her opinion, which by all accounts is one which I don’t care overly much about. But since we live in a democracy I have to allow her to voice her opinion even if it’s absolute rubbish.

I know I sound like a right bitch but A & M can be quite annoying at times, and right now I want to focus on the buzz in my head. Not likely to happen though since the last person I want to talk to has spotted us and is making his way across the floor towards the bar. Tariq Khan, my supplier as well as having an autistic brother. That’s how I got to meet him, his brother Ameer is in the same school as Iain. Khan started out a nice kid with thick glasses and ill-fitting clothes, at least when I first met him. He’s still a complete tit of course, but with a slightly better dress sense if one likes the hard-man act. He’s an amateur of course, but there’s not much competition in the circles where he moves. Even Tariq Khan can appear scary to a spotty-faced indie-kid.

“Hiya Im, how’s it going?” Khan takes up position between me and Alex, whom he offers a smile. He’s got a serious crush on her, and as one could guess, she treats him like something sticking to the sole of her shoe.

“It’s OK Khan, except the music and the company.” Khan was never one who managed to pick up the finer nuances and thus the slight goes way over his head. “Yeah I know, bloody awful if you ask me.” He offers me a B&H which I accept to the apparent disgust of Alex who can’t stand Khan and wouldn’t lower herself to speaking with him even if he was the last person in the world. “We’re going to the ladies’” Alex announce in an acidic tone and more or less pulls Mandy with her out of the reach and the shame of being seen with Khan.

“So Im do you think Alex would like to go for a drink sometime?” Khan once more demonstrates a complete and utter lack of connection with the world he currently inhabits. I’m of a mind telling him that, yes it will happen Khan, when Hell freezes over and a decent band comes out of Germany, but I don’t. One needs to retain some standards and telling Khan the harsh truth would be akin to kicking a puppy. “I really have no idea Khan, but if you want to make yourself useful you could perhaps set me up with some more..”. I leave the sentence unfinished; we both know what I’m alluding to. For the first time since we’ve started talking Khan looks a bit flustered, he’s fidgeting with his cigarette before he answers.

“You know my sources are running a bit low at the moment Im, I have some but it will cost you.” He offers me an apologetic shrug.

“Yeah whatever if you can’t help me then there are others who can.” I’ve long since learned how to deal with Khan, the whole whining about his suppliers is an act with the aim of trying to squeeze a few more pounds out of his customers. While there are those who fall for it I don’t. As mentioned earlier I’ve known Tariq Khan for a number of years now and his act don’t impress me.

I’m about to offer him a smarting remark when my eyes are drawn to the entrance where David Tarrant just sauntered in. He’s looking mildly amused, like if the whole thing’s a joke and he’s the only one who’ve realized it. I can’t say that I know too much about him but the word is that he’s everything that Khan aspires to be. Apparently he’s in a band to, only I haven’t seen them perform yet. I know that it’s not meant to be him and me, it’s a girlish crush, at least that what I try and tell myself., but with the afterglow of the cocaine slowly fading and the fact that Khan’s getting on my nerves I decide to go for a gamble.

“You know Dave don’t you Tariq?” Khan hates being addressed by his first name and I do it to unsettle him. “If you can’t help me I’m sure he can so why not be a good lad and introduce me?” I offer Khan a sarcastic smile, seeing how he screws up his face in a grimace but even though he’s obviously pissed off he tries to reason with me. “You don’t want to mix with the likes of him.” Khan nods in David’s direction. No love lost apparently. He’s about to continue when Dave comes up to the bar where we’re standing. He looks at us and then turns to Khan and, be it in a very polite and definitively threatening way, tells him to bugger off. I’m a bit hazy on what happens after that, but I can remember us talking, or rather he telling me that Khan isn’t good company and then we end up outside the Indigo.

And then he kisses me, and my life instantly becomes very complicated although at this particular moment it's only the fact that we're kissing that counts.

 

[daedalus_x]

Davey sucked on his cigarette, the flinty cold air contrasting strongly with its chalky warmness. For a moment he savoured the sensation, leaning against the rough brick wall in the alleyway around the back of the Indigo, trying to make out the graffiti dimly scrawled on the fence on the alleyway's far side. He and Malcolm had shared a joint at Malcolm's pit before coming over, and Davey was still buzzing, the slightly fruity feeling high he often got when smoking the particular brand of Jamaican dakka that Malcolm usually procured was sticking with him despite the cold night air. He flicked the cigarette out of his hand and then ground it out on the ground under the heel of his boot. Looking around, suddenly feeling full of purpose, he watched as Malcolm nursed his own cigarette. Davey was growing impatient quickly, and he wasn't one to let his feelings stay hidden.

"Come on Malc, let's get in there. I'm freezing my balls off here"

"Sorry mate, can't"

Davey's bushy eyebrows shot up as his best friend gave him an apologetic half shrug, half smirk. "You what?"

"I told you I couldn't at my place!" Davey remembered Malcolm rambling on about something, but he was a pretty selective listener and at the time his attention had been split between the new Oasis CD they'd been listening to and the <i>razzle</i> magazine Malcolm kept stashed under his mattress. Much as he loved Malc, his mumbling on about his social life had been a very distant third.

"Yeah, well tell me again now"

"It's me da, innit? He's only gone and rented the flat in White City out to a bunch of flippin' villains. He's going over there to turf them out and he wants me to stand behind him, look hard"

Davey gave up the pretence of pretending he'd already heard this and guffawed, relishing Malc's hurt look. 'You, look hard? Bloody hell Malcolm, any poor sod who sees you and feels scared is probably already so shitting useless he'd piss his pants when he sees Terry Wogan on the telly"

Clearly stung, Malc twisted like an infant being tickled. "Well I don't bloody know do I? He's gonna pay me for a whole night's work"

"Alright then, leave me on my lonesome then. Christ, if some bastard blades me up tonight it'll only be on you, won't it. Go on, get out. I don't want to see you treacherous rat face you bastard" By now they were tussling good-naturedly, although the punch Davey threw at Malc's stomach would have looked genuine to an observer. Malc blocked it handily enough and threw another punch at Davey's head. Davey sidestepped, grinned broadly. "Bugger off then. See you on Tuesday"

Malc's back retreated down the alleyway, his striped shirt making him look like some bizarre mime. "We're not gonna bloody well call the band Vibration Land"

"It's a quality name, you wanker!" Davey hollered down the alley, waiting until Malc was out of sight before turning his attention back to the matter at hand - Indigo.

It was a quality venue, Indigo, so quality that the manager had threatened violence when Davey had suggested his own band, whose name was still in contention, although Davey thought that the new name was stupid. When he'd first started going the place had simply been called The Ferret's Hole. Calling it Indigo was, he expected, some kind of move to attract a more pretentious and free spending clientele. Needless to say it had failed. Davey placed his ear to the wall, listening to the thumping sounds from within as some band slaughtered a cover version of the Kinks' "Waterloo Sunset". Even filtered through peeling paint and rotting plaster, it was objectively awful. The manager was paying out wankers like that and yet Malcolm, Davey and the other two couldn't get a gig. Madness. Probably these nameless wankers had a manager with shady connections. Well, maybe they'd got the gig, but when musical judgement day came and all of the various britpop wannabe bands that were sprouting up like mushrooms across Britain in the winter of 1995 were laid out before the dieties of melody, Davey knew that he and his mates wouldn't find their hearts heavier than the proverbial feather.

Pausing to check his reflection in the window of a deserted KFC, he had to concede that he looked sodding brilliant. After much work in the mirror of Malc's tiny bathroom, with Malc egging him on, he'd got a suitably ruffled mop top perched on his head. He wore a heavy green army greatcoat with a fur-lined hood over an RAF uniform shirt, black jeans and doc martens. In all modesty, Davey was pretty certain he'd be a hit with the ladies tonight.

But, as he strode across the deserted street, dodging chip packets and newspapers blown along by the cold wind, he admitted to himself that there was only one particular lady he was really interested in seeing.

Her name, he'd found out through some pretty intense digging and arm-twisting, was Imogen. He usualyl didn't think much about names, considering them to be rather like price tags in the human supermarket, but he found himself rolling this name around in his mind, and even, to his great embarassment, on his tongue. Im-oh-jen. He'd never known an Imogen before, which was one thing, but this particular girl was special in ways that having a funny name didn't even begin to comprehend.

He barely bloody knew her, although she'd managed to find his name out somehow. That implied she was at least faintly interested in him, though he couldn't think why. Fact was a girl like Imogen didn't usually show any interest in a guy like Davey. Girls like her, while they might tread the same beer soaked floorboards, buy chips from the same greasy shops, rub elbows at the bar or even crotches on the dancefloor, operated on a different level. There was a barrier between them that was just as real and hard to break as any wall - more real, in fact, since all it took to break down an actual rocks and stone wall was a good hard thumping, while the one between him and her, well, people had been chipping away for centuries and it was still bloody there.

Davey could feel himself getting angry and he didn't like that. Usually he'd have a drink, but he was standing in a bloody line waiting for the bouncer to spot him. The moment he got in, he promised himself, he would smack a tenner on the bar and pound whatever that got him, and then, and only then, would he examine that night's prospects.

The fact was, Davey was used to just fronting up to any girl he fancied and telling them, straight out. If they liked that, then he was in, and if they didn't, he had a pretty good excuse for his mates "Told her I fancied her and she ran off screaming, guess I was too much man for her". Laughs, glasses clinking, pints and a curry all round, move on to discuss the latest arsenal match or Oasis single. Except... no. With Imogen, he was terrified that she would say no, and even more terrified that she would say yes. Because then he would have to lay open his life to her, and although he was generally pretty satisfied, even happy, with his life, the idea of sharing it with her made him feel pathetic.

He shivered as a cold draft found its way inside his parka. He lived in a scummy flat that was only a step up from a squat with three dodgy co-workers, while she probably lived in some posh house with an allotment and its own garage. He had had last night's curry for breakfast, while she'd probably had a cup of tea and some proper toast. He worked in a dodgy record store that he was fairly certain was a front for a porno operation, while she... he needed to abandon this train of thought, he realised. Unfortunately, stopping thinking about Imogen was bloody hard.

Thankfully, the bouncer let him in, but less thankfully, there she was! Not that surprising, he thought to himself, I've never really seen here anywhere else. Pretty lucid thinking, he congratulated himself inwardly, but unfortunately tbere wasn't much else about him. Seeing Imogen had literally physically thrown him. He swayed a bit, the rush of sounds, the beery darkness of the club with its low ceiling and slippery floor rushing in on him like some sordid sea even though he'd been here dozens of times, and other clubs like it more than he could remember.

The bar. Yes. That was the plan. Apparently his club veteran status was enough to get him to the bar and ordering a vodka shot on autopilot. He pounded it, the sour taste of the vodka shocking him back to reality. Oh christ. She was looking to him. And talking to... Im?

Tariq Khan was a local piece of slime that occassionally oozed his way into pubs, clubs and stores and sold hard drugs to rich kids. And he was hanging out with Imogen? Oh no. Not bloody likely.

It seemed from Imogen's smile and gesture, and Im's not-entirely-hostile look, that he was being summoned. With a couple of strides and a near collision with somebody's beer, he was over. Slinging an arm around Im's narrow shoulders, Davey hissed in his ear.

"Not this one, Tariq. Not this one, alright, or it'll be your bollocks and my boots. Now fuck off back to India, you Paki piece of shit"

Im skewed back, eyes wide, and for a moment Davey thought he'd take a swing at him. He felt his adrenaline levels fizzing up. Im, he realised with the clarity that violence brings, was on something. Getting high on his own supply, now that he hadn't heard. But there was something unnatural to the whiteness of the other man's eyes, something inhumanly jittery about the line of his thin lips, which jumped like a hair on a piece of badly strung film.

"Alright mate, alright. Seeya, Imogen"

Davey watched the man go until his back was swallowed by the crowd. "Sorry about that, he just really pisses me off" He had difficulty looking at Imogen, and he was half formulating an excuse - an excuse, for fuck's sake - when he saw her smiling at him. She murmured something about it being OK, but for some reason Davey had a desire to dig himself deeper.

"You don't want to hang around with him. He's part of a bad fucking scene. He's a bad fucking scene all by himself. Pardon my French, but seriously, he should be well high on your threat metre. Like, bright red. With bells on"

Christ, I'm babbling! And yet she didn't seem to mind. She said something that he didn't quite register as he felt blood rush to his cheeks. Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe... no, he didn't get embarassed! Not him!

"Sorry" he murmured. "I just need to get some air"

She walked with him, their bodies crushed together by the heave of people. Usually the forced intimacy of a dark club inured Davey to the touch of flesh, male or female, but with Imogen he found himself savouring every moment of it. His hand brushed against hers, and he had to fight the urge to hold it.

So he ended where he'd begun - in the dark alleyway, the cold biting, the music thumping dully through the wall, the ghostly graffiti on the far fence. But now it all seemed rather grey and unreal because Imogen was standing next to him. The only thing that seemed to fit the scene was the chill of the air, which stretched his senses to an exquisite, almost painful hyper-awareness. He lit a cigarette, and wordlessly offered her his lighter, watching as she carefully cradled her own cigarette in her hand and puffed at it. He took a long drag from his own cigarette and let it fall to the concrete once more.

"I don't half fancy you, you know" he blurted, and realising that he was in for a penny so he might as well go in for a pound, he reached forward and put his arms around her. Amazingly, she responded - and then their lips were locked together, and he forgot basically everything that had happened to him up until that point.

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

I didn’t get much sleep last night; true enough I did fall asleep almost immediately which was somewhat surprising, yet sleep did not equate rest. Not when one’s been plagued by the same nightmare for almost a decade now. Every once in a while I experience the same dream, that Iain dies and I can’t do a thing to prevent it. It nearly happened when I was ten; mum and dad had gone away just for half an hour or so and during that time Iain had a seizure. It was by far the most terrifying experience in my life and even though I’ve been through some pretty bad things since, nothing really compares to that. I suppose that I haven’t really gotten over the whole thing, even though so many years have passed, and I guess that it’s really about guilty conscience and such. Even though I’m younger than Iain it’s always been me who’s been looking out for him. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother and I wouldn’t change him for anyone. He might be different and approach life in a way which I will never be able to comprehend but he’s my brother and that’s the end to it.

The net result was that I could barely go back to sleep after that, and when I finally did I was assailed by other images, pleasurable but no less intense. I dreamed about David, and more to the point, having sex with David. I guess that people who meet me, and even those who know me think that I’m quite experienced as far as such things are concerned, but the truth is that I’ve only slept with one person and only a few times. I guess it’s comparable to the music scene. Quality will always beat quantity, although I cannot honestly say that my limited experience would necessarily qualify as quality. It was more kind of the fumbling-where’s the damn rubber-five seconds-did you enjoy it variety, and although practice makes, if not perfect then at least less fumbling. As far as the dream went it was everything but fumbling; in fact it was perfection. I could feel his hands trailing down my back, his lips on mine and then how he kissed my neck, by breasts and my tummy. As I said, I’m not what you’d call experienced in these matters but I could physically feel him entering me, and it was everything my non-existing sex life been. A proof to Dream-David’s prowess was the fact that I was dripping wet when I woke up, as well as covered in sweat. I know it doesn’t fit the description of me as the cool, detached type but even I have moments when I lower my guard. Besides, I seem to be thinking about sex almost as much as I think about music. Yeah I know that good girls aren’t supposed to contemplate so base a thing as a shag. It’s all about cute and romantic lovemaking when the girls are concerned whereas sweaty fornication is something which is solely in the domain of the lads.

It’s a bit like my faiblesse for Oasis. Girls like me just don’t find testosterone-fuelled guitar pop from Manchester at all appealing. We are supposed to like the boyish, tongue in cheek wittiness of a Damon Albarn or the sheer loveliness of Brett Anderson’s androgyny. In comparison Liam Gallagher is something out of a down-market pub, smelling of cheap lager and even cheaper cigarettes. But there’s still something which works like a charm as far as the Gallagher brothers are concerned. Perhaps it’s as simple as good girls being drawn to the bad boys? The same explanation which is applicable as far as my thing with David Tarrant goes. I wonder if he was serious when he said that we’ll be seeing each other again. He doesn’t seem the type to be honest but then again I’m known to be very persistent if there’s something I want.

And right now I want David Tarrant and I’ve got a good idea how to persuade him to keep to his promise about seeing me again. But before that there are a lot of other tings to be seen to.

All of his friends have been wondering why he spends so long with her. He is so dark and moody, she is his sunshine girl.

The rest of the family is already seated around the table, having breakfast when I finally make my way down the stairs. Today I’m wearing a red skirt, black tights, a black turtleneck shirt and a v-ringed pull-over to go with it. I got my vintage Puma shoulder bag which I bought at Camden lock market. My hair’s worn in the usual fashion, a hairpin securing the fringe to my right temple and my black rimmed glasses. I’m slightly myopic and I usually wear contact lenses but I couldn’t be bothered to put them in today.

“What are your plans for today Imogen?” Mum looks at me from across the table as she passes me the jar of bramble jam. “I need to go to the copy shop and pick up the fanzine and I’m probably going to Next Stop, Petite Faiblesse’s performing tonight.”

I’m the sort of editor of the fanzine London Conversations which covers the yet unsigned bands performing around the city. It’s not the epitome of journalism but still quite renowned. Marie O’Reilly who writes for NME mentioned it in a column of hers a few months ago, and more often than not I can score a few freebies from various bands if they think that I’ll write something positive about them. Even a few club owners have provided me with free tickets since it might mean that their own establishment. The management of Next Stop, which is a very upmarket place indeed, especially compared to Indigo provided me with two tickets for tonight. Most likely because Petite Faiblesse is rumoured to be the next big thing and that being known as the arena where they made their big break can only be good for business. Besides I’m quite cheap as far as these things go; a few free tickets and maybe the occasional drink.

“That sounds nice, are Alexandra and Amanda coming with you?” Mum was never one for nicknames and she absolutely refuse to call anyone by anything but their Christian name. For a moment I’m contemplating telling her that it’s the case but I’m not really disposed to lying to my parents. My approach is not telling them the things which aren’t necessary for them to know. “No I’m going with some other people” I try to keep the answer as non-committing as possible without giving away the details. The fact is that while my parents probably wouldn’t mind me having a boyfriend, they would definitively have something against it being David Tarrant.

“So what kind of band are the Petite Faiblesse then?” Dad looks up from his newspaper. As mentioned earlier, dad and I share the same passion for music, even though we rarely agree on what constitutes good music. He continues with a calculated look and a wink. “Perhaps I should come with you. It’s been ages since I saw a decent concert, not that I for a moment think that they will be good but still.” Dad winks at me, he knows better than to try anything like that. On the whole my family does respect my privacy even though there’s quite a lot of bantering going on. Thankfully I don’t have to come up with a witty reply as Iain comes rushing to my defence. “Dad you said we were going to the aquarium”

It’s yet another thing which has to be done on Saturdays. Iain loves going to the aquarium and since he is a creature of habit no weekend would be complete without the statutory trip there. It’s usually dad who takes him there. The world might crumble into dust and the skies fall down but Iain and dad will still be going to the aquarium that’s the end to it.

“Of course we are big man. I was just teasing your sister And we’re going to the country this afternoon.” Dad surrenders to the sheer inevitability of custom and thus the issue is closed as Iain reverts to his usual quiet self. That settled I find a moment to slip away leaving the three of them to get on with the rest of the day. Having a brother like Iain means that I’m pretty much left to my own devices and that suits me fine. I know I can count on mum and dad should I need them and they know that I’m self-reliant enough to look after myself. The fact that the rest of them are going away to the country cottage is an added bonus. Means I have the house to myself, or rather to myself and David Tarrant.

Fifty minutes later I’m walking down Great Western Road heading towards Wright’s Records which apparently is the place where David Tarrant works. It was quite easy to find out, even though there are 10 million people living in the city, the scene is comparatively small and there is always someone who knows someone and I guess I have a flair for finding things out. Besides I’m persistent which has paid off. I push the door open, making the little bell tied to the handle jingle. I think that scruffy is the word best applied to describe Wright’s Records. On the whole the store has seen better days; the paint’s peeling and the floor could really do with a good scrubbing. Yet the posters on the wall tell me that at least someone has an ear for what’s hot and what’s not. David’s nowhere to be seen, instead the store’s manned by a thin guy with dirty blonde hair and wearing a Joy Division t-shirt eying me as I walk down the aisle.

I offer him the shadow of a smile as I place a bunch of copies of London Conversations on the counter. “Hiya I was wondering if I could ask you to sell these for me?” I hold his gaze as he looks through the glossy pages (It’s a quality production after all) and giving me a critical stare. “Look love I’m not sure that we could do that, store policy and what not.” Apparently he wants to act the big man which isn’t entirely new. “Look here. This isn’t just any fanzine. I’m sure even you have heard about it, or one of your friends if you had any” I know it’s not conducive to act tartly but I really don’t want to talk to this idiot. Thankfully David Tarrant shows up from behind a curtain which conceals the door to the inner sanctum of Wright’s Records. I offer him a smile as he tells Malcolm to take a hike and he leans down on the counter. I can’t say that he looks overly pleased; to be honest his expression is one of slight shock and surprise rather than being overjoyed of seeing Imogen Summers in his little shop.

“Hiya David,” I suddenly feel less self assured than I did just a moment ago. But fortune favours the brave and all that. “I was wondering if you could keep a few copies of my fanzine here and, “ I hesitate for a moment before plunging on. “I have two tickets to Petite Faiblesse’s gig at Next Stop tonight and I was sort of hoping you’d come with me.” I offer him a smile which at least to me feels less winning than it probably looks. He seems to be hesitating, probably because Malcolm is giving him a dirty look, as if talking to me is a betrayal of whatever secrets the two of them are sharing. Not that I give a toss about what he thinks. Right now this is between me and David and I’ll be damned if a tosser in a Joy Division shirt is going to ruin it for me.

