Starter for Ten

by

David Nicholls


'What a delight... David Nicholls is enormously
talented, he has an exquisite eye for details, humour
and the ridiculous and he deserves every ounce
of the huge success he will undoubtedly have with
this pleasure of a book.'


Anna Maxted, author of Getting Over It and Behaving Like Adults


'Reading Starter for Ten, I laughed out loud, I
cringed in recognition, and more than once I
paused in admiration at an observation so wry,
so on the money, I wondered why it had never
occurred to me before.There have been many
pretenders to the throne of Hornby: David
Nicholls is his legitimate heir.'


Mike Sullen, creator of Cold Feet


'Absolutely fabulous.And so painfully reminiscent:
God, it whipped me right back.That's exactly what
it was like for me. Brilliantly funny.'


Jenny Colgan, author of Amanda's Wedding and Working Wonders


'Starter for Ten is the funniest book I've read in
years and I am now awash with gratitude that I
will never again have to be eighteen, and that my
university days are well and truly over.'


Emily Barn author of Backpack and Cuban Heels


'Relentlessly delightful'


Mil Millington, author of Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About
starter for ten
starter for ten


DAVID
NICHOLLS


FLAME
Hodder & Stoughton
Copyright © 2003 by Hartleigh Ltd


First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hodder and Stoughton
A division of Hodder Headline


The light of David N'icholls to be identified as the Author

of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A Flame Book
13579 10 8642

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher,

nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 340 73486 8


Typeset in Sabon by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Polmont, Stirlingshire


Printed and bound by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic


Hodder and Stoughton

A division of Hodder Headline

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH
To Ann and Alan Nicholls.
And Hannah, of course.
Round One


She knew this type very well - the vague aspirations,
the mental disorder, the familiarity with the outside of
books...

E.M. Forster, Howards End
QUESTION: Stepson to Robert Dudley and onetime
favourite of Elizabeth I, which nobleman led a poorly
planned and unsuccessful revolt against the Queen,
and was subsequently executed in 1601?

ANSWER: Essex.


All young people worry about things, it's a natural and
inevitable part of growing up, and at the age of sixteen
my greatest anxiety in life was that I'd never again achieve
anything as good, or pure, or noble, or true, as my O-level
results.
I didn't make a big deal about them at the time of course; I
didn't frame the certificates or anything weird like that, and I
won't go into the actual grades here, because then it just gets competitive, but I definitely liked having them; Qualifications.
Sixteen years old, and the first time I'd ever felt qualified for
anything.
Of course, all that was a long, long time ago. I'm eighteen
now, and I like to think I'm a lot wiser and cooler about these
things. So my A-levels are, comparatively, no big deal. Besides,
the notion that you can somehow quantify intelligence by
some ridiculous, antiquated system of written examinations
is obviously specious. Having said that, they were Langley
Street Comprehensive School's best A-level results of 1985,
the best for fifteen years in fact, three As and a B, that's
19 points - there, I've said it now - but I really, honestly
don't believe that's particularly relevant, I just mention them
DAVID NICHOLLS


in passing. And anyway, compared to other qualities, like
physical courage, or popularity, or good looks, or clear skin,
or an active sex-life, just knowing a whole load of stuff isn't
actually that important.

But like my dad used to say, the crucial thing about an
education is the opportunity that it brings, the doors it opens,
because otherwise knowledge, in and of itself, is a blind alley,
especially from where I'm sitting, here, on a late September
Wednesday afternoon, in a factory that makes toasters.

I've spent the holiday working in the despatch department
of Ashworth Electricals, which means I'm responsible for
putting the toasters in their boxes before they're sent out
to the retailers. Of course, there are only so many ways you
can put a toaster in a box, so it's been a pretty dull couple of
months over all, but on the plus side it's £1.85 an hour, which
isn't bad, and as much toast as you can eat. As it's my last
day here, I've been keeping an eye open for the surreptitious
passing-round of the goodbye card and the collection for the
leaving present, and waiting to find out which pub we're going
to for farewell drinks, but it's 6.15 now, so I think it's probably
safe to assume that everyone's just gone home.

Just as well though, because I had other plans anyway, so
I get my stuff, grab a handful of biros and a roll of sellotape
from the stationery cupboard and head off to the pier, where
I'm meeting Spencer and Tone.


At 2,360 yards, or 2.158 kilometres, Southend pier is officially
the longest pier in the world. This is probably a little bit too long, to be honest, especially when you're carrying a lot of
lager. We've got twelve large cans of Skol, sweet-and-sour pork
balls, special-fried-rice and a portion of chips with curry sauce
- flavours from around the world - but by the time we reach
the end of the pier, the lagers are warm and the takeaway's
cold. As this is a special celebration Tone's also had to lug his
ghetto-blaster, which is the size of a small wardrobe and, it's
STARTER FOR TEN


fair to say, will probably never blast a ghetto, unless you count
Shoeburyness. At the moment it's playing Tone's homemade
compilation The Best Of The Zep as we settle down on a bench
at the end and watch as the sun sets majestically over the petrol
refinery.

'You're not going to turn into a wanker, are you?' says
Tone, opening a can of lager.

'What d'you mean?'

'He means you're not going to get all studenty on us,' says
Spencer.

'Well, I am a student. I mean, I will be, so . . .'

'No, but I mean you're not going to get all twatty and
up-your-own-arse and come home at Christmas in a gown,
talking Latin and saying "one does" and "one thinks" and all
that . . .'

'Yeah, Tone, that's exactly what I'm going to do.'

'Well don't. Because you're enough of a twat already without
becoming even more of a twat.'

I get called 'twat' a lot by Tone, either 'twat' or 'gaylord',
but the trick is to make a sort of linguistic adjustment, and
try to think of it as a term of affection, in the same way as
some couples say 'dear' or 'darling'. Tone's just started a
job in the warehouse in Currys, and is starting to develop
a nice little sideline in knocked-off portable hi-fis, like the
one we're listening to now. It's his Led Zeppelin tape too;
Tone likes to call himself 'a Metallist', which sounds more
vocational than 'rocker' or 'heavy-metal fan'. He dresses
like a Metallist too; lots of light blue denim, and long,
flicked-back lustrous blond hair, like an effeminate Viking.
Tone's hair is actually the only effeminate thing about him.
This is, after all, a man steeped in brutal violence. The
mark of a successful evening out with Tone is that you
get home without having had your head flushed down
a toilet.

It's 'Stairway to Heaven' now.
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Do we have to listen to this fucking hippie bollocks, Tone?'
says Spencer.

'This is The Zep, Spence.'

'I know it's The Zep, Tone, that's why I want you to turn
the fucking thing off.'

'But The Zep rule.'

'Why? Because you say they rule?'

'No, because they were a massively influential and important
band.'

'They're singing about pixies, Tony. It's embarrassing . . .'

'Not pixies . . .'

'Elves then,' I say.

'It's not just pixies and elves, it's Tolkien, it's literature . . .'
Tone loves that stuff; books with maps in the front, and cover
illustrations of big, scary women in chain-mail underwear,
holding broad-swords, the kind of woman that, in an ideal
world, he'd marry. Which, in Southend, is actually a lot more
feasible than you'd think.

'What's the difference between a pixie and an elf anyway?'
asks Spencer.

'Dunno. Ask Jackson, he's the cunt with the qualifications.'

The dunno, Tone,' I say.

The guitar solo has kicked in and Spencer's wincing now.
'Does it ever end or does it just go on and on and on and
on . . .'

'It's seven minutes, thirty-two seconds of pure genius.'

'Pure torture,' I say. 'Why's it always your choice, anyway?'

'Because it's my ghetto-blaster . . .'

'Which you nicked. Technically, it still belongs to Currys.'

'Yeah, but I buy the batteries . . .'

'No, you nick the batteries . . .'

'Not these, I bought these.'

'So how much were the batteries then?'

'One pound ninety-eight.'
STARTER FOR TEN


LSo if I give you sixty-six pence, can we have something
decent on?'

'What, like Kate Bush? Alright then, Jackson, let's put some Kate Bush on then, all have a really good time listening to Kate
Bush, all have a really, really good dance and a singalong to Kate Bush . . .' And while Tone and I are bickering, Spencer
leans over to the ghetto-blaster, nonchalantly ejects The Best
Of The Zep, and skims it far out to sea.

Tone shouts 'Oi!' and throws his can of lager after him
as they both run off down the pier. It's best not to get too
involved in the fights. Tone tends to get a little bit out of
control, possessed by the spirit of Odin or something, and if I
get involved it will inevitably end with Spencer sitting on my
arms while Tone farts in my face, so I just sit very still, drink
my lager, and watch Tone trying to hoist Spencer's legs over
the pier railings.

Even though it's September, there's the beginning of a damp
chill in the evening air, a sense of summer coming to an end,
and I'm glad I wore my army-surplus greatcoat. I've always
hated summer; the way the sun shines on the TV screen in the
afternoons, and the relentless pressure to wear T-shirts and
shorts. I hate T-shirt and shorts. If I were to stand outside a
chemist in T-shirt and shorts, I guarantee some old dear would
try and put a coin in the top of my head.

No, what I'm really looking forward to is the autumn,
to kicking through leaves on the way to a lecture, talking
excitedly about the Metaphysical Poets with a girl called
Emily, or Katherine, or Francois, or something, with black
opaque woolly tights and a Louise Brooks bob, then going
back to her tiny attic room and making love in front of
her electric bar fire. Afterwards we'll read T.S.Eliot aloud
and drink fine vintage port out of tiny little glasses while
listening to Miles Davis. That's what I imagine it's going to
be like, anyway. The University Experience. I like the word experience. It makes it sound like a ride at Alton Towers.
DAVID NICHOLLS


The fight's over, and Tone is burning off his excess aggression
by throwing sweet-and-sour pork-balls at the seagulls. Spencer
walks back, tucking his shirt in, sits down next to me and opens
another can of lager. Spencer really has a way with a can of
lager; watching him, you could almost imagine he's drinking
from a martini glass.

Spencer's the person I'll miss the most. He isn't going to
university, even though he's easily the cleverest person I've
ever met, as well as the best-looking, and the hardest, and
the coolest. I wouldn't tell him any of that of course, because
it would sound a bit creepy, but there's no need as he clearly
knows it, anyway. He could have gone to university if he'd
really wanted to, but he fouled up his exams; not deliberately
as such, but everyone could see him doing it. He was sat
at the desk next to me for the English Set-text Paper, and
you could tell by the movements of his pen that he wasn't
writing, he was drawing. For his Shakespeare question he
drew The Merry Wives of Windsor, and for Poetry he did
a picture entitled 'Wilfred Owen Experiences the Horror of
the Trenches at First Hand'. I kept trying to catch his eye,
so I could give him a friendly 'hey, come on mate' kind of
look, but he just kept his head down, drawing away, and then
after an hour he got up, and walked out, winking at me on the
way; not a cocky wink, a slightly tearful, red-eyed wink, like
a plucky tommy on his way to the firing squad.

After that, he just stopped coming in for exams. In private,
the phrase 'nervous breakdown' was mentioned a couple of
times, but Spencer's far too cool to have a nervous breakdown.
Or if he did, he'd make the nervous breakdown seem cool. The
way I see it, that whole Jack Kerouac, tortured existential thing
is fine up to a point, but not if it's going to interfere with your
grades.

'So what are you going to do, Spence?'

He narrows his eyes, looks at me. 'What d'you mean,
"Jo"?'
STARTER FOR TEN


'You know. Job-wise.'

'I've got a job.' Spencer's signing on, but also working
cash-in-hand at the all-night petrol station on the A127.

'I know you've got a job. But in the future . . .'

Spencer looks out across the estuary, and I start to regret
raising the subject.

'Your problem, Brian my friend, is that you underestimate
the appeal of life in an all-night petrol station. I get to eat as
much confectionery as I want. Road atlases to read. Interesting
fumes to inhale. Free wine glasses . . .' He takes a long swig of
lager, and looks for a way to change the subject. Reaching into
his Harrington, he pulls out a cassette tape with a handwritten
inlay card: 'I made this for you. So you can play it in front of
your new university friends, trick them into thinking you've
got taste.'

I take the tape, which has 'Bri's College Compilation'
written down the spine in careful 3-D capitals. Spencer's a
brilliant artist.

'This is fantastic Spencer, thanks mate . . .'

'Alright, Jackson, it's only a sixty-nine pee tape from the
market, no need to cry about it.' He says that, but we're both
aware that a ninety-minute compilation tape represents a good
three hours of work, more if you're going to design an inlay
card. 'Put it on will you? Before the muppet comes back.'

I put the tape in, press play, and it's Curtis Mayfield singing
'Move On Up'. Spencer was a mod, but has moved on to
vintage soul; Al Green, Gil Scott-Heron, that kind of thing.
Spencer's so cool he even likes jazz. Not just Sade and The Style
Council either; proper jazz, the irritating, boring stuff. We sit
and listen for a while. Tone's now trying to wheedle money out
of the telescopes with the flick-knife he bought on a school trip
to Calais, and Spencer and I watch like the indulgent parents
of a child with acute behavioural problems.

'So are you coming back at weekends?' asks Spencer.

The don't know. I expect so. Not every weekend.'
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Make sure you do though, won't you? Otherwise I'll just
be stuck here on my own with Conan The Barbarian . . .' and
Spencer nods towards Tone, who's now taking running jumps
and drop-kicking the telescope.

'Shouldn't we make a toast or something?' I say.

Spencer curls his lip 'A toast? What for?'

'You know - to the future or something?'

Spencer sighs, and taps his can against mine. 'To the future.
Here's hoping your skin clears up.'

'Piss off, Spencer,' I say.

'Piss off, Brian,' he says, but laughing.

By the time we're on to the last cans of lager, we're pretty
drunk, so we lie on our backs, not saying anything, just
listening to the sea and Otis Redding singing 'Try A Little
Tenderness', and on this clear late summer night, looking up
at the stars, with my best mates either side of me, it feels as if
real life is beginning at last, and that absolutely everything is
possible.

I want to be able to listen to recordings of piano sonatas
and know who's playing. I want to go to classical concerts
and know when you're meant to clap. I want to be able to
'get' modern jazz without it all sounding like this terrible
mistake, and I want to know who the Velvet Underground
are exactly. I want to be fully engaged in the World of Ideas,
I want to understand complex economics, and what people
see in Bob Dylan. I want to possess radical but humane and
well-informed political ideals, and I want to hold passionate
but reasoned debates round wooden kitchen tables, saying
things like 'define your terms!' and 'your premise is patently
specious!' and then suddenly to discover that the sun's come
up and we've been talking all night. I want to use words like
'eponymous' and 'solipsistic' and 'utilitarian' with confidence.
I want to learn to appreciate fine wines, and exotic liqueurs,
and fine single malts, and learn how to drink them without
turning into a complete div, and to eat strange and exotic


10
STARTER FOR TEN


foods, plovers' eggs and lobster thermidor, things that sound
barely edible, or that I can't pronounce. I want to make love to
beautiful, sophisticated, intimidating women, during daylight
or with the light on even, and sober, and without fear, and
I want to be able to speak many languages fluently, and
maybe even a dead language or two, and to carry a small
leather-bound notebook in which I jot incisive thoughts and
observations, and the occasional line of verse. Most of all I
want to read books; books thick as a brick, leather-bound
books with incredibly thin paper and those purple ribbons
to mark where you left off; cheap, dusty, second-hand books
of collected verse, incredibly expensive, imported books of
incomprehensible essays from foreign universities.

At some point, I'd like to have an original idea. And I'd like
to be fancied, or maybe loved even, but I'll wait and see. And as
for a job, I'm not sure exactly what I want yet, but something
that I don't despise, and that doesn't make me ill, and that
means I don't have to worry about money all the time. And
all of these are the things that a university education's going
to give me.

We finish off the lager, then things get out of hand. Tone
throws my shoes into the sea, and I have to walk home in
my socks.


11

Sixteen Archer Road, like all the other houses on Archer
Road, is a maisonette, the diminutive form of the French
noun (feminine) maison, literally meaning 'little house'. I QUESTION: Loosely derived from a Hans Christian
Andersen story, in which 1948 Powell and Pressburger
film does Moira Shearer dance to her death in front of
a steam locomotive?

ANSWER: The Red Shoes.


live here with my mum, and if you want to see a really
uncomfortable living arrangement, then you can't really beat
an eighteen-year-old man and a forty-one-year-old widow in a
maisonette. This morning's a case in point. I'm lying under the
duvet at 8.30, listening to 'The Breakfast Show' and watching
the model aeroplanes dangling from the ceiling. I should have
taken them down, I know, but at some point, a couple of years
ago, they went from being endearingly boyish to amusingly
kitsch, so I left them up there.

Mum comes in, then knocks.

'Morning, sleepyhead. Big day today!'

'Don't you ever knock, Mum?'

The do knock!'

'No, you come in, and then you knock. That's not
knocking . . .'

'So? You're not doing anything are you?' She leers.

'No, but . . .'

'Don't say you've got a girl in there with you,' and she tugs


12

I
STARTER FOR TEN


at the corner of the duvet. 'Come on, sweetheart, don't be
embarrassed, let's talk about it. Come out, come out, whoever
you are . . .'

I yank the duvet back over my head. 'I'll be down in a
minute . . .'

'It smells in here, actually smells, did you know that?'

'Can't hear you, Mum . . .'

'Smells like boys. What do boys actually do to make a smell
like that?'

'Just as well I'm leaving then, isn't it?'

'What time's your train?'

'Twelve-fifteen.'

'So why are you still in bed then? Here; a going-away present
for you . . .' and she throws a carrier bag onto the duvet cover.
I open it; inside is a see-through plastic tube, the kind you get
tennis balls in, but here containing three tightly balled-up pairs
of men's cotton slips in red, white and black, the colours of the
Nazi flag.

'Mum, you shouldn't have . . .'

'Oh, it's only little.'

'No, I mean I wish you hadn't.'

'Don't be clever, young man. Just get up. You've got packing
to do. And open a window please.'

After she's gone, I shake the pants out of the plastic tube
onto the duvet, relishing the potent solemnity of the occasion.
For, truly, these are The Last Pants My Mother Will Ever Buy Me. The white ones are okay, and I can see the black ones
having a certain durability, but red? Are they meant to seem
a bit racy or something? To me, red pants are pants that say
'stop' and 'danger'.

But in a bold spirit of adventure, I get out of bed and pull
on the red pants. What if they're like The Red Shoes, and I
can never take them off? I hope not, because when I check the
effect in the wardrobe mirror it looks as if I've been shot in the
groin. I pull on yesterday's trousers anyway, and with woolly


13

DAVID NICHOLLS


teeth and sweet-and-sour breath, and still a little woozy from
last night's Skol, I
head downstairs for breakfast. Then I'll just
have a bath, then pack, then go. I can't believe I'm actually
leaving. I can't believe that I'm allowed.

But of course the big challenge today is to pack, leave the
house and get on the train without Mum saying the words,
'Your dad would have been proud of you.'


A Tuesday night in July, still bright outside, and the curtains
are half-drawn so we can see the telly properly. I'm in my
pyjamas and dressing gown after a bath, smelling slightly of
Dettol, concentrating hard on the Airfix 1/72 scale Lancaster
Bomber on a tea-tray in front of me. Dad's just got in from
work, he's drinking a can of bitter, and the smoke from his
cigarette hangs in the evening sunlight.

'Your starter for ten; Which British sovereign was the last
to see active military combat?'

'George V,' says Dad.

'George III,' says Wheeler, Jesus College, Cambridge.

'Correct. Your bonus round begins with a question on
geology.'

'Know anything about geology, Bri?'

'A bit,' I say, boldly.

'Crystalline or glassy in appearance, which of the three main
classes of rock is formed by the cooling and solidification of
molten earth matter . . . ?'

I know this, I'm sure I know this. 'Volcanic!' I say.

'Igneous,' says Armstrong, Jesus, Cambridge.

'Correct.'

'Nearly,' says Dad.

'Igneous rocks which contain large conspicuous crystals
called phenocrysts are said to be what in texture?'

Have a stab. 'Granular,' I say.

Johnson, Jesus, Cambridge says 'Porphyritic?'

'Correct.'

I


14
STARTER FOR TEN


'Almost,' says Dad.

