Low Expectations (12 page)

‘Too scared to break up with him?'

‘Too scared to break up with him, or to really be with him.
Either way I'll feel I'm missing out. I hope this is just the horrible indecision of youth and I grow out of it … or I'll never be happy.' Sarah looks at the table miserably. I've never considered her as someone fearful before – if anything, she is rather the opposite. Strong and opinionated, it has always been hard for her to fully give herself to someone else. There is surrender in love that I sometimes wonder if she is incapable of.

‘But you've been together for ages now. Don't you feel like you've given it a fair shot?' I ask, sipping my wine at a normal pace. Sarah is drinking hers like it's tap water.

‘Yes. No. I've done the bare minimum. I haven't cheated on him, but I've wanted to. We live together, but most of my stuff is still two postcodes away at my mum's. I still stay over there some nights. He jokes about what our kids might be called but I've only met his mother once, under duress.'

‘He is five years older, a lot can change in five years.'

‘A lot can change in six months.' Sarah shrugs. ‘That's the problem. What if I break up with him and play the field and satisfy my curiosity only to find he's what I've been looking for, that I just want too much?'

‘That is the risk, I guess. What about if you took a break? Tested out being single again?' I wish I had something more edifying to add, but having never been in a relationship where it's even crossed my mind that there could be
something there worth committing to, I'm not the most useful agony aunt.

‘He'd probably find someone else in the meantime. Probably that bitch friend of his, Cathy from work, she's always been waiting in the wings for the moment to catch him. The boyfriend-snatching whore.'

‘What, Cathy, that mouse-like creature? I doubt you have anything to worry about there, she's so boring and timid, she's totally different from you!' If you can imagine a dormouse transmogrified into human form with a blonde shag wig and oddly prominent collarbones, that's Cathy in a nutshell.

‘And you don't think that would be quite attractive after I've steamrolled all over him? She's just like his mother. All men end up with their mothers. And I … will end up … alone.' Sarah starts laughing, with tears in her eyes.

‘Oh Sarah! Don't say that!' I pat her shoulder ineffectually and reach for the blanket statement all women use when reassuring each other their lives won't turn out like shit. ‘You're beautiful! Look at you! And you're smart and fun, you're just confused about what you want, which is perfectly normal. None of these things need to be decided today.'

‘I know. I just wish I knew what to do now. I'm not the most patient woman. Sorry about this, I've been a mess tonight. What was that thing you thought might be fun to go to?'

‘Er, to be honest, I was going to try to charm you into
watching Beardy's band at Shelter. But I think they're on in ten minutes and it doesn't really seem like the moment. It's okay!'

‘Beardy! Oh shit, sorry! No, let's go, I want to meet your man! I haven't met any of your love interests since Anthony, you never bring them out!'

‘Yeah, cause they're either non-existent or it ends before we reach the stage where you bother with all that. It's all shag, shag, shag, the scales fall from my eyes, I realize they're a troll, time passes, I'm desperate, rinse, repeat.'

‘Well, in that case we must go. If we get plastic cups we can be there in fifteen minutes. You wouldn't want to be bang on time, would you? Do I look ok? Mascara in place, insanity hidden?'

‘You look gorgeous! Mascara in place, just a hint of insanity.' I get out a compact and quickly reapply my red lippy and adjust my cleavage, thankful I have not dressed like a scarlet harlot for no reason.

‘Good, a hint of insanity is sexy I hear. You look wonderful, darling; don't worry.
Vamos, compadre!
'

As we turn down a poky little road to Shelter, a converted warehouse with bare cement interiors, I am disheartened by the long queue snaking its way down the road.

‘Fucking hell,' I say, rooting in my bag for my phone. ‘Sorry, I won't make you wait in the cold, let me just see if I can get hold of Beardy.'

I am always amazed by how long it takes me to find my Nokia, considering it is the size of a brick. Finally locating it, I open a message from him. As I read it, my lips pucker and my eyebrows raise in an expression my mother always warns makes me look like Groucho Marx.

‘Is that your man? What did he say?'

‘He said he put my name and a plus one on the guestlist
and hopes I can make it.' I am surprised at his thoughtfulness. Though perhaps my expectations are just extremely low from years of being left out in the cold, sometimes literally.

‘Ah, thank fuck, I didn't want to let you down, but there is no way I'm standing behind that mob. They're all about seventeen and look like they've spilled out of a Pearl Jam concert circa 1994.'

‘I know, I remember when I was seventeen. I thought any woman who went clubbing after the age of twenty-one must be desperate and looking for someone to marry her. And all because she wasn't puking up snakebite on the street at two in the morning, then arguing with the bouncer to get back inside. I fear I've made very little emotional progress.'

‘Uh, I'm twenty-seven in three months; let's not talk about age. Let's get some snakebite!'

Once inside, we make our way to the bar where everyone has congregated. Maybe the crowd is still too sober to break off from the pack for fear of being picked apart by judgemental fashionistas. A few brave teenage girls dance with studied nonchalance to remixed nineties hip hop, drawn like moths to the DJ booth whose magical powers have transformed a skinny, bald nerd into a prince of parties. Some swarthy men are setting up on stage, but I don't see Beardy amongst them.