“I hope I don’t have to remind you that you promised that you’d see me again David.” I whisper the words as I lean closer and kiss him on the cheek and after a second’s hesitation I continue. “And I got the house all to myself tonight and it can be very lonely you know.” God I’m acting like a slag but in for a penny…

For a moment I’m almost hoping he’ll say no but then there’s an almost imperceptible nod and even a quick kiss landing on my cheek together with a hastily spoken promise to meet me at the Lion and Unicorn at six tonight.

Take me to the place where you go. Where nobody knows, if it's night or day.
Please don't put your life in the hands. Of a Rock 'n Roll band.Who'll throw it all away

So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger I heard you say

 

[daedalus_x]

As they took his soul they stole his pride
As he faced the sun he cast no shadow

The grim, poisonous fog of a hangover retreated slightly from Davey's brow. He shifted restlessly in his bed, which was uncomfortable but warm. With some effort, he pried his eyes open. The face of Pete Towshend stared sternly back at him, the rock god's imperious look ruined slightly by the flaccid droop of the top of the poster as the bluetak Davey had used to stick it up slowly lost its battle with the peeling wallpaper and began its slow descent to the floor. As Davey tossed and turned under his thin sheet, trying to make the decision about whether to get up or hold out for another hour's kip, the song died to be replaced by the DJ's innane chatter.

And that was Oasis 'Cast No Shadow', number 3 in DJ Barmy Baz' top ten tunes of 1995. Those northern muppets didn't even bother making it a single, which is their loss because I would have bought up enough to get it onto the top 10 just for myself - and the same again for my dear old mom. She loves a bit of Oasis, she does, and she doesn't half mind a bit of Blur either, which is handy because they're coming in at number 2. This is Pulp in at number 2 with 'Common People', telling it like it is as we head into the last half of the last decade of the last century of the millenium.

She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge
She studied sculpture at St Martin's college
That's where I
Caught her eye

Davey's fist whacked down on the stained plastic of the clock radio, shutting up DJ Barmy Baz and his obnoxious music. For some reason, although he quite liked Jarvis and the lads, Davey just didn't feel like listening to a song about a posh middle class girl slumming it with her working class boyfriend right now. Unfortunately, the physical effort required to silence it had woken Davey up, and just to put the nail in the coffin of his morning kip, Seb, the flat's adopted Burmese cat, came inching through the bead curtain that separated Davey's room from the flat's lounge, yowling pitifully, his intelligent eyes flicking around from behind a scarred nose as he attempted to persuade Davey to feed him.

From beyond the bead curtain the amicable hubbub of his flatmate's working off their own hangovers penetrated the now silent bedroom. Hugging the bedclothes about him, Davey stood up and eyed himself in a small piece of dusty glass sitting on top of his barren bookshelf. His hair was a complete mess, his skin had the sallow look of somebody who'd fallen out of the drunk tree and hit every branch on the way down, his lips were chapped and pale, the stubble sprouting on his chin looked like dirty iron filings and he'd even acquired an angry yellow-purple bruise squatting on his left cheekbone like some sort of malformed beauty spot. Perhaps it was the fact that alcohol wasn't granting him self confidence anymore, but he looked, he to admit, like shit. But he'd looked like shit before and he certainly knew his flatties, his boss and his customers didn't care. On the other hand...

Letting the blankets fall away from his body, he examined his chest and forearms gingerly for signs of damage. It wasn't too bad. More bruises on his pecs and elbows. Some cuts along his arm - probably broken glass. The skin of the back of his hand had been rasped away, leaving an angry red expanse, probably the result of a good long scrape on cold gravel. But what really drew his attention was a mark of a different kind. A smudged but definitely present lipstick stain sat on his left pec, just beneath his collarbone. What the hell...?

Struggling to fight his way back through the fog of nausea and headaches that he'd so skilfully drawn across last night, he suddenly remembered. Imogen, at the bar, driving Tariq off, outside the club, the alleyway, the kiss... and after that...?

Obviously it had gone beyond that one kiss, but he was pretty certain they hadn't gone any further. Glancing down between his legs, he realised he was growing hard with an urgency that strongly implied he hadn't been satisfied. OK, so they'd snogged, but nothing more than that. He felt a sort of relief. His feelings for Imogen were still pretty confused, but when he imagined sex with her - and it wasn't hard to imagine, standing naked in his dark room - he realised that he definitely wanted to be fully aware if it happened. No, not if Davey, when. You're a genuine London scoundrel, cool as fuck and in a band to boot. Who can resist you?

Fortified by that thought, it wasn't long before Davey had showered, shaved, got his hair into fashionable disarray rather than unfashionable disarray and was sitting at the formica kitchen table of his flat, eating a bowl of cold muesli in his boxers and a pale blue T-shirt with a picture of a washing machine over his chest. His hangover was still tormenting him, making the feeble sunlight slanting through the dusty windows seem unbearably brilliant, so he'd grabbed a pair of aviator shades and slung them over his eyes. They hid the bruise too.

Malc swanned past, already dressed, on his way to work. "You look like David Hasslehoff's fluffer, mate" Malc leered with good natured malice. "Shall I tell Keith you'll be in late?"

"Tell Keith he can piss off and die" Davey deadpanned. Malc gave him the finger, Davey returned it solemnly and he was out the door. Unfortunately, no sooner had Malc made himself absent than Panky appeared out of the toilet, a voluminous flush heralding his arrival like trumpets ushering in some Emperor.

Davey wasn't proud and he wasn't rich, so he accepted Panky as one of the unpleasant things that came with renting a cheap flat, like mildew or the constantly fighting Ukrainian couple downstairs. Of course neither the mildew nor the Ukrainians tried to make conversation with him while he was hungover and having breakfast. Panky, real name Harry Keel, was a huge, broad-shouldered, block-headed brummy with a flat top haircut and the pinched features of a five year old kid who'd been told a purile joke. He was a bouncer at a strip joint and he never seemed to sleep. His musical tastes ran towards teenage girl pop singers, although it wasn't their music he appreciated them for. Now, he was holding a steaming cup of vile black tea - he'd taken it into the bog with him, disgustingly enough - wearing his 'work uniform' of a tatty leather jacket, a glitzy gold chain and pinstripe pants, and eyeing Davey like a cobra eyes a mongoose.

As Panky sat down at the other side of the table, elbowing aside a newspaper and some discarded breakfast plates, his eyes locked with Davey's glasses. "So Hay tells me you got lucky last night?" Hay was the fourth flatty, a part-time student from Christchurch, New Zealand who apparently had aspirations to be a writer. Davey had never met him, since he seemed to do nothing at the flat except sleep and gossip to Panky when Davey wasn't around. Although apparently Hay was well informed about Davey's activities. Since Hay paid the rent on time, didn't eat anybody else's food and didn't get in Davey's face, he was fast approaching 'favourite flatmate status'. Which didn't say much for Davey's opinion of the human race. As he munched his cereal, contemplating Panky's piggish face and tell-me-all expression, moving back in with his mum seriously occurred to Davey as a possibility for the first time in his life.

"None of your fuckin' business, mate"

"Oh false modesty eh? So why didn't you bring her home then? Afraid we'd see what sort of mingers you're reduced to picking up in order to get your end off? Was she actually a bloke? Did you find she was stashing a side of meat and two veg under her skirt? Did you go ahead with it anyway? I wouldn't blame you mate, a bloke like you can't afford to be picky, if it's got a pulse and two out of four limbs you're above par I reckon"

With shocking clarity similar to the way he'd always imagined David came to Michaelangelo, or I Am The Walrus to John Lennon, Davey pictured himself reaching across the table, grabbing Panky by the scruff of his fat neck like an unruly puppy, and pounding his head against the table until it snapped, and then kicking the semi-conscious, wailing man's arse until it burst like an over-ripe aubergine. The image was so vivid and satisfying he almost fancied he could hear the brummy's squeals and feel him struggle. It was so satisfying, he was able to just give Panky a shit eating grin. "That's fucking vivid, Panky. Is that the voice of experience I hear?"

"Experience? Fucking hell Davey, I can't even remember what a cock looks like. I don't even get to see mine"

"Your magnifying glass broken?"

"No, you dozy London fuck. Because the moment my pants come off some tart has glued her lips or her cunt to my shaft and she doesn't let up until I pass out. And these are none of the bushpigs you pick up in chip shops. These are fuckin cream of the cream. Have you been by my club? These girls are Elle MacPherson material, mate. A-1 stuff" Panky put down his coffee cup and traced a coke bottle shape in the air with his hands. "I am swimming in the best pussy in London"

"Give it a rest, Panky" Davey muttered, finishing the rest of his cereal. "Some of us have to go to work"

"Work! You call that fucking working? Haggling with hippies to get an extra 10p on the price of some old Steely Dan album? Wasn't Thatcher supposed to sort out bludgers like you?"

"Not before she sorted out nonces like you"

Panky threw Davey the V sign. "Fuck you and the slag you rode in on"

Davey retreated to his room. "You're just lucky I've got to go, mate" Panky laughed, an ugly, braying laugh, but let it go at that.

He wasn't angry at Panky any more than he was angry at Seb when the old tom widdled on his LP collection. He just felt tired, drained, cynical and fed up with the world. He seriously considered calling in sick, but he knew that Malcolm would catch the rough end of it from their mutual boss, and for all their verbal jousting, he and Malc had long since agreed that they were a team, and that a knock against one was a knock against them both. And their boss, Keith, was a genuinely scary guy. Davey wasn't sure what went on in the shop's back room but some of the guys he'd seen traipsing in and out of there were genuine villains, buzzcut hardmen who radiated flinty menace. He didn't want to put either he or Malc on Keith's bad side. So he was going in.

* * * * *

The trend of the day, after he got into work, was upward. Keith had locked himself into the back room, doing god knows what but not bothering with the front room staff. He and Malc were the only people on the counters, except for a young Senegalese student named Haffir who was quiet and kept out of their way. So it was the Malc and Davey show in full swing. They stalked the aisles, expounding loudly to impressionable scenesters and bargain hunters about the merits of this or that album. Davey had managed to steer a scarf-wearing young lady away from a copy of Joe Cocker's Have A Little Faith - "that's only here because somebody's dad got tired of it, love" and towards the infinitely superior 'Everyone's Got One' by Echobelly. Later, Malc admonished Davey for being oblivious to the doe-eyed looks the young woman in question had been giving Davey as he gave her the hard sell - if Malc was to be believed, he'd had the opportunity to give her something else hard. Davey was a bit shocked to realise that he hadn't even bothered to check the girl out in even the most casual way. What was wrong with him?

And then she showed up. Like some sort of bad TV flashback, the site of her eyes, her smiling lips and the lithe glide of her body brought back memories of last night he'd thought were permanently killed by alcohol. The rough feeling of brick on his back as he allowed her to pin him to the wall, the hungry energy of her tongue seeking his, the urgent friction of their chest's against one anothers... Davey screwed up a flier in one hand as he forced his attention back to the present. She was here. And she was... talking to Malc? Fuck! No!

With what little cool he could preserve, despite the fact that there were other customers in the shop, Davey made his way over to the section of counter where the two of them were talking. Malc shot him a 'we'll talk about this later' look, but Davey wasn't having that.

Imogen's request threw him a bit, but as his eyes met hers he realised that this wasn't easy for her, either. Could it be she was feeling the same way about him? Petite Faiblesse were, he had to admit, not likely to be his kind of act, but he didn't expect he'd be paying them much attention. On impulse, he leaned across the counter and kissed her on the cheek. Her skin felt fresh and soft, making him feel scummy again by comparison. He'd have a proper clean up tonight. As Imogen disappeared out the shop door, he found his eyes following her out once again - and when she was gone, Malc was glaring at him like a scandalised maiden aunt.

"Davey" Malc deadpanned.

"Don't fucking start, Malc" Davey snarled, pretending to busy himself with the cash register.

"Look mate..."

"I said don't start Malc! Fuck!" Some of the customers looked up at his outburst. "I'm gonna be out the back" Davey hissed, and, shrugging his coat's hood up onto his shoulders, headed into the back room to catch up on the cataloguing and stay out of Davey's way until quitting time mercifully rolled around.

* * * * *

You've been lying in bed for a week now
Wondering how long it'll take
You haven't spoken or looked at her in all that time
It's the easiest line you could break
She's been going around her business as usual
Always with that melancholy smile
But you were too busy looking into your head
To see those tiny tears in her eyes

Davey lingered by the bar, stretching his legs out and examining the caps of his boots as the tinny music crackled its way out of the pub speakers. The Lion and the Unicorn was a funny place. Half of the denizens were straight out of an audition for extras for Eastenders, whereas the others were mop-topped, parka-clad indy rock wannabes like Davey - except much less talented and interesting than him, he reminded himself. Usually he would be slouching over one of the high tables or bar stools debating the merits of this or that club, promoter or singer, but he wouldn't have been able to concentrate even if he'd wanted to.

Davey was not short of experience with the opposite sex, but since high school his style had been more to do with dancing, drinking and shagging than dates. In his experience you went to the venue alone or with your mates and looked for girls there, you didn't go with them. In short, he was deathly terrified that he had strayed into territory he didn't know, with rules he had no inkling of and with traps and snares he couldn't spot. Everything he knew about dating came from crap yank movies and he was pretty sure that it would take more than a passing familiarity with Ferris Bueller's day off to impress a girl like Imogen. He had an overwhelming urge to just sneak out the back and, if ever pressed, claim something came up. The urge gripped him strongly, but he told himself quite firmly that if he did do that, even though he might escape the panicky awkwardness that was gripping him, he'd probably spend the next few weeks admonishing himself for what might have happened. For some strange reason, Imogen seemed to fancy him - although he expected her to reject his advances, she'd done quite the reverse. If she was acting that way towards one of his mates he would have concluded that she was gagging for it. But... he just wasn't ready to believe he was lucky. When he looked back at his short life and what had got him to where he was, he'd had grit, determination and sheer working class balls, but luck, no.

But he did feel lucky when she came in, and even moreso when her gaze found him and a smile lit up her lips. He found himself grinning like a prize idiot and shuffling aside awkwardly to make space for her. As she crossed the bar, he couldn't stop his eyes from lingering on her body. She probably wasn't the sort of girl who would appreciate having her arse openly appraised, but at the same time she was not exactly dressed like a nun. Before he knew it she was perched on the bar stool opposite him, all long legs and welcoming eyes, and it was all he could do not to lose himself in a fantasy of what he would do to her when they were alone.

"Thanks for inviting me" he murmured, taking a swig of his beer, as much as to keep his hands occupied as anything else. "So you reckon it's gonna be any good? The club's 'aight. A mate of mine played there, said they had a good sound - although of course it depends on the engineer"

To his amazement Davey found that the conversation was easy. They chatted about music, and although their tastes weren't exactly aligned - she seemed more enthused about Petit Faiblesse than him - he could see she was as passionate about it as he was. But it was more than that - things just flowed. He didn't feel awkward at all, although a buzzing, nervous energy continued to skip along inside his skull, so that he almost felt like he'd been given an electric shock when their knees bumped together beneath the table and she didn't immediately pull away. Pretty soon they were on to talking about the weather, books they'd read and their favourite TV shows. It wasn't exactly a meeting of minds - although he could tell she was smart, she wasn't insecure in it and didn't feel self-conscious about discussing trashy American sitcoms. It was just... easy. He felt at ease with her the way he hadn't with anybody, ever, even Malc.

The hours before the gig flew by, and soon they were at the venue. She wasn't the only media type there, and the promoters had laid on some pretty heavy security, but the pair of them breezed through - her on his arm, which made him feel like the king of the world. He congratulated himself on dressing up - he was wearing a navy blue long-sleeved shirt under his parka and a pair of jeans with only minimal patching around the cuffs. They made quite the couple, and he could feel plenty of jealous eyes of both genders on them as they moved from the bar to the dance floor and back to the bar as the band set up.

He wasn't surprised that Petit Faiblesse, while certainly competent, weren't really his cup of tea, but he felt himself warming to them as Imogen did so. They tipped back drink after drink, she snuggled against him as he draped his arm possessively around her shoulders, and they swayed in time to the music. Faiblesse might not have the rock chops to impress him, but he knew that he'd always associate their music with that night, and that that night was a special one.

A combination of alcohol and elation floated them through the set. They met the band briefly, but Davey's eyes were only on Imogen as she sparkled her way through a quick interview. And then they were on the cold footpath outside, the two of them forming an island against the flood of punters and munters dispersing to 24 hour kebab shops and lock-ups. Frost glinted on the surface of the road as the shuttered facades of opticians and bookshops regarded them.

It was strange, Davey longed to possess her physically, to take her in his arms and seek the feeling of her flesh against his, but he also really, really didn't want to screw this up, which made him contemplate playing the gentleman. But to tell her that he was anything other than painfully eager to get her into bed would have been a filthy lie. Maybe he could put it a bit more classily. She tilted her head, bird-like, towards him, her hair falling down the side of her face. She swayed slightly - they were both worse the wear for drink - but while he could sense the alcohol had stripped away her inhibitions, he was pretty certain she'd remember this. "That was a bloody great gig, Im. I had a roaring time. Why don't we head back to yours now?"

It was apparently the right thing to say. Her words were somewhat slurred, but you didn't need to be a mind reader to see that she liked the idea. "Oi! Taxi!" Davey's hand fumbled in his coat pocket for his wallet. He was a lucky, lucky man tonight, and the present seemed unbearably prolonged when he thought about the future. A gleaming white cab driven by a sullen Iranian slithered its way across the frigid street, and he and Im flocked to the doors like crows to a feeder. The alcohol was fighting with his own endorphins. As they slipped into the back seat, her body huddling against his, he felt so good he could amost have imagined that this wasn't real - or maybe that this was real and everything else up to that point had been some sort of drab nightmare. But really, who cared? It was bloody good. He slipped his hand over the cool skin of her knee as his lips sought hers.

----------------
Now playing: Oasis - Untitled
via FoxyTunes

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

I rarely use the word elated but I don’t think that there’s another way to describe how I felt when I left the record store. It’s strange I know, usually Imogen Summers is the cool detached type who rolls her eyes at too vivid displays of affection, but I’ll gladly admit to being thoroughly, completely, utterly infatuated with David as well as the whole situation. I never really had what you’d call a proper relationship before, and the sorry attempts at such didn’t leave me with anything but a feeling of relief when the whole thing ended. Now however I’m on my toes, my heart’s racing when I think about David and me. Especially David and me at Petite Faiblesse’s concert tonight. Thus the rational side of me takes over as soon as I get on the bus and take my seat by the window and putting the earphones of my Walkman into my ears. I’ve still to write the questions for Evan Carter and Miranda Wells, the guitarist and vocalist of Petite Faiblesse, who agreed to give an interview to London Conversations. I’m really excited about it, and I don’t want to fuck it up. I know for a fact that Mary O’Reilly is going to be at Next Stop tonight and while I generally care very little what other people think I really want her to think that I’m as professional as ever a journo at NME.

It’s five to twelve, and she’s nervous as hell
You’ve nothing to lose it’s hard to chose, it’s hard to tell
Skin is dew drop and warm
The lipstick kiss
Reminisce, awake til dawn

I’m late as I get on the bus which will take me to Holburn Street and the Lion and the Unicorn. Spent too long in front of the mirror, which is s a very a-typical thing for me to do. While I care about my looks I don’t spend ages trying to create a brittle image of perfection like so many of my peers do. Don’t get me wrong, I do care about how I look and how I dress and we Indie-kids are probably the most neurotic of all the sub-cultures around in mid-90’s Britain. Yet I cannot see the point in overdoing it. Or rather I normally wouldn’t but today’s very different. For starters I have a date, my first real one and I would be a right idiot if I didn’t try to look my best.

And the fact is that I look absolutely smashing.

I’m wearing a baby-blue tennis shirt with a discrete “London Conversations” logo neatly stitched on, a black skirt which reaches halfway down my thighs. I just don’t wear denims, Justine Frischman might look gorgeous in a pair but I don’t. A pair of black stockings pulled up just beneath my knees and a red pull-over slung across my shoulders. Tonight I wear a pair of retro styled Adidas trainers and the Puma shoulder bag. My hair’s worn in the usual style, a hairpin securing the fringe to my right temple and to ward of the cold of London in November a navy blue Duffle coat.

The house was empty as I came home, the rest of the family having left for the country cottage, which I knew they would. Yet mum’s still left a note on the kitchen table with the telephone number neatly written down and the stern reminder to call if something happens. There’s also a crisp 20 £ note attached to the message, allegedly for me to use to buy food. Not that it’s necessary since the fridge is always well-stacked and I usually settle for beans on toast anyway. Should I be moderately drunk I can be persuaded to indulge in a take-away curry. The real reason has probably more to do with guilty consciences. With a brother like Iain I’m more or less left to manage my own affairs which I don’t mind one bit. Yet mum and dad can sometimes be a bit old-fashioned in that respect but since they’ve conformed to the accepted behaviour of modern parental units of 1990’s Britain they know that the best way to fend of such sentiments is to buy them off. Thus I’m generally quite well off money wise. Besides I make quite a handy sum from London Conversations which makes me more or less self-sufficient.