Torphyria's Lover, in which the protagonist strangles his
beloved with a braid of her hair. . .' - hang on, I do know this
one - 'is a narrative poem by which Victorian poet?' Robert
Browning. We did it in English last week. It's Browning, I
know it is.

'Robert Browning!' I say, trying hard not to shout.

'Robert Browning?' says Armstrong, Jesus, Cambridge.

'Correct!' and there's applause for Armstrong, Jesus,
Cambridge from the studio audience, but we both know that
the applause is really for me.

'Bloody hell, Bri, how d'you know that?' says Dad.

'I just know it,' I say. I want to look around and see his face,
to see if he's smiling - he doesn't smile much, not after work
anyway - but I don't want to look smug, so I just stay still
and watch his sunlit reflection in the telly screen. He draws
on his fag, then lays his cigarette hand lightly on the top of my
head, like a cardinal, smooths my hair down with his long,
yellow-tipped fingers, and says;

'You'll be on there one day if you're not careful,' and I smile
to myself and feel clever and smart and right about something
for a change.

Of course, then I get cocky, and try answering every question,
and get every question wrong, but it doesn't matter
because for once I got something right, and I know one day
I'll get it right again.


I think it's fair to say that I've never been a slave to the fickle
vagaries of fashion. It's not that I'm anti-fashion, it's just that
of all the major youth movements I've lived through so far,
none have really fitted. At the end of the day, the harsh reality
is that if you're a fan of Kate Bush, Charles Dickens, Scrabble,
David Attenborough and University Challenge, then there's
not much out there for you in terms of a youth movement.
That's not to say I haven't tried. For a while I used to lie


15

DAVID NICHOLLS


awake and worry that I
might be a Goth, but I think that
was just a phase. Besides, being a male Goth basically means
dressing up as an aristocratic vampire, and if there's one thing
that I'm never going to convince as, it's an aristocratic vampire.
I just don't have the cheek-bones. Also, being a Goth means
that you have to listen to the music, which is unspeakable.

So that was pretty much my only brush with youth culture.
I suppose you could say that my own personal sense of style
might best be described as informal yet classic. I favour the
pleated cotton slack over denim, but dark denim over light.
Overcoats should be heavy, long, and with the collar worn
up, scarves should be lightly tasselled, black or burgundy, and
are essential from early September through to late May. Shoes
must be thin-soled and not too pointy, and (very important,
this) only black or brown shoes to be worn with jeans.

But I'm also not afraid to experiment, especially now I'm
getting my chance to reinvent myself. So with Mum and Dad's
old suitcase lying open on the bed, I go through some of the
new purchases that I've been saving for this special day. First
up is my new donkey jacket, an incredibly dense, black heavy
thing that's a bit like wearing a donkey. I'm pretty pleased with
it, and the implied mix of artiness and rough-handed labour 'enough
of this Shelley, I'm off to tarmac something'.

Then there's the five granddad shirts, assorted shades of
white and blue, which I got for £1.99 each on a day-trip
up to Carnaby Street with Tone and Spencer. Spencer hates
these, but I think they're great, especially combined with the
black waistcoat, which I got second-hand for three quid from
Help the Aged. I've had to hide the waistcoat from Mum,
not because she's got anything against The Aged as such, but
because she thinks second-hand is common and one step away
from picking up food off the floor. What I'm aiming for with
this waistcoat/granddad shirt/round spectacles combination is
the look of a shell-shocked young army officer with a stammer
and a notebook full of poetry who's been sent back from the

I


16
STARTER FOR TEN


brutalities of The Front, but is fulfilling his patriotic duty
by working on a farm in a remote Gloucestershire village,
where he's treated with gruff suspicion by the locals, but
secretly loved from afar by the vicar's beautiful, bookish,
suffragette daughter, who's into pacifism, vegetarianism and
bisexuality. This really is a great waistcoat. And besides, it's
not second-hand, it's vintage.

Then there's Dad's brown corduroy jacket. I lay it flat on the
bed and fold the arms carefully across the chest. There's a slight
tea-stain on the front from a couple of years ago, when I made the
mistake of wearing it to a school disco. I know that could be seen
as a bit morbid, but I thought it might be a nice gesture, a sort of
tribute. I probably should have asked Mum first though, because
when she saw me standing in front of the mirror dressed in Dad's
jacket, she screamed and threw a mug of tea at me. When she
finally realised it was just me she burst into tears and lay on the
bed weeping for half an hour, which I have to tell you is a real boost just before a party. And when she'd calmed down, and I
actually got to the disco, I had the following conversation with
the love-of-my-life that week, Janet Parks.


ME:	Slow dance, Janet?

JANET PARKS: Nice jacket, Bri.

ME:	Thanks!

JANET PARKS: Where d'you get it?

ME:	It's my dad's!

JANET PARKS: But isn't your dad . . . deacR

ME:	Yep!

JANET PARKS: So you're wearing your dead

dad's jacket?
ME:	That is correct. So, about that

dance?


. . . and at this point Janet put her hand in front of her mouth,
and drifted off and started pointing and whispering in the


17
DAVID NICHOLLS


corner with Michelle Ihomas and Sam Dobson, then went
and got off with Spencer Lewis. Not that I bear a grudge about
it or anything. Besides, at university, none of this history will
matter. No one will know any of this, except me. At university,
it will just be a nice corduroy jacket. I fold it up and put it in
the case.

Mum comes in, then knocks, and I close the case quickly.
She looks teary enough as it is, without Dad's jacket starting
her off again. She has, after all, taken the morning off work
especially so that she can cry.

'Nearly done then?'

'Nearly.'

'D'you want to take a chip pan with you?'

'No, I'll be fine without, Mum.'

'But what are you going to eat?'

'I do eat things other than chips, you know!'

'No, you don't.'

'Well, maybe I'll start. Anyway, there's always oven-chips.'
I look around to see that she's almost smiling.

'You'd better get going, hadn't you?' The train's not for ages
yet, but Mum thinks catching a train is a bit like international
air travel, and that you should check in four hours before
departure. Not that we've been on a plane or anything,
but still, it's a wonder that she hasn't made me go and
get jabs.

Till go in half an hour,' I say, and there's a silence. Mum
says something but can't quite get the words out, which means
it's probably along the lines of Dad being proud or something,
but she decides to save it for later, and turns and goes. I sit on
the suitcase to close it, and then lie on my bed and look round
my room for the last time - the kind of moment where, if I
smoked, I'd smoke.

I can't believe it's actually happening. This is independent
adulthood, this is what it feels like. Shouldn't there be some
sort of ritual? In certain remote African tribes there'd be


18
STARTER FOR TEN


some incredible four-day rites of passage ceremony involving
tattooing and potent hallucinogenic drugs extracted from
tree-frogs, and village elders smearing my body with monkey
blood, but here, rites of passage is all about three new pairs
of pants and stuffing your duvet in a bin-liner.

When I get downstairs I find that Mum's made a package
for me, two large crisp-boxes containing most of the house's
contents. Sure enough the chip pan's in there, craftily hidden
under a full dinner service, the toaster that I nicked from
Ashworth Electricals, a kettle, a copy of Marvellous Meals
with Mince, and a bread bin complete with six floured baps
and a loaf of Mighty White. There's even a cheese-grater, and
she knows I don't eat cheese. 'I can't really carry all this stuff
Mum,' I say, and so the symbolic and touching final moments
of my life in my childhood home are spent bickering with Mum
about whether or not I'm going to need an egg whisk - yes,
there will be a grill to make toast, yes, I do need the record
player and the speakers - and when negotiations are finally
over we've narrowed it down to a suitcase, a rucksack with
my stereo and books in, two bin-liners full of duvet and pillows
and, on Mum's insistence, a vast number of tea towels.

Finally it's time. I'm very insistent that Mum doesn't walk
me to the train station because it somehow feels more potent
and symbolic this way. I stand on the doorstep while she goes
to get her purse, and solemnly presses a ten-quid note, folded
very small, into my hand, like a ruby.

'Mum . . .'

'Go on, take it.'

Till be all right, really . . .'

'Go on. You take care of yourself . . .'

'I will . . .'

'Try and eat a piece of fresh fruit every now and then . . .'

Till try . . .'

'And . . .' here it comes. She gulps and says '. . . you do
know Dad would have been proud of you, don't you?' and


19

DAVID NICHOLLS


her quickly on her dry, pursed lips, and run, in shoit
KTrsts, as best as I can, to the train station.


On the train journey I put my headphones on and listen to my
own specially prepared compilation tape of absolute, all-time
favourite Kate Bush tracks. It's a pretty good collection, but
we don't have a proper hi-fi at home, so you can hear Mum
shouting upstairs to tell me the chops are ready halfway
through 'The Man With The Child In His Eyes'.

I solemnly open my crisp new edition of Spenser's The Faerie
Queene, which we're doing in the first term. I like to think I'm
a pretty good reader, and open-minded and everything, but
this just seems like nonsense to me, so I put down The Faerie
Queene after the first eighteen lines, and instead concentrate
on Kate Bush, and the English countryside speeding by, and on
looking brooding and complex and interesting. I've got a big
window, four seats and a table to myself, a can of Coke and a
Twix, and the only thing that could make life any better for me
now would be if an attractive woman came and sat opposite
me, and said something like . . .

'Excuse me, but I can't help noticing you're reading The
Faerie Queene. You're not by any chance on your way to
read English at university are you?'

'Yes, yes I am!' I'd say.

'That's wonderful! Do you mind if I join you? My name's
Emily, by the way. Tell me, are you familiar with the work
of Kate Bush . . . ?'

And my conversation is so sophisticated and urbane and
witty, and there's such tangible sexual electricity arcing between
us, that by the time we pull into the station, Emily is leaning
over the table, and coyly biting her plump bottom lip, and
saying, 'Look, Brian, I barely know you, and I've never said
this to a man before, but maybe we could go to ... a hotel
or something? It's just I don't think I can fight it any longer'
and I acquiesce with a weary smile, as if to say 'why must this

I



20
STARTER FOR TEN


happen every time I get on a train' and take her hand and lead
her to the nearest hotel . . .

Hang on a minute though. For a start, what am I going to do
with all my luggage? I can hardly turn up at the hotel with two
black bin-liners, can I? And then there's the cost. My money
from the summer job's already gone on accommodation, my
grant cheque doesn't arrive till next week, and though I've
never actually stayed in a hotel before, I know it's not going
to be cheap - forty, fifty quid maybe - and let's face it, the
whole thing's going to last, what, ten minutes if I'm lucky,
fifteen tops, and I don't want to be approaching the moment of
ecstatic sexual crisis, and simultaneously worrying about value
for money. I suppose Emily might suggest we go halvesies on
the room, but I'll have to refuse or she'll think I'm cheap.
And even if she does insist and I agree, she'll still have to
hand over cash, and whether we do that before or after
we've made love, it's bound to take some of the melancholy,
bittersweet longing out of the encounter. Will she think I'm
weird if I stay on afterwards, to make the most of the hotel
facilities? 'Darling Emily, our love-making was both beautiful
and strangely poignant. Now can you help me get the towels
in my rucksack?' Also, is it a good idea to leap straight into
bed with someone I'm going to be studying with? What if the
sexual tension between us gets in the way of our academic
work? In fact, maybe it's not such a good idea after all. Maybe
I should wait till I know Emily a bit better before we get into
a physical relationship.

And by the time the train pulls into the station, I find
myself actually relieved that Emily's only a figment of my
imagination.

I drag my bin bags and suitcase out of the station, which
is on a hill overlooking the city. It's only the second time I've
been here since my interview, and okay, it's not Oxford or
Cambridge, but it's the next best thing. The important thing
is it's got spires. The dreaming kind.


21
QUESTION- Which popular novel by Frances Hodgson
Burnett, written in 1886 and dramatised many times
since, inspired a fashion among young boys for long
curly hair and velvet suits with lace collars'''

ANSWER Little Lord Faunt/eroy.


This is what I put in the 'Hobbies and Interests' section of my
application to the University Accommodation Office: Reading,
Cinema, Music, Theatre, Swimming, Badminton, Socialising!
It's not a very revealing list, obviously. It's not even entirely
true. 'Reading' is true, but everyone puts reading. Likewise
'Cinema' and 'Music'. 'Theatre' is a lie, I hate the theatre.
Actually I've done plays, I've just never really seen much
theatre, except for a touring educational show about road
safety which, whilst performed with elan, brio and panache,
didn't really do it for me aesthetically. But you have to
pretend you like theatre - it's the law. 'Swimming' isn't strictly
true either. I can swim, but only in the same way that any
drowning animal can swim. I just thought I ought to put in
something a bit sporty. Likewise 'Badminton'. When I say I'm
interested in badminton what I really mean is that if someone
held a gun to my head and forced me, on pain of death, to
play one sport, and they were refusing to accept Scrabble as
a sport, then that sport would be badminton. I mean, how
hard can it be? 'Socialising!' is a euphemism too. 'Lonely
and Sexually Frustrated' would be more accurate, but also
more weird. Incidentally, the exclamation mark at the end


22
STARTER FOR TEN


of 'Socialising!' is meant to convey an irreverent, insouciant,
devil-may-care outlook on life.

So admittedly I didn't give the people in the Accommodation
Office a lot to go on, but that's still no explanation as to why
they've put me in this house with Josh and Marcus.

Richmond House itself is in a red-brick terrace on the top
of a very steep hill above the city, conveniently sited several
miles from the nearest bus stop so that by the time I finally
get there I've sweated right through my donkey jacket. The
front door's already open, and the hall is crammed with boxes
and racing bikes and two oars, a cricket bat and pads, skiing
equipment, oxygen tanks and a wet-suit. It looks like a raid
on a sports shop. I dump my suitcase just inside the door and,
with a growing sense of trepidation, clamber over the pile of
sporting goods to find my new flatmates.

The kitchen is strip-lit and institutional and smells of bleach
and yeast. By the sink, two boys, one huge and blond, the other
dark, squat, with a spotty rodent-face, are filling an empty
plastic dustbin with water via a rubber shower attachment.
'She Sells Sanctuary' by The Cult is playing very loudly from
the ghetto-blaster, and I'm stood in the doorway for some
time, saying 'Hi!' and 'Hello there!', before the blond one
finally looks up and sees me with my black bin-liners.

'Hullo! It's the dustbin man!'

He turns the music down a notch, bounds over like a friendly
Labrador, and shakes my hand vigorously, and I realise it's the
first time I've shaken hands with someone my own age.

'You must be Brian,' he says. 'I'm Josh and this is Marcus!'

Marcus is small and carbuncular, with all his features
bunched up in the centre of his face, behind aviator frames
that singularly fail to make him look capable of flying a plane.
He looks me up and down with his ratty face, sniffs, and turns
his attention back to the plastic dustbin. But Josh chatters on,
not waiting for answers, in a voice that's straight out of a Pathe
newsreel. 'How did you get here? Public transport? Where are


23
DAVID NICHOLLS


your folks? Are you feeling all right? You're absolutely sodden
with sweat.'

Josh is wearing burgundy pixie boots, a beige velvet waistcoat
- that's a velvet waistcoat - a puffy purple shirt, and
black jeans so tight that you can actually make out the
whereabouts of each individual testicle. He has Tone's haircut,
the Effeminate Viking, the badge of the confirmed Metallist,
but here complemented by a tentative downy moustache; a
sort of foppish, cavalier look that makes it almost look as if
he's mislaid his rapier.

'What's in the bin?' I ask.

'Home-brew. We thought the sooner we get the fermentation
going, the better. Obviously you can join in if you want
to, we'll just split the cost three ways . . .'

'Right . . .'

'It's a tenner now, for the yeast and hop concentrate and
tubes and barrel and everything, but in three weeks' time you'll
be enjoying traditional Yorkshire Bitter for six pence a pint!'

'Bargain!'

'Marcus and I are quite the moonshiners, ran an illicit still
in the dorms, made quite a tidy profit actually. Though we
did accidentally blind a couple of day-boys!'

'You were at school together?'

'Absolutely. Joined at the hip, aren't we, Marcus?' Marcus
snuffles. 'Where did you go to school?'

'Oh, you wouldn't have heard of it . . .'

'Try me.'

'Langley Street?'

Nothing.

'Langley Street Comprehensive?'

Nothing.

'Southend?' I offer. 'Essex?'

'Nope! You're absolutely right, never heard of it! Want me
to show you to your quarters?'

I follow Josh upstairs, with Marcus slouching behind, along


24
STARTER FOR TEN


a battleship-grey hallway decorated with instructions about
what to do in case of a fire. We pass their new rooms, full of
boxes and suitcases but still clearly spacious, and at the end of
the corridor, Josh flings open the door to what at first glance
looks like a prison cell.

'Da-da! Hope you don't mind, but we allocated for the
rooms before you got here.'

'Oh. Right. . .'

'Tossed for them. We wanted to start unpacking, get settled,
you see.'

'Of course! Right!' I sense I've been taken for a ride here, and
resolve never again to trust a man in a velvet waistcoat. The
trick now is to assert myself without being noticeably assertive.

'Quite small, isn't it?' I say.

'Well they're all small, Brian. And we did toss, fair and
square.'

'How do you toss between three people?'

Silence. Josh frowns, his mouth working silently.

'We can always toss again if you don't trust us,' snuffles
Marcus indignantly.

'No, it's not that, it's just . . .'

'Well, we'll leave you to get settled then. Glad to have you on
board!' and they run back to their home-brew, whispering.

My digs look as if they've been dug. The room has the appeal
and ambience of a murder scene; a single mattress on a metal
frame, a matching plywood wardrobe and desk, and two small
wood-effect Formica shelves. The carpets are mud-brown and
seem to have been woven from compacted pubic hair. A dirty
window above the desk looks out on to the dustbins below,
whilst a framed sign warns that using Blu-Tack on the walls is punishable by death. Still, I wanted a garret, and I got a
garret. Better get on with it, I suppose.

The first thing I do is set up the stereo, and put on Never
for Ever, Kate Bush's triumphant third album. The rest of the
records are stacked next to the turntable, and there's a bit of an


25
DAVID NICHOLLS


internal debate as to which album should go face-out into the
room; I experiment with The Beatles' Revolver, Joni Mitchell's Blue, Diana Ross and the Supremes, and Ella Fitzgerald before
settling on my brand-new recording of Bach's Brandenburg
Concertos on the Music For Pleasure label, a snip at £2.49.

Next I unpack my books, and experiment with different
ways of arranging them on the Formica shelves; alphabetically
by author, alphabetically by author but sub-divided by subject;
genre; nationality; size; and finally, and most effectively, by
colour - black Penguin classics at one end, fading through to
white Picadors at the other, with two inches of green Viragos,
which I haven't got round to reading yet but definitely will, in
the middle of the spectrum. This takes some time, obviously,
and by the time I've finished it's dark, so I set up the anglepoise
on the desk.

Next I decide to turn my bed into a futon. I've been wanting
to do this for some time actually, but Mum just laughed at
me when I tried it at home, so I'm going to give it a go
here. I manhandle the mattress, mysteriously stained and
damp enough to grow cress, on to the floor without letting
it come into contact with my face, then with some difficulty I
up-end the metal bed frame. It weighs a ton, but I eventually
get it stowed safely away behind the wardrobe. Obviously this
means I lose a couple of feet of valuable floor space, but the
finished effect is worth it - a kind of minimal, contemplative,
oriental atmosphere that's only marginally undermined by the
bold navy, red and white stripes on the British Home Stores
duvet cover.

In keeping with the Zen-like minimalism of the futon, I want
to limit decoration to a montage of postcards of favourite
paintings and photographs, a kind of pictorial manifesto of
heroes and the things I love, on the wall above my pillow. I
lie on my futon, and get out the Blu-Tack; Henry Wallis's The
Death of Chatterton, Millais' Ophelia Drowning, Da Vinci's Madonna and Child, Van Gogh's Starry, Starry Night, an


26
STARTER FOR TEN


Edward Hoppei; Marilyn Monroe in a tutu looking mournfully
into the camera; James Dean in a long overcoat in New
York; Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man; Woody Allen; a
photograph of Mum and Dad asleep in deckchairs at Butlins,
Charles Dickens, Karl Marx, Che Guevara, Laurence Olivier
as Hamlet, Samuel Beckett, Anton Chekhov, me as Jesus in the
sixth-form production of Godspell, Jack Kerouac, Burton and
Taylor in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wool ft and a photograph
of Spencer, Tone and me on a school trip to Dover Castle.
Spencer is posing slightly, head tilted down and to the side,
looking cool and bored and clever. Tone, as usual, is flicking
the 'Vs.