‘Sarah? Oh my gaaawd, I haven't seen you in aaages, what's
the crack?' A lanky Irishman in a fur coat and horn-rimmed spectacles kisses her lingeringly on the cheek.

‘Alistair! You look gorgeous! What are you doing here? Aren't you getting on a bit by now, shouldn't you be wrapped up in front of a fire with a hot chocolate or something?'

‘Weell, you haven't changed! It's a comfort to me to see you're still the same bitch I knew and loved! Thirty-two is the new twelve, darling, and besides I'm far too beautiful to be hidden away like Mam's best china.'

As they become wrapped up in a flurry of banter, I give up on straining to hear and set myself the task of ordering two snakebites. I am usually too deaf to join in these conversations properly without being intrusive and secretly look forward to the day when the ear trumpet makes its triumphant return. Just as I catch the eye of the barman, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. Irritated to have missed my window, I swivel with a frown to be met by familiar hazel eyes.

‘Hello there, you,' Scott grins. ‘Not brandishing any chairs this evening I hope?' For a moment, God knows why, I feel like I'm having a mini-seizure in the chest area, but it passes and I maintain an unruffled expression. I hope this isn't a sign of incipient heart disease.

‘Oh, hey! No, no chairs, they have a strict no furniture policy here. You're having a night off from the pub then?'

Seeing Scott out of his boxers and white T-shirt and into
a rather dashing suit destabilizes me, particularly as he is sporting a six o'clock shadow. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sarah looking over curiously, mouthing obviously, ‘Is that Beardy?' complete with pointy hand gestures. I subtly shake my head no.

‘It's not my usual scene, to be honest, but I'm here supporting a friend.'

‘You mean you weren't enticed by all the teenage girls?' I ask, as a precocious jailbait blonde sticks out her tits and brushes them against his arm as she walks past. Scott, gratifyingly, appears not to notice.

‘I was told this was an establishment of class and restraint, but I seem to have been led astray. I—' Scott turns as someone taps his arm and a woman with the kind of face that has launched a thousand wet dreams appears next to him.

‘Oh hello! Sorry to interrupt, I wondered why our drinks were taking so long. I'm Alice.' Alice waves a thin, elegant hand and smiles cheerfully. I love her dress, though I could never wear it. It is the sort of baggy designer swag only the very thin can pull off without looking like they're trying to hide two extra stone.

‘Oh! Hi! I'm Georgie. I'm just … Scott distracted me, but I can get your drinks too if you want?' I stutter.

‘That would be fantastic! Two double G&Ts please.'

I give two thumbs up and wedge myself in at the bar, feeling a bit idiotic having relegated myself to a waitress in
the face of her glory. It seems unfair to have someone of her calibre casually walking around in the world as if it is a perfectly normal level of hotness.

In fact, I've noticed a recent pandemic of average men with normal jobs bagging goddess-like women. It's a trend that affects us all, as they have ridiculously high standards afterwards. Not content with that, they infect their circle of friends with the idea that maybe they too have a supermodel waiting for them around the next corner. Of course, the longer she fails to arrive, the more perfect she becomes – a permanently wet Rachel Weisz-alike who will listen rapturously to their Red Dwarf fan fiction and fake her orgasms convincingly. It leaves the average girl capable only of attracting the freakish dregs of society. Why can't the beautiful stick with their own kind? It's unfair on the rest of us.

After I finally receive our order, I turn around to pass them their drinks. Alice and Scott are deep in conversation, her almond eyes sparkling as she flicks back luxurious sable hair. I hope its artful disarray is the result of hours at the hairdresser, but it appears annoyingly natural.

‘Oh! Thanks so much, Georgie. Scott was telling me you work at the Newt?' Her bee-stung lips move around her slightly too large teeth exaggeratedly as she speaks, as if trying to make room for them. The effect is captivating.

‘Yes, well, I'm quite new, I have my second shift on Tuesday, so here's hoping I don't fuck up too much!' I laugh nervously
and lift up my pint to cheers, wishing I hadn't said fuck. However, I suspect that pretty much anything I say in front of Alice will make me feel déclassé.

‘Are you drinking snakebite?' Scott peers into my glass, looking amused and slightly horrified, which doesn't exactly assuage my feelings of gross inequality. I move slightly to the side so we aren't both in his line of vision at the same time.

‘Oh, you know, when in Rome …'

‘You whore! There'd better be one of those for me as well!' Sarah shouts, by way of introducing herself.

‘Don't worry – I would never drink this alone. It's on the bar. Who's the Irish Adonis you were talking to?'

‘Only the campest straight man in East London, which is quite a distinction to have. We went out for a few months, years ago, before I decided it was too threatening to date someone with more male admirers than myself. And who are …?' Sarah smiles at Scott and Alice.

‘This is Scott Montgomery, he owns and manages The Pissed Newt, and his … Alice, whom I've only just met. Scott, Alice, this is my friend Sarah.' Why am I speaking as if I'm at a smart cocktail party? I suppose it's preferable to saying ‘This is Scott, my hot boss who I have verbally and physically attacked and Alice his gorgeous date who I want to stab in a fit of envy. Sarah and I met in a toilet doing hard drugs a few years ago.'