Oh but when she is calling here in my head, Can you hear her calling
And what she has said? Oh but when she is calling here in my head
It's like a new generation calling. Can you hear it call?
And I'm losing myself, losing myself to you

Brett Anderson’s voice vibrates in my ears as I enter the Lion and the Unicorn and push a strand of hair from my forehead. The pub is packed with people even at this early hour. The crowd consists from the usual suspects, Indie-kids mixing with the arts students and the occasional aspiring actor. There are a lot of green parkas around and Liam Gallagher-styled haircuts, yet no one comes even close none except David Tarrant that is. He’s s sitting on his own by one nursing a lager but as soon as our eyes meet he gets up and offers me a faint smile and an almost stammering greeting, and I feel my insides go all warm and fuzzy. I suppose that the way which David swings between on the one had the self-assured cocky London Indie-rocker and on the other hand there’s a boyish vulnerability about him which is absolutely adorable. As I said I tend to be the detached type but I’ve already confessed to having a serious crush on David Tarrant and I therefore allow myself sentiments which I wouldn’t normally regard with some suspicion.

David orders us another round of drinks, lager for him and a Jack and coke for me, and we end up talking about music. I don’t know whether he shares my excitement about Petite Faiblesse nor Saint Etienne but we can agree that Pulp and Blur just as fantastic as they are rumoured to be. There’s a rather heated discussion about Suede who I think are the best thing that happened to the British music scene since the Beatles. I have to admit that even though our opinions don’t match and that the debate sometimes get somewhat heated I’m having a blast. We buy another round and as David places the glasses on the sticky wooden surface of the table his hand briefly touches mine and it feels almost like a jolt of electricity shooting through my body.

I’ve never felt like this before. I suppose it’s because I have never really been in love before and the fact that I find David really attractive, and to my slight amusement, quite smart and witty too makes the feeling all the more potent; not that it’s necessary by now I’ve confessed to be utterly, completely and wholly infatuated with David Tarrant.

The last of the famous International playboys
The last of the famous International playboys

In our lifetime those who kill the news world hands them stardom
And these are the ways on which I was raised these are the ways on which I was raised

I can’t help feeling that Morrissey’s lyrics are extremely fitting as David and I get out of the cab outside Next Stop. There’s a considerable crowd gathered outside and the bouncers really have to earn their wages. Not that the Indie-crowd is known for being violent but the sheer press of numbers counts for something after all and the, but since we’re on the list we don’t have to wait in line with the rest of the crowd. I feel the jealous eyes on us as we head straight to the door, and I would surmise that it’s not only because we don’t have to stand in line. To be honest we make a great couple, and for a moment I feel like we are Damon and Justine or Liam and Patsy, although I never liked the Kensit woman.

To the sound of the World of Twist you leant over, and gave me a kiss.
It's too warm to even hold hands, but that won't stop us from making plans.
Close our eyes, breathe out slowly. Today London (London) loves us only.

The concert is everything I hoped it would be; the harmonies created between Evan Carter’s mellow guitar and the impressive range of Miranda Well’s vocals. We’re standing quite close to the stage, side by side to start with, David’s arm draped across my shoulders much like he did the first night we met properly, but as the press of bodies becomes more intense, that is when Petite Faiblesse launch into their hit Idle Boys and thus causes the auditorium at Next Stop to erupt in a churning mass of people all pushing forward towards the stage. It is at this point when David positions himself behind me and wraps his arms protectively around my waist. I feel his lips briefly brushing against my cheek as he whispers a comment in my ear. And at this moment everything feels absolutely perfect, it’s the buzz in my head and the butterflies in my stomach without the chemical aids I normally need to be able to achieve the feeling. I don’t want this moment to end but as the last lonely notes from Evan Carter’s guitar fades away I feel how David disentangles himself from me and gently steps away.

And oh if you stay I'll chase the rain blown fields away
We'll shine like the morning and sin in the sun
Oh if you stay we'll be the wild ones, running with the dogs today

We’re bumping into Mary O’Reilly backstage, and I didn’t even have to go into a lengthy discussion with the bouncers this time to get there. Next Stop’s a serious establishment and both David and I have been issued backstage passes and thus the transition from the front room to the backstage lounge is indeed a swift affair. Mary’s all smiles, and I can’t help but feel a little bit proud that she recognises me. After all I would give quite a lot to be working at NME. I introduce her to David before we’re ushered inside to meet Evan and Miranda. I can’t say that they seem overly enthusiastic about having to answer yet another set of questions, especially since I’m the least important media type around, but they’re on their best behaviour and since I keep the interview short it’s all done fairly smoothly. However they don’t want to answer the most important question, whether they are in fact going to sign the deal with Heavenly Records as rumour has it. Then it’s all ‘no comments’ and a perfunctory ‘thank you’ before we’re politely ushered from the dressing room and back out among the rest of the mortals, and from there out into the cold London night outside.

I’m feeling a bit dizzy, both from lack of sleep and the generous amount of alcohol I’ve ingested tonight. Yet the most powerful feeling is the unspecified need which peaks as soon as David is touching me. I know I already planned for us to go home together but when the plans were laid out it was just one of many possible outcomes. Now however I know I want him to come home with me. No that wasn’t correct, I demand that he’ll do although I won’t phrase it so bluntly but the interpretation is the same. I don’t want to be alone tonight and since everything’s been perfect so far, I want it to continue.

I look at him through the light snowfall, the snowflakes are being illuminated by the sharp lights outside next stop and it makes them sparkle in neon red and green. Thankfully I don’t need to phrase the question as David beats me to it, he looks a bit uncertain at first but then he speaks the words and all I can do is nod in response.

In a hired car she will come to England from the sea. And as the tide flows the London snows will come. And from the skyline shines the lies of the government's singular history. So in a hired world she will buy a gun

And she will come from India with a love in her eyes
That say oh how my dark star will rise

I feel David’s lips on mine as soon as the taxi starts moving and that opens the dam. I can’t recall much else than giving the address to the driver before I once more plunge into a kiss. My fingers travel through his dark curls and down the back of his neck as I am crushed against him as we pass through the city. I have no idea how long it takes but it both seems too short and too long when we finally arrive at 22 Wellesley Terrace and the grey Georgian building that I call home. I get out and fumble in my bag for my keys as David pays the cabbie and even though I’m not sure I think I can hear him uttering a “lucky man” to him. Normally that’s the kind of comment which would make me blow my fuses but tonight I don’t care, in fact the driver’s been more than perceptive since David is indeed one lucky young man. I fell his hands around my waist as I fumble with the keys to the sound of tires screeching as the cab drives away, followed by a click as the door opens. I push the code to the burglar alarm and kick the door shut before turning around and pushing David against the wall as I greedily kiss him again. I feel his hands on my back, trailing down to cup my bum and then he lifts me up, making me wrap my legs around his waist as he grunts the question “Where?” and I answer in a voice which is half moan and half whisper “Upstairs”.

He carries me upstairs only stopping to pin me against the wall and kissing me again, I can feel his need as readily as my own is discernable, the front of my knickers is soaked by now. With a grunt he puts me down on the carpeted floor of my room and runs his hands through my hair before he gently pulls the tennis-shirt over my head as my hands find the bulge in his trousers and with fumbling fingers I pull his buckle open and snake my hand inside his trousers. He cups my face as he kisses me again and then steps back to free himself of the garments which stands between him and me. I answer in kind and within a few seconds our clothes lay piled on the floor and I’m standing before him dressed only in my black knickers. I shiver as his eyes trail over my body and gasp as he steps closer and carefully slide my underwear down my legs and then gently lay me down on the bed. The next thing I know is the he’s by my side, his underpants discarded on the floor and his erection throbbing against my leg. We kiss again as I wrap my fingers around his cock, gently stroking it and I smile inwardly as he moves to meet my motions. I don’t think I’ve ever been this aroused before and in combination with the alcohol I’ve had earlier makes me disregard from my usual inhibitions. He moves to lay on his back and I kiss his chest, continuing down his stomach until I’m level with his manhood. I look up to meet his eyes as I kiss him there and then slowly take him inside my mouth. I feel his fingers running through my hair, intertwining themselves with my dark locks as I use my tongue and lips to bring his arousal level with mine. I can’t help but touching myself as I take him deeper, the light touch sends shivers down my spine and I gasp again. Clearly he takes it as a signal and he gently rolls me over on my back and positions himself between my legs. I inhale as I feel him against my tender folds and then exhale in a moan as he slowly enters me. He’s much bigger than my former partner and I can feel how my insides are stretched to accommodate him as he slowly sinks inside me. Our eyes meet briefly as he begins to move his hips against mine, and I answer in kind. Our bodies finding the rhythm, slow and tentative at first but gradually increasing in pace and intensity until I’m oblivious to anything but the shivers which are racing up and down my spine and the feeling of being completely connected to another person. It doesn’t take too long before he stiffens up and grunts as he discharge inside me, the warm jets of his passion flooding my insides and causing me to pull him closer as I near my own climax. I feel his lips against mine and I bite down on his lower lip as his fingers once more pulls my hair and as I feel his hot breath on my neck I climax.

For several moments I lay still, eyes closed as I bask in the afterglow of our lovemaking. My heart slowly returns to its normal pace and my breathing becomes less laboured. Yet the heat on my cheeks is still discernable as are the trembles in my legs as I turn around to face David. He’s laying on his side, eyes half-closed and a content sort of smile on his lips. He pulls me closer and, on an afterthought it seems, pulls the blankets up around us. The small Lava light on my desk gives of a ghostly shimmer and on the stereo Manic Street Preachers’ Motorcycle Emptiness plays on low volume. I move closer, hiding my face in the nook between David’s shoulder and face, musing at the fact that there are such indeed such a thing as a perfect day after all.

* * *

I wake up just after eight and for the first time in ages I realise that I slept as sound as a log. David’s still next to me, his breathing the only sound except the rustle of bedclothes as I move to look at him. He slowly opens his eyes and I kiss him as I announce that I’ll make breakfast and that his presence is expected in the kitchen in fifteen minutes or so. He stretches and yawns as he nods that he understands and immediately goes back to sleep. I don an old shirt and a pair of sweat pants and then head downstairs. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I’m really not a morning person but today I feel full of energy as I almost bounce down the stairs and into the kitchen.

And there my good mood ends as I am met by mum and dad who are having a cup of tea and reading the Sunday Times. They both look up and give me two long stares before mum finally speaks. “So Imogen did you have company tonight?” My parents aren’t the moral holier than thou kind of people but I really would have liked their first meeting with David to have been different than it is inevitably going to be. After all, our jackets and shoes were left discarded just inside the door (my mum has this strange idea that we are not to wear shoes indoors hence the tell-tale signs). Besides I’m not a habitual liar and since the evidence against me is pretty strong there’s really no point in trying to deny the fact.

“Yes Mum, my boyfriend David stayed here last night.” I pour myself a cup of tea as I wait for the barrage of questions to come raining down. As I mentioned earlier, my parents are quite ok with me having a boyfriend, although I daresay that they wouldn’t be best pleased with it being David Tarrant.

As soon as I’ve finished that particular line of thought David comes into the kitchen, wearing his denims and his shirt open, which is quite far from the way I wanted mum and dad to meet my boyfriend for the first time. Yet they are acting quite well, solid upper-middle class as they are and Dad gets up and offers his hand in a greeting.

“Gary Summers and you must be Dave. Did you have breakfast? No I suppose you didn’t. Have a seat.”

There are moments when one wants to die and this one ranks pretty high on the list, especially since I see the dark look which David offers me and then mum and dad. A recipe for disaster if there ever was one.

 

[daedalus_x]

Things were happening faster than Davey could comprehend. Imogen's body heaved against his with an urgency he'd never felt before, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from pinning her against the cheap imitation leather of the taxi's interior and taking her there and then. He had to actively fight to remember where he was and what he was doing. Lust wasn't unfamiliar to him, nor was the fog of alcohol, but there was something more than just intoxication and a pretty girl's willing body being presented to him. He wasn't an introspective type at the best of times and this wasn't the best of times, but even as his mind slavered along with his body in anticipation at the erotic encounter that was to come, he realised that tonight would be a night whose memory he would prize above that of the various other times he'd done something similar.

It wasn't long before he found himself lying in her bed, spent, his mouth gaping open like an idiot's, eyes fixed on a tiny bump in the ceiling. He wanted to talk, even though he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't seem ridiculously asinine, but a deep, comforting fatigue was stealing through his muscles. It was all he could do to pull the blankets around them both and wrap an arm around her slim shoulders.

Despite feeling like he could have slept for a million years, Davey awoke just as sunlight began to trickle across the rooftops on the far side of the road. His eyes blinked open without any of the usual bleariness he usually associated with a night's drinking. There was a slightly bitter taste at the back of his mouth, and a brief flash of pain as the sunlight played across his eyes, but for some bizarre reason, probably to do with endorphins, he felt like a million dollars - energised and full of vigour, but also completely ready to just lie where he was and drink in the world. The poetic side of him briefly contemplated the similarity of the moment to a birth, and then stashed that thought neatly away, for reflection later, possibly when he needed some lyrics. He took advantage of the silence to look at Imogen - really look at her. It was funny, he contemplated, although he'd spent any ammount of time gawping at her as she'd strode across roads, bars and backstage areas, in a sense he'd never really looked - his glances had always had the urgency of lust, of unfinished business. Now that he looked at her, it wasn't that his thoughts were any purer - indeed, the delicate curve of her breast, illuminated a mellow gold by the winter sun, was enough to cause a stirring between his legs that he would have thought impossible after last night's events - but he wasn't chasing after an orgasm like a foxhound after a fox. Imogen murmured something in her sleep and snuggled closer into the crook of his neck, causing him to break out into a big, oafish smile that made him chuckle with self-consciousness as he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. Outside, a car backfired curtly in the street. He was going to have to do something about tidying up his flat, he thought idly as slept crept up on him, because right now it wasn't fit to bring her back to...

Usually long term relationships, or indeed relationships, weren't Davey's style. While he hadn't racked up the sorts of results with the ladies that some of his mates had, if their lager and curry-fuelled boasts were to be even partly believed, he'd done okay. But it had never gone beyond casual hookups, and he'd never got that close to any of the ladies in question. They were alright, but they weren't his mates the way his mates were. But he was pretty sure that this wasn't going to be the case. Yea, he'd definitely have her over to his gaff, but not before he gave Malc and Panky and the invisible flatty a reading of the riot act. But for now, he'd get some more sleep.

Maybe that energetic feeling had been illusory, because he kept on sleeping like he needed it. He was woken again by Imogen's delicate stirrings. "Morning" he murmured, trying to avoid grinning like a moron again. Presumably he managed it, because rather than bursting out laughing she gave a smile that would have floored him if he hadn't already been on his back, planted a kiss on his cheek and said something about breakfast. That sounded good, but he was pretty uninterested in the act of eating right now - although he found himself looking forward to sitting at a table with her and doing something as mundane as handing her a cup of coffee. Once Im had headed downstairs, cutely urchin-ish in her baggy sweats, he rolled over to catch a few more minutes of rest. Sleep came floating back, and almost snared him for a second time, but he managed to haul himself out of the bed. With Imogen gone he had a chance to have a good look at the room. He was no detective, but it stood to reason you could tell a few things about a girl from the contents of her room - just like the contents of his room would mark him out as an uncultured slob with a decent taste in music if nothing else. He hadn't been expecting teddy bears or hello kitty merchandise, and he wasn't proved wrong. The place struck the right balance - it was feminine without being self-consciously girly, it showed intelligence without being snobbish. The bookshelf contained stuff that Davey had never read but recognised as weighty, like Dostoevsky and Strindberg, but it also had Irvine Welsh and a huge pack of NMEs. The posters were few in number but obviously carefully chosen - Bret Anderson glowered down at Davey like some medieval cathedral patron while he struggled to pull on his pants. He thought about just sloping down in his smalls, but he decided to make the effort - a decision he'd be hugely grateful for later. He pulled his shirt on over his head, checked his hair in her mirror - it was an unconsciounable mess, but hopefully Im would be sympathetic, given that she'd been so closely involved in messing it up - buckled up his pants and sloped downstairs, hands in his pockets, humming a tune that he couldn't place.

When he entered the kitchen, the disparity between what he'd been expecting and anticipating and what he actually saw was so great that he couldn't help but think that if he'd been one of those crap saturday morning cartoon ducks or mice he'd have broken into little shards and had to leave by sweeping himself up with a brush and pan. There was Im - but she seemed impossibly distant, shielded from him by an impenetrable social barrier presented by a nice, respectable looking middle class pair. Christ on a crutch. The rents. Fucking brilliant.

“Gary Summers and you must be Dave. Did you have breakfast? No I suppose you didn’t. Have a seat.”

"S'Davey" he murmured like a sullen teenager. Christ, they seemed to be down with it. Couldn't the munters see he'd just come from the bed where he'd had their daughter? He gave Imogen a glance that only seemed confused to him, but given the way her smile quickly lost all its warmth apparently there was worse there. He felt betrayed - although he'd realise later that this probably hadn't exactly been their plan, he felt absurdedly angry at her and her family for this. A bollocking and her dad chasing him out or threatening to give him a hiding, he could cope with, but this? An invitation to breakfast?

He planted himself and chewed on a proferred bit of toast, and chewed on it, but his discomfort made it taste rubbery and offensive. The mother was eyeing Imogen with an expression that he couldn't begin to decipher, and Im herself seemed to be shrinking into some invisible but very real shell like a hermit crab, so that left him and the man of the house to make conversation.

"So what do you do Davey? Imogen tells me you're in the music business?"

"I'm at Wright's. And I'm trying to start a band"

"Wright's? That's a great store. And a band, you say? I used to be in a band myself, at college" An image of Mr Imogen in bell bottomed pants trying to imitate the Easybeats came entirely unbidden to Davey's head. Oh fucking christ, the old sod is trying to seem with it. "What are you called?"

"Well, the other's aren't so sure, but I wanna call us Vibration Land" Davey wasn't sure if he should try to shoot this old fossil down or just smile and nod until he could get out of this.

Something lit up in Mr Imogen's eyes and he grinned broadly. And then he began to sing.

"Deaf dumb and blind boy, he's in a quiet vibration land.
Strange as it seems, his musical dreams aren't turning out so bad"

"So you're a Who fan then?"

Despite himself, Davey was impressed. Part of the reason nobody else wanted to call the band Vibration Land, and he'd had to put his foot down on it multiple times, is that his bandmates all thought The Who were rubbish and that Pete Townshend was a ponce. Davey dimly remembered threatening to shove a broken bottle in the face of some Camden glamour boy who'd said that he thought the Tommy album was 'pretentious' and 'overblown'. And apparently Mr Imogen was a fan too. Maybe he'd have some of the original vinyl...

No no no. Too fucking weird. That was it. He was gone.

"S'cuse me, I've just remebered something I've gotta do" As excuses went it was unquestionably weak as piss, and that was good, because he didn't want these middle class toffs to think he cared so much. "See you round, Im. And... thanks" And with that he was out the door, although he carried the impression of Imogen's wounded look with him as he went. He was astonished to find twin salty trails of tears cold on his cheeks as he made his way through unfamiliar, chilly streets. Hunching his shoulders and wishing he'd had his parka with him instead of left it lying somewhere in the foyer of Imogen's place, he stared with brooding ill will at Im's neighbours - few were out on this brisk London morning, where the sun was bright but cold, and the wind blew with a harsh, malicious touch that tangled his hair and turned his lips blue. He was almost run over as a minivan pulled sharply out of a driveway, causing him to curse loudly and slam his fist against the bonnet, glaring with a vicious hatred that surprised him at the driver, an old Victor Meldrew type who leaned out of the window to send a reedy stream of insults after his retreating back.

Pretty soon the neat semi-detacheds gave way to one of the many sterile slabs of motorway that cut through London's suburbs like IV drips through the nose of a coma patient. Vaulting over a crash barrier, he loped across a stretch of waste ground, kicking aside a rusted shopping trolley and treading down a handful of crushed beer cans and stubbed out joints, probably the only survivors of some epic party from the night before. All the energy left him as he stared up at the cloudy sky, and he found himself slumped with his back to a graffiti-smeared series of concrete bollards, overgrown with hardy, victorian-looking ivy. Amid the usual bollocks proclaiming dick size or eternal love for some slag or other, somebody had taken it upon themselves to elevate the level of profundity to that of a pub philosopher and scrawled what they probably felt were heavily meaningful song lyrics on the washed out concrete.

You want me?
Fucking well come and find me

He found himself mouthing the last few words out loud. The tears had gone, but his whole face ached like a sore as he stared glumly at the tips of his trainers, hugging his knees to his chest. Right now, he just didn't feel like moving.

* * * * *

It seemed to Davey like the weather had remained grim and fearsome every single day since he’d last seen Imogen. His knuckles felt red and swollen, still aching from the bitterly cold evening air, as he gripped the rubber strap hanging from the bus’s roof, looking straight ahead and trying to ignore it as the vehicle jolted and hammered its way forward, pushing him against the bodies of strangers. At the back of the bus, somebody swore heavily. It had rained recently, and fat droplets of water clung to the windows, making it hard to see out. Davey had virtually grown up on these streets, but he had no idea where he was. A blurry yellow light appeared through the droplets, the front of a curry shop he thought he recognized. Yes, that’d do. As the bus slowed down, Davey elbowed his way through the crowd of commuters, ignoring their angry glances as he hopped out of the bus before it even stopped moving. The driver, a turbaned Sikh, gave him a weary glance as he pulled away.

Bending down to tug his trouser cuff out of the back of his trainer Davey was disappointed to see he’d got off early. He’d thought the shop window as the Happy Pandit, a down-at-heel Indian joint, all peeling linoleum and bare lightbulbs, that he and his mates had spent many hours at during their last year of high school. But it wasn’t – it was some new joint, a fashion place of some sort to judge by the naked mannequins staring out of the eerily empty interior. He was two blocks short of where he thought he was. Oh well, at least it wasn’t raining. Shrugging his parka hood up around his head and averting his face from the bitter wind, he stalked down the street, past steamy windowed video outlets and pound stores, counting down the looming edifices of tower estates as he made his way to the one he’d grown up in.