Finally, just by my pillow, I put up a picture of Dad, looking
whippet-thin and vaguely menacing, like Pinky in Brighton
Rock, but on Southend sea front, with a bottle of beer and
a cigarette smouldering in the long fingers of one hand. He's
got a black quiff, high, sharp cheek-bones, a long thin nose,
and a sharp, slim-collared three-button suit, and though he's
half-smiling at the camera, he still looks pretty intimidating.
It was taken around 1962, four years before I was born,
so he must have been the same age as I am now. I love
this photograph, but I still have a nagging feeling that if
my nineteen-year-old dad had met the nineteen-year-old me
on Southend pier on a Saturday night, there's a pretty good
chance he'd have tried to beat me up.

There's a knock on the door, and instinctively I hide the
Blu-Tack behind my back. I assume it's Josh, asking me to
fag for him or something, but instead in walks a huge blonde
woman with Viking hair and a milky blonde moustache.

'How are you getting on? Alright?' says Josh in drag.

'Fine, fine.'

'Why's your mattress on the floor?'

'Oh, I thought I'd try it as a futon for a while.'

'A futon? Really?' says Josh, pursing his lipstick-ed mouth
as if it's the most exotic thing he's ever heard in his life, which


27
DAVID NICHOLLS


is pretty rich, coming from a man in drag. 'Marcus, come and
have a look at Jackson's futon!' and Marcus, in a curly black
nylon wig, hockey skirt and laddered stockings, sticks his nose
into the room, snuffles, then disappears.

'Anyway, we're off now - are you coming along or what?'

'Sorry, coming . . . ?'

'Tarts and Vicars Party, Kenwood Manor. Should be a
laugh.'

'Right, well, maybe. It's just I thought I might stay in and
read . . .'

'Oh, don't be so wet . . .'

'But I don't have anything to wear . . .'

'You've got a dark shirt, haven't you?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Well, there you go then. Stick a bit of white cardboard
under the collar and away you go. See you in five minutes.
Oh, and don't forget that tenner for the home-brew, yeah? Love what you've done to the room, by the way . . .'


28
QUESTION The interaction energy of two protons relates
to the separation between them What are the forces
between the protons when the separation between
them is respectively a) small and b) intermediate?

ANSWER Repulsive and attractive.


As a man of sophistication and experience, I know the value
of 'lining your stomach' before an evening out, so for supper
I buy a bag of chips and a battered sausage, and eat them on
the way to the party. It starts to rain quite steadily, but I eat as
many chips as I can before they get too cold and wet. Marcus and Josh stride self-confidently on ahead in their high heels,
seemingly indifferent to the mirthless glances of passers-by. I
suppose that posh-boys-in-drag must be one of the inevitable
miseries of living in a university town. For soon it will be
rag-week, the leaves will turn to bronze, the swallows will
fly south, and the shopping arcade will be full of male medics
dressed as sexy nurses.

On the way, Josh bombards me with questions.

'What are you studying, Brian?'

'English.'

'Poems eh? I'm Politics and Economics, Marcus is Law. Play
any sports, Brian?'

'Only Scrabble,' I quip.

'Scrabble's not a sport,' sniffles Marcus.

'You haven't seen the way I play it!' I say, quick as a
flash.


29
DAVID NICHOLLS


But he doesn't seem to find this funny, because he just
scowls and says, 'Doesn't matter how you play it, it's still
not a sport.'

'No, I know, I was just . . .'

'Are you soccer, cricket or rugby?' says Josh.

'Well, none of them really . . .'

'Not a sportsman, then?'

'Not at all.' I can't help feeling that I'm being assessed
for admission into some un-named private club, and failing.

'How's your squash? I need a partner.'

'Not squash. Badminton occasionally.'

'Badminton's a girls' game,' says Marcus, adjusting the
straps on his slingbacks.

'Take a year out?' asks Josh.

'No . . .'

'Go anywhere nice this summer?'

'No . . .'

'What do your parents do?'

'Well, Mum works on the tills in Woolworths. Dad sold
double-glazing, but he's dead now.' Josh squeezes me on the
arm and says, 'I'm so sorry,' though it's unclear whether he
means Dad's death or Mum's job.

'How about yours?'

'Oh, Dad's Foreign Office, Mum's Department of Transport.'
Oh my God, he's a Tory. Or at least I assume Josh is
Tory if his parents are Tory, it does tend to run in families.
As for Marcus I wouldn't be surprised to discover that he's in
the Hitler Youth.

Finally we arrive at Kenwood Manor. I'd avoided the halls
of residence as I'd been advised on the university open-day that
they were dull and institutional and packed full of Christians.
The reality is somewhere between a lunatic asylum and a minor
public school - long echoing corridors, parquet floors, the
smell of damp underwear drying on a luke-warm radiator,


so
STARTER FOR TEN


and the sense that sumevvheie, something teiiible ib happening
in a toilet.

The distant thud of Dexys Midnight Runners beckons us
along a corridor to a large, wood-panelled room, with high
windows and sparsely populated with students - about seven
parts Tart to three parts Vicar, and with a roughly fifty-fifty
split between female and male Tarts. It's not a pretty sight.
Burly men and quite a few women, in artfully torn tights with
sports socks stuffed in their bras, leaning against the walls like,
well, Tarts, whilst patrician Edwardian vice-chancellors peer
down from their portraits in despair.

'By the way, Bri, I don't suppose you've got that tenner . . . ?'
says Josh, frowning '. . . for the home-brew?'

I can't really afford it of course, and it's the tenner that Mum
pressed into my hand, but in the spirit of new friendship I hand
over the money, and Josh and Marcus skip off like dogs on
a beach, leaving me to make some more of these friendships
that will last me a lifetime. I decide that, generally speaking, at
this early stage of the evening it's best to go for a vicar, rather
than a tart.

On the way to the makeshift bar, a trestle table selling Red
Stripe for a very reasonable 50p a can, I put on my talk-to-me
please face, a simple-minded close-mouthed grin accompanied
by tentative nods and hopeful glances. Standing waiting to be
served is a lanky hippie with a matching village-idiot grin
to mine and, remarkably, an even worse complexion. He
glances around the room, and in a high Brummie accent says,
'Absolutely looooony, isn't it!'

'Insane!' I say, and we both roll our eyes as if to say 'Teh,
kids today!' His name's Chris, and it soon transpires that he's
studying English too; 'Synchronicity!' exclaims Chris, and then
proceeds to tell me the whole of his A-level syllabus, and the
precise contents of his UCCA form, and the plot of every
book he's ever read in his whole life, before embarking on a
description of his summer spent travelling round India, in real


31
DAVID NICHOLLS


time, and I pass the days and nights that follow by nodding,
and drinking three cans of Red Stripe, and wondering whether
his skin really is worse than mine, when all of a sudden I realise
that he's saying . . .

'. . . and d'you know what? I never used toilet paper once
in all that time.'

'Really?'

'Nope. And I don't think I'll ever use it again either.
It's much fresher this way, and much more environmentally
friendly.'

'So what do you . . . ?'

'Oh, just my hand, and a bucket of water. This hand!' and he thrusts it under my nose. 'Trust me, it's loads more
hygienic.'

'But I thought you said you kept getting dysentery?'

'Well, yes, but that's different. Everyone gets dysentery.'

I decide not to pursue the point, and say, 'Great! Well, well
done you . . .' and we're off again, travelling on bare wooden
benches by rickety bus from Hyderabad to Bangalore until,
somewhere in the Erramala Hills, the Red Stripe does its work
and I realise with joy that my bladder's full and that I'm really
sorry but I have to go to the toilet - 'Don't go away, I'll be
right back, stay right where you are' - and as I'm leaving he
grabs me by the shoulder, holds his left hand up in front of
my face and says, evangelically, 'And don't forget! No need
for toilet paper!' I smile and head off briskly.

When I come back I realise with relief that he has gone away,
so I go and sit on the edge of the wooden stage, next to a small,
neat woman dressed neither as tart nor vicar, but as a member
of the KGB Youth Wing - a heavy black coat, black tights, a
short denim shirt, and a black soviet-style cap, pushed back
behind an oily black quiff. I give her a 'mind-if-I-sit-here?'
smile and she gives me a 'yes-go-away' smile, a tight little
spasm, and there's a glimpse of tiny, sharp white teeth, all the
same size, behind an incongruous smear of crimson lipstick. I


32


"i
STARTER FOR TEN


should probably just go, of course, but the lager's made me
fearless and over-friendly, and so I sit next to her, anyway.
Even over the gurgling bass-line of 'Two Tribes', you can still
hear the muscles in her face tightening.

After a while, I turn and glance at her. She's smoking a
rollie in nervous little puffs, and staring doggedly out at the
dance-floor. I have two choices, speak or leave. Maybe I'll try
speaking. 'The ironic thing is, I actually am a vicar!'

No response.

The haven't seen this many prostitutes since my sixteenth
birthday!'

No response. Maybe she didn't hear me. I offer her a swig
of my can of Red Stripe.

'You're too kind. I'll pass though, thanks very much,' and
she picks up the can by her side, and waggles it at me. Her voice
precisely fits her face, hard and sharp; Scottish, Glaswegian
I think.

'So! What did you come as?' I say brightly, nodding at her
clothes.

'I came as a normal person,' she says, unsmilingly.

'You could at least have made an effort! Just put on a
dog-collar or something!'

'Maybe. Except I'm Jewish.' She takes a swig from her own
can. 'Funnily enough, fancy-dress has never really taken off
amongst the Jewish Community.'

'You know, I sometimes wish I was Jewish,' I say. As a
conversational gambit, I realise that this is pretty bold, and
I'm not entirely sure why I say it; partly because I think it's
important to be up-front about issues of race, gender and
identity, and also because by this stage I'm pretty pissed.

She narrows her eyes, and looks at me for a moment, a
spaghetti-western look, sucking on her rollie, deciding whether
to take offence or not, then says quietly: 'Is that right?'

'I'm sorry, I'm not being racist, I just mean that a lot of my
heroes are Jewish, so . . .'


33
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Well, I'm glad that my people meet with your approval.
Who are these heroes, then?'

'Oh, you know, Einstein, Freud, Marx . . .'

'Karl or Groucho?'

'Both. Arthur Miller, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Dustin
Hoffman, Philip Roth . . .'

'Jesus, of course

'. . . Stanley Kubrick, Freud, J.D.Salinger . . .'

'Of course, strictly speaking Salinger's not Jewish.'

'Oh, he is.'

'Trust me, he's not.'

'Are you sure?'

'We know - we have a special sense.'

'But it's a Jewish name.'

'His father was Jewish, his mother was Catholic, so technically
he's not. Jewishness passes through the female line.'

'I didn't know that.'

'Well there you go, the beginnings of your university education,'
and she goes back to glowering at the dance-floor,
now crammed with Tarts hobbling along to the music. It's
a pretty grim sight, like a newly discovered circle of hell, and
the girl watches with knowing contempt, as if waiting for the
bomb she's planted to go off. 'Christ, will you take a look
at this little lot,' she drawls wearily, as 'Two Tribes' segues
into 'Relax'. 'Frankie Says "Ab-so-lute-ly Noooo Fucking
Idea . . ."' Deciding that world-weary cynicism is definitely
the way to go here, I make sure that I chuckle audibly at this,
and she turns to me, half-smiling. 'You know the greatest
achievement of the English boarding-school? Generations of
floppy-haired boys who know the correct way to adjust a
suspender belt. What's amazing is how many of you lot arrive
at university with your women's clothing already packed.'

You lot?

'Actually, I went to a comprehensive school,' I say.

'Well, bully for you. You know, you're the sixth person to


34
STARTER FOR TEN


tell me that tonight. Is it some kind of weird left-wing chat-up
line I wonder? What am I meant to be more impressed by? Our
state school system? Or your heroic academic achievements?'

If I know anything, I know when I've been beaten, so I pick
up my three-quarters-full can and wave it in the air like it's
empty; 'I'm just going to the bar, can I get you something,
urn . . . ?'

'Rebecca.'

'. . . Rebecca?'

'I'm fine.'

'Right. Well. See you around. I'm Brian, by the way.'

'Goodbye, Brian.'

'Bye, Rebecca.'

I'm about to go over to the bar, but notice Chris the hippie
lying in wait, up to his elbow in a big bag of crisps, and so
head out of the hall and decide to go for a walk.

I wander down the wood-panelled corridor, where the last
batch of new students are saying goodbye to their parents to
a soundtrack of Bob Marley's 'Legend'. One girl sobs in her
sobbing mother's arms whilst her impatient dad stands stiffly
by, a little roll of banknotes clutched in his hand. A lanky,
embarrassed black-clad Goth with a prominent dental brace
is almost physically pushing his parents out of the room, so
that he can get on with the serious business of letting people
know the dark and complex creature that lies behind all that
metal and plastic. Other new arrivals are introducing themselves
to their next-door neighbours, delivering little potted
biographies: subject, place-of-birth, exam grades, favourite
band, most traumatic childhood experience. It's a sort of
polite, middle-class version of that scene in war movies, where
the raw young recruits arrive in the barracks and show each
other photos of the girl back home.

I stop at the Student Union notice-board, sip my lager
and idly scan the posters - a drum-kit for sale, calls to
boycott Barclays, an out-of-date meeting of the Revolutionary


35
DAVID NICHOLLS


Communist Party in support of the miners, auditions for The
Pirates OfPenzance -1 note that Self-inflicted and Meet Your
Feet are playing at the Frog and Frigate next Tuesday.

And that's when I see it.

On the notice-board, a bright red photo-copied A4 poster
reads:


Your Starter for Ten!


Know your Sophocles from your Socrates?

Your Ursa Minor from your Lee Majors?
Your carpe cf/emfrom your habeas corpus?

Think you've got what it takes to take on the big boys?
Why not come along to the University Challenge auditions?

Qualification by brief (and fun!) written exam.

Friday lunchtime, 1.00 p.m. prompt,


Student Union, Meeting Room 6.


Commitment required. No slackers or chancers. Only the finest minds need apply.


Here it is then. This is the one. The Challenge.


36
QUESTION: Which black American entertainer, the self
proclaimed 'hardest-working man in show-business'
and a pioneer of funk music, is commonly known as
'the Godfather of Soul'?

ANSWER: James Brown.


The thing that used to strike me most was their hair; great,
improbable waves of brittle hair like parched wheat; swooping
curtains of silky fringe; Sunday tea-time costume-drama
mutton-chop sideburns. Dad could be reduced to a white-faced
rage by anything other than a short-back-and-sides on Top of
the Pops but if you made it on to University Challenge then
you'd earned the right to any damned hair-do you wanted.
It was almost as if they couldn't help it, as if the crazy hair
was just an outlet for all that incredible, uncontrollable excess
mental energy. Like a mad scientist, you couldn't be that clever
and still expect to have manageable hair, or decent eyesight, or
the ability to wash and dress yourself.

And the clothes; the arcane, olde-English tradition of scarlet
gowns combined with the self-consciously wacky piano
keyboard-ties, the endless home-knitted scarves, the Afghan
jerkins. Of course, when you're a kid watching telly, everyone
seems old, and retrospectively I suppose they must have been
young, technically, in earth years, but if they really were
twenty, then they were twenty going on sixty-two. Certainly
there was nothing in the faces that suggested youth, or vigour,
or good health. Instead they were tired, pasty, care-worn, as if


37
DAVID NICHOLLS


struggling with the weight of all that information - the half-life
of 'Tritium, the origins of the term 'eminence grise', the first
twenty perfect numbers, the rhyme scheme of a Petrarchan
sonnet - had taken a terrible physical toll.

Of course, Dad and I rarely got any of the answers right, but
that wasn't really the point. This wasn't trivia - it wasn't about
feeling smug and complacent about all the things you knew,, it was about feeling humbled by the whole, vast universe of things about which you had absolutely no idea; the point
was to watch in awe, because it really did seem to me and
Dad as if these strange creatures knew everything. Ask any
question: what's the weight of the sun? Why are we here? Is
the universe infinite? What's the secret of true happiness? --
and even if they didn't know the answer immediately, they
could at least confer, muttering to each other in low, lisping
voices, and come up with something that, if not quite correct,
still sounded like a fairly good guess.

And it didn't matter that the contestants were clearly social
misfits, or a little grubby or spotty, or ageing virgins, or in some
cases just frankly strange, the point was that somewhere was a
place where people actually knew all these things, and loved
knowing them, and cared about that knowledge passionately,
and thought it was important and worthwhile, and that one
day, Dad said, if I worked really, really hard, I might actually
get there too . . .


'Fancy your chances?' she says.

I turn around and I swear she is so beautiful that I nearly
drop my can of lager.

'Fancy your chances?'

I don't think I've ever stood this close to anything this
beautiful. There's beauty in books of course, or in a painting
maybe, or a view, like on that geography field-trip to the
Isle of Purbeck, but up until now I don't think I've ever
experienced true beauty, not in a real live, warm, soft human


38
STARTER FOR TEN


being, something that you might be able to touch, in theory
anyway. She's so perfect that I actually flinch when I see her.
The muscles in my chest tighten up and I have to remind myself
to breathe. It sounds like outrageous hyperbole, I know, but
she really does look like a young, blonde Kate Bush.

'Fancy your chances?' she says.

'Hmhm?' I riposte, sharp as a tack.

'Think you're up to it?' she says, nodding at the poster.

Quick, say something witty.

'Ffnagh' quip I, and she smiles at me sympathetically, like
a kindly young nurse smiling at the Elephant Man.

'See you there tomorrow, then?' she says, and walks away.
She's in fancy dress, but very cannily, with great wit and
aplomb and taste, she's gone for the far superior French Tart
option - a tight black-and-white striped top, wide, black elasticated
ballet-dancer's belt, black pencil skirt, fishnet tights.
Or are they stockings? Stockings or tights, stockings or tights,
stockings or tights . . .

I follow her back along the corridor, a decent, non-threatening
distance behind, and watch her walk her metronomic walk,
like Monroe coming out of the steam in Some Like It Hot, stockings or tights, stockings or tights, and as she passes each
bedroom door someone will pop their head out and say hi,
and hello, and how are you and you look great; but she can
only have been here eight hours, a day at most, so how come
she seems to know everyone?

Then she enters the party, walks through a crowd of gaping
vicars and across to a little cluster of girls stood by the edge
of the dance-floor, the kind of hard, pretty, trendy girls
who always sniff each other out and flock together. The
DJ is playing 'Tainted Love' now, and the atmosphere in the
room seems to have got darker, more sexually predatory and
decadent, and if it's not quite Weimar Republic Berlin, then
it's at least an East Sussex Sixth-form-college production of Cabaret. I stand in the shadows and observe. I'm going to have


39
DAVID NICHOLLS


to have my wits about me, if I'm going to do this properly, and
I'm also going to need more lager. I go and buy can number
six. Or is it seven? Not sure. Doesn't matter.

I hurry back, in case she's gone, but she's still there at the
edge of the dance-floor with her gang of four, laughing and
joking as if she's known them for a lifetime rather than for a
whole afternoon. I arrange my face into something like a look
of wry, amused boredom and make a couple of sorties, walking
close by her with a nonchalant air, in the hope that she'll catch
my eye, grab me by the elbow and say, 'Tell me everything about yourself, you fascinating creature.' She doesn't, so I
decide to walk by her again. I do this maybe fourteen or
fifteen times, but she doesn't notice me, so I decide to take
a more direct approach. I go and stand behind her.

I'm stood behind her for the whole of the extended twelve
inch version of 'Blue Monday' by New Order. Eventually,
one of her new friends, a triangular-faced, thin-lipped girl
with cat's eyes and a bleached-blonde crop, catches my eye
and instinctively puts her hand on her handbag as if she
thinks I'm there with the intention of stealing someone's
purse. So I grin reassuringly, and her eyes start to flick
madly round the group, and maybe she emits a high-pitched
warning signal or something, because finally the group turns
and looks at me, and all of a sudden the blonde Kate Bush
is right there, her beautiful face just inches away from
mine. I've got my wits about me this time so, pithily, I
say: 'Hullo!'

