Fucking hell, Jack again.
OK, on the way home I’d come to the conclusion that he’s not such a bad guy, but that doesn’t automatically make him my first choice to have a beer with. I have a digit poised in the air above my phone ready to stab at N (the second letter being O), but then I look around the room and at myself. Here I am, all on my own, drinking. I need the anaesthesia alcohol delivers to numb the extraction of two emotions — embarrassment (at my behaviour today) and fear (at the state of my relationship). But I can’t stand the brooding silence and the anxiety of my own company, so I relent and type, “Where are you?”
Within a millisecond my phone pings again, like Jack had the message typed out already and was just waiting to hit the send key. I open the message. It reads, “Your favourite watering hole.” There’s even a little smiley icon for fuck’s sake.
But it’s my great little pub around the corner and I need a friendly face — even if it’s a stupid one you’d just as soon punch as look at. I jump up, grab my wallet and run out of the flat. I think I hear the door shut behind me, but I’m not sure and I don’t care. It’s a minute’s walk or a 45-second trot (okay, I’m not the fittest man in the world) from my flat. Less than 30 seconds away from my front door is another boozer, but I’d rather be infected with the Ebola virus than go inside. It’s the perfect advert against extended opening hours. In fact, I struggle to remember a time when it’s actually been shut. There’s always at least one old soak standing outside filling his nicotine-enhanced lungs with cancerous smoke, pint glass in hand.
I push open the pub door, which jams slightly as it’s literally a spit-and-sawdust place (okay, no spit but there is sawdust). The interior is separated into a couple of drinking areas. I prefer the front space where there are old, huge tables to place your pint, big enough to lean on without fear of pushing them over. There’s always a good range of beer on tap and it changes regularly. Mind you, I struggle to remember the last time I’d been in here; Claire prefers a nearby wine bar. I’ve always felt far more comfortable in a place that sells alcohol in proper measures.
I look for a flash suit (none) but I can’t see Jack so I head up to the bar, choose the strongest beer on the list that I haven’t had before, pay for it and take a long draught. I feel a tap on my shoulder, which makes me jump an inch off the floor. Fortunately I manage to keep all the liquid contained; proudly, not a drop is spilled or sprayed.
“Hi Josh,” says Jack, in casual clothes, but still well dressed.
I swallow, then cough. “For fuck’s sake you scared the shite out of me!”
“Sorry,” he says. “Want another one?”
“Erm, no, only just started this one thanks.” I take another pull on the strong, warm brown beer to steady my nerves.
“Are you sure? It’s half-gone already.”
I’m about to argue then I see that he’s right. “Fuck it, why not?”
He grins and stands waiting at the bar to get served whilst I grab a table. A minute later and he joins me, a beer in each hand. He raises it in the air and stares dubiously into its murky depths like one of Macbeth’s witches looking for inspiration.
“Does it taste better than it looks?” he asks, some reservation in his voice.
“Only one way to find out,” I reply and start on my second pint.
He hesitatingly raises the glass to his lips and takes the smallest of sips. He pulls a face like an eleven-year-old boy drinking alcohol for the first time. Kids never seem to get over this displeasure until at least, oh, thirteen or so. Then it’s alcopops and cider for the next three years until lager GCSEs, snakebite A-levels, then graduating to vodka Red Bull and so on.
Neither of us speaks for at least five minutes. Jack looks around the pub, beaming at everyone and everything, periodically sipping his bitter then periodically grimacing. All I can do is stare at the surface of my diminishing pint. Finally his evident dislike for the beer gets to me.
“Look, if it’s not to your taste I can get you something else,” I say.
“No I’m fine, honestly,” he assures me, then does the sip/grimace routine again.
Without arguing I push off the barrel I’m sitting on and go to the bar and get him a pint of scrumpy. “Try that.”
“No, I’m alright.”
“Jack, just take the fucking cider will you?”
He looks crestfallen, extends an arm and accepts the proffered glass, takes a mouthful, then places it next to the bitter.
“I would have been fine with the beer.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a really shitty day.”
“Yes, you said so on the train.”
We fall silent again. I’m on the verge of leaving. What the fuck was I thinking coming here with someone I barely know and have less in common with?
“I have a confession to make,” Jack admits. I look at him, eyebrows raised. “The beer does taste like shit.”
For the first time that day, probably for the first time in weeks, I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. It takes me a good few minutes to calm down, as if my mind and body need a complete release.
“Thanks for that Jack,” I say. He smiles in response and I can see he’s clueless as to what he’s done to deserve my gratitude.
“Is it girlfriend trouble?” he asks in what I suspect is a wild stab in the dark.
“It’s everything trouble, mate,” I say. He grins again; maybe nobody has called him ‘mate’ before. “But she is a big part of it, yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Good, ‘cos I’m crap at all that touchy-feely stuff. I’m a treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen kinda guy.”
Christ, he even uses his fingers, mimicking speech quotes, to emphasise the point in a fashion that went out of date 30 years ago.
“You know you’re a bit of a twat when you talk like that, Jack.”
Another emotion skitters across his face. Surprise. “Oh. Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry. It’s just the company I keep during the day. They’re well...twats, I suppose.”
I feel bad again. Jack seems like a decent guy but it’s a bit difficult to tell with the thick veneer of bravado and bullshit. Time to change the subject.
“That blonde girl on the train this morning,” I say.
“Yeah, what about her?”
“You seemed to know her.”
“A bit, I’ve seen her around.”
“Who is she?”
He shrugs. “No one important.”
He might think nothing of the blonde but for some reason I can’t get her out of my head. Jack seems to have got the taste for drink now as he pours the remains of the pint down his throat and asks, “Want another?” Without waiting for an answer he goes to the bar and waves at the landlord to get his attention.
A movement at the window catches my eye. Konstantin grins at me, points two fingers first at his eyes, then at me in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. It’s then that Jack returns with two more pints and sets them down none too gently, spilling some of the precious liquid. When I look back to the window the mad Russian is gone.
“What is it with you?” he demands harshly.
“Sorry?” The character shift has caught me by surprise.
“You and women, what is it with you? One minute you’re whining about your girlfriend, the next you’re mooning over this blonde bint.”
“I’m hardly mooning, Jack.”
“Shut up Josh! It’s all you talk about. Claire this, blonde that. It’s wearing, mate. You should take a leaf out of my book, screw ’em and leave ’em. That’s my style. Works every time I can tell you.”
“But you haven’t got a girlfriend.”
He raises his beer at me. “Ex-bloody-actly,” he grins. “Anyway, based on what you’ve said Claire’s shagging someone else.”
“No fucking way.” I don’t sound particularly convincing to anyone and he doesn’t look fooled either.
“Time will tell, mate. Time will tell,” says Jack, all sage like.
Unfortunately it does.