Davey fumbled out his key, cursing the listless numbness of his fingers as he jabbed it into the lock. Ducking under the past-its-prime wind catcher that hung in the hallway, he shuffled into the main room like a bandit, greeting his mother with an “A’ight, mum” as he dropped down into an overstuffed couch. His mother, wearing a black hood top and blue jeans, looked over at him briefly before going back to the telly. A gaudy infograph of Bosnia criss-crossed with blue maps was rapidly replaced by the silver-haired, wild-eyed, leonine figure of Radovan Karadzic, flanked by stony-faced men in camouflage, spat defiance in archival footage. Hardly his mum’s sort of thing, but Davey knew that she liked watching telly just to relax, regardless of what was on.

“Get you a cup of tea, ma?” She dismissed his offer with a wave. “No need to bother, Davey. Your brother’ll be here soon. You can make ‘im one too, then”

Davey’s heart sank. His mum, Maureen, could be a pain, but he loved her, and he enjoyed these fortnightly dinners more than he’d be comfortable admitting, even to her. But Arnie… even though Davey was now big enough to fight back, he probably hated his brother even more than he had when he and his mates had made Davey’s walks back from school a living hell.

He didn’t need to contemplate Arnie in the abstract any more, as the chunking of the wind chime signaled the arrival of another visitor. It could be one of his mum’s mates from down the corridor, Davey hoped, realizing even as he did so how unlikely that was. Sure enough, his brother’s flinty blue eyes were soon appearing around the living room door, along with the rest of him. Davey half-rose even as his mother fluttered across the room to place a big kiss on each of Arnie’s cheeks. His brother wore a blue tracksuit and had his hair buzzcut short, making him look like an Albanian gangster. “Make us that cuppa now would you Davey?” Davey was glad to, tossing his brother what was hopefully an imperious nod. Arnie replied in kind, his jaw set with disapproval as he watched Davey from over their mother’s shoulder, nodding wordlessly as she caught Arnie up on the latest news.

About fifteen minutes later the tea was drained and they were sitting down to a roast. The TV had been muted but it continued to show the news, which was still coming from the Balkans, catching an image of grim-eyed refugees watching as APCs ridden by blue-helmed peacekeepers zoomed by.

“Is that where you’ll be off to, Arnie?” Maureen asked as she speared a lump of meat.

“Aye, that’s right ma. I’m in London for a week, then back to Salisbury for three more weeks, then we’re going to Banja Luka”. Arnie pronounced the name too well for it to be anything other than the product of cultural sensitivity training.

“Ooo, that’ll be dangerous”

“Naaa, ma”. By which Arnie meant yes ma, it is dangerous, but I’m a hard man. And, Davey had to admit, his brother was a hard man, in the way that only somebody seriously fucked in the head could be. Arnie was four years older, old enough to remember the father who Davey only knew from dark asides from his mother. Arnie had a vivid memory of the beatings, the screaming and the drinking. Ironically, Davey suspected Arnie took after their father far more than he did, despite his older brother’s hatred of the man. Arnie was slightly shorter than Davey but built like a brick shithouse, his wirey build betraying a nasty, whip-like strength. “I’ll be right. And besides, since they made me Corporal I’m well back from the action”

“What about you Davey? You still in that place with Malcolm?”

He didn’t know if his mother intended to draw a contrast between Arnie’s rushing off to defend Queen and country and his own less than heroic circumstances, but he knew Arnie would.

“That’s right mum. We’ve had the same four guys in there for nearly half a year now. It’s pretty good”

“Still working at that record place?” Arnie enquired innocently enough before biting down on some mashed potatoes.

“Yep. They’re thinking about making me assistant manager” It wasn’t true, but they’d never know. He hated that he felt the need to compete though.

“I was talking to Dezza and he said he saw you getting into a cab with that real posh bird who runs that magazine, what’s it call, London Conversations. I said, my little brother? He’s too proud of where he’s from to go poncing about with some rich tart, ain’t that right Davey? He probably was just looking at some other skinny nonce in a parka”

“Arnie!” His mum drew the line there, at least, but it wouldn’t save him. “Sorry ma” It was reflexive. “Well Davey? I can tell Dezza he needs to get his eyes checked?”

“Yea” Davey mumbled, then sat up, jutting his chin at his brother. “Yeah, I did get in a cab with her Arnie. So what? She’s alright”

“Oh bloody hell, this is too much” “Language, Arnie” “Sorry ma. But are you serious, Davey? You want to leave well enough alone there, mate. Girl like her’s just after some cheap thrills to share with her toffy girlfriends. You want to find yourself a nice local girl, somebody with a bit of sense”

“Denise Parker, Dorie Parker’s daughter, she’s just moved back in with her ma, got back from Spain” Oh Christ, now they were ganging up on him. Dorie Parker was his mum’s best friend and her daughter was a braindead hairdresser who’d worked for three months at a bar in Torremelinos. “You should drop by, say hello”

“Look, it’s nothing alright? We hooked up” “Davey!” “Sorry ma. It was just once. I haven’t seen her since then. Leave it, alright?”

“I thought you had more sense Davey”

“Leave it, Arnie” he snarled, hunching his shoulders and avoiding his brother’s gaze as he pushed his food around his plate.

“So how’s your Ann, Arnie?”

“Oh, she’s good ma. She sends her love. Reckon we’re gonna try for a baby boy when I get back from Bosnia. Name him Marv, after you maybe”

“Oh Arnie you are a sweetheart! You’ll have to bring him down here when you and Ann want to go on holiday, so I can spoil him”

“Oh ma we won’t want to do anything except stay home and play with her…”

Davey left them to their cooing. He was so disinterested in listening to them play hypothetical families that he even volunteered to do the dishes. You’d think his mum had never had a kid herself the way she carried on about Arnie and his wife. Of course the unspoken fact that he was in no position to provide a kid, and had no real interest in doing so, a fact he’d shared with his mum several times, hung in the air along with the odd soap bubble floating out of the sink. Plenty of Davey’s school mates were already married with a bawling, screaming baby and sometimes another on the way. Christ, no, not for him.

But what was really getting to him wasn’t his mother doting over his big brother or his brother’s subtle verbal put downs. No, he’d dealt with all that before. It was Arnie bringing Im up. It really pissed him off. Did Arnie have his old mates keep an eye on Davey, to see who he was hanging out with? God, he wouldn’t put it past him. Arnie wouldn’t even have any particular reason to do so – he just would do it to keep control of Davey as much as he could.

Reaching for a wine glass, Davey’s slippery hands fumbled it and it smashed against the bench. A hungry shard of glass tore through the rubbery grove and carved a nasty red line down the base of his thumb. “Fuckin’ cunt” he hissed to himself, clasping his hand, feeling the blood bubble warmly up and drip down into the soapy liquid.

As the pain danced up and down his arm he realized what he really hated was that he couldn’t stand up to Arnie over Im because he didn’t know where he stood. He wanted to say “Yea Arnie, she’s my girl, and I don’t give a toss what you think” But he couldn’t, because she wasn’t his girl. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since he’d skipped out of her parent’s place – the look she’d given him as he made his shitty excuse and left came back to him, making him shiver far worse than the cut did. She had once been pretty regular at the store, but now she wasn’t – and it was still one of the best record stores in London, so she was probably avoiding him. He’d said it suited him, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had to admit, that for that brief moment between when he woke up and got downstairs, he’d felt pretty bloody good. Usually he’d have been looking for excuses to skip out, but while he hadn’t exactly been imagining a white picket fence and three kids, he’d been happy. No, more than happy, he’d been content, and he honestly couldn’t remember the last time that word had applied to him.

Later that night, as he walked back to the bus stop, having emphatically declined a ride back to his gaff in Arnie’s car, the thought came back to him. Maybe he should track her down? No, god, he couldn’t. He cringed at the idea of even beginning that conversation. Well, he was a tough lad – not the sort of preening, muscle-bound peacock shit-brained tough that Arnie prided himself in. But Davey Tarrant had taken a lot of tough shit in his life, and, well, losing Imogen was just part of that, he guessed. She’d been thrown off the stage before she even got given her lines. Hmm. Not bad, that. There might even be a song around those lines…

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

I ordered a cup of tea, half an hour ago, and the contents had long since grown cold. It’s a regular feature, not letting the tea cold untouched, but that Mandy, Alex and I meet up like this. When I feel less kindly inclined towards them, and that has happened more frequently recently, I cannot help but feel that it’s all very pretentious. I mean we never can agree on anything, and while the exchange of opinions is rumoured to be a cornerstone of democracy, I cannot say that I see the use thereof. I’ve touched upon it before and I’ll say it again, the relation between the three of us can best be described as mutual leeching. We don’t particularly like one and other and the constant sniping, be it in very polite terms, haven’t exactly fostered any warmer feelings. None of us would admit to this, no of course not. For all intents and purposes, the three of us are the best of friends’ etcetera. But as I hinted upon, our relation isn’t exactly built upon mutual affection.

“So Im.” Alex began with a concerned look which even though it was impeccable in conveying her worries couldn’t quite hide her glee. “I heard that you went home with Davey Tarrant after Petite Faibless’ gig on Saturday. Please tell me that it’s just a vicious rumour.” As mentioned earlier, Alex is such a snob, and going home with Davey Tarrant probably counts as being the worse faux paux one can make after confessing to like Oasis.

I sighed as I stubbed my Benson & Hedges out and fixed Alex with an equally concerned look, which I might add was more convincing than hers had been. “That’s bollocks Alex. Yeah we did share a cab because he insisted and I figured why not let him pay if he’s so desperate to part from his money. But seriously.” I rolled my eyes in an impression of exasperation, “do you really think I’d have anything to do with him?” I left the question hanging, willing Alex to contradict me. Please God let her do it and give me a chance to put the snooty bitch in her place. “Incidentally who told you that?”

“Can’t remember Im, but you really should consider who you’re seen with. I mean it’s bad enough that you have Tariq Khan running after you and now Davey Tarrant. It’s not good for your rep is all I’m saying.” Alex nodded again to stress her point. Not that I’m at all sure she cares very much about my reputation but perhaps there’s a morsel of truth. The fact is that Alex lacks the credentials to be considered a ‘proper’ indie girl. She isn’t really into the music as whole heartedly as one would expect her to be. Her real raison d’etre has to do with the fact that she’s getting a lot of gratification from the guys on the scene. I don’t blame them, Alex is very pretty but the beauty comes with a tarty attitude and the fact that she’s extremely shallow. I guess that if my rep is somehow tainted then it will reflect on hers as well and I guess that Alex don’t want it to happen.

Mandy had been quiet throughout the exchange but I could tell that she wasn’t overly impressed by Alexandra’s show of concern. While I don’t really count Mandy as a close friend, at least not in private, I still find her more appealing than I do Alex. She’s genuinely interested in the music, although she’s too much of an enthusiast to be considered to be in the know, and sometimes she overdoing it. Yet on the whole Amanda is an alright girl, and I guess that if I have to stay in touch with either of them, I’d chose Mandy over Alex any day. She coughed, politely; that’s the defining aspect of our Amanda, she’s always polite, even when she’s angry, before she spoke and thus cut Alex short.

“I heard from Tim down at the Indigo that Vibration Land is playing there on Saturday.” Tim Carling is the sound engineer at the Indigo and Mandy’s had a really bad crush on him since forever.

Alex rolled her eyes at this and blew out a cone of smoke. “Jeez is the London scene so devoid of talent that they have to draft those idiots?” I can partially understand her sentiments, I really don’t like Oasis wannabes either but it seems that every other band these days is a bad copy of the brothers Gallagher. I’m also quite surprised that Vibration Land has been offered the gig. From what I’ve heard they’re not that great, even though Davey spoke at length about his plans and ideas for the band.

The recollection of the drinks we had in the Lion and the Unicorn, hits me hard. I’ve suggested myself to forget Davey Tarrant, to wipe him from my mind but as it happens I haven’t been able to. And why should I? The fact is that while I proud myself with being logical and a tad detached I am hurting far more than I care to admit to anyone. Least of all Alex and Mandy. Thankfully they seem to preoccupied with dissing Vibration Land to notice that I’m not really participating in the discussion. Withdrawing has been an all too frequent occurrence these last few days since Sunday The reason I guess is that I’m way more sensitive than I thought, and the realisation that I’m hurting far more than I’ve expected is painful in itself. I’ve still to understand why he did just left; It wasn’t like anyone was provoking him or coming across as overly belligerent either. Besides I hadn’t really planned for the whole thing to happen like it did, although it seems that Davey thinks so. The memories came crashing back focusing on the look he gave me as he left the house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so contemptuous as that before.

I knew that I couldn’t stick around much longer lest I’d lose my composure, and I really didn’t want Alex and Mandy to see me like that. Thankfully they were still too preoccupied with their nonsensical discussion about the many faults of the current pop scene in London which gave me a chance to beat a hasty retreat, citing a chore or other which needed to be attended to at home. I received the customary nods of sympathy, even though I know for a fact that Jane Alexandra Hammond hasn’t lifted a finger around her house ever. It’s quite symptomatic really, Alex fancies herself a Fabian Socialist and espouses all the virtues thereof at least in public, but the truth is that she’s a God awful snob who would put your average Tory to shame. It’s really just another example of teen rebellion, even though I hate the classification. Alex, Mandy and I are all solid upper-middle class and it would be a lie to claim anything else. I guess that’s part of the whole anti-Davey thing. Our kind, if I’m to use such an expression, really doesn’t meet people like Davey and thus we are brought up to believe them to be just a little less equal than ourselves.

Socio-economics aside, I never claimed to have an opinion. I don’t care about politics but some habits are hard to break. Yet I know that even if my parents, with their entire middle-class ethos in the baggage would never dream of telling me not to see Davey, even if it is what they really want. Everyone’s been walking around on eggshells at home since the incident on Sunday morning. There have been a few awkward attempts to broach the topic but I’ve declined any such. As mentioned earlier my parents respect my privacy and as a general rule they don’t ask too many questions but I suppose that the spectacle at the breakfast table merited some kind of reaction. Besides I’ve been even more detached than usually, citing the fact that I have a lot to do at school (exams are coming up so it’s not a complete lie) as well as trying to get the new edition of London Conversations out to the waiting audience.

London Conversations, that’s the issue here in more than one way. My mum’s an architect and she’s got a fairly new Mac Quadra which she uses for her job and on which I’ve installed layout software. Hence I can edit both text and pictures myself, which saves me a lot of money as well as granting me full control of the publication. I do the printing with Maynard’s, which is an old-established company which gives me a generous discount owing to the fact that they’ve been the clients of my dad’s law firm since like forever. All in all it’s a quality publication, not one of your usual crappy fanzines that just reek of mediocrity. I know that I keep going on about the LC but the fact is that I’m really proud of it and I know that I’ve got enough readers even to earn a bit of profit. For the upcoming issue I’ve got the thing on Petite Faiblesse, some gossip from Mary O’Reilly (she’s really talkative when she’s had a few drinks) a bit about King Dice (the review isn’t at all flattering I might add) and there’s just about room for one more feature.

Enough space for an article on Vibration Land.

I really didn’t want to think about that right now. My life had turned out to be way too complicated since the incident with Davey Tarrant, and trying to get some kind of bearing on it was even harder than I had imagined. The thing was that I had to put something in the magazine on Vibration Land, even if and because of the fact that I would have to see Davey again. I wanted desperately to get some kind of explanation, why he left and why he didn’t try go contact me as well as clawing his eyes out. Well perhaps not but something akin to that at least. I’ve never claimed to be very good with emotional matters, the description of being cool and detached is more than just an act, but right now I felt like crying. Mainly because I was desperately longing for Davey as well as feeling lonely and miserable in a general sense of the word.

Only love can break your heart as Neil Young put it and which was so eloquently re-phrased by Saint Etienne.

I was interrupted by Dad, who coughed politely as he came into the room, carrying a cup of tea which he placed next to the keyboard and patted my shoulder in his usual manner. It has to be said that my father was never really good with physical contact. I don’t think it’s because he disapproves of it but I guess that he belong to the generation which believed that babies were made of glass and best handled by women, and never really got the hang of it as things progressed. I don’t mind really, growing up in a family like mine kind of makes one used to spot the meaning rather than the expressions.

“No rest for the wicked, eh Im?” Dad sat down at the opposite side of the desk and blew on his own cup of tea as he seemed to ponder how to phrase his next sentence. “No Dad, I still got a few blank spots before I can get the next edition out.” I looked at the screen; pretending to edit something to, perhaps, discourage him from further conversation. “Oh anything on some decent music for a change?” Dad tried for a wry smile, knowing full well what I put in the magazine and not. “Your mother and I were talking and we thought that.” He paused as he sipped from his mug of tea. “We’re really proud of you, and we care a lot about you. Perhaps we haven’t been telling you that but we thought.” He paused again, this was probably the most intimate conversation the two of us had ever had, not that it was much of conversation. The fact was that I was sitting cross-legged (something which no one seems able to understand how I can do) on the chair in silence and waiting for the next sentence. “Yes we hmm set aside some money, well quite a lot really not that the sum matters as such. It’s enough to pay for the tuition fees of any university you chose.” Dad paused again, and I guessed that he wanted some kind of reaction. I can’t say that I knew what to say. University’s been the furthest thing on my mind lately, but it’s very nice of them to present me with such an offer.

The problem was that I couldn’t bring myself to be suitably thankful about the whole thing, don’t get me wrong, I was happy about it considering how many of my acquaintances who would give their right arms for a chance like this. Yet right now it seemed that there were too many things vying for my attention. I suppose that if I’d just managed to act as reasonably grateful it would have been fine but unfortunately I was never very good at acting. This coupled with the fact that my dad can sometimes be eerily good at reading people (I’m no exception unfortunately) caused him to launch into the next part of the heart-to-heart, and one which I think was the real reason for it.

“To be honest with you Imogen,” it was Imogen now, my parents never use my full name unless there’s something they feel is really important, “your mother and I have been a bit concerned. This young man you’re seeing, Davey was it?” Yeah Dad like you’d forget that I thought as I fixed him with an equally concerned gaze as he was giving me. “We feel that perhaps it’s not in your best interests to continue whatever you’re having. I mean nice as he might be he’s still past 20 and he’s working in a record store.” I knew where this would go but I kept quiet. “What are his plans Imogen? And I don’t refer to this band of his. I can appreciate that you are fond of him now, but you have to consider your future as well. You’ve got very option available to you, and your mother and I don’t want you to squander it over something like this. You’ve been doing very well for yourself, with studies and London Conversations.”

I was about to interrupt because I honestly felt that however good the reasons for my parents’ sudden interest in my well-being might be they had now crossed over and become intrusive rather than concerned. But as mentioned earlier my dad is a lawyer and a bit too good at steering a conversation when he wants to, hence I found myself subjected to another barrage, be it a gentle and sensible one, but a barrage no less.

“I know what you’re going to say Imogen, that the two of you have something which neither I nor your mother understands, but then perhaps you could tell me why he hasn’t called you or showed up to collect his jacket? You might think that I’m being unfair but I don’t want you to get hurt, and from what I’ve seen, you’re already unhappy.” He paused as he reached out to take my hand and offered me another patented concerned look. “Your mother and I feel that perhaps it’s better if you don’t see Davey again, but that is of course up to you to decide, it’s merely a suggestion on our part.” He stood up and nodded as to emphasise the point. “Ok then Imogen, I’ll leave you to your editing. Don’t stay up too late, eh.”

I didn’t say anything in response. What was I supposed to say to that? My parents had never before expressed an opinion other than the concerned ones when I was not seeing anyone, and now this. God it felt too Austen-esque really but it wasn’t like I hadn’t been prepared for it. My parents might think themselves progressive and modern or Labour or whatever, but truth to be told they’re just as stuck in their respectable upper middle class bracket as any other Tory-voter. I guess I could have thrown a tantrum about it but I didn’t really see the point in doing so. Firstly because when all’s said and done dad did have a point. Davey works in a record store (and from what he told me it’s not the most secure employment at that) and even if he thinks that Vibration Land is going to hit it off big there’s no guarantee.

And where does that leave us?

Not that there’s much of an us to speak of, not really. I mean I haven’t heard from Davey since Sunday and while I might be more sensitive than I liked to think I would not debase myself by going to Wright’s to seek him out. It seemed like I had run out of options, except for one thing. One desperate gamble I guess.

Vibration Land’s gig at the Indigo on Saturday.

Yes I’d go there, in my official capacity of course. I’ll write the review, hell I’ll even interview the band come to that. If he’s serious then he’ll talk to me. I guess that what I really want is that he’ll ask for forgiveness and tell me that he loves me and never want to part again. Yeah I know it sounds awfully naff but I’ve already confessed to being in love with him. For once in my life it would be nice if my feelings were reciprocated. Especially now with the odds being what they are…

***

I was standing by the bar at the Indigo, having a clear view of the stage without having to jostle for space with an all too inebriated Liam Gallagher clone. There were quite a lot of them in the auditorium tonight. I’ve been given the customary attempts at flirting, or whatever constitutes such among the Manchester-wannabes. Yet I’m even less interested than I would normally be, and for good reasons. First of all I look even more stunning than I usually do. Black skirt which reaches to my knees, a pair of boots (real 60’s make, found them at Camden still in their original box no less!) and a blue blouse bearing the London Conversations logo. I’ve opted for contacts rather than my glasses tonight and I’ve taken more care to fix my hair than I would usually do. I want to look as perfect as I can be, and with the aid of some of Khan’s finest chemical aids I can actually persuade myself that I do.

At least on the surface.

Beneath it all there’s a barely controlled chaos of emotions. I was actually sick just before catching the bus earlier. I’m not known to be the nervous kind but tonight’s been really awful.