This intrigues her less than I'd hoped, because she just says
'Hi' then starts to turn her back on me.

'We met? Just now? In the corridor?' I gabble.

Her face is blank. Despite the volume of liquid I've drunk,
my mouth feels thick and gluey, as if the saliva has been
thickened with cornflour, but I lick my lips and say, 'You
asked me if I fancied my chances? On University Challenged

'Oh, yes,' she says, and turns again, but her friends have


4O
STARTER FOR TEN


scattered, sensing the electricity between us, and we are alone
at last, as fate has decreed.

The ironic thing is I actually am a vicar!' I say.

'Sorry?' She leans in closer, and I take the opportunity to put
my hand to her ear, and let it brush against her lovely head.

'I actually am a vicar!' I shout.

'Are you?'

'What?'

'A vicar?'

'No, I'm not a vicar.'

'I thought you said you were a vicar?'

'No, I'm not . . .'

'What did you say, then?'

'Well, yes, I mean, I did, yes, say, I was a vicar, yes, but I
was, I was joking!'

'Oh. Sorry, I don't underst . . .'

'I'm Brian by the way!' Don't panic . . .

'Hello Brian . . .' and she starts to look around for her
friends. Keep going, keep going . . .

'Why? Do I look like a vicar?!' I say.

'I don't know. A little bit, I suppose . . .'

'Oh! Right! Well, thanksl Thanks a lotV I'm trying mock
indignation now, arms folded high across my chest, trying to
make her laugh, to get some witty, light-hearted banter going.
'A vicar eh! Well, thank you very much\ In that case, you look
like a ... like a real ... a real tart\'

'I'm sorry?'

She can't have heard me properly, because she's not laughing,
so I raise my voice.

'A TART! You look like a prostitute! A high-class prostitute,
mind you . . .'

She smiles at me, one of those very small, subtle smiles that
resemble contempt, and says, 'Will you excuse me, Gary, I'm desperate for the loo . . .'

'Okay! See you round!' but she's already gone, leaving


41
DAVID NICHOLLS


me with a vague feeling that things might have gone better.
Perhaps she's taken offence, even though I was obviously
putting on a funny voice. But how does she know it's a funny
voice, if she's not accustomed to my usual voice? Maybe now
she just thinks that I've got a funny voice? And who the hell
is Gary? I stand and watch her head off to the toilets, except
she only goes as far as the dance-floor, where she stops, and
whispers in another girl's ear, and they both laugh. So she
doesn't need the toilet after all. The toilet was just a ruse.

Then she starts to dance. They're playing 'Love Cats' by The
Cure, and in a witty and incisive interpretation of the song's
lyric, she's dancing a little bit like a cat, bored and aloof and
supple, with one arm occasionally flung up above her head
like a, well, like a cat's tail! She is the most amazing dancer
in the world! Now she's got her hands under her chin like
two little paws, and she is the eponymous Love Cat, and
she is so wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully
pretty, and an idea hits me, a plan so beautiful in its simplicity
and yet so ingenious and infallible, that I'm amazed I haven't
thought of it before.

Dance! I will woo her through the medium of contemporary
dance.

The record changes, and it's 'Sex Machine' by James Brown,
which is fine by me, because I do feel like getting up and being
a sex machine now you come to mention it. I carefully place
the can of Red Stripe on the floor, where it is immediately
kicked over, but I don't mind, and it doesn't matter. I won't be
needing it where I'm going. I start to do some warm-up moves
at the edge of the dance-floor, a little gingerly at first, but I'm
glad I wore my brogues instead of my Green Flash, as the flat
soles slide gratifyingly on the parquet floor, giving me a kind of
funky, loose-limbed feel. Then warily at first, like I'm back at
the ice-rink, clinging to the walls, I carefully make my way on
to the dance-floor itself, and get up get on up over to her.

She's dancing in her little group of five again, tight as a fist,


42
STARTER FOR TEN


one of those impregnable defence formations that the Roman
infantry used to repel the barbarians. The cat-eyed girl sees me
first, and emits her high-pitched warning signal, and Blonde
Kate Bush breaks formation, turns and sees me and looks me
in the eye and I take my cue, let the music enter me, and dance
like I have never danced before.

I'm dancing as if my life depended on it, biting my lower
lip seductively, both as an erotic signifier and an aid to
concentration, and looking her straight in the eye, daring,
just daring her to look away. Which she does. So I slide
on round, back into her eye line, and I let rip. I'm dancing
as if I was wearing the Red Shoes, and then I think maybe
I was right, maybe it's because of those pants, the pants
Mum gave me, the Red Pants, but whatever it is, I'm dancing
like James Brown, I've got funk and soul and a brand-new
bag, I'm the hardest-working man in show-business, I'm a
machine made specifically for the purpose of sex, sliding
and spinning through 360, 720 degrees and once actually
through 810 degrees, which leaves me facing the wrong way,
and momentarily disorientated, but it's okay because James
Brown is saying 'take it to the bridge' so I do, I take it to
the bridge, wherever that is, and on the way to the bridge
my hand goes to my neck and rips away the white cardboard
dog-collar in a gesture of righteous contempt for organised
religion, and I hurl the cardboard dog-collar onto the floor,
into the middle of a group of people who've formed a circle
around me now, and are clapping and laughing and pointing
in awe and admiration, as I spin and duck and touch the floor,
my cardigan flying free behind me. My glasses have steamed
up a bit, so I can't see Kate Bush's face amongst them, just
a glimpse of that chippy, dark-haired Jewish girl, Rebecca
whatsername, but it's too late to stop dancing now, because
James Brown is asking me to shake my moneymaker, shake
my moneymaker, and I have to think for a minute because
I'm not sure what my moneymaker is specifically. My head?


43
DAVID NICHOLLS


No, my ass, of course, so I shake it as best I can, anointing the
crowd around me with sweat, like a wet dog, and then all of
a sudden there's a jab of horns and the song is over and I.

Am.

Spent.

I look for her face among the cheering crowd, but she's
definitely gone. Not to worry. The important thing is to have
made an impression. Our paths will cross again, tomorrow,
one p.m., at The Challenge auditions.

The ironic, tongue-in-cheek slowies are beginning now,
'Careless Whisper', but everyone's either too cool or too
drunk to dance, so I decide it's time for bed. On the way out
along the corridor, I go into the toilets and wipe the syrupy
sweat off my spectacles with the corner of my cardy so that I
can get a better look at myself in the mirror above the urinals.
My shirt is stuck to my skin with sweat and undone to my
belly-button, and my hair is matted to my forehead, and all
the blood has rushed to my head, specifically to my acne, but
I still think that on the whole I look pretty good. The room's
spinning now, so I rest my forehead on the mirror in front of
me to make it stay still while I pee, and from one of the cubicles
comes the smell of marijuana smoke, and two low voices,
giggling. Then there's the sound of the toilet flushing, and
two tarts come out, one female and wet-faced, adjusting her
hockey skirt, the other a broad-shouldered rugby-player tart.
Both have lipstick smeared over their faces. They look at me
challengingly, daring me to say something disapproving, but
I'm full of elation, and passion and love for the sheer, joyous
recklessness of youth, so I smile woozily back at them.

'The ironic thing is I actually am a vicar!' I say.

'Oh, do fuck off,' he says.


44
QUESTION: Book IX of Wordsworth's The Prelude contains
the exhortation: 'Bliss was it in that dawn to be
alive . . .'?

ANSWER But to be young was very heaven.


As new dawns go, this one is depressingly like the old dawn.

It's not even dawn, it's 10.26. I thought I'd wake up on my
first day here full of health and wisdom and academic vigour,
but instead I just get the usual; shame, self-loathing and nausea,
and a vague feeling that waking-up needn't always be like this.

I'm also pretty indignant because someone has clearly come
into my room while I was sleeping, lined my mouth with felt
and then stamped on my head. I'm finding movement difficult,
so I lie for a moment and count how many consecutive nights
I've gone to bed drunk, and come up with the approximate
figure of 103. And it would have been more if it weren't for
that last bout of tonsillitis. I contemplate the idea that maybe
I'm an alcoholic. I get this occasionally, the need to define
myself as a something-or-other, and at various times in my life
have wondered if I'm a Goth, a homosexual, a Jew, a Catholic
or a manic-depressive, whether I am adopted, or have a hole in
my heart, or possess the ability to move objects with the power
of my mind, and have always, mostly regretfully, come to the
conclusion that I'm none of the above. The fact is I'm actually
not anything. I'm not even an 'orphan', not in the strict sense,
but 'alcoholic' seems the most plausible yet. What other name
is there for someone who goes to bed drunk every night? Still,


45
DAVID NICHOLLS


maybe alcoholism wouldn't be the worst thing in the world; at
least half the people in the postcards on the wall by my head are
alcoholics. The trick is, I suppose, to be an alcoholic without
letting it affect your behaviour or your academic work.

Or maybe I've just read too many novels. In novels, alcoholics
are always attractive and funny and charming and complex, like
Sebastian Flyte or Abe North in Tender is the Night, and they're
drinking because of a deep, unquenchable sadness of the soul,
or the terrible legacy of the First World War, whereas I just
get drunk because I'm thirsty, and I like the taste of lager, and
because I'm too much of a div to know when to stop. After all,
it's not as if I can blame it on the Falklands.

And I certainly smell like an alcoholic. After less than
twenty-four hours, the new room has started to smell. It's
Mum's 'boy' smell - warm and salty, a bit like the back of
a wrist-watch. Where does it come from? Do I just carry it
around with me? Sitting up in bed, I find my shirt from
last night on the floor nearby, still soaked with sweat. Even
my cardigan's damp. A little momentary flash of suppressed
memory comes back to me . . . something about. . . dancing?
I lie back down, and pull the duvet up over my head.

In the end, it's the futon that forces me up. In the night
it seems to have compacted, and I can feel the hard, cold
floor against my spine, so that now it's like lying on a large
moist towel, one that's been left in a plastic bag for a week.
I sit on the edge of it, knees up under my chin, and search
through my pockets for my wallet. It's there, but worryingly
only contains a river plus 18p in change. That's got to last
me till next Monday, three days' time. How much lager did
I actually drink last night? And, oh God, there it is again, the
suppressed memory, bubbling to the surface like a fart in a
bath. Dancing. I remember dancing, in the centre of a group
of people. But that can't be right, because usually I dance
like St Vitus, and these people were smiling and clapping
and cheering.



46
STARTER FOR TEN


And then it comes to me, with a terrible clarity, the realisation
that the applause was ironic.


The Student Union building is an ostentatiously ugly rain
streaked concrete hulk, marooned in the middle of terraces
of neat Georgian house like a bad tooth. This morning they're
pouring in and out the swing doors, singly and in tight little
groups with their day-old best friends, because it's the last
day of Freshers Week, and there are no lectures till Monday.
Instead today is our opportunity to join Socs.

I join FrenchSoc, FilmSoc, LitSoc, PoetrySoc, and the writing
staff of all three student magazines; the literary-minded Scribbler, the irreverent, salacious Tattle, and the earnest, campaigning,
left-wing By Lines. I sign up for Darkroom Soc ('Join us and
see what develops!') even though I don't have a camera, and
then contemplate joining the FeministSoc, but whilst queuing at
their trestle table I get glared at confrontationally by a Gertrude
Stein look-alike and start to wonder if maybe joining FeministSoc
might be trying just a bit too hard. I made this mistake once
before, on a school trip to the Victoria and Albert Museum,
when I followed a sign marked 'Women', thinking it was an
exhibition on the changing role of women in society, and actually
ended up standing in the ladies' toilets. In the end I decide to give
FeministSoc a miss, because while I firmly support the women's
liberation movement, I'm not entirely confident that I'm not just
joining as a way to meet girls.

I hurry past the fresh-faced, pastel-coloured sweaters of
BadmintonSoc, just in case someone calls my bluff, then wave
to Josh who's surrounded by pals in the queue for BeefyToffSoc,
or whatever it is, something to do with ski-ing and drinking and
harassing women and extreme right-wing views.

I also decide not to join TheatreSoc. Like FeministSoc,
it's a pretty good way of spending time with girls, but the
down-side is that it's usually just a ruse to trick you into
putting on a play. This term TheatreSoc will be producing


47
DAVID NICHOLLS


Charley's Aunt, Sophocles' Antigone and Equus, and I just
know I'd get cast either as a member of the Greek chorus,
all shouting simultaneously through papier-mache masks in
ruined bed-sheets, or one of those poor saps in Equus who
spends the whole evening in a leotard wearing a horse's
head made out of coat hangers. Well, TheatreSoc, thanks
but no thanks. Besides, I'll have you know that in my last
year at school I played Jesus in Godspell, and once you've
been whipped and crucified in front of the whole school,
there isn't really anywhere to go performance-wise. Tone and
Spencer laughed all the way through of course, and shouted
'More! More!' during the forty lashes, but everyone else said
it was a very affecting performance.

When I think I've had enough Socs, I wander the room looking
for the mystery girl from last night, though God knows what
I'll do if I see her. Certainly not dance. I do two circuits of
the sports hall, but there's no sign of her, so I head upstairs
to the room where The Challenge heats are taking place, just
to make sure I've got the right room and the right time. Sure
enough, the poster's on the door; Your Starter For Ten. Only
the finest minds need apply. 'Fancy your chances?' she'd said
last night. 'Maybe see you there?' she'd said. Was she serious?
And if so, where is she? I am an hour early though, so I decide
to go back to the sports hall, to have another look round.

Walking back downstairs, I pass the dark-haired Jewish girl
from last night on the stairwell; Jessica, was it? She's standing
with a bunch of skinny, pale men in Harringtons and tight
black jeans, handing out leaflets for the Socialist Workers
Party and all looking fuckingangryactually, so in a spirit of
solidarity, I approach and say, 'Greetings, comrade!'

'Morning twinkle-toes,' she drawls, glancing at my clenched
fist, unamused, and quite right too, because it's not funny.
She goes back to handing out the leaflets. 'I think DanceSoc's
through there somewhere.'

'Oh God, was it really awful?'


48
STARTER FOR TEN


'Let's just say I was all for putting a pencil between your
teeth, stop you biting your tongue off.'

I laugh self-deprecatingly, and shake my head, in an I'm
mad-me kind of way, but she doesn't smile so I say, 'You
know, life's taught me two things; Number One is don't dance
when you're drunk!!!' . . . silence . . . 'Actually, I wondered if
I could take a leaflet?'

She looks at me quizzically, intrigued by my hidden depths.

'You're sure I wouldn't just be wasting paper?'

'Absolutely not.'

'So are you already a member of any political parties?'

'Oh, you know. CND!'

'That's not a political party.'

'So you don't think defence policy is a political issue?' I say,
enjoying how it sounds.

'Politics is economics, pure and simple. Single-issue groups,
pressure groups like CND or Greenpeace, have an important
and valid role to play, but saying that whales are big and nice,
or a nuclear holocaust is nasty, is not a political stance, it's a
truism. Besides, in a true socialist state the military would be
disenfranchised automatically . . .'

'Like it is in Russia?' I say.

A-ha!

'Russia isn't truly socialist.'

Oh...

'Or Cuba?' I say.

Touche!

'Yes, if you like. Like in Cuba.'

Urn...

'Oh, so I suppose Cuba doesn't have an army then?' I say.

Nice recovery.

'Not really, none to speak of, not in terms of Gross National
Product. Six per cent of tax is spent on defence in Cuba,
compared to forty per cent in the USA.' She must be making
this stuff up. Not even Castro knows this stuff. 'If it wasn't


49
DAVID NICHOLLS


under constant threat from the USA it wouldn't even need to
spend the six per cent. Or do you lie awake at night and worry
about being invaded by Cuba?'

It seems a bit too school-playground to accuse her of making
stuff up, so I just say, 'So do I get a leaflet or what?' and
grudgingly she hands me one.

'If it's too outspoken for you, the Labour Party's over there.
Or you could just go the whole hog and join the Tories.'

She says it like a slap, and it takes me a moment to take it in,
and then while I'm thinking of what to say, she turns her back
on me, just turns around and carries on handing out leaflets. I
want to put my hand on her shoulder, spin her round and say 'Don't turn your back on me, you prissy, bigoted, self-righteous
little cow, because my dad's job actually killed him, more or less,
so don't lecture me about Cuba, because I've got a better sense
of fucking social injustice in my little finger than you and your
whole gang of bourgeois, art-school boyfriends have got in your
whole complacent, smug self-satisfied bodies.' And I almost say
it, I really do, but in the end what I choose to say is, 'Of course
you do realise that if you shortened your name, you could just
become SocSoc!'

She turns to me, quite slowly, narrows her eyes and says 'Look.
If you're really committed and passionate about opposing what
Thatcher's doing to the country, then you should come along.
If on the other hand you're just interested in making a whole
load of sixth-form jokes and banal comments, then I think we
can probably manage without you, thanks very much.'

She's right, of course. Why do I always sound facetious
and unconvincing when I talk about politics? I don't feel ironic about it. I think about trying to convey this to her,
just by having a proper intelligent adult conversation, but a
skirmish has broken out between one of the skinny boys in
black denim and someone from Class War, so I think better
of it, and move on.


so
QUESTION: Devised by the German psychologist William
Stern, what controversial measurement was originally
defined as the ratio of a person's mental age to his
physical age, multiplied by 100?

ANSWER: IQ.


I walk back upstairs to Meeting Room 6, where a tall, fair
man is setting out tables and chairs in exam formation, thirty
or so, with an air of bureaucratic officiousness. He's clearly
a lot older than me, twenty-one or twenty-two or something,
tall and fit in an official burgundy university sweatshirt, tanned
and blandly handsome with very neat, short reddish-blond
hair, the kind of hair that looks as if it's been moulded from a
single piece of plastic. I watch him for a while through the glass
door. He looks like an astronaut, if Britain had astronauts, or
a non-threatening Action Man. What's troubling about him is
that I seem to remember him from somewhere . . .

He catches sight of me, so politely I stick my head around the
door and say, 'Excuse me, is this the room for the University

chai ...r

'Fingers on the buzzers, your first starter question - can you
read the sign?'
'Yes.'

'What does it say?'
'Meeting Room 6, one o'clock.'
'What time is it now?'
'Twelve forty-five.'


51
DAVID NICHOLLS


'So I presume that answers your question?'

'I suppose so.'

So I sit down outside the door and limber up by running
through some lists in my head; the Kings and Queens of
England, the Periodic Table, the American Presidents, the
Laws of Thermodynamics, the planets of the solar system,
just in case; basic exam technique. I check that I've got a
pencil and pen, a tissue, a box of Tic-Tacs, and wait for
the other contestants to turn up. After ten minutes I'm still
the only one here, so I sit and peer at the guy sitting at his
teacher's desk, as he solemnly sorts out and staples question
papers. I assume he must be something pretty high up in the University Challenge selection committee, and is giddy on the
sheer intoxicating power of it all, but I must keep on his good
side, so at 12.58 precisely, and no earlier, I get up and enter
the room.

'Okay now?'

'Fine. You can come in. How many others out there with
you?' he says, without looking up.

'Um - none?'

'Really?' He looks past me, because I clearly can't be trusted.
'Oh bugger! It's nineteen eighty-three all over again.' He tuts
and sighs, and perches on the edge of the desk, and picks
up a clipboard, then looks me up and down appraisingly,
and glances at my face, before settling on a point twelve
inches to the side of my face, which he seems to prefer. He
sighs mournfully again. 'Oh well, I'm Patrick. What's your
name?'

'Brian Jackson.'

'Year?'

'First year! Just arrived yesterday!'

Tut and sigh. 'Specialist subject?'

'You mean what am I reading?'

'If you like.'

'English Literature.'


52
STARTER FOR TEN


'Christ, another one! Well, at least you're not completely
wasting three years of your life.'

'I'm sorry, I . . .'

'Whatever happened to all the mathematicians, that's what
I want to know. All the bio-chemists? All the mechanical
engineers? No wonder the economy's going to the dogs;
everyone knows what a metaphor is, no one can build a
power station.'