‘Ah right, you took on Georgie at the pub? She was a terrible
waitress, you know, but maybe she'll be better behind the bar. Wow, I have to say, you guys make a gorgeous couple!'

‘Thanks for that ringing endorsement, Sarah,' I say through gritted teeth. I am a bit curious to see if they are a couple though. Even if they aren't together, he must be hopelessly in love with her. Not that it's any of my concern.

Scott starts to say something but is drowned out by a drum roll and I hear Beardy's voice ringing out, ‘Ladies! This is Tin Can Bang playing especially for you, tonight. Everyone else can fuck off,' before tearing into a song.

I had momentarily forgotten why we were even here and turn towards the stage. Though their intro was a bit dickish, Beardy is looking good.

‘So that's your man? That's quite a beard! That's like, two inches away from Rasputin. But he definitely has a certain charisma,' Sarah says loudly into my ear. I laugh and nod along, swaying to the music.

Their sound is reminiscent of the post-punk, indie-rock, grime-flavoured style employed by countless others, but if they aren't terribly original they are by no means bad. In fact, having seen a fair few original gigs in my time, I have established that at heart I am a bourgeois pig and prefer the derivative to the avant-garde. This no longer bothers me as it did when I was a pretentious sixteen-year-old, searching fruitlessly for the capacity to appreciate obscure dissonant trance to impress a boy. The experience was so painful I vowed
never to feign a shared passion again, or at least not without thorough research beforehand to see what exactly I'd be getting myself into.

I look over at Scott and Alice. Scott is nodding along amiably enough as Alice grins, dancing happily and smiling into his face. Alice has probably never had to feign an interest or fake a hobby in her life. The most irritating thing about all this is that she actually seems genuinely very nice. It's probably for the best that I am no great beauty, as I suspect I would be a heartless bitch of the first degree.

‘Do you want to go nearer the front?'

‘Let's get some tequila in first.' I should probably get over myself, but I still find the idea of being in front of Beardy dancing along to his music pretty cringe. We haven't been seeing each other long enough for it to be natural and I feel it will make the balance of power swing in his favour.

I catch Scott looking at me and use my impressive powers of mime to indicate we are getting shots. The physical tableau involves squinty eyes, a grimace and my cupped hand shooting towards my face, though I belatedly reflect this is also a very accurate impression of tossing someone off. Scott nods and follows us to the bar.

‘I'll get these. It doesn't look right to run a pub and let your staff pay for your drinks.' Scott gives a lopsided grin and in an action that never fails to bring a lift to my spirits, takes out his wallet. ‘Have you heard this band before? They're quite
good; they come to The Chariot, my other place in Angel, quite a bit. Alice's brother is the drummer.'

‘No way! Georgie's boyfriend is the guitarist, that's such a funny coincidence!' Sarah giggles and puts her hand on Scott's bicep. ‘You should all double date! Wait, that doesn't make any sense, her brother would be the fifth wheel. Well, if he looks anything like Alice, I'll accompany him! I mean …'

‘You're Leo's girlfriend?' Scott's eyebrows are hovering disarmingly high on his forehead.

‘Er, no! No, no. We're sort of seeing each other but nothing like that, nothing serious,' I babble, desperately wishing that for once Sarah had some tact. If this gets back to Beardy it will sound like I'm telling tales and now it will seem to Scott as if I'm just one of many groupies Beardy is shagging around with. Which could be entirely true, but is hardly what I want to broadcast. If my options are to look as if I'm being used or like a man-eater, I'll choose the position of power every time.

‘Do you know him well?' I ask, trying to regain control over the situation.

‘As well as you can know someone who gets drunk in your bar on a weekly basis. It's not exactly a deep relationship … I guess I have been seeing less of him recently; now I know why,' Scott smiles with a rather odd expression on his face. ‘Ah! Finally. Three shots of your finest tequila please, with cinnamon and an orange slice.'

‘Er, what?'

‘It brings out the true taste of the tequila. There was a bad batch of Cuervo in the twenties and they marketed it with salt and lime to disguise the flavour. Try it, and if you don't like it I'll buy you another with salt and lemon,' Scott says, with the smoothness of a long-term bartender.

‘Is this a ploy you use to get girls drunk?' I flirt lamely, taking up my shot glass. Scott laughs and winks.

‘If it is, I fully intend to abuse it and I give you my hearty thanks in advance,' Sarah says, slurring slightly. ‘Cheers!'

We all take the shot and grimace. Biting into the orange makes a welcome change, but I'm afraid I don't have taste buds capable of detecting any difference in the tequila. To me, alcohol tastes like alcohol. Luckily, I like the taste of alcohol.

‘Do you want to dance? I think we should dance!' Sarah's eyelids are drooping and it is clear that she is three sheets to the wind. Happy to oblige any impulse that provides conversational damage control in front of Scott, I thank him, wave at Alice and am pulled into the crowd.