Come to my house tonight
We can be together in the nuclear sky
We will dance in the poison rain
And we could stay a while in heaven today

Odd choice for a song to accompany a band such as Vibration Land. I know that Davey isn’t that big of a Suede fan. I’m giving Tim Carling a glance, and is rewarded with a thumbs up from the sound booth where he and Mandy are huddling. Good for Mandy, let’s just hope that Tim keeps his mind on the concert rather than on her. The last echoes of Brett Anderson’s voice dies away in the crowded room as Vibration Land enters the stage. For a moment I think I see Davey looking at me, but I can’t be sure, not at this distance, but as he straps on his guitar I know that he saw me and my heart skips a beat.

Let's stay together
Let's stay, these days are ours
Let's die together?
Two hearts under the skyscrapers

I don't know if there's a Goddess of Indiepop or if she decided to intervene right now and right here, but right now it feels like that.

 

[daedalus_x]

Tommy was a good enough drummer, but Davey had never had time for drumming in general – sure, it helped to keep the beat, but if Davey really needed help keeping time that much, he'd pawn his guitar, or just buy a metronome. But right now he was grateful for Tommy above and beyond his pedestrian thumping, because Tommy had not just got them a gig, he'd impressed the club owner – some friend of his dad's, Davey figured, although he'd blanked during the details – sufficiently to let them practice on the actual stage they'd be playing on that night. Of course it was different to the way it would be tonight – there's no way he'd be able to see even a glimpse of the floorboards he was currently staring at when the gig itself came, and the stench of stale beer that hung in the air like a fug was much more annoying when there wasn't a club full of punters to distract him. But getting a chance to play with the same acoustics that they'd be dealing with tonight, that was invaluable. But really, Davey was as much a frontman as a musician, and the acoustics were less important than a chance to get the feel for the stage under his feet, to prowl around like a cat scoping out its territory. Let the others bicker about the sound, and he'd provide what he knew the punters were after – a show.

Of course, when he was having to kick crushed beer cans off the stage, and when the club's décor was lit only by scummy looking sunlight seeping through dirty windows half-obscured by torn promotional posters. He also had to deal with the yammer from his bandmates, but that was something that'd be a problem on the night. He paused, letting his guitar dangle from its straps, and allowed his awareness of their banter to expand into the active area of his brain. Tommy and Malc, both of whom considered themselves the band's Townsend, were arguing about a guitar chord towards the end of 'Decorum', one their few original songs.

“It's fuckin' rubbish, Tommy. We've been practicing for weeks and it's still a piece of crap”

Tommy glared balefully at Malc from behind the drums. “You're barkin', mate. It's you who's rubbish. That song's gonna be our number one single one of these days, and if you can't play it, we'll fuckin' find somebody who can”

“Was that a threat? You can't fire me, I made this band”

“Settle down, numbnuts. Now look, let me show you how to play it” Tommy was rising from behind his kit. Oh, that's just what they needed. Davey turned even as Malc brandished a fist. “You touch my fuckin' piece, I'll slot you one you Camden leisure pirate?”

“You want a piece of me?”

“You haven't got it to give”

Davey was usually one for a good old fashioned rock and roll bust-up, but they had a gig tonight. He had no ambition to it but the fact that he was the singer meant that he doubled as band leader, and when needed, psychologist.

“Oi, you fucking pikers. We're all tired. We've got hours. Take five” He held up his fingers. “Get yourself a beer”

Six eyes peered resentfully at him. He tilted his head back slightly. One by one, the three of them decided that it wasn't such a bad idea after all. The other two decamped to the bar, but as Malc started to put down his guitar, Tommy grabbed him by the epaulettes of his East German army surplus shirt. “Malc, let's have a gab”

A few minutes later they were standing in the alleyway behind the club. Davey couldn't help but remember that the two of them had shared a cigarette there the same night he and Imogen had first kissed. Of course back then the air was freezing cold and the night was dark. Now, with buses rumbling past on the road outside, the sky grey and apathetic, and the air chilly but not sufficiently so to be bracing, the place didn't even have the grimy glamour it had had back then. Of course it was possible that Davey was just glamourising that whole night. For sure, he hadn't felt that good in months... but no, he wasn't going to go down that path. He had a gig to prepare for. A gig that could make or break them.

“S'gonna be some press tonight” Malcolm murmured. Davey would never be sure if Malc had sensed his introspective mood and tried to break him out of it, or it had just been gormless good timing. He gave his friend a sidewards glance, but Malc was staring off into the middle distance as he took a good long draw of his cigarette. Davey tapped off some ash and nodded.

“Yeah, I heard that. This could make or break us”

“You reckon this could be the night? The night we're talking about when we're interviewed for our induction into the Rock Hall of Fame, the night when it all began?”

“Or the night we're talking about to the fuckin' rozzers tomorrow when I get hauled in for ripping Tommy's ugly mug off”

“Or both”

Malc smirked, nodded, took a deep pull of his cigarette, and let it fall to the ground, where he ground it out beneath the heel of his Doc Marten.

“Serious press?” Davey asked, just to keep the conversation rolling.

“Some local music mag Tommy's pretty large on. Called London Chats or something”

“London Conversations?” Davey's head snapped around a little too fast. Malcolm raised a hand in mock-self defense and gave a queasy grin. “Whoa! You know 'em?”

“Er, yea. I know the writer” Davey evaded Malc's gaze, instead interesting himself in the specials being advertised in the window of a grotty KFC visible from the mouth of the alleyway. He felt hungry, although the sight of a dog gnawing at a rotten rotisserie chicken amid some old newspapers quickly dispelled that.

“So are they any good? Naw, scratch that. Does anybody think they're any good?”

Davey shrugged. He could barely admit to himself that he'd read some back issues of London Conversations – he'd barely been able to justify it as getting to know the local music industry, although he found his heart leaping every time he saw her name in a byline. It was good, he had to admit, real good. OK, so he didn't agree with all the reviews, but that wasn't the point – the writing was good, and it really did feel like a one-on-one conversation with the writer. And, sadly, that was somebody he desperately wanted to have a conversation with. Although not just about music.

“They're alright. She gets interviews with some pretty big acts, and they wouldn't bother if she was a little fish”

“So does she like our kind of music?”

Davey closed his eyes and drew in a breath, not caring if Malcolm registered it or not. Truth be told if he was playing music just to suit Imogen's ears he probably wouldn't have come up with something that sounded too much like Vibration Land. But she'd listened attentively enough when he told her about his influences and his plans. But part of that might have been the fact that she, so it seemed, liked him and who he was... and he couldn't imagine that she felt that way now.

Bloody hell, what if she gave them a poisonous review that scared away any interest from the labels – or even the clubs? What if she couldn't see past her hatred for him, for his cowardice? Hell, maybe that was why she was coming along – to get back at him with the only weapon she knew how? Well, he realised with another sigh, staring down at the ashen remains of Malcolm's cigarette, he couldn't do anything to stop her, and he couldn't really blame her either. Hell, maybe this was going to be the end of it. Maybe it was over. Maybe he was going to end up selling secondhand records to poseurs and morons every day for the rest of his life. Maybe Assistant Manager would be the highest thing he'd ever aspire to. Well, he thought with a fatalistic twinge of mental pain, that was that. He'd made his bed, and he'd have to lie in it. A shame he was bringing Malc down with him – he didn't care too much about the other two.

But if Im was going to stick the knife in his art and twist it, well, he'd let her know what she was doing. He'd been working on a song, a song whose first words had come to him as he sat in the cold morning after heading out of her place. He couldn't tell if it was any good – he was too close to it, too close to the events that had birthed it. It was too raw. He'd been planning to show it to the others in a few weeks time but... maybe now was the time.

All these thoughts had flashed past his mind in a few seconds as Malc gazed at him. He realised suddenly that he'd been asked a question.

“Malc, I've got a song I think we should put in the setlist for tonight”

“We're gagging for time, Davey”

“We can lose the Kinks cover. I fuckin' hate that song anyway”

“Tommy will be spitting”

“Well Tommy can quit and form his own fuckin' band then, can't he?”

Malc looked like he was about to say something, and then he just gave Davey a shit-eating grin.

“Now that's that rock n roll spirit we need, mate”

Slinging their arms around one another's shoulders and digging fresh cigarettes out of their parkas, they headed back into the club.

* * * * *

Davey's heart pounded as he stepped out onto the stage. He could feel every footstep on the beery boards, and the weight of his guitar strap over his shoulder felt unduly heavy. Forcing himself to be calm, he stepped forward, keeping his head down, letting his long hair fringe hang over his face. Behind him the rest of the band stepped onto the stage. He could only make out the base of the microphone stand, weird green and purple lights reflecting off the streaky metal. The band on before them had been either very good or very bad, and gobbets of spit clustered around the stand like phlegmy stars. Malc's shadow came into view to his right. Once everybody was in position, Davey looked up. A sea of white upturned faces greeted him. A camera flashed somewhere. A journalist, maybe? Oh christ. He'd been drinking backstage to try and banish his nerves, but they came flooding back. Imogen would be out there somewhere. He caught himself scanning the crowd, looking for her, and then brought himself back. He wouldn't be able to make out her face – hell, that shapeless, ghostly-grey blob he'd been staring vacantly at could be her. No way of knowing. He'd just have to belt it out and hope it impressed her.

They'd agreed to start with a cover – something people would know. Davey virtually flung his hand against the strings, belting out the iconic opening riff of Can't Explain.

“What I feel inside
I can't explain...”

The set roared on. After the cover, he introduced the band, and they broke into their own numbers. He was in the zone, and if the crowd weren't loving it he didn't really give a shit, because he felt alive. He played for all he was worth and sung himself hoarse, sneering vocals into the microphone, head tilted up to it like a cheap prostitute. Halfway through it got so hot that he shed his parka, despite the icy wind outside and the cheap central heating inadequately chugging away beneath the stage – his own manic energy was warming him.

The set seemed to fly by, which told him more than anything else that it was a good gig. Later, over beers, they would conclude it was their best, but by then any objectivity Davey had was lost. Like most performers he'd learned not to look at the crowd, but in one such glance he'd looked up and seen Imogen's face, close to the stage and lit an eerie moonlit blue by one of the stage lights. He held her gaze, and thought that she was doing the same to him, even as the song came to a close.

How fitting, really. Davey wasn't superstitious but if he had believed in some form of cosmic fate it would have been confirmed. Because the next song, there last song, was the one he'd bullied the rest of the band into including on the setlist, was the one that he'd written about their breakup, based on a few scribbled notes that he'd got down when he got home that fateful morning. He and Malc had whacked together the chord progression faster than anything else they'd ever done, and if Malc had any clue that the inspiration had been less than abstract, he'd had the wisdom not to jaw about it.

It was called 'Seether'.

I only told you to go away
So that I could watch you leaving
And the only reason I'd kill something
Is so that I could hear you grieving
I know it's wrong to want to hear
The words 'come back to me'
But until I've become a better man
That's all you'll ever see

When the song was over Davey threw down his guitar in a fit of self-loathing and, not wanting to look into the crowd, stalked off stage in what was, quite inadvertently, the best shoegazing tradition, even as the crowd bucked and jumped.

* * * * *

“You're fucking mad, Davey!” Simon, the band's rhythm guitarist, was balancing a spliff in one hand and a soapy can of beer in the other, and spilling both onto the stairs near Davey as he weaved drunkenly, a brown-haired groupy clinging tightly to his arm and laughing automatically at everything he said like some sort of cheap carnival tell-your-fortune machine. “They were fuckin' storming, mate! And you didn't even give 'em one more song! Christ, you might as well flush our fuckin' careers down the loo!”

Davey was crouching on the stairwell leading into the basement – they'd been turfed out of their dressing room for some reason he'd been too buzzing to comprehend. And he was in no mood to brook Simon's shit. Tommy was talented, and more importantly, connected, and Malc was Malc, but he figured there was at least a 50% chance that if they made it big Simon would become his personal Pete Best. But all he had now was a semi-witty rejoinder.

“This isn't your career, you fuckin' nonce. You work at Rumbelows”

Simon raised his beer can to make a senatorial point before Malc darted in like a minnow. “Davey's a showman, see. Leave 'em wanting more. That's the number, yeah Davey?”

“Yeah Malc” Davey peered into his pint glass. He'd slipped a couple of shots of vodka in without anybody noticing and he could already feel the seed of a hangover growing at the back of his head. Go. He planned on getting nice and drunk.

Just to complete the little tosser's vignette, Tommy came bounding up the stairway. “Davey, Malc you munters! There's a journo from one of the trade papers wants to interview us! Pete said we can use his office!” The last syllable had barely cleared Tommy's mouth before he was on his way back down the stairs to the interview space. Davey watched him dully as Malc put his hand on his shoulder.

“Come on Davey my son, we've got to milk it”

“Malc, I'm... I'm fuckin' stewin' here, mate”

“It's cool. You're the lead singer. Just sit at the back, don't say anything and try and look enigmatic rather than pissed”

“S'not a bad idea” Davey downed the pint and on impulse decided not to get another, rising in the narrow stairway rather like a rock climber bracing his way up a chimney, his back and shoulders doing all the work, his legs an afterthought. Leaning on Malcolm in what he hoped was a casually chummy rather than depressedly alcoholic way, he proceeded down the stairs, past the gaggle of groupies, sound techs and other back stage carryings on, through the flier-encrusted door and into the office. Simon leaned against a wall arranging his mop top, Tommy was seated at the desk, feet up in an attempt to show that he owned the place, and the journalist...

Fucking idiot, he admonished himself. That's right, you know somebody who answers to the description of 'music journalist' don't you? Somebody who could be described as a 'she'? Somebody who's here tonight? Stupid, stupid fucking stupid.

It was possible that he would have bolted if not for Malc's guiding hand on his shoulder. As it was he allowed himself to be steered into an uncomfortable chair. He folded his arms and, screwing up his courage, looked Imogen in the eye. Predictably, the alcoholic fuzz deserted him, and while there was a part of him that longed to walk over and kiss her, despite the derision he'd get from his bandmates and the fact his breath probably reeked, he managed to just sit there as she got out her notepad and, showing no signs that she felt similarly traumatised, began to ask her questions in a prim, professional voice.

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

”Why did you leave?”

I left the question hanging in the air where it seemed to linger with the crystals that formed as I exhaled. To be honest I wasn’t sure I cared why he had left; and mind you this part really made me want to kick myself for being the arch-typical silly girl, because the main thing was not why Davey had left but that he was here now. Still the issue had to be addressed and while I didn’t want things to change at that moment, I still didn’t want him to think he could just get away with what he’d done.

So I waited in silence, my head leaning on his shoulder as I was sitting across his lap on a bench on an otherwise deserted street, the two of us wrapped up in Davey’s parka and passing a bottle of cheap Scotch between us to ward of both the cold and the awkwardness. I felt Davey squeezing my shoulders as he paused much in the way he had done when he walked out. Perhaps it was an imagined sense of heightened awareness on my part, fuelled by two lines of cocaine that caused me to think that I recognised the same fight-or-flight pose once again. I leaned closer and kept quiet since I didn’t want to provoke another such thing again.

“You must tell me, you understand that don’t you?” I took a deep swig from the bottle to fortify myself, determined to get this thing out in the open but at the same time fearing what it would lead to. “You hurt me; you made me look like a right idiot and for what? Because you thought that everyone would be against you. Seriously you have to drop that enormous fucking chip you’re carrying on your shoulder Davey.” I paused, trying to regain my composure or what was left of it. The outburst had made my heart race and my cheeks burned from barely contained anger and hurt pride. “Look I’ve never, ever brought a boyfriend over. Never mind having one stay the night when my parents were out of town. I didn’t mean things to happen the way they did but you behaved like an arse Davey and you owe me a bloody explanation.”

I guess it didn’t all have to do with Davey. The night had been weird to say the least. The interview with Vibration Land was probably the worst thing I’ve done in my so-called career. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve interviewed bigger acts than Davey and the bunch of muppets he hangs out with, I mean even Mary O’Reilly said I was good and I can be professional enough to rise above the rest of the fanzine crowd. I had promised myself that, to be cool and professional, not let my personal judgement or prejudice interfere with the interview. Yeah that meant even being courteous to the complete wanker Malc whom I hate with a passion. I guess the background to the sentiment is that I suspected that he was one of the reasons why Davey pulled his disappearing act. Besides I can’t stand the whole “I wear a Joy Division shirt to prove that I’m so fucking different from everyone else”. Yeah you and the six thousand other pathetic men thinking that.

Malc aside, I felt unprepared as Davey struck the first chord of Seether, and I felt like a hot knife was cutting me up. I’ve never had a song speak to me in such a way as this one did, and the fact that Davey was looking the way Thom Yorke wished he looked when performing shattered the few pretences I had of not letting this thing affect me. More often than not I’ve found myself sneering at females who make puppy-eyes at the lone young man wielding a guitar (or a bass guitar in this case), and I vowed that I’d never become one of them. Not for Damon Albarn, not even for Brett Anderson.

And yet there I was, staring transfixed at Davey on the stage. The sole illumination was a naked white spotlight, focusing on him and leaving the rest of the ensemble in relative obscurity. I suppose that up until that moment I hadn’t really known Davey; we had spent time together, we had discussed the things we considered important, but I had only seen glimpses of the person behind the carefully applied mask. I guess we don’t differ much in that aspect, I too tend to present a polished surface to the world and there are few people who get close enough to see the Imogen beneath the surface. Then again, Davey’s mask is diametrically different from mine, but I suppose that we are more similar than our outer appearances might lead one to believe.

The smattering of applause and cat-calls brought me back to the present and the buzzing of the crowd as Blur’s “Country House” blasted through the crowded room. I tried my best to avoid Alex who had deemed it prudent to show up obviously readying herself for a barrage against the relative merits of Vibration Land. As I’ve hinted earlier, Alexandra Hammond and I aren’t really the best of friends, and our relation can best be described as barely concealed distaste, though none of us would admit to that. Yet now I felt that I could do without her observations, besides I wasn’t sure I would be able to hide the fact that the last song performed had gotten to me. Thus I pushed past Alex as she was about to launch into yet another diatribe, murmuring something about needing a bit of fresh air and pointedly ignoring her half-hearted attempts of trying to join me as I made my way through the crowded room.

Why couldn’t things be easy for a change? I kept asking me that question as I squeezed past the bouncer manning the door at the Indigo, and lighting up a cigarette. The whole issue with Davey had really complicated my life. Not only the fact that I felt like a right idiot after he pulled the stunt last Sunday, but also the kind reminder that mum and dad weren’t best pleased with the whole thing and the threat (?) of thwarting a decent university education. No they probably didn’t mean to go that far. Then again my mum can be very rigid when it comes to certain things. And then there was Davey as well. I had absolutely no idea what he was on about. On the one hand there was the immutable fact that he had acted like a complete wanker, but then there was the song…

Oh well better try and get on with it. I stubbed out my cigarette and flipped the lid of my compact up to make sure that I didn’t look a complete mess. It would arguably have been the worst fuck-up imaginable considering that I was going to be face to face with Davey very shortly and I’d be damned if I wouldn’t look my best then.

Thus I pushed my way through the throng on what constitutes the dance floor. The Indigo is really quite a crappy old place. One could tell that the management hadn’t really bothered much about the finer points of interior decoration, but since most of the patrons were usually drunk or in other ways intoxicated no one really seemed to mind. Yet I thought it a little unfair, Unfair that when Davey actually had shone it had to be in a place like this. I knew that the Indie era would sooner or later be replaced by the next big thing and where would that leave me or Davey for that matter?

I took a deep breath, trying to regain some of the lost composure before I knocked on the door to the dressing room where Vibration Land were, presumably, celebrating their successful gig. “In for a penny…” I thought as I knocked and was answered by Malc who, needless to say, didn’t look overly pleased of seeing me.

“Oh it’s you.” He gave me a disdainful gaze and positioned himself in the opening thus blocking both entry and view of room. I felt like kneeing him in the groin, but all in all that probably wouldn’t be the best cause of action to take, so instead I offered him the sweetest smile I could muster, keeping in mind that it was Malcolm standing in front of me it took quite the effort, but as I said, I can be quite professional when I need to. “Top marks for observational skills Malcolm.” I offered him another smile as I continued. “I don’t suppose that the rest of the band would be interested in giving a few comments to London Conversations?” I already knew that Malcolm wouldn’t be best pleased and my best bet was to hope that rest of Vibration Land would be more amenable to being interviewed.

“Who is it Malc?” I guessed that it was Tommy the drummer who directed the question to the surly Malc which caught him off-guard and thus allowed me to slip past him and into the dressing room.

It would have been nice to say that I would have been prepared seeing Davey again, and once more it proved that assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. To be honest I felt like I was going to faint when I stepped into Vibration Land’s dressing room, carefully stepping over the Gibson guitar that lay discarded on the floor, and offered Tommy as Simon (the rhythm guitarist) cleared a seat for me. Part of my state was down to seeing Davey again, or rather not seeing Davey since he was wearing a cap pulled down low and pointedly avoiding looking at me when I tried meeting his eyes. The other part had to do with the peroxide blonde sitting next to him and, even though she was holding on to Davey’s hand, looked as alien to the environment as a snow leopard would have done in Brixton.

I suddenly regretted having pushed to get the interview, it was obvious that this wouldn’t go well at all, but there was little I could do about it, especially since Tommy was trying his best to act the perfect host and spokesperson of the band.