I laugh, then check to see if he's joking, but he isn't. 'I have
science A-levels!' I say, defensively.

'Really? What in?'

'Physics and Chemistry.'

'Well there you go then! A Renaissance Man! What's Newton's
Third Law of Motion?'

Oh, my friend, you're going to have to try a lot harder than
that . . .

'Reaction is equal and opposite to action,' I say.

Patrick's reaction is pretty equal and opposite too; a brief,
begrudging raising of the eyebrows, before he goes back to his
notepad.

'School?'

'Pardon?'

'I said "school"? Big building, made of bricks, teachers
in it . . .'

'I understood the question, I just wondered why you wanted
to know?'

'Alright then, Trotsky, you've made your point. You've got
a pen? Good. Here's your paper, and I'll be with you in a
minute.' I take a seat near the back of the room as two more
people arrive behind me. 'Ah, the cavalry!' says Patrick.

The first potential team-mate, a Chinese girl, causes a bit of
a stir, because she seems to have a panda bear clinging to her
back. Closer scrutiny reveals this not to be a real-life panda,
but an ingeniously designed rucksack! It shows a quirky sense
of humour I suppose, but doesn't bode well for her chances on


53
DAVID NICHOLLS


a serious, advanced general knowledge qui/. Anyway, from
her conversation with Patrick I hear that she's called Lucy
Chang, that she's a second year, reading Medicine, and so
may possibly have an edge on me with some of those science
questions. Her English seems pretty fluent, though she speaks
incredibly quietly, with a slight American accent. What do the
rules say about foreign nationals?

The next contestant is a big, loud-voiced Mancunian, dressed
in olive-green army surplus, big heavy boots and with a little
blue RAF knapsack at his hip with, somewhat inconsistently,
a CND sign magic-markered onto it. Patrick interviews him
with a kind of begrudging civility, NCO to corporal, and
it transpires that he's a third-year Politics student from
Rochdale called Colin Pagett. He glances round the room,
nods, and then we wait in silence and fiddle with our
pens, all sitting as far away from each other as the laws
of geometry will allow, waiting ten, fifteen minutes, until it's
absolutely clear that no one else is going to turn up. Where
is she? She said she'd be here. What if something's happened
to her?

Finally Patrick the Astronaut sighs, stands up behind his
desk and says, 'Right, well let's begin shall we? My name's
Patrick Watts from Ashton-Under-Lyme, reading Economics,
and I'm the captain of this year's University Challenge team' . . . hang on, who says? . . . 'Regular viewers of the
show may recognise me from last year's tournament.'

That's it, that's where I know him from. I remember watching
the episode extra carefully because I'd been filling out my
UCCA form, and I'd wanted to know what the standard was
like. I remember thinking then that they were a pretty poor
team, and this Patrick obviously still carries the emotional
scars with him, because he looks at the floor, shame-faced, at
the mention of it. 'Obviously, it wasn't a flawless performance'
- they were knocked out in the first round if I remember
rightly, against soft opponents too - 'but we're very hopeful


54
STARTER FOR TEN


about our chances this year, especially with so much . . .
promising . . . raw material.'

The three of us look around the room, at each other, and
at the rows of empty desks.

'Right! Well, without further ado, let's get cracking on
the test. It's in written form, forty questions, and covers a
diverse range of subjects, similar to those we'll be facing on
the programme. Last year we were particularly weak in the
science area' - he glances at me - 'and I want to make sure
we're not too arts-orientated this time . . .'

'And it's a four-person team, yeah?' the Mancunian pipes
up.

'That is correct.'

'Well if that's the case, then surely ... we are the team.'

'Well, yes, but we need to make sure we're up to an
appropriate standard.'

But Colin's not letting go. 'Why?'

'Well, because if we're not . . . we'll lose again.'

'And?'

'Well, if we lose again ... if we lose again . . .' and Patrick's
mouth is working wordlessly now, opening and closing like a
dying mackerel. It's the same face he had on national television
last year, trying and failing to answer a perfectly simple
question on the East African lakes: the same haunted look,
with every single member of the audience knowing the answer,
willing it to him; Lake Tanganyika, Tanganyika, you idiot.

Then he's distracted by a noise at the door - a cluster
of grinning female faces briefly pressed against the glass, a
muffled burst of laughter, a scuffle, and she's shoved into
the room by unseen hands, and just stands there, giggling,
trying to regain her composure, looking round the room at
the four of us.

I swear, for a moment I think everyone's going to stand
up.

'Whoops! Sorry, everyone!'


55
DAVID NICHOLLS


She's slurring a bit, and seems a little unsteady on her feet.
She's not thinking of taking an exam pissed, is she?

'I'm sorry, am I too late?'

Patrick runs his hands over his astronaut's hair, licks his
lips, and says, 'Not at all. Glad to have you on board . . .
urn . . . ?'

'Alice. Alice Harbinson.'

Alice. Alice. Of course, she's an Alice. What else could
she be?

'Okay, Alice. Please - take a seat. . .' And she looks around,
smiles at me, and comes over and sits at the desk directly
behind mine.


The first few questions are pretty easy; basic geometry and
some stuff about the Plantagenets, just there to soften us up
really, but it's hard to concentrate because Alice is making
this snuffling noise over my shoulder. I turn and glance at
her, and sure enough she's hunched forwards over her exam
paper red-faced, shaking with suppressed laughter. I go back
to the test paper.

Question 4. What was ancient Istanbul known as, before it
was called Constantinople?

Easy. Byzantium.

Question 5. Helium, neon, argon and xenon make up four
of the so-called 'noble gases'. What are the other two?

No idea. Krypton and hydrogen maybe? Krypton and
hydrogen.

Question 6. What is the precise composition of the aroma
emanating from Alice Harbinson, and why is it so delightful?

Something expensive, flowery but light. Is it perhaps Chanel
No 5? Mixed with a tiny hint of Pears soap, and Silk Cut, and
lager . . .

That's enough now. Concentrate.

Question 6. Where is Mrs Thatcher's parliamentary seat?


56
STARTER FOR TEN


Easy. I know this one, but there's the noise again. I turn,
and look and catch her eye this time, and she pulls a face,
mouths 'sorry . . .' and seals her lips with a little imaginary
zip. I smile laconically down one side of my face, as if to say,
hey, phew, don't mind me, I'm not taking this seriously either,
then go back to the test. Must concentrate. I pop a Tic-Tac
into my mouth, and press my fingers against my forehead.
Concentrate, concentrate.

Question 7. The colour of Alice Harbinson's lips might best
be described as . . . ?

Not sure, can't see. Something from that Shakespearean
sonnet. Damask'd hue or coral or something like that? Maybe
I'll have another look. No. Don't. Don't look. Just concentrate.
Head down.

8, 9 and 10 are fine, but then there's a long stretch of
ridiculously hard maths and physics questions, and I start to
flounder a little, skip two or three that I just don't understand
but have a stab at the one about mitochondrion.

'Pssst . . .'

Question 15. The energy liberated by the oxidization of
the products of cytoplasmic metabolism is converted into
adenosine triphosphate . . .

'Psssssssst . . .'

She's leaning forward over her desk, eyes wide, trying to
pass me something in her clenched fist. I check that Patrick's
not looking, and then reach behind me, and feel her press the
little scrap of paper into my cupped hand. Patrick looks up,
and I quickly turn the motion into a stretch, arms up over my
head, and when the coast is clear, I unwrap the note. It says, 'Your strange, unnatural beauty intrigues me. How soon till I
can feel your lips against mine . . . ?'

Or, more accurately, 'Hey swot! Help me! Am very STOOPID
and also PISSED. Please save me from COMPLETE humiliation.
What are the answers to 6, 11, 18 and 22? And 4 is
Byzantium, right? Cheers mate, in anticipation, da thicko


57
DAVID NICHOLLS


behind yuu xxx. p.s. Split on me to the teacher, and I'll have
you afterwards.'

She's asking me to share my general knowledge with her,
and if that's not a come-on, then I don't know what is. Of
course cheating in an exam is a terrible thing, and if it was
anyone else I wouldn't get involved, but these are exceptional
circumstances so I quickly check the questions, then turn the
piece of paper over and write: 'No. 6 is Finchley, 11 is Ruskin's
Stones of Venice maybe, 18 is Schrodiger's Cat maybe, and 22
I don't know either; Diaghilev? And yes, 4 is Byzantium.'

I read and re-read this several times. It's pretty dry, as love letters go, and I want to say something more tantalising and
provocative, without actually just writing 'you're lovely', so I
think for a minute, take a deep breath, then put: 'By the way,
you owe me! Coffee afterwards? Best wishes, the Swot!' . . . then before I can change my mind, I spin around in my seat
and place it on her desk.

Question 23. Whales of the sub-order Mysteciti have a
specialised feeding structure called . . . ?

Baleen.

Question 24. Which French verse form, utilised by Corneille
and Racine, consists of a line of twelve syllables, with major
stresses on the sixth and last syllable?

The Alexandrine.

Question 25. Increased heart rate, cold sweat and a feeling
of elation are usually a symptom of which emotional
condition?

Come on, head down, concentrate, this is The Challenge,
remember?

Question 25. How many vertices has a dodecahedron?

Well, dodec- is twelve, so that's twelve plane faces, which
means 12 times four if you separated it all out, which is 48,
but then you have to minus the number of shared corners
which would be, what, 24? Why 24? Because each vertex
is the junction of three plane faces? Threes into 48 are 16.


58
STARTER FOR TEN


16 vertices? Isn't there a formula lor this? What il 1 were to
draw it?

And I'm trying to draw a deconstructed dodecahedron when
the little ball of paper is lobbed over my head and skitters
across my desk. I catch it before it rolls off the edge, open it
and read 'Okay. But you have to promise not to dance.'

I smile to myself, and play it cool by not turning round,
because after all, that's what I am, a pretty cool guy, and I go
back to deconstructing my dodecahedron.


59
8


QUESTION- If incandescence is light emitted by a hot
material, what is the term for light emitted from a
relatively cool material?

ANSWER Luminescence.


'I expect you didn't recognise me without my dog-collar on!'

'What? Oh, no. I didn't to begin with,' she says.
'So - Alice!'

'That's right.'

'As in Wonderland?'

'Uh-huh,' she says, glancing longingly towards the exit.

We're sat at a little marble table in Le Paris Match, a cafe
that's straining very hard to be French; all 'authentic' wooden
chairs and Ricard ashtrays and reproduction ToulouseLautrec
posters, and 'croque monsieur' on the menu instead of 'ham
and-cheese toastie'. It's full of students in black polo-necks
and 501s leaning forward in intense conversations over their
pommes frites, and jabbing the air with their fags, wishing they
were Gitanes rather than Silk Cut. I've never been to France,
but is it really like this?

'And is that who you're named after, Alice in Wonderland?'

'So I'm told.' Pause. 'How about you, why did they call
you Gary?'

I think for a moment, and actually try to come up with an
interesting and amusing anecdote as to why I'm called Gary,
before deciding that it's probably easier to come clean.


60
STARTER FOR TEN


'Actually, my name's Brian.'

'Of course. Sorry, I meant Brian.'

'Not sure. I don't think there are any Brians in literature. Or
Garys, come to that. Except isn't there a Gary in The Brothers
Karamazov'? Gary, Keith and . . .'

'. . . and Brian! Brian Karamazov!' she says and laughs, and
I laugh too.

Today's turning out to be quite a big day for me actually,
because not only am I sat here with Alice Harbinson, laughing
at my own name, but I'm also enjoying my very first ever
cappuccino. Do they drink cappuccinos in France? Anyway,
it's okay; a bit like the milky coffees they do in the caff on
Southend pier for 35p, except instead of little, bitter globules
of undissolved instant coffee on the top, this has a grey musky
scum of cinnamon. My fault; I overdid it a little, thinking it was
chocolate powder, so it smells a bit like a hot, milky armpit.
But then I expect that cappuccinos are a little bit like sex in
that I'll probably enjoy it much more the second time. Though
at 85p a throw, I'm not sure if there'll be a second time. Again,
a little bit like sex.

There it is again. Sex and Money. Stop thinking about sex
and money. Especially money, it's awful, you're here with this
amazing woman, and all you can think about is the price of a
cup of coffee. And sex.

'I'm starving,' she says. 'Shall we have some lunch? Some
french fries or something?'

'Absolutely!' I say, and look at the menu. £1.25 for a lousy
bowl of chips? '. . . though I'm actually not that hungry, but
you get some.'

So she waves to the waiter, a whippet-thin guy with a
Morrissey quiff, a student by the looks of it, and he comes
over and talks over my head, greeting her with a big, friendly
'Hiya!'

'Hello, how are you today?' she says.

'Oh, fine. Except I'd rather not be here. Double shift!'


61
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Oh, God. Poor you!' she says, rubbing his arm in sympathy.

'How are you, anyway?' he says.

'Very good, thank you.'

'You're looking lovely today, if I may say so.'

'Aw, gee,' says Alice, and puts her hands over her face.

Zut alors.

'So what can I get you?' he says, finally remembering what
he's here for.

'Could we just get a bowl of pommes frites, d'you think?'

'Absolument!' says the garcon, and more or less sprints off
to the kitchen to commence the preparation of the precious,
gold-plated chips.

'How do you know him?' I ask when he's gone.

'Who? The waiter? I don't know him.'

'Oh.'

And there's a silence. I sip my coffee, and rub the cinnamon
dust out of my nostrils with the back of my hand.

'So! I wasn't sure if you'd recognise me without my dog
collar!'

'You said that already.'

'Did I? I do that sometimes, get muddled up about what I've
said or haven't said, or I find myself saying things aloud that I'd
only meant to say in my head, if you know what I mean . . .'

'I know exactly what you mean,' she says, grabbing my
forearm. 'I'm always getting muddled up, or just blurting
things out . . .' It's sweet, what she's doing here; trying to
establish common ground between us, though I don't believe
her for a second. 'I swear, half the time, I don't know what
I'm doing . . .'

The too. Like the dancing last night . . .'

'Ah, yes . . .' she says, pursing her lips '. . . the dancing . . .'

'. . . yes, sorry about that. I was a little bit pissed, truth
be told.'

'Oh, you were fine. You're a good dancer!'


62
STARTER FOR TEN


'Hardly!' I say. 'You know, Fm just surprised no one tried
to put a pencil between my teeth!'

She looks at me puzzled. 'Why?'

'Well ... to stop me biting my tongue off?' Still nothing.
'You know, like an ... epileptic!'

But she doesn't say anything, just sips her coffee again. Oh,
my God - maybe I've offended her. Maybe she knows an
epileptic. Maybe there's epilepsy in her family! Maybe she's an epileptic . . .

'Aren't you hot in that donkey jacket?' she asks, and the
garcon returns with the exquisite chips, about six of them,
arranged artfully in a large egg-cup, then loiters around,
grinning, pleased with himself, trying to strike up another
conversation, so I keep talking.

'You know, if life's taught me two things so far, the first is
don't dance when you're drunk.'

'And the second?'

'Don't try and put milk through a Soda Stream.'

She laughs, and recognising defeat, the garcon retreats. Keep
going, keep it up ...

'. . . I don't know what I was expecting, I just thought I'd
get this amazing fizzy, milky drink, but there's a name for fizzy
milk . . .' (pause, sip) '. . . it's called yoghurt!'

Sometimes I could make myself throw up, really I could.

So we talk some more and she eats her chips, dipping them
into a Pyrex contact-lens of ketchup, and it's a bit like an
afternoon spent in that cafe in T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of
J. Alfred Prufrock, but with pricier food. 'Do I dare to eat a
peach? Not at these prices, no . . .' I find out more about her.
She's an only child, like me - something to do with her mum's
tubes she thinks, but isn't sure. She doesn't mind being an only
child, it just means she has always been a bit bookish, and she
went to boarding-school, which is politically not very right-on, she knows, but she loved it anyway, and was Head Girl. She's
very close to her dad, who makes arts documentaries for the


63
DAVID NICHOLLS


BBC and lets her do work-experience there in the holidays,
and she's met Melvyn Bragg on many, many occasions, and
apparently he's really, really funny in real life, and actually
quite sexy. She loves her mum too, of course, but they argue
a lot, probably because they're so similar, and her mum works
part-time for TreeTops, a charity that builds tree-houses for
deprived kids.

'Wouldn't they be better-off living with their parents?' I
say.

'What?'

'Well, you know, kids living on their own up in the trees -
that's got to be dangerous, hasn't it?'

'No, no, they don't live in the tree-houses, it's just a summer
holiday activity thing.'

'Oh, right. I see . . .'

'Most of these kids from underprivileged homes have only
got one parent, and they've never had a family holiday in their
whole lives!' Oh my God, she's talking about me\ 'It's fantastic
really. If you're not doing anything next summer you should
come along.' I nod enthusiastically, though I'm not entirely
sure whether she's suggesting I help out, or actually offering
me a holiday.

Then Alice tells me about her summer break, some of which
was spent up in the tree-tops with the deprived, and no doubt
anxious, kids. The rest was divided between their houses in
London, Suffolk and the Dordogne, then performing with her
school drama group at the Edinburgh Festival.

'What did you do?'

'Bertolt Brecht's Good Woman ofSchezuan.' Of course, it's
clear what she's done here, isn't it? It's a classic opportunity
to use the word 'eponymous'.

'And who played the eponymous . . . ?'

'Oh, I did,' she says. Yes, yes, of course you did.

'And were you?' I ask.

'What?'


64
STARTER FOR TEN


'Good?'

'Oh, not really. Though The Scotsman seemed to think so.
Do you know the play at all?'

'Very well,' I lie. 'Actually we did Brecht's Caucasian Chalk
Circle at our college last term' - pause, sip cappuccino - 'I
played the chalk.'

God, I think I am going to throw up.

But she laughs, and starts talking about the demands of
playing Brecht's eponymous Good Woman, and I take the
opportunity to get my first proper look at her sober, and
without perspiration on my spectacles, and she really is beautiful.
Definitely the first truly beautiful woman I've ever seen,
other than in Renaissance art or on the telly. At school people
used to say Liza Chambers was beautiful, when what they
really meant was 'horny', but Alice is the real thing; creamy
skin that seems to be entirely without pores, and is lit from
within by some organic under-skin luminescence. Or do I mean
'phosphorescence'? Or 'fluorescence'? What's the difference?
Look it up later. Anyway, she's either wearing no makeup,
or, more likely, make-up that's artfully contrived to seem as
if it's not there, except around the eyes possibly, because
surely no one has eyelashes like that in real life, do they?
And then there are the eyes; brown's not really the word,
it's too dull and dun, and I can't think of a better one, but
they're bright and healthy, and so wide that you can see the
whole of the iris, which is speckled with green. Her mouth
is full and strawberry-coloured, like Tess Derbyfield, but a
happy, well-balanced, fulfilled Tess who's found out that,
thank God, she actually is a D'Urberville after all. Best of all there's a tiny raised white scar on her lower lip, which I imagine
she probably got in some harrowing childhood blackberrying
incident. Her hair is honey-coloured and slightly curly, and
pulled back from her forehead, in a style that I imagine is called
'a Pre-Raphaelite'. She looks - what's that word in T.S. Eliot?
Quattrocento. Or is it Yeats? And does it mean fourteenth


65
DAVID NICHOLLS


century or fifteenth century? I'll look that up too when I get
back. Note to self; look up 'Quattrocento', 'Damask', 'Dun',
'Luminescence', 'Phosphorescence', and 'Fluorescence'.

And now she's talking about the party last night, how awful
it was, and about the terrible men she met, lots of awful, naff,
no-neck rugger-buggers. She leans forward from her chair
when she talks, long legs coiled around the chair-legs beneath
her, and touches my forearm to emphasise a point, and looks
me in the eye as if daring me to look away, and she also has this
trick of tugging on her tiny silver-stud earrings while she talks,
which is indicative of a subconscious attraction towards me,
or a mildly infected piercing. For my own part, I'm trying out
some new facial expressions and postures too, one of which
involves leaning forward and resting my hand on my chin with
my fingers splayed over my mouth, occasionally rubbing
my chin sagely. This serves several purposes; 1) it looks as if
I'm lost in deep thought, 2) it's sensual - the fingers on the
lips, a classic sexual signifier - and 3) it also covers up the
worst of the spots, the raised red clusters round the corners of
my mouth that make it look as if I've been dribbling soup.

