A FEW HOURS later Owen pushes his way heavily through the door of the Oriental Star opposite his local tube station. He waits at the till for a special chow mein and a can of Tango and then takes them to the counter in the window, where he watches people pouring from the tube, wondering at the terrifying unknowability of strangers.
He uses the noodles to try to soak up the three pints of lager he had while he was in the pub by himself. Being drunk alone was an alarming experience. He’d gone to the toilet and pissed on his shoes, wobbled, laughed at his reflection in the mirror, and talked to himself, then bumped into a table on the way out, causing the wine in a woman’s glass to slosh over the rim.
“I am so very sorry,” he said. “Please don’t report me to the authorities.”
And she looked at him sideways, unsmilingly, and he said “Fucking bitch” under his breath, left the pub, and then immediately wished he hadn’t said it.
After his noodles he ascends the steep hill to his road. The drunkenness is receding, dampened. He looks up and sees the moon shining down between two tall trees, against a navy-blue sky. He takes out his phone and tries to capture it, but the moon refuses to show off for him, imprinting itself as a vague white smudge on the image.
He puts his phone back in his pocket and then turns, and as he does so a thin figure comes hurtling toward him, shoulders him roughly, nearly knocks him backward.
The figure barely slows as it turns backward. “Sorry, mate. Sorry.”
The figure then reverses and hurtles down to the end of the hill, runs on the spot, then turns and hurtles back up the hill, right up the middle of the road.
Owen stands and watches him.
He sees that it is a middle-aged man, wearing tight Lycra leggings and a zip-up jacket with strange black flaps over his ears and wires coming out of a tiny pocket in his jacket.
A jogger. He throws Owen a strange look before running back down again. The road is a dead end, separated from the six lanes of traffic on the Finchley Road by a set of stone steps. For a while it is just Owen and the jogger.
As the jogger reaches the top of the hill for the sixth time he stops and collapses into himself, breathing so loudly he sounds as though he might die. He glances up at Owen. “You all right, mate?” he asks.
Owen feels something stir deep inside himself, something dark. He looks at the jogger and he says, “Are you married?”
The jogger grimaces and says, “Eh?”
“Married?” says Owen. “Got a girlfriend?”
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“Nothing,” he replies. “I just wondered.”
He starts to head around the corner to his street when the man catches up with him. “Do I know you?” he asks.
“I have no idea.”
“Are we neighbors? I feel like I’ve seen you…”
“I live there. Number twelve.” He points at Tessie’s building and shrugs.
“Ah, yes. That’s right. We live there.” The man points at the house opposite, the one where the teenage girl lives, where the stupid mother with the concerned face lives.
Owen nods.
The man gives him a tight smile before jogging away from him. “See you around,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Owen. “See you around.”
The TV in Tessie’s sitting room rumbles through the closed door. She’s watching the live feed from the Houses of Parliament. Something to do with Brexit. It sounds like a donkey compound.
He tiptoes past, gets himself a pint of water from the kitchen, and then locks himself away in his bedroom, where he undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, kicks off his scruffy shoes, and opens up YourLoss’s blog. There’s a new post up, but he doesn’t read it. Instead he scrolls down the page to the link that reads Contact Hi, he types in the contact form:
My name’s Owen. I love your blog. Would love to chat sometime. I’ve just lost my job. Don’t really know what my next steps are.
Yo, Owen, what’s going down with you?
I’m a teacher. I was accused of “sweating on a student” and “taking the mick out of vegans.” And I just turned down the chance to attend a “retraining course” and quit.
No way! Tell me more!
Owen replies succinctly. The outline of the thing. The party, the tequila shots, the girls, the meetings. The curl of distaste on the mouths of Clarice and Holly every time the word “sweat” was mentioned.
What’s the deal with you? Are you celibate? Infrequent? Never? What?
Celibate. Never.
Do you like anyone? I mean, are you romantic?
Owen considers the question. He can’t find an answer. Eventually he replies:
I don’t know. I don’t like anyone. But I have liked people.
Dated?
Kind of.
Dinner and flowers? The pub?
Dinner and flowers. Once.
And how did that go?
Shit. She left halfway through the date, said her mum was having an emergency.
LOL. Fuck that. What fucking bullshit. So, what are you going to do about your job?
I dunno. Going to take some time out. I’ve got savings.
And? What will you do with your time-out?
Haven’t really thought about it. Maybe try to start something up, a company. Something like that.
You need a plan, mate. Otherwise you’ll wake up one morning and your savings will be gone and you’ll have put on twenty pounds and have nothing to show for any of it but a load of trousers that don’t fit you anymore.
I’m not sure I’m ready for making a plan.
YourLoss doesn’t reply for quite some time. Owen wriggles slightly and clears his throat, worried that he’s said something to put him off. Then there’s a plip and another message appears.
Where d’you live, Owen?
North London.
Righty-ho. Not far from me then.
Why, where do you live?
Just outside London. Look, here’s my email address. Write to me. I’ve got a proposition for you. Bryn@hotmail.co.uk. Email me now, yeah?
Owen opens his email account, pastes Bryn’s email address into the bar, and starts typing.