“We’re quite thrilled that you wanted to interview us.” He began, offering me a smile which didn’t seem very convincing at all, and given the looks he was getting from the rest of Vibration Land I could somehow understand why. Malcolm doesn’t like me so I guess it goes without saying that he wasn’t best pleased with having me there. Then again I really don’t care what Malcolm thinks of me because at the end of the day I probably hate him more than he does me. I really don’t know Simon that well although I’ve seen him around on the clubs and gigs and he’s always struck me too shy to be an aspiring rock star. Yet I knew that Davey considered him the brains of Vibration Land and I suppose that every band needs the supporting acts. A fact that Tommy didn’t seem to grasp as he was yakking away about the band, the gig, the fact that they were not, in any way, trying to ride the Manchester guitar wave and that their sound was something unique etcetera. I’d heard it all before, more eloquently put for that matter and I’m not saying that because it was Davey who first told me about it. No it had more to do with the fact that when Tommy described Vibration Land it was a rehearsed speech, lacking the passion and commitment that I had seen in Davey in the Lion and the Unicorn.

And it didn’t look as Davey would be participating much. He was fiddling with a cigarette lighter, apparently oblivious to the blonde who was vying for his attention, yet the fact that she was holding his hand made me furious. I can’t say that I’m the jealous type; truth to the matter is that I have had precious little to be jealous about before but the sight was enough to make me want to claw her eyes out.

“Yeah that’s the short version” Tommy tried steering me back to the present and the interview. “I mean we’re at the start of our career but I’d say that we’ve created something of our own here.” He beamed as he took a swig from a bottle of Heineken. “To be honest with you Imogen, we’re the best bloody band around.” A try at some rock-star bravado, which failed miserably, both because Tommy lacked the attitude and the fact that the rest of the band didn’t look like they agreed on their drummer’s opinion.

Which in itself was a shame, because even I had to admit that there was something about Vibration Land, although it had very little to do with anyone except Davey, and I didn’t think so just because what had happened between us. While the music might not have been as unique as Tommy liked to think, the presence of Davey (admittedly coupled with Simon’s impressive something something) was enough to make them stand out among the rest of would-be stars. Had things been different I’d be the first to tell Davey this, but as it was, he was being as detached from the conversation as if he’d been on another planet. And if that wasn’t hurtful enough then the fact that the stupid tart was doing everything save pissing down his leg to mark her territory. It was really getting too much, even if I like to think of myself as cool and detached, I know found it hard to retain that image, and I really didn’t want to Davey to see that. Thus I pretended to study the scribbling on the pages of my black Molekine notebook, relishing the break from having to talk to Tommy while having Malc and the blonde tart eye me in quite the hostile manner.

“Just one more question before I’m done.” I flashed the four a smile which felt less than sincere, “about that last song, is that one of yours Simon?” I pointedly avoided looking at Davey, having learned that Davey wrote almost all the music and every lyric of Vibration Land. Perhaps it was me but I thought I saw Davey snap out of his hibernation although he didn’t say anything in response. “Nah Seether is Davey’s masterpiece and the big surprise of the evening. He added it to the set just before we went on stage.” Simon nodded. “It was a very good choice, eh. Like Tommy told you, its stuff like that which sets us apart from the rest of the bands.”

Simon’s observations about the relative merits of Vibration Land aside, it still proved my suspicions correct, namely that Davey had written “Seether”, and I very much doubted that it was dedicated to the tart currently clinging to him. I turned to look at him, and this time he actually met my gaze. “So” I began slowly, trying to phrase myself in a way that wouldn’t be obvious to the other four people in the room. Not that I cared much for their opinion, still I don’t like to cause scenes. “What was the background to the song then Davey?” The last words were spoken quietly, because frankly they were not aimed at anyone else. For a moment it seemed like Davey was about to answer, the way he straightened up in his seat, shaking the blonde’s hand away from his arm all the while fixing me with the piercing blue of his eyes.

I could feel my heart beating faster, once again experiencing the same emotions as when we first kissed outside the Indigo. Be it a childish thought but for a moment I hoped that he would tell me that he loved me and never wanted to part again, that everything was a big mistake and that he regretted having hurt me like he had done. A stupid hope perhaps, but right then and there it felt like it would happen.

But as things turned out it didn’t. Instead of Davey answering it was the blonde tart who spoke up. “So are you writing for the school paper or something?” Her accent jarred as she fixed me with an equally piercing gaze, showing that she, at least, was attuned to the undertones in the interview so far, and it caught me off guard. “Well Davey and I are going to have a drink now.” She turned to Davey and smiled in a way which I couldn’t describe in any other way than predatory. “And I’ll tell you everything about Spain love.” She turned back to me before either of us had a chance to reply. “Well that’s it then. Now if you excuse us, this is a private party.” She shot me another gaze which clearly signalled that if I didn’t leave very soon tooth and nails were the option.. I guess the sensible thing would have been to just stand up and leave, but that would have been making it too easy for both her, Davey and Malc, who had been sneering throughout the exchange. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of person who get into fights, but I’d be damned if I’d let that peroxide tart have her way. Thus I stood up, collected my notebook, and then with what I hoped looked like carefully premeditated grace, poured the contents of Simon’s rum and coke over her head.

It was silly, stupid and didn’t serve any other purpose but redressing a tiny part of the slights I felt I’d been subjected to. I can’t say that I remember anything after that, save that I left without looking back, even though I really wanted to see the look on the blonde slag’s face as the sticky contents of the glass poured down her face and stained her white Playboy t-shirt (just another reason to despise her by the way, no woman in her right mind would wear such). I continued through the corridor, through the dance floor and out, not bothering to pick up my jacket from the cloakroom. I just wanted to get out, and continue walking away from the Indigo, from London, Davey and everyone else and never turning back.

It had started snowing, and the cold air stung my cheeks as snowflakes immediately melted when they touched my skin. I had no idea where I was going but truth to be told it didn’t matter. I had just crossed the road when I heard footsteps behind me and as I turned around I saw Davey coming up behind me. I guess he wanted to berate me for having doused the blonde, but before I had a chance to speak he grabbed me, pulled me close and kissed me again.

And once again the world became a very complicated place.

 

[daedalus_x]

Davey couldn't quite believe what Im had done. Damn he thought to himself, she's got some serious stones, that girl of mine. Of course, he realised with a sudden twinge of regret in his chest, she wasn't his girl, not really, not so that it mattered. The thought refused to go away until he had a mouthful of bourbon and coke which he'd been staring at without drinking throughout most of the painful course of the interview. Thus fortified, he turned to Denise, who was screeching in an outrage, staring balefully at the door Im had just headed out through, and swilling on her own alcopop between angry squawks as if putting booze in her mouth would get it out of her hair and off her face.

“Could you believe that tart, Davey?” Having got the requisite nonchalant half-nods of conciliation from the rest of the band, Denise turned on Davey, a lengthy track of grainy grey-black makeup spilling out of her eye socket where the booze had washed it away. “The bloody nerve! If she comes back here I'm going to scratch her bloody eyes out! Ugly stuck up tart, what was all that about?”

Davey shifted uncomfortably. He had to admit that, while he was about as interested in Denise's conversation as he was in the exports of Lower Guiana, he had enjoyed having her squirming on his lap and cooing over him in a pretty shallow, ego-feeding way. But if she was going to talk, let alone talk about Im, well, that wasn't quite so cool. He had another sip of his bourbon and, with what he hoped was a sagacious tone, tried to pour oil on troubled waters.

“Leave it, Denise. She's just angry because I'm here”

“Yea? What's she got against you? What, did you turn her down or something?”

If Davey had cared enough about Denise and been sober enough he might have tried a lie, but the truth just came burbling up like dirty water. “Nah, we kind of hooked up a couple of weeks ago. No big deal”

“That squeaky whore?” Denise swivelled in his lap, soaked, dyed braids slapping against his chest, to peer at the door Im had exited through. “Oh god, Davey, were you desperate? That simpering tart? Was she all...” Denise reared back and adopted what she probably thought was a posh accent, although it sounded like Hywell Bennett trying to talk over Richard Attenborough. “Awrr Doy-vey, doy-vey, put it ahn moy!” Denise laughed at her own impersionate, snorting unattractively before sucking on her alcopop again. “Haww! Well you don't worry about her, Davey, I'll take care of you the way she couldn't. Gawd, you must have been gagging for it”

Davey scowled, meeting Denise' eyes. “Leave it out, Denise. I'm not in the mood, okay?”

Denise reared back like some kind of chav snake. “Aww, Davey – are you still into her! My god, you'd better not be. You promise me, Davey, you promise me you're not going to talk to her ever again!”

“Promise you? What the fuck, Denise? I'm not promising anything. She's gone, okay? Just drop it, alright?”

“You are!” Denise scowled at him as if he'd just spat on her shirt. “My god, Davey, you were mooning over her but I thought you were just checking out her tits. Well god help me as long as I'm here you're not going to have anything to do with that stuck up toff bitch” And with that Denise lunged in for a kiss, tongue already snaking between her lips like a snake's.

Instinct led to Davey leaning towards her – but as he caught sight of Denise's face, runny makeup, lank hair and the ghosts of wrinkles appearing around the edge of her tightly screwed up eyes and mouth, he felt a chill run down his spine as if he'd felt somebody walk over his grave. Instinctively, he stood, pushing her off him none too gently and, in a daze, his head full of half-formed, tumultuous thoughts, he headed for the same door Im had headed out of. Denise was shouting at him, even hurling her half-empty bottle after him as he went. He could hear her howling his name in a fashion uncannily similar to the way his mother did when she was angry.

He crossed the dancefloor, where the punters who hadn't disappeared when the live music stopped were gyrating to some faintly ghostly electronic music – the words penetrated his head even though it wasn't really his kind of music and continued to ring inside his skull as he pushed his way past shuffling dancers.

Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
Of everyone
We'd walk behind while you would run
I look up at your house
And I can almost hear you shout, down to me
Where I always used to be

Emerging into the night, Davey scanned up the street, then down it, a panicked urgency rising in his chest, barely able to stand the thought that she'd gone. He'd always remember the sight of her walking down that road, her steps resigned but somehow still melancholy, her head tilted to one side ever so slightly in a way that almost perfectly depicted hopelessness. In the future, whenever he needed to summon just the right flavour of mental anguish to pen some truly bleak lyrics, he'd just close his eyes and imagine Im's silhouette against the silvery slickness of the road. He closed them then and there, sucked in a breath and, tugging his parka close around him, began to jog down the road after her, boots slapping on the cold asphalt as he hoarsely shouted her name. “Im! Imogen!” He could see her shoulders tense as she heard her name, and he feared that she'd just keep on walking, but she didn't – she turned, her eyes widening slightly and, against all odds, a smile touched her lips.

* * * * *

”Why did you leave?”

*Davey closed his eyes as Im asked that. His head was already bowed in what he hoped looked like a contrite fashion - and to be fair, he was contrite, but he was also bone idle tired, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was hanging on every word she said he could quite easily imagine himself passing out, all aching fatigue and heavy lids, right there on the bench in the cold and the frost, probably to be woken by some hobo taking a piss on him. For a moment he felt sleep swim behind his eyes, but he could feel Im's gaze on him, colder than the night air, and he opened them, flicking his fringe back to look her in the eyes. He'd intended to answer, but for the umpteenth time that night he was struck mute by her beauty. She probably thinks I'm some kind of cack-mouthed idiot, he thought... and well, to be fair, he was, but even if he hadn't been, he'd probably still have been stunned schtum by the sight of her face, all pale, delicate skin and big, wistful green eyes under the harsh sodium glare of the streetlight*

"I just... fuck, Im, it's hard for me, you know? I'm not used to..." *Shut up, shut up, a voice in his head screeched, but if he was going to be damned by her, at least he'd be damned for being honest* "I just wasn't ready, you know? I've never been in a place like that, you know? I felt like I was, I dunno, like a cat that'd wandered into a fucking TV studio" *Oh yes, great work, Oscar Wilde. He squeezed her hand more tightly, continuing despite the fact that the embrassment was gnarling away at his gut like an actual physical wound* "I mean, when it was just you and me, it was weird, yea, but weird good, weird like I could cope with it. But when your 'rents came in..."

*He reached over to take the scotch from her, sucking in a breath of cold air to gild his lungs against the incoming alcohol. When he drunk, it was oily, scummy tasting and had a nasty burn, but it warmed him and gave him a fuzzy, crackling rush in his head, providing the little burst of recklessness that he needed to get over the hump of his caution and reticience and plow onward to new landscapes of misery* "I could just feel them looking at me, you know? All that stuff your da' was saying, that was all very fucking well, but I know what he was thinking... who's this cum? What's he doing with our daughter? He's not good enough for her. He needs to get the hell out of here. Oh, they were polite as anything, but I could tell..." *He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, the pearly, chill beads of scotch smeared away*

"...I could tell, Im, that the only reason they were being so fucking polite is because they were so fucking afraid that they'd say what they really meant. And you know, OK, you know what? I could deal with that. Fuck, I walk past people who think I'm scum every day. I mean, do I look like I care what people think? But it didn't take long, Im... I started thinking about what they thought, and then I thought, hell, what do you think of me? I must have looked a right royal mess sitting there like a beggar in a fucking mansion..." *He shook his head, taking another breath of the cold, chalky air, the harsh feeling of it in his throat seemingly bitterly appropriate to the mental razor wire he was threading his way through* "...and I could see how I'd look. You know. To you. So I just thought... god, I'm going to get out of here now, before I have to hear you say it. Jump, before I got fucking pushed, you know? Sometimes, it's all you can do" *He wordlessly handed the bottle back to her, his eyes meeting hers, half defiant, half glassily pleading*

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

”You’re an idiot you know”

I took the bottle from Davey’s unresisting hand as I held his gaze. As far as explanations went it was alright I guess. Not that it justified what he’d done, but on some level I could understand why he had acted that way. To be honest I’ve never really reflected on issues such as class, mainly because it has never been a concern, although I am informed enough to understand that it was at the heart of the argument here, and thinking about it made me angry.

“It’s not about them, it’s about us haven’t you understood that? I don’t care what your mum and dad do for a living, or what stupid school you went to.” I drank deep from the now half emptied bottle, wincing as the strong liquor burned my throat. “I love you, why is that so hard for you to grasp?” I’d spoken the last words more quietly, realising that it was the first time that I had spelt it out like that. Not that it ought to come as a big surprise, I mean I practically shouted it to Davey before, but as pointed out to me before, men can be quite dense when such things are concerned. “I knew that from the first time I saw you, that you were different, and I don’t mean what you think but that you see things the same way as I do, you’re not just one of the lads trying to act the rock star.” I fell silent, feeling that the explanation verged on the silly. “So my parents aren’t best pleased is that it? Well they’ll just have to live with it. They don’t dictate how I chose to live my life. And one more thing…” I snatched the bottle back and drank deeply again, spilling some of the amber liquid down my chin as I tried to fortify myself for what I was to say next. “I hate it when you presume to know what I’m thinking, especially when you’re concerned. Haven’t I made it clear Davey? I. Love. You.” I fell silent again, feeling how my vision started to blur, I guess part of it was the generous amount of alcohol I’d ingested that evening, but even more so because I was crying. I know it’s silly but every time I get angry I start to cry, I don’t know why it’s not really that impressive but that’s the way it is and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

I felt Davey’s arms around me again, although this time the embrace was just a little different, I guess that having a crying girl next to you can do that, even to the densest of male specimens, and all things considered it was kind of what I had expected. I guess that calls for an explanation in as much as it might seem a bit I don’t know, resigned, but then again I’m not really used to anyone professing their undying love for me, or even that they love me and thusly the embrace was sufficient, at least for now. It might seem a bit sad really, but I guess that someone offering me that kind of intimacy is very rare indeed. It struck me there, sitting on the bench outside the Indigo in the middle of the night that I couldn’t recall the last time someone had embraced me. I suppose that even though the first things which attracted me about Davey was that he’s handsome and has a genuine love for his music there is the fact that he, at least now, seemed genuine in his care for me. As I said I’m not really used to physical signs of affection, which is kind of sad in itself, and thus being with someone who didn’t shy away from showing it really touched me.

“I’m cold” I shivered as I reached out to take Davey’s hand. It was freezing and even though the snowflakes dancing in the streetlights were pretty and that the closeness to Davey provided some protection from the worst of the chill I felt that I would probably die from hypothermia if we stayed out here any longer. It seemed that Davey felt the same way, and with a final swig from the bottle of whisky we got up. I guess we were lucky, since we had only walked a few paces when Davey spotted a black cab which he hailed, and I once more found myself in the backseat of a taxi with Davey, yet this time was very different from our first such encounter. There wasn’t the raw lust that had been present then but rather I was experiencing the same closeness as we had shared earlier, and it struck me that this intimacy was no less powerful than what I had experiencing when we slept together. I guess that sounded strange, even to me and I’m quite used to my strange lines of thought but it was nonetheless true. I guess that what it all came down to was the shared moment, to be physically and emotionally close to another person. I guess it all came down to that, being able to be myself with someone else. It felt like for the first time I could actually allow myself to shed the mask I wear. I guess it’s hard to explain but even though Davey and I come from different backgrounds I felt that he was the only person who truly understood what it was all about. Not the clothes, not the ability to quote lyrics but actually Knowing what living the indiepop life meant.

I walked a pace behind you at the sound check. You're just the same as I am What makes most people feel happy. Leads us headlong into harm

I felt a stab of melancholy, accentuated by the ghostly view of deserted streets and the heavy snow illuminated by the cones of the street lights. It felt like an entirely different London from the city I knew. It was slightly disconcerting yet at the same time the snow served to hide the grime and dirt. It was strange, perhaps because I’m not the habitual observer of my surroundings, nor that I was able to express it as poetically. Anyhow, I guess it was merely a way to derail myself from any other thoughts which would prove much harder to handle. Davey might consider himself a person not entirely able to express his feelings but the same could easily be said about me, which I guess is a result of growing up in an environment such as my family. Economy of emotion has always been the defining trait amongst us, and the fact that I had dropped my guard earlier was very a-typical of my behaviour. I mean I’m cool, detached and rational, or used to be at least. But then again, I’ve never been in love before, although my current state could well be explained by being just another alcohol induced moment of clarity. I guess I have to stop myself here, to at least try and explain how I thought I felt. It wasn’t that I didn’t want this to happen, when all was said and done I had longed for Davey and me to be together for longer than I cared to remember, still I know that while anticipation is one thing, the reality of one’s desires may prove a disappointment indeed. My dad’s words came unbidden back to me, the caution that perhaps Davey wasn’t at all right for me and that pursuing the whole thing would only cause more pain. Even though I rarely admit that other people might be right, Dad still had a point, I had been feeling miserable ever since Davey walked out, and even though he had offered me a kind of explanation as to why, there was still no guarantee that it would not happen again. With that came the suspicion (fear?) that the real reason that Davey had followed me had less to do with any deeper sentiments on his part but instead owing more to the fact that acting less of an arse would probably land us in bed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not prudish, the act of casual sex although it has never been a part of my miserable love life thus far wasn’t the issue, rather it’s the notion of being used that irked me. I had come clean about how I felt, and I desperately wanted him to feel the same way, that he had been as miserable as I had been and that he had longed for me just as much as I had for him.

What is this feeling called L.O.V.E? as Jarvis Cocker put it. I was none the wiser now than I had been when I realized that I did in fact love Davey. While I consider myself reasonably informed about a number of things (admittedly most of them have some connection to the music scene) I am still pretty much a novice as far as love is concerned. There was also the gnawing matter of pride. I did not want to be humiliated again; it was enough to face the concerned stares when Davey left my house and even worse as my parents pointedly avoided mention of the whole thing in the following days. Nor did I relish the idea that the reason for Davey’s change of heart might have less to do with his genuine affection and all to do with so sordid a thing as hormones. As mentioned; I’m not a prude, I don’t think that a woman sleeping with a man because she’s, let’s be blunt here, horny makes her a slag. Yet I really didn’t want to be considered an easy lay. Of course this meant that I had to confront Davey which wasn’t something I particularly looked forward to. I am not a push-over but neither do I take any great pleasure in confrontation. And somehow I felt that if I was to make Davey open up it would just come to that.

It was still snowing as the cab pulled up by the three-storey building where Davey lives. It wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, probably former council flats bought and developed (as the euphemism reads) by a private landlord adding 10% to the rent. Gosh I don’t know why I even know things like that, but I suppose that it’s the curse being gifted with a good memory. I hear stuff once and it sticks. I guess it’s just another kind of displacement, putting the unpleasant thoughts away, or at least putting up the inevitable.

Davey was paying the cabbie as I got out of the car, feeling the cold rush of air and the almost searing sensation as the snowflakes melted on my cheeks. It was strange, on the one hand I had really wanted this, well perhaps without all the shit that had preceded being here now. Definitely without the added baggage. I felt Davey’s hand reaching out for mine as he walked the short way to his door and fumbled with his keys in the lock.

“I have to know something.” I stopped as we entered the staircase, not entirely sure that it was in my immediate best interests to ask but nonetheless feeling compelled to do so. “I don’t want to be just another one of your flings, I need this to be more than that and you’ve never told me how you feel.”

 

[daedalus_x]

“I don’t want to be just another one of your flings, I need this to be more than that and you’ve never told me how you feel.”

Davey had gone into something of a disjointed head space after fumbling the door open – he was already rehearsing what he'd say, what he'd do once he got Imogen over the threshold of the flat, let alone into his bedroom. He hadn't expected to be called up in the stairway of all places. He suddenly felt very weary, the weight of accumulated alcohol, fatigue and adrenaline deficit pressing down on his shoulders like a cold, dirty hand. All he managed was a murmur, leaning against the wall, the black-and-white posterised visage of a sneering punk singer on a fading poster eyeing Imogen over his shoulder. He eyed her for a few moments, and then wordlessly motioned towards the stairwell.