She orders another cappuccino. Will I have to pay for that
too I wonder? Doesn't matter. The Stephane Grappelli/Django
Reinhardt cassette is on a permanent loop in the background,
buzzing away like a bluebottle against a window, and I'm
pretty happy to just sit and listen. If she does have a failing,
and it's obviously only a tiny one, it's that she doesn't seem
particularly curious about other people, or me anyway. She
doesn't know where I'm from, she doesn't ask about Mum,
or my Dad, she doesn't know my surname, I'm not entirely
convinced that she still doesn't think I'm called Gary. In fact,
since we've been here she's asked me only two questions -
'Aren't you hot in that donkey jacket?' and 'You do know
that's cinnamon, don't you?'

Suddenly, as if she's read my mind, she says, 'I'm sorry, I
seem to be doing all the talking. You don't mind do you?'


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'Not at all.'

And I don't really mind, I just like being here with her,
and having other people see me with her. She's talking about
this amazing Bulgarian Circus Troupe that she saw at the
Edinburgh Festival, which means it's a good time to drift off
and work out the bill. Three cappuccinos at 85p, that's £2.55,
plus the chips, sorry, pommes frites, £1.25, which incidentally
works out at about 18p per pomme frite, so that's, 25 plus 55,
that's 80, £3.80, plus a tip for laughing boy over there, 30, no,
say 40p, so that's £4.20, and I've got £5.18 in my pocket, so
that means 98 pence to last me until I can pick up my grant
cheque on Monday. God, she's beautiful though. What if she
offers to go halvsies? Should I accept? I want her to know that
I firmly believe in gender equality, but I don't want her to think
I'm poor or, even worse, mean. But even if we do go halvsies,
I'll still be down to three quid, and I'll have to ask Josh for
Mum's ten pounds back till Monday, and that will mean I'll
probably have to fag for him till the Christmas hols, white his
cricket pads and toast his crumpets or something. Hang on a
second, she's asking me a question.

'D'you want another cappuccino?'

NO!

'No, better not,' I say. 'In fact, we'd better get back - have
a look at the results. I'll get the bill. . .' and I look around for
the waiter.

'Here, let me give you some money,' she says, pretending to
reach for her purse.

'No, really, my treat . . .'

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely, absolutely,' I say, and count £4.20 out on to
the marble table, and feel pretty ritzy.


Outside Le Paris Match, I realise it's getting dark; we've been
talking for hours, and I had no idea. For a while, I even forgot
about The Challenge. But I've remembered now, and it's all I


67
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can do not to break into a run. Alice is a stroller though, so
we stroll back to the Student Union in the autumn evening
light, and she says, 'So who put you up to it, then?'

'What? The Challenge?'

'Is that what you call it? The Challenge?'

'Doesn't everyone? Oh, I just thought it would be a laugh,' I
lie, nonchalantly. 'Also, there's only me and Mum at home, so
there weren't enough of us for Ask The Family . . .' I thought
she might pick up on this, but instead she just says, 'The
girls in my corridor put me up to it, for a dare. And after
a couple of pints in the bar at lunch it suddenly seemed like
a good idea. And I want to be an actress, or something in
TV, a presenter or something, so I thought it might be good
experience in front of the camera, but I'm not so sure now.
It's not an obvious springboard into the Hollywood firmament
is it? University Challenge. I just hope I get knocked out
now, to be honest, so I can forget about the whole silly
business.' Tread softly, Alice Harbinson, for you tread upon
my dreams.

'Have you ever thought of acting as a career?' she asks.

'Who, me? God no, I'm terrible . . .' then, just as an experiment
I say, 'and besides, I don't think I'm good-looking enough
to be an actor.'

'Oh, that's not true! There are lots of actors who aren't
good-looking . . .'

Which serves me right, I suppose.

As we approach the notice-board outside Meeting Room
6, it feels like getting my O-level results all over again; the
quiet confidence, mixed with just the appropriate amount of
anxiety, the awareness of how important it is to be in control
of your face, not to look too pleased with yourself, too cocky.
Just smile, nod knowingly, and walk away.

Approaching the notice-board, I can see Lucy Chang's
panda peering over her shoulder at the test results, and there's
something about the angle of Lucy's head that tells me it's not


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good news for her. She turns and walks away, and gives a sweet
little disappointed smile. Looks like Lucy won't be joining us at
Granada studios then, which is a shame, because she seemed
nice. I smile my commiseration at her as she hurries away,
and head over to the notice-board.

I look at the notice.

I blink, and look again.


UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE AUDITIONS


The results of the 1985 University Challenge selection j
heats are as follows,


Lucy Chang - 89%
Colin Pagett - 72%
Alice Harbinson - 53%
Brian Jackson - 51% *


So this year's team is as follows; Patrick Watts, Lucy,
Alice and Colin. Our first rehearsal is next Tuesday. Many
congratulations to everyone who took part1


Patrick Watts


* (In case of absolute emergency or extreme, life-threatening
ill-health, Brian Jackson is our first reserve )


'Oh God! I don't believe it, I'm on the team!' squeals Alice,
jumping up and down and squeezing my arm.

'Hey, well done you!' I find a smile from somewhere, and
nail it to my face.

'Hey, you realise if you hadn't given me those answers, you'd
be on the team instead!' she squeals. Well, yes Alice, I do realise
that, actually.

'What shall we do now? Shall we go to the bar and get


69
DAVID NICHOLLS


completely pissed?' she asks. But I've run out of money, and
I suddenly don't feel like it any more.

I haven't made the team, I've got 98p in my pocket, and I'm
hopelessly in love.

Not hopelessly. Uselessly.


TO
f


Round Two


'He calls the knaves, Jacks, this boy,' said Estella, with
disdain, before our first game was out.

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
QUESTION George, Anne, Julian, Timmy and Dick are

better known as . ?
ANSWER The Famous Five


There are three things that I always expected to happen at
university - one was to lose my virginity, two was to be
asked to become a spy, three was that I'd be on University
Challenge. The first of these, virginity, went out the window
two weeks before I left Southend, thanks to a drunken and
begrudging fumble up against a wheely-bin, round the back
of Littlewoods, courtesy of Karen Armstrong. There's not a
great deal to be said about the experience really; the earth
didn't move, but the wheely-bin did. Afterwards, there was
some debate as to whether we'd actually 'done it properly',
which gives you some idea of the awesome skill and artful
dexterity of my love-making technique. Walking home on that
memorable summer night, as we enjoyed the post-coital dregs of
a bottle of warm Merrydown, Karen kept saying over and over
again, 'don't tell anyone, don't tell anyone, don't tell anyone',
as if we'd just done something really, truly awful. Which in a
way I suppose we had.

As for being asked to spy for Her Majesty's Government,
well, even leaving aside my ideological reservations, I'm pretty
sure that languages are important to a career in spying, and I do
only have O-level French. It's a Grade A, but still, in terms of
actual espionage this pretty much limits me to infiltrating, say,
a French primary school, or maybe, at a push, a boulangerie.


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Red Cobra, it's Dark Swallow here; I have details of the bus
timetable . . .

Which just leaves The Challenge, and now I've managed to
cock that up too. It's the first meeting tonight, and it's taken all
my powers of persuasion to even get invited. Patrick refused to
return my calls, and when I did finally catch up with him he
said it wasn't really necessary for the reserve to come along,
as he was pretty sure that no one was going to get run over.
But I kept on and on until he caved, because if I don't come
along, then I don't get to see Alice, not unless I start hanging
around outside her halls of residence.

And don't think I haven't thought about it either. In the
six days since we met, I haven't seen her once. And I've
been looking. Whenever I visit the library, I find myself
doing a circuit of all the desks, or loitering suspiciously in
the Drama section. When I go to the bar with Marcus and
Josh, and am being half-heartedly introduced to some new
James or Hugo or Jeremy, I'm watching the door over their
shoulder in case she comes in. Just walking between lectures,
I'm constantly on the look-out, but there's been no sign of
her at all, which suggests that she's having a very different
university experience to me. Or maybe she's seeing someone
else? Maybe she's already fallen in love with some handsome,
cheek-boned bastard, a Nicaraguan poet in exile or a sculptor
or something, and she's spent the last week in bed, drinking
fine wines and reading poetry aloud. Don't think about it. Just
ring the doorbell again.

I wonder if Patrick has deliberately given me the wrong
address, and am about to head off when I hear him trot down
the stairs.

'Hi!' I say, smiling brightly as he opens the door.

'Hello, Brian,' he groans, addressing that point to the right
of my head which he seems to prefer, and I follow him up the
communal staircase to his flat.

'So is everyone coming tonight?' I ask, innocently.


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'I think so.'

'You've spoken to them all?'

'Uh-huh.'

'So you've spoken to Alice?'

He stops on the stairs, turns and looks back. 'Why?'

'Just curious.'

'Don't worry. Alice is coming.' He's wearing his official
university sweatshirt again, which puzzles me a little. I mean
I'd sort of understand it more, if it said Yale or Harvard or
something, because then it would be a fashion choice. But why
advertise the fact that you're at a university to all the other
people who are at the university with you? Does he worry that
people will actually think he's just pretending!

We enter the flat, which is small and plain, and reminiscent
of an Eastern-bloc show-home. It smells of warm mince and
onions.

'I've bought some wine!' I say.

'I don't drink,' he says.

'Oh. Right.'

'I suppose you'll want a corkscrew. I think I've got one
somewhere. D'you want tea, or do you want to start straight
on in with your alcohol?'

'Oh, booze please!'

'Right, well if you just go through there, I'll be with you in
a minute. You don't smoke do you?'

'No.'

'Because it's strictly no-smoking . . .'

'Okay, but I don't smoke . . .'

'Right, well, it's just through there. Don't touch anything!'
Because he's a third year, and because he's obviously got
parents with money, Patrick seems to have got his life in some
kind of semi-adult order: proper, non-institutional furniture,
which he probably owns, a television, a video, a living room
which doesn't have a bed or a gas-cooker or a shower in it.
In fact he's barely a student at all; everything in its place and


75
DAVID NICHOLLS


a place for everything, like the living quarters of a monk, or
a particularly fastidious serial-killer. While he's searching for
the corkscrew, I look around the living room. On the wall
above his desk is the flat's only decoration; a poster of a
beach, with a set of footprints disappearing into the sunset,
and that inspirational poem about how Jesus is beside you
always. Though it would be fair to point out that if Jesus had
been beside him in the TV studio last year, then he might have
got more than 65 points.

There's a ring on the doorbell, and I hear Patrick lollop
downstairs, so I take the opportunity to examine his shelves;
economic textbooks mainly, neatly alphabeticised, a Good
News Bible. Another shelf of videos - Monty Python and
the Holy Grail and The Blues Brothers - reveals the lighter
side of Patrick Watts.

But beside them are a series of about twenty identical VHS
cassettes; a shelf of home-recorded videos with immaculately
hand-typed white labels placed precisely along the spines. I
step up to get a closer look and let out an involuntary gasp.
The labels read:


O3/03/1984 - Newcastle versus Sussex
1O/O3/1984 - Durham versus Leicester
17/03/1984 - King's, Cambridge versus Dundee
23/03/1984 - Sidney Sussex versus Exeter
3O/O3/1984 - UMIST versus Liverpool
06/04/1984 - Birmingham versus UCL


. . . and so it goes on, Keele versus Sussex, Manchester versus
Sheffield, Open versus Edinburgh. On top of the cassettes
is a picture in a frame, lying face down. I'm feeling fairly
Marion Crane now, but I pick it up and look at it, and yes, it
is indeed a photograph of Patrick shaking hands with Bamber
Gascoigne and I realise with a sudden spasm of horror that
this is Patrick's shrine, and that I have stumbled blindly into
the lair of a madman . . .


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'Looking for something, Brian?'

I spin around, and look for a weapon. Patrick is stood in
the doorway, with Lucy Chang peeking over his shoulder, and
Lucy Chang's panda rucksack peeking over her shoulder.

'Just admiring your photo!'

'Fine, but could you put it back exactly where it came
from?'

'Yes, yes of course . . .'

'Lucy - tea?'

'Yes, yes thank you.'

He shoots me a hands-off look, and heads back to the
kitchen. Lucy sits on the hard-backed chair at Patrick's desk,
but right on the edge, so as not to squash her panda. We
sit in silence, and smile at each other, and for no apparent
reason, she lets out a nervous little tinkling laugh. She's
very small and neat, wearing a very clean and neatly ironed
white shirt with the top button done up. Not that this is at
all important, but she's quite attractive too, even with the
disconcertingly low hairline that seems to be creeping down
her forehead to meet up with her eyebrows, like a wig that's
slipped forward.

I try and think of things to say. I contemplate telling her that
according to the Guinness Book of Records, Chang is officially
the commonest surname in the world, but I assume she already
knows that, so instead say, 'Hey, well done on that amazing
score! Eighty-nine points!'

'Oh, thank you. And well done to you, well done for . . .'

'. . . losing?'

'Well. . . yes, I suppose so!' and she laughs again, high and
brittle. 'Well done for losing!'

Out of politeness, I laugh too, and say, 'Still, never mind.
Fail again, fail better!'

'Samuel Beckett, right?'

That's right,' I say, taken aback. 'What are you studying,
again?'


77
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Oh, second year Medicine,' she says, and I think, my God,
she's a genius. I watch in frank awe as she struggles out of her
novelty rucksack.

'I like the panda,' I say.

'Oh - thank you!'

'Peeking over your shoulder! Or should I say Beijing over
your shoulder!'

She looks at me uncomprehendingly, so by way of clarification,
I say, 'Did you bring it with you from home?'

'Pardon me?'

'Did you bring it from home?'

She looks puzzled. 'You mean my halls of residence?'

I have the sensation of falling. 'No, your, you know . . . your original home.'

'Oh, you mean China! Because it's a panda, right? Well
actually, I'm from Minneapolis, so no.'

'Yes, but originally you're from . . . ?'

'Minneapolis

'But your parents, they're from . . .'

'Minneapolis . . .'

'But their parents are from . . .'

'Minneapolis . . .'

'Of course. Minneapolis,' and she smiles at me with perfect,
sincere kindness, despite the fact that I'm clearly ignorant,
racist scum. 'Where Prince comes from!' I add, funkily.

'Exactly! Where Prince comes from,' she says. 'Though I've
never met the guy.'

'Oh,' I say. I try again. 'Have you seen Purple Rain?'

'No,' she replies. 'Have. You. Seen. Purple Rain?'

'Yes. Twice,' I reply.

'Did you enjoy it?' she asks.

'Not really,' I reply.

'And yet you saw it twice!'

'I know,' I say, and add humorously, in a pretty good
American accent, 'Go figure!'


78
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And then, thank God, the door opens and it's Big Colin
Pagett, carrying four bottles of Newcy Brown and a cardboard
bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Patrick shows him in like
a head butler showing in the chimney-sweep, and in the
awkward silence that follows, I take time to ruminate on
the complex art of conversation. Ideally, of course, I'd like
to wake up in the morning and be handed a transcript of
everything I'm about to say during the day, so that I could
go through it and rewrite my dialogue, cutting the fatuous
remarks and the crass, idiotic jokes. But clearly that's not
practical, and the other option, of never speaking again, isn't
going to work either.

So maybe it's better to think of conversation as being a bit
like crossing the road; before I open my mouth I should take a
few moments to look both ways, and carefully consider what
I'm about to say. And if this means that my conversation gets a
little slow and stilted, like a transatlantic phone call, if it means
I spend just a little extra time standing on the metaphorical
conversational kerb, looking left and right, then so be it,
because it's clear that I just can't keep stumbling blindly out
into traffic. I can't keep getting run over like this.

Thankfully there's no need for conversation right now
because while we wait for Alice to arrive, Patrick pops on
one of his precious video cassettes - last year's grand final,
and we sit and watch the Dundee team win again, while
Patrick mumbles the answers and Colin eats his bucket of
chicken, and for fifteen minutes, those are the only sounds:
Colin sucking on a chicken thigh, Patrick muttering insanely
from the arm of the sofa.

'. . . Kafka . . . nitrogen . . . nineteen fifty-six . . . the
duodenum . . . trick question, none of them . . . C.P.E.
Bach . . .'

And every now and again, I'll chip in with an answer,
or Colin will, through a mouthful of brown meat - Ravel,
Dante's Inferno, Rosa Luxembourg, Veni Vidi Vici - but


79
DAVID NICHOLLS


clearly Patrick's marking his territory, showing who's boss,
because his voice gradually gets louder . . .

'. . . THE MOODY BLUES . . . GOYA . . . TYPHOID.
MARY . . . THEY'RE ALL PRIME NUMBERS

. . . and whilst I love the show as much as anyone, I
can't help thinking that this is maybe taking things a little
too far ...

'... RHINE, RHONE, DANUBE... MITOCHONDRIA...
FOUCAULT'S PENDULUM

. . . has he learnt them by rote? Are we meant to think he's
never seen it before, or are we meant to think that he just
knows all this stuff anyway? And what does Lucy Chang
make of all this? I glance to my side, and she's staring at
the floor with her eyes closed, and I think maybe she's upset,
or embarrassed, understandably, but then I notice a slight
shudder across her shoulders and I realise that she's trying
not to laugh . . .

'. . . ODE TO A GRECIAN URN ... GO DIDDLEY . . .
THE ST BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY MASSACRE . . . THE BERLIN AIRLIFT . . .'

. . . and just as it seems she might burst, the doorbell goes
downstairs, and Patrick heads off, leaving the three of us
staring straight ahead at the telly. In the end, it's Colin who
speaks first, in a low, conspiratorial voice.

'Is it just me, or is this fella completely round the fuckin'
twist?'


With Alice's appearance the atmosphere lightens considerably.
She arrives breathless and bundled up in scarf and coat
and suede mittens, and looks round the room, smiling and
greeting everyone. 'Hi, Bri!' she says warmly, and gives me
a provocative little wink. Patrick buzzes around her, the sap,
running his hands over his beige plastic hair, offering up
his seat, and pouring her a glass of the Bulgarian Cabernet
Sauvignon that I brought along at great personal expense as if


so
STARTER FOR TEN


it was his own. When Alice asks, 'D'you mind if I smoke?' he
says 'Of course!' as if it's suddenly a terrific idea, why hadn't
he thought of it himself, then he looks round for something
to use as an ashtray, and finds a little desk-tidy containing
paper clips, which he empties onto the desk with wild, punky
abandon.

Alice squeezes in next to me on the sofa, her hip pressed
up tight against mine, Patrick clears his throat, and addresses
the team.

'So, here we are then! "The Fantastic Four!" And I really
think that we've got something special this year . . .'

Hang on a second - Fantastic Four!

'Just to explain how things work then . . .'

I count the people in the room; one, two, three . . .

'. . . the first stage is that we need to qualify for the actual
televised competition . . .'

Why not say 'Famous Five'? It wouldn't have hurt him to
say 'Famous Five'.

'This is in two weeks' time, and it's informal, but pretty
tough so, we're going to need our wits about us if we're to
actually make it on air. So up until then, I suggest the four
of us meet up here this time every week, and just run through
some questions that I'll prepare in advance, and maybe watch
a tape or two, just to keep our hands in . . .'

Hang on a second - why can't I come? I have to come, if I
don't come then I don't get to see Alice. I put my hand up to ask
a question, but Patrick's putting a tape in the video, and can't
see me, so I clear my throat and say, 'Um, Patrick . . . ?'

'Brian?'

'So I don't need to come then?'

The don't think so, no . . .'

'At all ... ?'

'No . . .'

'You don't think it's a good idea then . . . ?'

'Well, we'll only need you in an emergency. I just think it's
81
DAVID NICHOLLS


best if the four of us get used to each other as a team, seeing
as, you know, we are the team.'

'So you don't need me?'

'No.'

'Not even to come along and, you know, observe . . . ?'

'Not really, Brian, no . . .' and he presses play on the video.
'Right, this is Leeds versus Birkbeck in the quarter finals from
two years ago. A really good match . . .' and he sits back on
the sofa, with Alice squeezed in between us, her hip pressed
up tight next to mine, while I try to come up with a plan to
murder Patrick Watts.