By the time they got to the bedroom Davey felt a bit less fatigued. Nonetheless he flopped down onto the bed, whose springs creaked in protest as he let himself loll across the mattress, arms spread like a recumbent, parka-clad christ. For a few moments he let himself lie there, and for another few he opened them and focused on the ceiling, eyes tracing a single branch-like crack puckering the cheap ceiling tiles. He didn't see Imogen as she sat next to him, but he could feel the mattress shift as she put her weight down, he felt the warmth of her body and smelt the smell of her perfume – a last remnant of a fading scent mingled with alcohol and the smokey fug of the winter-time London streets. With effort, a fizzy weakness in his forearms jarring with a twinge of tautness in the small of his back, he sat up, turning his gaze to Imogen. “I've got something to show you – maybe it'll make you think... well, I dunno” He reached over to squeeze her hand – she didn't pull away, but she wasn't responsive either. He convinced himself he could sense the eagerness for contact in her body, that she wanted to lean forward, into him, but she was obviously restraining herself. The fact that she felt the need to quell that want, even if only briefly, made him feel melancholy. He looked away so she wouldn't see it in his eyes, rose, and walked towards his bookshelf.

There was no Dostoevsky there, nor Strindberg, although he hoped that the copy of 1984 would give him some kind of intellectual credibility. But that was for another time. He pushed aside a couple of copies of Frank Herbert books to find what he was looking for – a small, faded sandalwood box with an emblazoned image of Ganesh's head. He popped it open, fumbling inside the soft dark blue velour interior and lifting out a heavy, narrow bracelet with several small semi-precious stones interspersed along its central groove.

“You see this?” Holding it in his hand, he crossed the room, standing before Imogen, who continued to sit on his bed, looking at him with equal parts concern and hope in her deep green eyes. “This got given to me by my Aunty Annie”

He drew in a breath. “She was my favourite Aunty, growing up. Me mam's little sister. She said she was at the Isle of Wight festival, saw The Who play, but I did the math and she would have been about seven. Still, she knew enough 'bout it to lie right, so I had to respect that. When me m'am was out playing the bingo and my brother would sneak out with his fucking mates she'd babysit me, and we'd sit up listening to Quadrophoenia and Face to Face and Small Faces and she'd tell me about how it was back in the day, when you had to do it all from scratch, when there weren't nobody to show you how it were done...” He paused, closed his eyes, and drew in a breath. His hand closed involuntarily around the bracelet, its edge, surprisingly cool, cutting insistently into the soft flesh at the base of his thumb. You fucking idiot, she doesn't want NME's sixties retrospective, she wants to fucking know about you!

“She died four years back. She married a real... a real fucking piece of it. You've heard about my da', and you'll hear more about him if you're fuckin' dumb enough to stick with me, but my da', he was a fuckin' saint compared to that fuckin' munter. Honestly, if I had a knife and he was standing right in front of me, I'd stick it in him right away and fuck the consequences. She stayed with him for nearly ten years. They never had any fuckin' kids – I guess that's the best of it. She'd always have a smile and a hug for me, and whenever I asked her about 'ow she was... I was a fuckin' idiot even back then, but I could tell there was something that wasn't right, she'd always say 'Oh, don't you worry about me, Davey luv, I get by' and ask me about my band or my school or something” Tears were finding their way to his eyes, and he could feel his heart clutching up as if somebody were slowly wrapping taut thread around it – it wasn't just Im being there, since she'd been with him for hours, and it wasn't the memory of his aunt Annie. It was the mix of the two. He'd just have to push through, like a swimmer rising out of a cave, and hope that he didn't run out of kick before he ran out of air.

“She'd have liked you, Im. She'd have... she always said she knew one day I'd find a lovely girl, one who'd stick by me, who wouldn't think my music and my writin' were just fuckin' stupid, somebody who'd... she'd have really liked you. So she'd want me to give you this” He ran his finger over the curve of the bracelet one last time as he realised he really would never have it again – if he was lucky, he'd see it, but from this point, it wasn't his. “It's all she left to us – fucker took her fuckin' money, too. All I've got left of her” He held the bracelet out to Imogen with all the grace of a milkman offering a bottle of blue top, hating himself for his awkwardness as he did so.

Imogen took the braclet and murmured a few words of reply, but in a sudden rush of empathy, Davey knew what it was she wanted to say – he could read it in her expression as if she were a book. As she slipped the bracelet on he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. “We can talk about it tomorrow, Im. I'm fucking shattered. Let's get some shut eye, huh?” She nodded eagerly and gave him a rueful smile as he lifted up the sheet of his bed.

Before long they were lying in bed, the only light the dim, milky glow of the moon through his high skylight. Imogen's naked skin felt good against his, her shoulder tucking snugly into the crook of his arm, her hair tickling pleasantly across his chest. As he looked down at the shapely wave of her bare back, he felt a flicker of desire stir in him for a few moments, but he was just too tired to do anything, and from the way her eyes had clamped shut the moment she got comfortable, so was she. Before long Davey was drifting away, too.

* * * * *

He'd never been one to remember his dreams, so the fact that even a few details clung to his mind in the first few moments of wakefulness meant it had been a vivid one. Not that he was grateful for that. It had been vivid in every unpleasant way. Davey wouldn't have called it a nightmare, since it wasn't fear that clung to him like dirty water as he was spat into wakefulness. The emotion that caused his throat to clench, his muscles to tense and a choked, impotent yelp to escape his lips was more one of anxiety than terror. But it was a horrid, acidic, urgent anxiety, like the feeling he'd once felt upon realising that the crunch he'd felt when backing out of his driveway as a sixteen year old might have been, not a twig or a coke can, but his slow-moving, half-blind family cat. He'd driven back in a haze of worry only to find the cat still alive – it had lived for another three years. But at least then he knew what was causing that panicky surge of bile. His chest heaved, and he blindly reached out for Imogen. They'd rolled apart in their sleep, but she was plainly exhausted, since neither his noisy awakening nor his none-too gentle clasping of the soft flesh of her shoulder. For a moment he thought about properly waking her, but she was so obviously desperately tired that he hadn't the heart too. Instead, he stepped around her, pulled on his pants and stepped out into the living room, pausing only to take one final glance back at her. Unbidden, a line from some book he'd read long ago rose to mind - “It is an act of betrayal to be awake while your loved one sleeps”. A little shiver of guilt ran up his spine and he stepped away from the door, suddenly unable to bear the sight of Imogen sleeping peacefully, like a sacrificial victim the night before she was brought to the temple.

Retrieving some of Malcolm's cigarettes from their not-so-secret hiding place under the fridge, he climbed up onto the kitchen counter, nearly knocking over some dirty laundry, hauled up the window and scooted onto the awning of the cafe below. This little vantage point, where on sunnier days he and Malc would often sit nursing a couple of beers and rating the cleavages of the girls who passed by below, wasn't that far above street level, but the curve of the hill and the advantageous demolition of an old print shop opposite the year before gave him a pretty impressive view of the bumpy blanket of masonry and glass that was the city – the dome of St Paul's dimly visible through the sodium haze thrown up by the street lights. Although it was still cold, the temperature was forgiving enough that he didn't shiver – in fact, the prickly, icy air drove away the fug of interrupted sleep that had been clinging to him like a ghost ever since he awoke. As he finished the first cigarette and lit another, it came to him that to anybody who looked up he'd look ridiculous – a shaggy-haired, unshaven post-modern gargoyle, sitting on the rusted corrugated iron in his track pants, bare chested, smoking cheap cigarettes.

Well, fair a-fucking-nough, Mister ******t he thought to himself, after briefly considering whether a photo of him so arranged would make for a good album cover. You are ridiculous. He couldn't quite believe where his life had taken him – couldn't believe his luck, couldn't believe how close he'd come to fucking it up and throwing it away. He closed his eyes tight and let them open slowly, wondering idly whether he'd go back to the bedroom to find he'd imagined it all. But, no, that wasn't how it worked. More likely Imogen would come to her senses and decide she'd never liked him, or that he'd fuck up, put his foot in it, offend her and be left alone again. He drew in a reedy, warm draught of cigarette smoke and rolled that thought in his mind at the same time that he rolled the smoke in his mouth. Alone again. Was he alone? He'd never thought of himself as alone, before. Christ knew he'd had enough people in his life – Malc, the other band-mates, his flatties, the guys at the record store, his mates from high school who he still met up with to head out for a piss-up and a curry with every few weeks, fuck, even his tosser brother and his mam. And yet none of them, not even Malc or Maureen, had ever made him feel like he truly belonged. He'd never had that feeling – the family that was supposed, as far as he could tell, to provide it in his youth had been a hard, paranoid, precarious place. And Malc, although he felt he could tell him anything, he always sensed that there was an unspoken pact between them never to feel anything too much – they might pour their hearts out to one another about girls, their dreams, their lives, but once it was all on the table they never really did anything with it except to issue a bit of trite advice. Malc was a great listener but he never gave anything back – and Davey did the same to him.

So was Imogen going to be any different to all that? He tapped away some ash and watched it tumble down the grooves in the iron like a tiny underwater landslide. He found himself hoping so, even though the prospect scared him. Tomorrow morning, they were going to... talk. It's not as if he'd never talked to a girl before, but he could sense it was a talk unlike any he'd had before, even the one last night. Now that he and Imogen were... together... they'd have to make plans. Davey wasn't usually somebody who thought ahead, but in a weird, fragile sense, like a child before christmas, he found himself anticipating it with an almost giddy intensity. With that thought in mind, he flicked his half-smoked cigarette over the edge of the roof and, pausing to pry the window open, climbed back over the kitchen counter and returned to bed, carefully avoiding brushing his cold skin against Imogen's, which felt as warm as it looked welcoming.

* * * * *

When he awoke the second time, despite the bright, familiar light of day and the emptiness of the bed next to him, it seemed less real. He had trouble hauling himself into a sitting position, much less swinging his feet into the floor. The hollow Imogen's body had left in the mattress was still there, but it wasn't warm. She must have gone a while ago, Davey concluded as, once again, he pulled on olive-khaki pants. It was a Sunday, so he had nowhere to go – there'd been vague talk of a practice but he felt entitled to blow it off... although in pursuit of wait, he didn't know. Seb wound his way sinously around the bead-curtained doorway, yowling with a gravelly tone as if offering himself as an acknowledgedly poor substitute for Imogen.

For some reason seeing her seated at the table, eating cornflakes, was both surprising and embarassing. It hadn't occurred to him, but he realised as he approached her that she probably felt as out of place in his flat as he did in her parents' place – that she didn't fit the dingy, modest confines of the place any more than he did the tasteful decore of her family home.

“Hey. You're looking good, Imogen” He padded across the floor, looking down at her with a smile as he draped his arm lightly across her shoulder as he procured some breakfast of his own.

Imogen offered him a peck on the cheek, telling him that she had been more or less press-ganged into having breakfast with Harry, who Imogen winked, had been quite the gentleman. The last words spoken with just a hint of irony.

He tensed as he heard Panky's name – christ, his actual birth certificate name – but didn't turn until he'd finished the difficult but important task of making himself toast. As he sat down opposite Imogen, feeling her long, slender leg brush against his own, his worries about the sort of stupid crap that Panky must have been spitting in her ear faded, slightly. He'd never thought of himself as a worrier, but ever since Imogen had come into view at the concert last night – was it really only last night? It felt like so long ago – he'd had worries flitting around the back of his mind like spectral wasps. “Well, I wouldn't listen to much what he says. I mean, you know what it's like, flatting. Uh...” Actually, it occurred to him, she probably didn't, not first hand. “Well, he pays the rent, so, you know, I shouldn't say too much crap about him, but he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about most times. You know, not like me” He managed what he hoped was a roguish smile. “So, how long you been up?”

She told him that she had some things to attend to back at her place, a paper was due or something of the kind but she suggested that they meet up later that evening, dinner at Bar Italia which was one of her favourite haunts, Davey recalled from one of their previous discussions.

He swallowed his toast a bit too hard, a lump in his throat pushing the crackly bread into his gorge. “Yeah? Well, sure, I've got some stuff to do this afternoon...” Maybe he would go to that practice after all, although he didn't think it'd be worth much. They'd all be feeling pretty good about the show last night so they wouldn't have that hungry edge that they needed to really get any progress out of the time, but it'd be good to talk things over with the guys. “Sure. I'll be there”

She smiled in response and then said her goodbyes. Davey opened his mouth to reply, but she shook her head, leaned over and kissed him in the forehead. And just like that, she was gone – clearly she'd re-applied her perfume, because a whiff of it coiled around his senses as he watched her disappear down the stairs.

* * * * *

The last few days felt like a whirlwind. Dinner with Imogen had shot past, then another date – seeing some forgettable Bruce Willis movie, which she'd liked more than him, to his shock – then drinks and back to his place, then breakfast at a surprisingly cheap French place where she teased him by pretending to flirt with the swarthy Cypriot waiter. Before he knew it it had been a week, and his monthly dinner with his mum – their 'date' as she insisted on calling it with one of her glassy, half-swallowed laughs – was looming large. Just for a change, and since the winter weather had begun to break up, she'd suggested they have a picnic rather than a dinner at her flat. She'd expected Davey to object, he expected, but after last month's surprise visit from his toerag of a brother, he didn't relish being constrained in that tiny, claustrophobic flat, its neatness and cleanliness only somehow placing more shackles on him. He was pretty sure his brother wouldn't make yet another surprise appearance – the last he'd heard he was guarding some godforsaken little town whose name was a tangle of consonants somewhere in Bosnia. But the shadow of the 'good son' would loom large over their meeting, even – in fact maybe moreso – if his mum studiously refused to mention him. So, to the park he went.

His mum was already there, unsurprisingly, wrapped in a shiny powder-blue puffer jacket, her long dyed blonde hair whipping about like medusa's in the wind. It was a bright but cold day, the sort that the English spring usually trucked out for the first couple of weeks before finally conceding and actually turning on some warmth. The grass still bore the cold burn of recent frost, but at least the air was dry, and that was enough not just for Davey and his mum but a whole phalanx of Londonites. He passed a rat-tailed father of two pushing a pram, a clump of grimly determined joggers and even a supremely hopeful Afro-Caribbean icecream salesman as he homed in on Maureen as she flitted about the red and white chequered spread she'd laid out. He was close before she saw him, a knowing, slightly amused smile growing as he held out a tupperware container full of over-sauced potato salad he'd spent a half hour labouring over the night before.

“Oh, our Davey” she cooed as she accepted the tupperware like a sacrifical offering, sniffing it as Davey folded himself into a kneeling position, the heels of his boots grating pleasantly against his ass as he planted himself at the corner of the cloth like a chess player. “Too much mustard, I said” She informed him casually as she sniffed at the potato salad, but tucked it amidst her own cooking regardless. “No wonder you're so skinny. My mate Vera, she saw you heading down the King's Way, said you looked like a bloody skeleton in a parka! Sometimes I wonder if you eat anything at all when I'm not feeding you, Davey. Still, it's good to see you, what there is of you anyhow” She spooned some cold chicken and rice onto a flimsy paper plate and pushed it towards him. Perhaps because of her admonitions he didn't feel hungry, but he gamely reached for a plastic fork and pushed his food around anyway.

“So how have you been, mum?”

“Oh, you know me, Davey, your mum always does the same thing. We've got a new girl in at the shop, and she's a real cow, already talking behind my back. Been to some fancy school out by St Martin's and thinks she knows it all. Well I told my mate Dana, I told her, I don't care what bloody school she's gone to, I've been doing it my way since you were knee high to a bloody grasshopper, I have, and I'm not going to...”

He let his mother's complaints wash over him. He'd not only stopped listening, he'd stopped registering that he wasn't listening. He found himself clutching at the loose khaki material of his pants. He was nervous. Why was he nervous? Of course his mum would rag on him for his not eating properly, his silly bad, his no-good job, but he honestly didn't care what she felt anymore, not about any of that – what kind of musician would he be if his mum liked the fact he was in a bloody band, for christ's sake? - but there was something he cared about, something he knew would come up. What was it? Oh, fuck, yes. Imogen.

“So how about you, Davey my love?” She had no compunctions about eating her own cooking, her cheek bobbing like a squirrel's as she chewed, not noticing or caring that he wasn't really doing more than dabbing at his – or not expressing it if she did care. “What's new to you?”

“Well, mam” He drew in a breath, screwed his face up mentally, and dove into it like a cold, deep pool. “Well, there's a girl”

“Not our Denise?”

“Nah, that didn't... nah, mum. It's Imogen” Her face fell, and he felt his heart plunge along with it. But he was committed now. He rolled his chin, feeling the cricks in his neck sing, and went on. “She's an, uh, a journalist” Now her dismay had passed, but there was a darkness, a scowling disapproval that went beyond her usual, chirpy, ritualistic disapproval. “Yea, we've been together for, ah...” Well, fuck, there was a question. “A week now?”

“A week, Davey? You never tell me about your bloody birds. So what's so special about this one that you've got to be going on about her after a week? What, did you knock her up?”

“No!” He almost roared, spilling a few gobbets of chicken salad. Why did he bother? “No” He hung his head, his fringe suddenly walling her off from his sight – but it wasn't seeing her, it was hearing her, and that was still going on. “I just, well, I really like her”

“Oh Davey” She sighed. Sigh number eleven, the it's-my-fault-really-I-should-have-raised-you-better sigh. “You like her, do you? Davey, the only thing you ever liked about girls is that they'd put up with your bollocks long enough for you to get their knickers off”

“No, mam! It's not like that” He could feel tears of frustration prickling the corners of his eyes. What, here, now? It was ridiculous. Sheer indignation at himself gave him an epileptic, sparky strength. “It's just, well, I really like being with her, you know? Not being with her like... I mean being with her like you and I. Just doing stuff. Talking. And I want to... I wanted you to know that, okay?”

“Well then” The sarcasm was on its way now. It was like a bloody play, except all the anticipation he'd worked so hard to develop, all the knowledge of her little foibles and tactics didn't do him any bloody good, didn't even let him steel himself against the blows. “Well, what, are you going to bloody marry her, then?”

“Mam! I... look, forget it, OK?”

“Oh no, Davey. Oh no, I'm not gonna forget this. I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, Davey, but I know no good will come of this, you hear me? I don't know anything about this Imogen girl but I know what I've heard and I know you, Davey, better than anybody else in this world, better than you know yourself. And I know this isn't going to turn out right. All I can say is, one day you'll be telling me she's broken your heart, or you've broken hers, or both. And because I'm your mam and I love you, I won't say I told you so, because I won't bloody need to! I swear, Davey. You're just like your father”

It was all he could do not to stand up, fling away the flimsy little platelet and find a pub to drown his anger in. Instead he just stared at his food, stabbing impotently with the brittle plastic fork at the floppy, slightly sodden paper plate. Well, if this was the worst of it, he was going to be OK. And if she was right, well, her pointedly not saying she told him so was not going to be the worst of it, not by a long road.

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Imogen Summers

I guess that I learned one thing today that the notion that beauty equals good is nothing but a lie, as well as that the ones you love are the most adept at hurting you the most.

Mum sighed as she carefully placed the bookmark between the pages of Kristin Lavransdatter and gave me a long stare that lasted just a moment too long to be comfortable

“No Imogen you really don’t want to have this discussion.Ttrust me” She spoke matter of factly as if discussing the weather.

“Uhm I rather think I do Mum” Whatever resolve I had felt seemed to evaporate as she continued giving me a pointed look. “I think I deserve an answer.” I held her gaze, trying to match it and realising I was failing miserably. Try as I might at being cool and detached I really can’t compare to my mother and I realised that this was not a battle I was likely to win. I still needed answers though. I needed to know why she had always been so reluctant to show even the slightest sign of affection, nor even an attempt to form a closer relation with me other than what day to day interactions provided.

She shrugged and pushed her glasses up on the top of her head as she seemed to consider the question. I’ve realised that a number of our gestures are eerily similar. I guess those would be the tell-tale signs of any relation. Even so and considering that we share some physical resemblance it is hard to guess that she’s my mum.

“To be perfectly honest you’ve been something of a disappointment. I guess I was expecting more from you but well, you never really succeeded at anything and you definitely lack direction.”

I was absolutely taken aback by the cold statement but before I could even begin to phrase a reply she continued.

“I’ve made quite a lot of sacrifices for you, it was kind of a result of you being unplanned.”

“Normally a statement like that is followed by ‘but nonetheless welcome’” I replied quietly, shocked at the flat statement.

“Is it?” Mum answered, giving me an ironic stare “I rather think that it’s something people say to try and justify themselves making the wrong decisions in their lives.” She smiled a mirthless smile as she stretched her legs out on the sofa. “But well I worked around it, even though it meant putting my career on hold for five years would have merited some kind of gratitude”

“Gratitude! How the fuck was I suppose to know?” I shouted at her, infuriated by both the callousness of her words as the reasonable tone she was delivering them in. “What was I supposed to do? What kind of fucked up demands did you set for me?” By now I was standing up feeling that the only way I could possibly manage to shut her up was to punch her in the face. I’m not inclined to use force, I don’t think I ever have but right now I felt like hitting her.

I was so consumed with the vision of me physically shutting her up that I didn’t see her move. One moment she was lounging on the sofa and the next she was standing next to me and grabbing my arm in quite the painful way. I guess I should have known, Mum was after all an elite gymnast once. Well everything she’s ever done was on the elite level, except perhaps when it comes to her children, I heard myself thinking as she increased the pressure on my arm.

“Please don’t do that Imogen. It’s really unbecoming.”

I had to admit that for the first time in my life I was actually frightened of a parent. Not only because of the fact that she’s way stronger than I am but also the almost certainty that she wouldn’t hesitate to hit me.

“I really hate you” I spat out the words as I glared at her.

“I can’t say I’m overly fond of you either” her reply was delivered without any hesitation and still in the same reasonable tone. “The problem with you is that you consider yourself some kind of free spirit Imogen;, that you’re somehow exempted from the rules. Well let me assure you that you’re not. If anything, you’re a spoiled little rich girl who doesn’t have the sense to appreciate what you got”

She was still squeezing my arm, as she spoke. Her tone was unchanged but there was a momentary gleam in her blue eyes and just the hint of colour on her cheeks betraying that she was pissed off big time.

“You see Imogen, I had to fight for everything, my parents had no money could hardly speak the language and I owed it to them to make something out of myself. Your grandmother had to work two jobs to pay for my tuition and I worked almost full-time during my studies. I still finished top of my course, and I got a job with the most prestigious architect in London on my own merits. Not too bad for the little Norwegian girl with the crippled dad, eh? You on the other hand, you had it all and what have you done? Nothing, Imogen, absolutely nothing. You pretend to be a journalist, you write in that little paper of yours but to what end? You won’t get hired without a formal education no matter what your idiot friends tell you. And the whole thing about this boy of yours? Well good luck, you’ll only end up broken-hearted and probably with a baby to raise on your own.”

I was absolutely gobsmacked and even if I had a witty comeback lined up I’m not sure I would be able to deliver it and I was furthermore spared it as Mum let go of my arm and gave me a disdainful glare

“Well then if you’re going to cry do it elsewhere. I was kind of looking forward to a quiet afternoon but I suppose that was too much to ask for” She turned around and picked up the book from the table and left the room as if nothing had happened.

***
It was past midnight and although I was dead tired I couldn’t sleep. The fact that the room was absolutely freezing and, while sharing the narrow bed with Davey did ward off the worst of it, it also meant that finding a comfortable position wasn’t all that easy. Not that it mattered, because I didn’t think I was going to be able to sleep. Not given everything that had happened today. I guess that there might be something about all the talk about karma after all. Everything goes around and in the end you’re being screwed by the universe. I have already touched upon always almost feeling guilty and not knowing quite why. I guess the picture cleared somewhat today. I could feel my eyes beginning to water again and not wanting to wake Davey up I carefully got out of bed, putting his t-shirt on and moved to sit on the rickety chair by the window. A packet of cigarettes was sitting on the small Marshall amplifier, and I fished one out, noticing how I was shivering while I lit it up and popped the airing hatch open.

The cold winter air nipped my cheeks as I brought my face to the narrow opening, inhaling the tobacco. It had by all accounts been one of the shittiest days of my life so far, just the perfect way of spoiling what was ironically, the best week of my life.

I felt how the tears were burning as they touched my cold face. I’m perfectly aware that life isn’t fair, but that it would be nice if things could more on a level. I stubbed out the cigarette, most of which had smouldered down to a butt and immediately lit a new one, inhaling deeply and tried, unsuccessfully not to go through the last couple of days again. Well that wasn’t strictly speaking, true. Since last Saturday I’ve been feeling really happy and if I’m any judge so has Davey. I’ve never really had a proper relationship before but everything has gone quite well. We’ve done all the things couples are supposed to, went to the cinema (12 Monkeys) having dinner at restaurants, both Bar Italia and a French one which Davey happens to like. That was a bit of a surprise, but an enjoyable one at that, seeing as I didn’t think Davey was the kind of guy who would appreciate the works of Escoffier but clearly he does. I had planned to ask him if he would like to go to France with me. My parents own a house in Bordeaux and if this proves to be as serious as I want it to be, then perhaps we’ll be able to slip away there for a week or so come summer.

No, probably not. I corrected myself as I took another deep drag from the cigarette, the tip glowed like a minuscule beacon in the darkness. Not after what happened this afternoon…
The images and words came crashing back, and I could feel myself trying to stifle the on-setting sobs. By rights I shouldn’t be crying, but as usual I can’t help doing that even when I’m really angry, and God knows I have every right to be that.

I shivered in the cold and flicked the cigarette out of the window, following the glowing trail as it tumbled down towards the parking lot three stories below. I heard Davey stir in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent as he rolled over on his back. He looked so peaceful, gone was the mocking expression that he wears when he’s awake. He looked innocent I guess, which probably isn’t the kind of description he aspires to but sleep tends to wipe away much of our pretences. I just wished that sleep would actually come and with that, not having to go through the things that happened today again.

I realised that I even though I had been going over every word, every gesture that had taken place today The mere thought of it made the corners of my eyes burn and I sniffled, trying to fight back the tears. I really didn’t want to prove her right, and crying would be a sure way of doing that. Yet it was bloody hard to do anything but cry. The worst thing was that I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell dad because even if he’d believe me it would lead to a lot of fighting I guess and that would disrupt a lot of thing in our family, especially for Iain and while I might be selfish I do care about my brother.

Thinking about Iain made me want to cry again, because I guess that when all’s said and done he is probably the person with whom I get along the best. Unlike other older brothers, he never made my life misery when we were growing up, and although we didn’t have much to talk about either, he was always nice in his own way. I know it hasn’t been that long, I only left home this afternoon, but from what had been said it’s not a likely outcome that I’ll head back anytime soon.

There was a half empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka on Davey’s desk. It’s a poor substitute for cocaine I know but even paint thinner would do if it would block out the recollections in my head. I poured a generous amount of the liquor into the teacup that Davey had brought me as I came to his flat, and then downed it in one swig. The spirits burned and left a vaguely chemical taste in my mouth which made me wince. I really hate vodka, it’s not smart nor does it taste good. It’s also my mother’s favourite type of alcohol.

I was roused from my reveries as Davey sat up in bed and looked at me in the piercing kind of way that he sometimes does. I suddenly felt rather silly, I mean I had good cause for being a mess but I still didn’t want my boyfriend to think I was always this emotional. I mean he’s always managed to find me at my worst, be it the night after Vibration Land’s concert, or admittedly, now. Still it seemed and seems that he still likes me, even if I’ve had more than my fair share of emotional outbursts. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and even now, feeling like I was I did notice that he is indeed quite the handsome man. That might sound like a cliché and I really don’t mean that he has the legs of his namesake by Michelangelo. Davey’s fit by any account but that’s not the main reason why I am so attracted to him. Instead it’s the way that he looks at me or when he strokes my hair when we lay beside each other in bed. He has a way of making me feel precious and allowing me to overlook the countless hang-ups I have about myself, which is a very pleasant sensation indeed, and the way that he reached for my hand and gently squeezed it momentarily made me forget my gloomy mood.

He reached out for me and I responded, walking the few paces to his bed and feeling his arms wrapping themselves around me. He held me there for a moment without saying anything, seemingly just enjoying the feeling of closeness that we shared. It was nice, I’ve definitely become quite addicted to this particular part of our relationship, Partly because I like being touched by Davey but there’s also the fact that I’m nor really accustomed to physical closeness, and learning new things is kind of interesting after all.
“I’m sorry if I woke you up” I mumbled into Davey’s ear, not quite sure what else to say. I really didn’t want him to know how I affected I was, even though I was quite certain he had noticed that things weren’t as great with me as they should have been. He hadn’t said anything about it but I suspected that he had seen it, even if he might not know how to properly address it.

I could feel his hand trailing down my back and come to rest on my bum, giving me a slight squeeze and coupled with the feel of him growing harder clearly signalled that whatever he might have noticed about me would have to wait. I guess that some girls would probably find that to be a bit rude; I guess that even I would think so, but the notion that he finds me attractive enough that a simple hug can stir his arousal is very nice indeed. I felt how his other hand trailed down, cupping my bum and I leaned forward, pressing my lips against his and feeling the almost electric surge as our tongues touched. The t-shirt I was wearing was unceremoniously pulled off, Davey’s nimble hands at work and not missing a beat as he disrobed me without hardly breaking our kiss. I had become more aroused as his hands and his lips had lavished me with attention and as he dropped the Small Faces t-shirt on the floor.

I guess that there are still some things to be happy about after all

 

[daedalus_x]

The ceiling jumped back and forward like the ground during an earthquake as Davey's body bucked against Imogen's. Her pale back was only visible out of the corner of his eye, her body fluid and soft in contrast to the hard, urgent energy that he could feel building inside him. Imogen groaned, on her hands and knees before him. He continued to stare at the ceiling, knowing that if he looked down at her prostrate on the tangled bedsheets he'd climax immediately. He wanted to prolong it as long as possible so he did his best not to look down, instead trying to focus on the tiny cracks and ripples in the distressed ceiling tiles, and ignore the feeling of her arse cheeks slapping urgently against his hips, or the increasingly urgent gasps and moans she emitted, or the warmth of her skin, or...

He climaxed, tensing against her for a moment before exhaling a long breath. For a moment he felt like he'd punched through some wall of reality and crashed through to the other side, only barely noticing her own orgasm rip through her as she obediently lifted her haunches to accept him. Once the energy had left him he felt his body sagging forward, like a wet noodle, but he used his last vestige of strength to shuffle away from her and collapse back onto the bed. His chaotic tangle of sheets seemed warm and welcoming as Imogen slipped over to him, silently resting her head on his shoulder, her hair pleasantly ticklish against his skin.

Despite everything, he felt no need to say anything – he was wallowing like a toddler in a warm pool of self-satisfaction and airy bliss, and saw no need to leave the realm of placid content for the uncertain grounds of speech. He dozed off for a little, but when he awoke it was as if no time had passed – the moon still peered owlishly through the high windows, the blankets around him were still warm and soft, and Imogen was still huddled against his side. She was still awake, to judge by her breathing.

He cast lazily around for something to say. “So... mums, huh?” He gave her a slightly Norman Wisdom-esque grimace in the hope that he'd be able to finesse her own nightmarish mother-situation, which disturbed him more than he knew how to let on, with mawkish humour.

“Yea, well... I was gonna say, speaking of... ah, this is my ma, like, not yours” He clarified unecessarily, rolling onto one side so he could face her, gently sliding her head from his shoulder and reaching out to stroke her hair as he did so. “She's decided it's about time she met you. She and I we've been having picnics, like, in the park, and she thought you might wanna come, you know, have some wine or cheese or something?” The hand that wasn't toying with her hair was, he realised, nervously clasping and unclasping a fold of woolen blanket. He realised he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted her to say no.

* * * * *

“She's alright? Really?” Maureen's voice echoed tinnily down the line. He found a part of himself hoping that the little squawks and squeals of interference would overwhelm the conversation, even if it only meant having to pick it up again. The endorphins that had accompanied his climax had faded and he felt slightly chilly as he leaned against the smooth, cold wall of the kitchen where the phone hung amid a little splattering of curly post-it notes bearing faded phone numbers. Davey nodded, realised she couldn't see him, and then spoke. “Yea, she's up for it. So, Saturday?”

“Ooo, just a minute” He could hear her flicking through the TV guide. “That's fine, love. I just hope the weather's OK! Oh, I'll have to tell our Janice that I'll be late to the book club... we're reading Crime and Punishment, you know” Davey found his teeth were gritting, and unclenched them. He was tempted to say something but he knew from experience, even if it was sometimes hard to act on that experience, that it was best to just let her gush like a dirty canal and let himself be carried along. “Oh, your girl will like that, won't she? She's a posh type. Now you better tell her straight up that it'll be just my own work, good honest sandwiches, nothing fancy or foreign but they were the same sandwiches my ma made for me and her ma made for her and we came up alright, never mind what anybody else might say. She'd better understand that I don't mind talking to her, I'm not some kind of Labour voter, but she'd better not get any ideas that she's nicer than me just coz her dad's a doctor and I'm a hairdresser because I says to Janice that we're all people”

Davey found his eyes falling closed. He was tired – he always felt tired out by his mother, even when he had just got up from a lengthy sleep. He could hear the soft whisper of the shower as Imogen washed herself. She was such a long showerer, he thought to himself with a soft smile as his mother babbled on. He couldn't blame her – if he was in her position he'd spend all his time soaping himself too. The image of a soft girdle of bubbles fringing her breasts captivated him some completely for a few seconds that he completely failed to process his mother's words and had to deliberately force himself to concentrate.

“Alright then lovey! Well I hope your girl can handle me, because I am 100% the real thing!” She gave a little cooing self-satisfied chortle. “I'll wear me best blouse, show her I can put on some class. Saturday at 10AM. Don't miss me too much till then!” And then she was gone with only a slightly crackly dial tone. Davey stepped away from the wall and stared out the window at where the early spring sunlight was beginning to crack across the rooftops of the buildings on the other side of the street, its dusty light cutting right through to the back of his skull for a moment. Grumbling wordlessly he turned away, tugging at the hem of his shirt and padding wordlessly towards the bathroom door – he pushed it open without even thinking what he was doing. Imogen gave a little squawk even though he was the only one home. He was tempted to step into the shower cubicle with her, clothes and all, but he restrained himself, although he couldn't stop himself from drinking in her silhouette through the frosted glass. “Hey” he murmured, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Hey, ah, sorry. We're on. Saturday, 10. So... cool? Cool” He closed the door and felt a sudden urge for a cigarette. Picking up his pack from on top of the fridge, he elbowed open the window and climbed out onto the roof as the sun slowly rose over London's muggy rooftops.

* * * * *

It was a cold but bright day. Last night's frost was gone from the grass but it was cold enough that Davey had no trouble imagining it still lay there. The groups of picnicers, joggers and footy players who dotted the green patch either huddled like Antarctic explorers trying to light a fire, while everybody else tried to avoid dashing while at the same time minimising their time in the open. Every face told the same story. It's miserable, but I'm British and this is a Saturday, so Im going to enjoy the great outdoors even if it's not actually enjoyable.

Davey wouldn't have been able to enjoy it even if he had shared their bourgeois need to find depth in their recreation. His stomach was queasy with anticipation all over again. For a while he'd had a plan, a strategy even. If being quiet and letting the girls talk could be counted as a strategy... but after a few moments of the bliss that came from thinking he'd done all he could, he realised that what they would mostly want to talk about was what they had in common, eg him. The idea of listening to the two women whose opinion he most cared about review him like that month's bestseller while he sat there mutely nodding and probably getting more and more drunk filled him with a quavering worry that made him want to get up and leave the park even though he wasn't there yet. The fear and worry had reached their pitch and now descended into a sort of background grumbling concern, but the day was young.

At least he could find some solace in having Imogen by his side. She seemed suited for this day, and if the sky was flinty and the buildings chalky she was like some sort of minimalist but captivating etching that had been wrought out of the flint and chalk. The smooth curve of her neck matched the pebble-bowed surface of a piece of abstract sculpture and Davey enjoyed the symmetry. It was one of those days when the combination of her porcelain beauty, quiet nature and slightly aloof demeanour made her seem a little too good to be true, almost artificial, and he enjoyed having that resting lightly on his arm. He resisted reaching over to give her hand a squeeze – the hand that wasn't swinging the picnic basket. He realised with an internal shock that whatever he felt Imogen was actually looking forward to this. He couldn't imagine why.

As if they had a sense for the dramatic, or were unconsciously mimicking minnows swimming away from the shark, the other Sunday brunch picnicers were staying away from Maureen as assiduously as they were a tough looking gang of impromptu footballers using jumpers as goalposts. Maureen didn't seem to mind or care. She'd obviously been there a while but she was still laying out tupperware containers like little gun emplacements amid the long wavy grass. Her hair was splayed out like a flattened lion, her roots showing through the waxy blonde dye. She didn't look up as they approached, content to arrange things until Davey and Imogen's twin shadows fell across her. When she did squint up, shielding an eye against the sun that was blasting brightly if not warmly over Davey's shoulder, it was the resentful look of an insubordinate worker meeting the boss. “Is that you, our Davey? Oh, you're bloody late and all, aren't you” She began to shuffle her denim-clad legs around but Davey decided to be merciful and knelt to receive the obligatory peck on the cheek. He caught sight of Im grinning muggishly out of the corner of his eye but chose not to meet her gaze, instead occupying himself with opening the last satchel. His mother, in an uncharacteristic fit of generous industry, had bought enough to feed an army, although he wasn't as keen one coleslaw with corn in it as she seemed to think he was. Or maybe she'd just had a lot of corn she needed to get rid of.

“So let's have a look at you, then. Mmm” Maureen tilted her chin up in what she had probably seen on TV performed as a condescendingly appraising look but actually just made her resemble a cross-eyed housecat. “So you didn't have to dress up all special for me, you know. I'm just a simple lady, born and raised right here in London, I judge a person by what's on the inside, not what they wear! So I've got to figure out what's inside you. Let's have a look then”

In a flash Maureen was pawing through Imogen's offerings and making some coos of approval. Shepherd's pie – even tastier looking now than it had been when Imogen had levered it straight from the oven to the container, piping hot – chased up with prawn crackers and some lemon cordial which would have been just the thing on a muggy summer afternoon but was still plenty welcome now. Davey rubbed his hands together as Maureen sampled one and found that it was good.

And just like that, Imogen was an insider. If Davey thought about it he'd get mad. He had spent twenty years working hard to try to please his mother and another year kind of not caring but constantly shuffling back to her apartment and keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of approval because, well, it'd be nice even if he didn't really want it. But now one shepherd's pie – and when Davey thought about it later, shepherd's pie probably hadn't really been anything more than an excuse – and Imogen was on the inside lane, the honour roll, the fast track.

“Does he still snore at night?” “Mum” Davey grumbled half-heartedly but he knew even if he got her to somehow shut up about the snoring it'd be something else. He grappled listlessly with some long blades of grass, twisting them between knuckle and thumb and watching with half-focused disinterest as his mother recounted the way he'd snored like a lung cancer patient and peed himself when his brother woke him up with an angry thump to the head. Imogen gave a glassy, polite laugh that made him want to shrink, but as he looked up to rebuke her with something that might have even been half as cutting as it sounded in his head, she met his gaze, gave a warm smile and squeezed his hand with hers. It wasn't hard to ask himself to concentrate on the soft but firm feeling of her hand cradling his, trying to cup it even though his was much larger. It was all he could do not to sigh. He wanted to just take her back to his place, get naked, get into bed with her and... not even have sex, necessarily. Just hold her. He promised himself he'd do that as soon as she'd let him.

Meanwhile Maureen gargled on. The timeline had shifted. She was telling Imogen about how he'd been scared of the paperboy. He found himself interjecting. “Bloody hell, mum...” He allowed himself the luxury of shooting a pained glance at Imogen, which his mother took as a license to start talking again, but he pressed on. “That paperboy was a right psycho. You know his big bra was the one who blattered Amy Preswick around the head with a two by four, yea? And he said that he'd mess me up after I knocked him off his bike when Malc was chasing me round the corner down by the tobacconist's. It wasn't just because he had funny eyebrows, I...”

“Don't you bloody talk to me like that, Davey!” Maureen swatted him on the forehead with a newspaper. It didn't hurt, but it was humiliating, and he found himself frantically trying to get his hair back into place and mumbling. “I hope he doesn't swear like that when he's around you, Imogen love! Cor, I tried my best to teach him some morals, I really did, but he might as well have been raised in a barn! I mean I do what I can but I was working full time and looking after him and his brother, and I'm only a woman born of woman, I'm not a saint. It's like I told his P.E. Teacher, I'm not a saint, I'm a woman born of woman...”

At least she wasn't just going on about his brother, Davey sighed inwardly.

* * * * *

Davey was super tired the next morning. He found his brain rather refusing to furnish him with the details of the events of yesterday although, unlike most mornings he awoke exhausted and blank-headed, he was pretty sure the last twenty-four hours had involved nothing more intoxicating than tea and chocolate cake. But spending time with his mother had always been mentally exhausting, the equivalent of a ten kilometre run for his brain, and he'd slept like a log – hopefully sparing Im his snoring. He rolled over, eyeing her through sleep-crusted eyelashes, and found himself watching with a dreamy reverence as she lay on his sheets, the cloth twirled around her pale, smooth skin like the wrapper of a brandy snap. For a second he wanted to reach out and run a hand over her shoulder, but he could tell she was sleeping quite lightly and he didn't want to wake her.

Instead, he snucked out into the kitchen, a sheet wrapped around him in lieu of his bathrobe, which was lurking somewhere in the chaos that was the floor of his room. A shower would see him right. He didn't really feel dirty but there was something about stepping out of the shower that acted like somebody mentally tightening his shirt collar (if he were to wear a shirt with a collar, anyhow) and girding him for the day ahead. He was due to start a shift at midday but for some reason he didn't feel like he wanted to go back to bed. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of having Imogen next to him, he just felt... active. Maybe she'd want to go for a walk? Or maybe being active didn't mean leaving the bedroom...

With that thought, assisted by the steamy warmth of the shower water, he drifted off, slowly crumpling into a little snoozing, fetal ball sitting on the floor of the shower as the hot water drummed down.

He awoke, a small twinge in his back from the uncomfortable position. Asleep in the shower! The lads would give him shit when the power bill next came in. He quickly scoured his skin, turned off the water, stepped out to the sink, dried and dressed, splashing some cold water in his face to try and wake up. Going back to bed was seeming better.

He was too worried to pick up on the murmuring of voices coming from the kitchen, so the little tableau that greeted him was quite startling. Imogen, wearing jeans and one of his T-shirts, her bare feet poking out of the bottom of the denim cuffs like little white flowers, was sitting at the table, hauling on a big cup of coffee and talking to bloody Panky, of all people.

Panky! The man gave Davey a shit-eating grin and nodded with a gravity he usually didn't treat Davey with. Unsure if it was intended to be a bloke-to-bloke “Well done my son” or some kind of sleazy threat, Davey hurled himself into the situation like a man seeing his toddler swimming with a crocodile, only just remembering to keep hold of the sheet he had coiled around his otherwise naked body.

“Morning, love” he muttered to Im, leaning across to give her a short but firm kiss on her rosey cheek. “Have a good kip, did ya?”