82
1O


QUESTION: What is the meaning of the Latin motto that
accompanies the roaring lion at the beginning of Metro
Goldwyn-Mayer films?

ANSWER. Ars Gratia Art's- Art for Art's Sake.


'Well, personally speaking, I have to say that I just absolutely hate it. I mean, the idea that this is some great lyrical love poem
is rubbish. It's just this horny guy's poem, just this sexually
frustrated, little twerp trying to get into his mistress's knickers
by banging on about "Time's Winged Chariot", and not taking
no for an answer. There's nothing lyrical or romantic, and
certainly nothing erotic about this poem at all, not if you're
a woman anyway,' drawls Alice's friend, Erin, the cat-eyed
woman with the bleach-blonde crop. 'In fact, if a guy sent
this poem to me or read it to me or something, I'd call the
police. No wonder his mistress is coy. The poet's a complete
misogynist.'

'You think Andrew Marvell's a misogynist?' says Professor
Morrison, slouching back in his armchair, the long fingers of
his hands linked across his belly.

'Basically, yes. Certainly in this poem, anyway.'

'So the voice of the poet and the voice in the poem are one
and the same?'

'Why shouldn't they be? There's nothing to suggest any kind
of distancing device . . .'

'What d'you think, Brian?'

To be honest, I'm actually thinking about Alice, so I pause


83
DAVID NICHOLLS


for a second and play for time by rubbing my ears, as if my
critical faculties were somehow located in the lobes and I just
need to warm them up. It's only my third tutorial, and I got
caught out last time by pretending to have read Mansfield
Park when in fact I'd only seen half of the first episode on
telly, so this had better be good. From my arsenal, I select the
phrase 'historical context'.

'I think it's more complicated than that, especially if you
place the poem in its historical context . . .' and Erin smacks
her lips and sighs, as she tends to whenever I open my mouth
in tutorials. Erin clearly hates my guts, though I don't know
why, because I'm always smiling at her. Unless of course that
is the reason. Anyway. Concentrate. 'For a start there's clearly
a strong element of humour here. The use of rhetoric is self
conscious, and in that sense it's a bit like Shakespeare's sonnet
130, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" . . . (nice
one) . . . except here the poet's rhetoric renders him foolish the
desperation, the extremities to which he goes to persuade
his lover to succumb make him an essentially comic figure. It's
the comedy of sexual frustration and romantic humiliation.
It's actually the eponymous "coy mistress", the object of his
unrequited passion, who has all the power here . . .'

'Well that's a load of reactionary, chauvinistic crap,' snaps
Erin, who's been wriggling in her chair throughout, making
the vinyl squeak with indignation. 'The coy mistress has
no power, and no personality either, she's just a cipher, a
blank, defined solely by her beauty and her unwillingness to
have it off with the poet. And the tone clearly isn't comic, or
lyrical, it's hectoring, manipulative and oppressive.'

Then Chris the Hippie with the dirty hand starts talking,
and I decide to let Erin use him as her scratching post for a
while instead. Professor Morrison gives me a little fatherly
smile, letting me know that he agreed with me all along. I like
Professor Morrison. I'm scared of him too, which is probably
the right combination for an academic. He looks a bit like


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David Attenborough, which has also got to be a good thing in
an academic, and wears a lot of corduroy, and knitted ties, and
is stick thin, apart from a compact little pot-belly that looks
like a cushion strapped on underneath his dirty shirt. And
he listens intently when you're talking, head slightly cocked,
pressing his long fingers together into a church-and-steeple in
front of his mouth, exactly like Intellectuals do on the telly.

While Erin flays Chris alive, and Professor Morrison looks
on, I drift off for a bit and look out of the window at the
garden outside, and go back to thinking about Alice again.


Walking back along the High Street after the tutorial, I see
Rebecca whats-her-name and a couple of the fuckingangryactuallys
that she's always hanging around with. They're
thrusting leaflets into the hands of indifferent shoppers and
for a moment I contemplate crossing the road. I'm a bit wary
of her to be honest, especially after our last conversation, but
I've made a promise to myself to make as many new friends
as possible at university, even if they give every indication of
not actually liking me very much.

'Hiya,' I say.

'It's the Dancing Queen! How you doing?' she says, and
hands me a leaflet, urging me to boycott Barclays.

'Actually my grant money's with one of the other caring,
humanitarian, multinational banking organisations!' I say,
with an incisive, wry, satirical glint in my eye, but she's not
really looking and has gone back to handing out leaflets and
shouting 'Fight apartheid! Support the boycott. Don't buy
South African goods! Say no to apartheid! . . .' I start to feel
a bit boycotted too, so start to walk away when she says, in
a marginally softer voice, 'So, how ya' settling in, then?'

'Oh, alright. I'm sharing my house with a right pair of
bloody Ruperts. But apart from that it's not too bad . . .' I
had thrown in the hint of class-war for her benefit really, but
I don't think she gets it, because she looks at me, confused.


85
DAVID NICHOLLS


'They're both called Rupert?'

'No, they're called Marcus and Josh.'

'So who are the Ruperts?'

'They are, they're, you know - Ruperts,' but the remark
is starting to lose some of its cutting edge, and I wonder if
I should offer to hand out leaflets instead. After all, it is a
cause I'm passionate about, and I have a strict policy of not
eating South African fruit that's almost as strict as my policy
of not eating fruit. But now Rebecca's folding up the remaining
leaflets and handing them to her colleagues.

'Right, that's me done for today. See you later, Toby, see
you Rupert . . .' and suddenly I find myself walking down
the street side by side with her, without quite knowing whose
idea it was. 'So, where're we off to now, then?' she asks, hands
stuffed deep into the pockets of her black vinyl coat.

'Actually, I'm just on my way to the City Art Gallery.'

'The Art Gallery?' she asks, intrigued.

'Yeah, I thought I'd, you know, check it out?'

She wrinkles her nose, says, 'Okay. Let's "check it out"!'
and I follow her down the street.


Ah, the timeless old check-out-the-art-gallery ruse. I've been
waiting to try this for some time actually, because it's not really
possible in Southend, but this is a proper art gallery; hushed
library atmosphere, marble benches, security guards dozing
on uncomfortable chairs. My plan, ideally, was to bring Alice
here on a date, but it's good to have a dry run with someone
else first, so that I can work out my spontaneous responses in
advance.

I don't mind admitting that my response to the visual arts
can be pretty superficial; for instance, I often have to resort to
pointing out that someone in the painting looks like so-and-so
off the telly. Also, there's a certain amount of art gallery
etiquette that I need to get the hang of - how long to stand
in front of each of the paintings, what noises to make, that


86
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kind of thing - but Rebecca and I soon settle into a nice,
comfortable rhythm; not so fast as to seem shallow, not so
slow as to be deathly bored.

We're checking out the Eighteenth Century room, standing
in front of a not particularly remarkable painting by someone
I've never heard of, a Gainsborough-esque Lord and Lady
stood under a tree.

'Amazing perspective,' I say, but drawing her attention to
the way objects get smaller as they get further away seems
a little basic, so instead I decide to take a more Marxist,
socio-political approach.

'Look at their faces! They certainly seem pleased with
their lot!'

'If you say so,' says Rebecca, uninspired.

'Not an art-lover then?'

"Course I am. I just don't think that because something's
been put in a big, bloody gilt frame, I should be obliged to
stand around in front of it for hours, rubbing my chin. I mean,
look at this stuff . . .' Hands still plunged in coat pockets, she
gestures dismissively round the room, with the bat's wings
of her coat '. . . portraits of the idle rich surveying their
ill-gotten gains, chocolate-box portrayals of backbreaking
rural toil, paintings of spotlessly clean pigs. I mean, look
at this monstrosity' - she gestures towards a creamily pink,
plump nude reclined on a chaise-longue - 'soft-porn for the
slave-trading set. Where's her pubic hair for crying out loud!
Have you ever in your life seen a naked woman who looked
like that? I contemplate telling her that I've actually never
seen a naked woman, but I don't want to blow my artistic
credentials, so I stay quiet. 'I mean, who's it actually /or?'

'So you don't think art has any intrinsic value?'

'No, I just don't think it has intrinsic value because someone
somewhere decides to call it "art". Like this stuff - it's the
kind of crap you see on the walls of provincial Conservative
Clubs . . .'


87
DAVID NICHOLLS


'So I suppose, come the revolution, you'd burn this all
down . . .'

'Och, that's a really endearing little habit you've got there,
reducing people to a stereotype . . .' I follow her through to
a room full of still-lifes, and decide to steer the conversation
away from politics. 'What's the plural of "still-life"? Is it "still
lifes" or "still-lifes"?' This strikes me as a pretty sophisticated
Radio 4 kind of thing to say, but she's not biting.

'So what are your politics, then?' she says.

'Well, I suppose I'm a sort of left-wing liberal-humanist.'

'Nothing at all in other words . . .'

'Well, I wouldn't say th . . .'

'And what are you studying again?'

'Eng. Lit.'

'What's Ingletr

'English Literature.'

'Is that what they're calling it these days? And what attracted
you to Inglet, apart from the fact that it's obviously just one
big, fat, juicy skive.'

I choose to ignore the last comment, and go straight into
my number. 'Well, I wasn't sure what to do really. I had a
fairly broad base of qualifications at O and A-level, and I
thought about history, or art, or maybe one of the sciences.
But the thing about Literature is, well, basically it encapsulates
all the disciplines - it's history, philosophy, politics, sexual
politics, sociology, psychology, linguistics, science. Literature
is mankind's organised response to the world around him, or
her, so in a way it's only natural that this response should
contain a whole . . .' - take a little run-up - '. . . panoply of
intellectual concepts, ideas, issues . . .'

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. If I'm completely honest, this
isn't the first time I've said any of this. In fact I used this little
number in all of my university interviews, and whilst it's not
exactly 'We shall fight them on the beaches . . .' it usually goes
down a storm with academics, especially if accompanied, as


88
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here, with lots of hair tousling and emphatic gestures. I bring
the speech to its shattering climax '. . . so as the eponymous
Hamlet says to Polonius in Act Two Scene Two, it's all
ultimately about "words, words, words", and what we call
"literature" is in fact just the vehicle for what might more
accurately be described as the Study of ... Everything.'

Rebecca contemplates this, nods sagely. 'Well, that's certainly
the biggest pile of bogus horse-shit I've heard for some
time,' she says, and starts walking off.

'You think so?' I say, trotting after her.

'I mean, why not just say you want to sit round on your
arse and read for three years? At least it would be honest.
Literature doesn't teach you about "everything", and even if
it did, it'd only be in the most useless, superficial, impractical
way. I mean, anyone who thinks that they can learn anything
practical about politics or psychology or science by flicking
through Under Milk Wood is talking out their arse. Can
you imagine someone saying to you, 'Well, Mr-whateveryourname-is,
I'm about to remove your spleen, and, okay,
I haven't actually studied medicine as such, but don't worry,
because I very much enjoyed The Pickwick Papers . . . ?'

'Well, medicine's a special case.'

'And politics isn't? Or history? Or law? Why not? Because
they're easier} Less deserving of rigorous analysis?'

'So you don't think novels and poetry and plays contribute to the quality and richness of life?'

The didn't say that, did I? I'm sure they do, but so does the
three-minute pop song, and no one feels the need to study that for three years.'

I'm sure Alexander Pope said something pertinent that
would help me out here, but I can't remember what, and I
contemplate using the word 'utilitarianism', but am not sure
how. So instead I say, 'Just because something isn't practical, it doesn't mean it isn't useful.'1

Rebecca wrinkles her nose at this, and I realise I'm on pretty


89

DAVID NICHOLLS




sticky ground here, semantieally speaking, so I decide to take
a different tack, and go on the offensive.

'So what are you studying then, that's so useful?' I say.

'Law. Second Year.'

'Law! . . . right, well, I suppose law is pretty useful.'	-J|

'Well, let's hope so.'

Law makes sense. If I was in a court of law I definitely
wouldn't want to argue with Rebecca Epstein. She'd slap
you around the face with her Glasgow accent, she'd bark
things at you like 'define your terms!' and 'your argument is
specious!' In fact I don't want to argue with her now, so I just
stop talking and we walk silently through the City Museum,
with its glass cases of fossils and Roman coins and antique
farming implements. I suppose this is my first taste of the
lively intellectual cut-and-thrust of academic life. There are
those arguments in tutorials with Erin of course, but they're
like Chinese burns; it's just a matter of how much you can
take. With Rebecca, it feels like I've been stabbed in the eye.
Still, it is only my third week, I'm sure I'll get better at it, and
I know deep down that I am capable of coming up with an
eloquent and incisive reply, even if it won't be for another
three to four days. In the meantime I decide to see if I can
change the subject.

'So what d'you want to do afterwards then?' I say.

'Dunno. We could go for a drink if you fancy it . . .'

'No, I mean, after uni, when you qualify . . .'

'When I qualify? Dunno. Something that actually makes a
difference to people's lives. Not sure if I want to do that
whole barrister thing, but I'm interested in immigration law.
The Citizens' Advice Bureau do good work. Maybe I'll move
over into politics or journalism or something, help shift those
Tory bastards. How 'bout you?'

'Oh, maybe teaching or academia. Maybe writing in some
way or other.'

'What do you write?'



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STARTER FOR TEN


'Oh, nothing yet.' I decide to try something out, and add,
'Just a little poetry.'

'Well there you go. You're a poet and I wasn't aware
of it.' She looks at her watch. 'Right, I'd better be getting
back.'
'Where d'you live?'

'Kenwood Manor, where that lousy party was.'

'Ah, the same as my friend Alice?'

'Beautiful-blondeAlice?'

'Is she beautiful? I hadn't noticed.' I'm testing out a kind
of wry, post-feminist humour here, but Rebecca just tuts and
scowls and asks, 'So how d'you know her, then?'

'Oh, we're on the University Challenge team together . . .'
I say, shrugging casually. Rebecca's cackle bounces off the
museum's stone walls.

'You're joking!'

'What's funny about that?'

'Nothing, nothing at all. I'm so sorry, I had no idea I was
talking to a TV personality, that's all. So what are you trying
to prove then?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, going on something like that, must mean you've got
something to prove.'

'I haven't got anything to prove! It's just a bit of fun.
And anyway, we haven't qualified for the TV tournament
yet. We've got the selection heats next week.'

'Tournament, eh? Makes it sound quite macho. Like you've
got to wear protective clothing or something. What position
d'you play? Centre-forward? Goal defence . . . ?'

'Actually, I'm the first reserve.'

'Ah, so you're not technically on the team then.'

'No. No, I suppose not.'

'Well, if you want me to break anyone's buzzer finger for
you, just give me the word . . .' We're standing on the steps
of the gallery now, and it's started to turn dark since we've


91
DAVID NICHOLLS


been inside. 'Nice talking to you . . . I'm sorry, I've forgotten
your name again.'

'Brian. Brian Jackson. Shall I walk you home?'
'I know the way, I live there, remember? See you around
then, Jackson,' and she heads down the steps, then stops and
turns. 'And Jackson? Of course you should study whatever
subject you want. The written appreciation and understanding
of literature, or any kind of artistic endeavour, is absolutely
central to a decent society. Why d'you think books are the
first things that the fascists burn? You should learn to stick
up for yourself more,' and she turns, and trots down the steps
and off into the evening.


92
11


QUESTION: What word, German in origin, describes pleasure
obtained from the misfortunes of others?
ANSWER- Schadenfreude


Today I finally got my first lucky break. Big Colin Pagett has
contracted hepatitis.

I find out in the middle of a lecture on Coleridge and
Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. Dr Oliver's been talking for
some time now, and I've been trying to concentrate, really
I have, but to my mind a Lyrical Ballad is something like
Kate Bush singing 'The Man With The Child In His Eyes',
and that's my central problem with The Romantics; they're
just not romantic enough. You imagine it's going to be a lot
of love poetry that you can plagiarise in Valentine's cards,
but generally speaking it's all about lakes and urns and
leech-collectors.

From what I can glean from Dr Oliver, the primary concerns
of the Romantic Mind were 1) Nature 2) Man's relationship
with Nature 3) Truth and 4) Beauty, whereas I tend to respond
best to poetry that explores the themes a) God, you're really
nice b) I fancy you, please go out with me c) going out with you
is really, really great and d) why won't you go out with me any
more? It's the sensitive and profound handling of these themes
that makes the poetry of Shakespeare and Donne the most
affecting and lyrical in the English canon. I'm contemplating
entitling my next illuminating essay 'Towards a Definition of
"Romance", a comparative study of the "lyrical" in Coleridge


93
DAVID NICHOLLS	^


and Donne' or something, when, appropriately enough, I see

Alice Harbinson's face appear at the door to the lecture hall.	\

Everyone looks up, as well they might, but she seems to be
jabbing her finger at me, and mouthing something. I point at	2

myself and she nods urgently, then ducks down and scribbles	i

something on an A4 pad and presses it up to the glass.	4

'Brian, I Need You - Urgently,' it says.	I

For sex, I wonder? Presumably not, but still, I clearly have	^

no option but to go, so as discreetly as I can I pick up my books	*

and files, crouch down and head towards the door. Dr Oliver,
in fact the whole lecture hall, look across at me.

'Sorry - doctor's appointment,' I say, and place my hand	^

on my chest, as if to emphasise that I could drop dead at any	|

moment. Dr Oliver doesn't seem to mind much either way, and	|

goes back to the Lyrical Ballads, and I sneak out to find Alice	j

in the corridor, red-faced, sweaty, breathless and lovely.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .' she gasps.

'That's fine really, what's up?'

'We need you! For the qualifying round this afternoon.'

'Really? But Patrick told me not to bother

'Colin can't make it - he's got hepatitis.'

'You're joking!' Of course, I don't punch the air or anything,
because I quite like Colin and I am genuinely concerned for
him, really I am, so I look anxious and say, 'Is he okay?'

'Absolutely. It's not the serious one, it's Hepatitis A or
something. He's bright yellow apparently, but he's going to be
fine, completely fine. But it means you're on the team! Now!'
and we do a little excited victory shuffle, nothing indecent or
anything, then run over to the Student Union.


There are moments when mankind's achievements seem to
stretch our very conception of what is humanly possible
- the sculptures of Bernini or Michelangelo for instance,
Shakespeare's tragedies or Beethoven's string quartets. And
this afternoon in the empty student bar, for some reason that


94
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defies rational explanation - fate, or luck, the unseen hand
of God, or a state of grace - I seem to know just about everything.

'If Adenine is paired with Thymine, then Cytosine is paired
with . . . ?'

Know it. 'Guanine.'

'What is the full name of the organisation that awards
Oscars?'

Know it. 'Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences.'

'Correct. Reed, bush, swamp and chiff-chaff are all varieties
of the family Sylviidae and are better known as . . . ?'

Know it. 'Warblers?'

'Correct. Which Canadian folk-singer's real name is Roberta
Joan Anderson?'

Know it. 'Joni Mitchell.'

'Correct.'

The University Challenge people have sent down a researcher
called Julian, who's a nice softly spoken young man, mid
twenties, in a v-neck jumper and tie; Bamber Gascoigne's
stunt-double basically. It's a straightforward quiz format forty
questions in fifteen minutes, no starters, conferring
allowed - to see if we're up to appearing on the televised
championship. And we are. Oh, we so obviously are. In fact,
I don't mind saying we're on fire.

'Which twelfth century figure, Queen Consort of both
France and England, was the inspiration for many of the
poems of Bernard de Ventadour, the troubadour poet?'

'Eleanor of Aquitaine,' I say.

'Hold on, hold on - can we go through the captain please?'
hisses Patrick, indignantly. 'Now, Brian, how do you know
that?'

I actually know it because Katharine Hepburn plays her in
that dodgy film that's always on Sunday afternoon telly, but
I don't tell him that, I just nod sagely and say, wide-eyed, 'I
just . . . know,' as if the sheer, awesome world-conquering


95
DAVID NICHOLLS


power of my general knowledge is an enigma, even to me.
Sceptically, Patrick looks to Lucy Chang for confirmation,
but she just shrugs, so he says 'Eleanor of Aquitaine?'

'Correct', says Julian.

I feel a hand squeeze my arm, and glance to my right, where
Alice is sat smiling at me, eyes wide open in frank awe. That's
my ninth correct answer in a row, and I feel like Jesse Owens
must have felt at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. The others aren't
getting a look-in, not even Lucy Chang, and all of a sudden it
seems as if Colin Pagett's hepatitis is the best thing that could
have possibly happened, for everyone except Colin Pagett that
is, because it really does seem as if I know everything about
everything.

'Which parallel of latitude was chosen at the 1945 Potsdam
conference as the approximate demarcation of North and
South Korea?'

I don't know this one actually, but it's okay, because we've
got Lucy.

The Thirty-eighth Parallel?'

'Correct.'

And so it goes on - Andalucia - correct, 1254 - correct,
calcium carbonate - correct, Ford Madox Ford - correct.
Of course, if any of this was actually happening on telly, it
would have a nation transfixed, fork-full of pie frozen halfway
between plate and mouth in breathless awe. But it's not, it's
just happening in an empty student bar that reeks of fags and
lager, at three in the afternoon on a damp November Tuesday,
and no one's watching, not even the cleaners, one of whom has
started to hoover the bar carpets.

'Um, is there any chance we could . . . ?' mumbles Julian.

Patrick leaps to his feet and shrieks indignantly. 'Excuse me!
WE'RE TRYING TO DO A QUIZ AND IT'S AGAINST THE
CLOCK!'

'It's got to be done some time!' says the cleaner, still
hoovering.


96
STARTER FOR TEN


'THIS MAN . . .' declaims Patrick, pointing his finger at
Julian, like an Old Testament prophet'. . . HAS BEEN SENT
FROM THE MANCHESTER OFFICES OF UNIVERSITY
CHALLENGED and for some reason, this seems to clinch
it, because the cleaner turns the Hoover off, mumbles and
returns to emptying the ashtrays.

Back to the quiz. I wonder if perhaps the spell's been
broken, and if we can retain our championship form, but I
needn't have worried because the next question is about the
Anglo-Saxon ship burial uncovered in Suffolk in 1939, which
provided valuable insights into ancient burial rituals.

Know it.

'Sutton Hoo,' I say.

'Correct.'

'The Rorschach test,' I say.

'Correct.'

'Epithelium . . .' Lucy says.

'Correct.'

'Uganda?' Patrick says.

'No, I think it's Zaire . . .' I say, and Patrick scowls at me
like Caligula for daring to question his authority, then turns
back to Julian and says, firmly 'Uganda.'

'Incorrect. It's actually Zaire,' says Julian, giving me a little
consolatory smile. I think I see a little involuntary twitch in the
corner of Patrick's eye, but I'm way too mature to gloat about
it, because after all, Patrick, it's not about petty individual
point-scoring, it's all about team-work, you fat-head . . .

'The house sparrow,' I say.

'Correct.'

'a is congruent to b modulo m?' whispers Lucy.

'Correct.'

'The Corn Laws,' shouts Patrick.

'Correct.'

'The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy,' I suggest.

'Correct.'


97
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Buster Keaton?' offers Alice.

'No, I think it's Harold Lloyd,' I say, kind but firm.

'Okay, Harold Lloyd?' says Alice.

'Correct. Which aeronautical engineer died in 1937, several
years before his most famous design came to dominate the
skies during the Battle of . . . ?'

'RJ. Mitchell,' I say.

'What?' says Patrick.

'RJ. Mitchell, designer of the Spitfire.' I remember the name
from the blurb on the box of the classic l/12th scale Airfix kit,
and I know I'm right, it's R. J. Mitchell, definitely, I'm sure of
it. But Patrick's looking at me now, and frowning as if he's
willing me, aching for me to be wrong. 'It's R.J. Mitchell trust
me.'

'R.J. Mitchell?' he says reluctantly.

'Correct,' says Julian, who can't help but smile now. Patrick
looks at me with eyes narrowed, but Lucy leans around him
and gives me the thumbs-up sign, and Alice, well, Alice slides
her hand behind me and places it at the small of my back, just
where my granddad shirt has come untucked from my jeans.

'Okay, your final question; isolated in seventeen thirty-five
by Swedish chemist Georg Brandt, which ferromagnetic metal
of Group VIII of the periodic table is used in the production of
heat-resistant and magnetic alloys?' In all fairness, my periodic
table is a little rusty, and I haven't got a clue with this one, but
it's okay because again, Lucy Chang knows.

'Cobalt,' she says.

'Correct.' It's over, and we slump forwards and pat each
other on the back, and Alice gives me a hug and I realise
from the damp patch on my back that I'm sweating like a
racehorse.

But Julian is clearing his throat and saying, 'Well, your final
score was thirty-nine out of a possible forty, a really superb
score, so I'm very pleased to tell you that you're definitely
through to this year's University Challenge competition!'


98
STARTER FOR TEN


And the crowd, if there had been one, would have gone
wild.


Outside the Student Union building we all shake hands
with nice young Julian, wish him well on his trip back to
Manchester, see you again on 15 February, best regards to
Bamber, ha-ha, then we all stand around in the late afternoon
sunlight, not sure what to do next.

'So - how about a celebratory pint then!' I say, keen to
prolong the glory.

'What? At four in the afternoon?' says Patrick, indignantly,
as if I'd just invited everyone back to mine for heroin and
an orgy.

'Can't, sorry, test tomorrow,' says Lucy.

'I'd better not, either,' says Alice, and there's a little hiatus
while we all wonder if she's going to come up with an
excuse.

She doesn't bother, so I say, 'Okay, well I'm heading your
way too, I'll walk with you.' We head off, and I try to come up
with a plausible explanation for why I'm walking in completely
the wrong direction.

'Hey, well done you!' she says, as we walk through the park
that leads to her halls of residence. 'You were amazing.'

'Oh, well, thanks. You too.'

'Oh, rubbish. I'm dead weight on that team. I only qualified
in the first place because you gave me the answers.'

'Well, that's not true,' I say, even though it is.

'So how did you know all that stuff?'

'Mis-spent youth!' I say, but she doesn't get it, so I say,
'I suppose I just have a capacity for remembering useless
knowledge, that's all.'

'D'you think there's such a thing? As useless knowledge?'

'Well. Sometimes I wish that I hadn't learnt how to crochet,'
I say, and Alice laughs. Obviously she thinks I'm joking,
which is maybe for the best. 'And lyrics to pop songs, I


99
DAVID NICHOLLS


sometimes think that i could do without knowing so many
pop lyrics . . .'

' "Give me spots on my apples but give me the birds and the
bees ..."?'

Know it.

'"Big Yellow Taxi" by Joni Mitchell,' I say.

'"From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads

Know it.

'"Life on Mars", Bowie,' I say.

'Okay, here we go, something new. "She's got cheekbones
like geometry and eyes like sin/and she's sexually enlightened
by Cosmopolitan . . ."'

Of course, I know the answer to this, but I do an engaging
little pantomime of not-knowing, then say, '"Perfect Skin",
Lloyd Cole and the Commotions?'

'God, you're gooooood,' she says and then, bizarrely, takes
my arm, and we walk on through the park as the sun goes
down.

'Okay, my turn. Do your worst . . .'

So I think for a moment, and take a deep breath and say,

'"I saw two shooting stars last night/I wished on them
but they were only satellites/It's wrong to wish on space
hardware/I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care."'

And I seem to have gotten away with it, in the sense that
she doesn't projectile puke on me right there and then. And,
yes, I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I am, really I
am. She seems to take it fairly innocently though, and thinks
for a moment then says 'Billy Bragg - "A New England".'

'Spot on,' I say.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

'I think so,' and we walk on through the tree-lined avenue,
and the sodium lights blink on as we pass them, like the illuminated
dance-floor in the Billie-Jean video. It occurs to me that
what we most resemble at this moment is the black-and-white
photograph on the cover of a TV-advertised exclusive 4disc


100
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Ronco compilation album entitled The Greatest Love Songs
Ever. Ahead of us is a large pile of newly fallen leaves, all
russet and ochre and gold, and I steer her towards it, saying
'Hey, let's kick through some leaves!'
'Better not. There's usually dog-shit in there,' she says.

And I have to admit, she's probably got a point.


Shortly afterwards we get back to Kenwood Manor. She's held
on to my arm all the way, which has to count for something,
so feeling emboldened I say, 'Hey, what are you doing next
Tuesday?'

Only a highly experienced eye like my own would spot the
fleeting moment of panic that passes over Alice Harbinson's
features, but it's there all right, if only for a moment, before she
pulls a quizzical look, and taps her chin with her finger. 'Next
Tues . . . day? Let me think . . .' she says. Quick, Alice, think
of an excuse, quickly girl, come on, come on, come on, . . .

'It's just it's my nineteenth birthday, you see. The big One
Nine! . . .' and I pause just long enough for her to stroll blindly
into my trap.

'And you're having a party! Well I'd love to come . . .'

'Actually, not a party, I don't really know enough people
for a party. But I thought maybe we could just go out for . . .
dinner or something?'

'Just me and you?' She smiles. Is the word 'rictal' or
'rictusly'?

'Just me and you . . .'

'Okay,' she says, as if it were two words. 'O. Kay. Why
not? Yes! That'll be great! That'll be fun!' she says.

And it will be great. Great and Fun. I'm determined that it
will be both Great and Fun.


101

QUESTION Lanugo, vellus and terminal are all terms
used to describe the different developmental stages
of which part of the human body9

ANSWER Hair


Today is a special day, because not only is it my nineteenth
birthday, the last year of my teens, the beginning
of a new and excitingly adult, mature phase in the life of
Brian Jackson, but it's also the day of my romantic dinner
for two with Alice Harbinson, and as a special birthday gift
to myself, Alice, and the world, I've decided to completely
change my image.

This has been due for some time, frankly. A lot of great
artists, like David Bowie or Kate Bush stay on the cutting-edge
by constantly changing their attitude and appearance, but I 12


think it's fair to say that I've been caught in a bit of a style-rut
lately. I'm not going to do anything extreme, I'm not going to
start wearing knitted leotards, or get into heroin or become
bisexual or anything, but I am going to get my hair cut. No,
not just cut. Styled.

Hair has always been a bit of a bone of contention to
be honest. Like using gel or washing your face or wearing
slip-ons, having your hair cut was always considered a bit
effeminate at Langley Street Comprehensive. This means that
up until today I've been lumbered with this sort of nameless,
formless thing that just flops lankly over my eyes, curling
unhygienically over my collar and sticking out over the ears


102

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so that in silhouette my head looks a bit like a large bell or,
as Tone would have it, the end of a knob.

But all that's going to finish today, because I've been eyeing
up Cutz, a unisex salon - not a barber's - that I like the look of.
It's modern without being avant-garde, and quite masculine,
and clean, with copies of The Face and id to read, rather than
a dog-eared, hairy pile of Razzle and Mayfair. I've spoken to
a nice man called Sean, with a flat-top and an earring and a
boys-y demeanour, who says he's going to do-me at ten.

It is, of course, massively expensive, but I've got the fiver
Mum sent me in the post this morning (tucked in a card with
footballers on the front - 'don't spend it all at once!'), and a fiver from Nana Jackson to go towards the romantic dinner
for two tonight, so I'm feeling pretty uptown and ritzy as I
stroll nonchalantly into Cutz, the first customer of the day.
I approach the small group of staff, all hanging round the
reception desk, drinking coffee and smoking Silk Cut.

'Appointment for ten o'clock? With Sean? Name of Jackson?'

They all look up, at my clothes and my hair, then look back
down in a 'don't-get-involved' way, except for the receptionist,
who strolls over and checks the appointment book. I can't see
Sean, though. Where's my new friend Sean?

'Sean's not in today,' she says.

'Oh, right . . . ?'

'Nicky can do-you though. He's the apprentice. Is that
alright?'

I follow her gaze to the corner where a skinny boy is
half-heartedly sweeping up last night's trimmings. Is that
Nicky? He looks about six.

'An apprenticed I whisper.

'He's the same as Sean, he's just a bit cheaper,' says the
receptionist, chirpily, but even she knows it's a gamble.

You know in westerns, when the gang go to a brothel, and
the main cowboy has to pick the prostitute that he likes the
most, and there's always a sexy one with a beauty spot, the one


1O3
DAVID NICHOLLS


that's clearly much more attractive than the other prostitutes,
who are all fat or skinny or old, or have a wooden leg, or a
mole on their lip, or a glass eye, and of course the cowboy
always picks the sexy one? Well, I can't help worrying about
the other prostitutes' feelings. I know that prostitution is
wrong, but there's a kind of resigned, disappointed shrug
that the rejected prostitutes give as they head back to their
chaise-longue or whatever, that shows that while they'd rather
not have loveless sex for money with a strange cowboy, it still
would have been nice to be asked. And that's the look Nicky
the Apprentice gives me. I can't reject Nicky, because Nicky
is the prostitute with the wooden leg.

I'm sure Nicky will be great!' I say chirpily, and Nicky
shrugs, puts down his broom, picks up his scissors, and gets
ready to dome.

They make me up an individual proper coffee in a sort of
jug with a plunger, and we have what I think is called 'a
consultation'. This is a tricky one for me, because I don't
really have the vocabulary. I thought about bringing along
a photograph as a sort of visual aid, but if I turn up with
a picture of David Bowie or Sting or Harrison Ford, they're
just going to laugh in my face.

'What d'you want then? The usual?'

The don't know. What's the usual?'

'Short-backand-sides.'

No, that can't be right - sounds too old-fashioned. 'Actually
I was thinking more of sort of keeping some of the length on
the top, with a loose parting on the left, and sort of combed
back, and short over the ears, and at the back.'

'Shaved at the back?'

'Just a little.'

'Like in Brideshead Revisited'?''

'No!' I laugh, meaning yes.

'Well, like what then?'

Be cool. 'Ummmm.'


1O4
STARTER FOR TEN


'. . . because what you've just described there is a short
back-and-sides.'

'Is it? Okay then, a short-backand-sides.'

'Want it washed?' he asks, lifting a lock distastefully between
finger and thumb, like someone picking up a dirty tissue.

Will that be more expensive? 'No, no, no, I think it's fine,
thanks.'

'You a student?'

'Yes!'

'Thought so.'

And so it begins. Young Nicky's actually pretty deft with
the scissors, considering that the last pair he used were plastic
and round-ended, and pretty soon he's hacking away with
something like enthusiasm, as 'Purple Rain' plays loudly over
the stereo. Meanwhile I sit and read The Face and pretend
I understand it, and that I'm not worried about my hair,
oh no, not at all, even though Nicky's the apprentice. The
apprentice what? Apprentice plumber? Apprentice electrician?
Apprentice lathe operator? I'm staring at an article about
skate-boarding without really taking it in, so instead just
look at the models in the fashion shoots, who are all skinny
and androgynous and topless and languidly post-coital, and
all sneer up at me, as if sneering at what Nicky's doing to my
hair, and the electric razor's out now, and he's shearing the
back of my head. Apprentice shepherd? I look up from The
Face, look at the mirror, and it looks . . . quite good actually,
clean and fresh, structured yet natural. I look alright. In fact, I
think this might actually be the one for me, the perfect haircut,
the haircut I've been waiting for all my life. Nicky, I am so
sorry for ever doubting you . . .

But still he keeps cutting. Like when you do a great painting
at junior school, and the teacher says 'stop now, or you'll
spoil it' - Nicky's spoiling it! He's carving out great shaved
strips over my ears, he's shaving so high up the back that the
long hair on top looks like a toupee. Apprentice lawn-keeper?


105

DAVID NICHOLLS


Apprentice butcher? I want to reach over and yank the power
cable out of the wall, but I can't, I just look dumbly back at The
Face, something about break-dancing in Basingstoke shopping
centres, and wait for the buzzing to stop.

Finally he stops. 'Gel or wax?' he asks.

God, gel or wax? I don't know. Is 'bag' an option? I've
never had wax, so I say wax, and he opens a little shoe-polish
container, rubs what looks like lard on his hands, and drags
his fingers through what remains of my hair.

It's clear that I'm a long, long way from Brideshead here. I
look like Winston Smith. I look like a shaved rabbit. I look
skinny and wide-eyed and consumptive and a bit mad. Nicky
gets a mirror and shows me the back of my head, where the
electric razor has uncovered a Martian landscape of scars and
boils that I didn't even know existed until now, one of which
is bleeding slightly.

'What d'you think?' Nicky says.

'It's perfect!' I say.


Now that I've ruined my hair, it's time to pick a restaurant for
our romantic dinner for two. Once again, no one teaches you
how to choose a restaurant, and I've never been to a proper
restaurant with just one other person before, just cafes and
curries and Chinese with Spencer and Tone mainly, where
more often than not, the traditional end to a meal is not a
cognac and a fine cigar, but Tone shouting 'Runner!' So I'm
working on instinct rather than experience, but sticking to a few basic rules of thumb.

First of all, no curries, just in case things get amorous. Also,
there's nothing particularly attractive about sitting there with
the object of your devotion, wafting your hand in front of your
mouth going 'Bloody hell, that's hotV Secondly, try to avoid
restaurants that are located within large department stores or
supermarkets. I once treated Janet Parks to a slap-up sit-down
lunch in Basildon British Home Stores, and I don't think it

106


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went down that well actually. Carrying your own food back
to your table on a tray, generally speaking, is to be avoided;
remember, waitresses are not a luxury. Thirdly, don't be too flash. Impulsively, I told Alice that I'd take her to Bradley's
Bistro, which is pretty swanky, but I went to look at the menu
and it's way out of my league, so we're going to have to go
somewhere which combines fine cuisine with value-for-money.
Even with Nana Jackson's river taken into account, I've still
only got £12.00 for dinner for two, to include wine, two
courses and a dessert with two spoons.

Walking around town, looking in restaurant windows, I
keep catching sight of my new haircut, my face looking
haunted and afraid. That hair wax is a rip-off too. They
make you think it's going to give you control, but all it's
done here is make the fringe cling lankly to my forehead, like
an oil-slicked seagull. Maybe it'll look better by candlelight.
As long as it doesn't combust.

I browse the restaurants in the chintzier village-y part of
town, and finally make my decision - a traditional Italian
trattoria called Luigi's Pizza Plaza. It does burgers and ribs too,
and deep-fried whitebait, and has red-check tablecloths, and
candles in wine bottles under great red vesuviuses of congealed
wax, and complimentary breadsticks and gigantic pepper mills
on every table, so I book the table for two, eight-thirty, name
of Jackson, from a red-faced man with dirty fingernails who
may or may not be the eponymous Luigi, then head back to
my digs.


107

QUESTION A durable blue twill taking its name from
'serge de Mimes'; the exuded sap of the tree 'hevea
brasihensis', and woven filaments from the genus
Bombyx Name the three materials

ANSWER Denim, rubber and silk


I'm meant to be doing an essay on 'Nature Imagery in John
Donne's Holy Sonnets', but I've been looking for a week now
and still can't actually find any.

My pencil-notes in the margin don't help much either; I've
written things like 'the Annunciation!' and 'irony?' and 'cf.
Freud' and 'here he turns the tables!', and I 13


can't remember
why, so instead I pick up Jacques Derrida's OfGrammatology. It occurs to me that there are six ages of book-reading. The
first is picture books, then 2) books with more illustrations
than words, then 3) books with more words than illustrations,
then 4) books with no illustrations, just a map maybe, or a
family tree, but lots of dialogue, then 5) books with long
paragraphs and hardly any dialogue, then 6) books with
no dialogue, no narrative, just great long paragraphs and
footnotes and bibliographies and appendixes and very, very
small writing. Jacques Derrida's Of Grammatology is very
much a book of the sixth kind, and, intellectually speaking,
I'm still stuck somewhere between ages four and five. I read
the first sentence, flick through in a fruitless search for a map
or photo or illustration then fall asleep.

When I wake up, I suddenly realise it's 4.30, and I've


1O8

I
STARTER FOR TEN


only got three hours to get ready for dinner. I head to
the bathroom, but Josh has been using the bath to soak
a load of dirty denim in detergent. I have to scoop the
clothes out of the cold, blue stew, and pile them in the
sink before I can run the bath, and it's not until I get in
that I realise that I haven't got rid of all the washing powder,
and that I am, to all intents and purposes, giving myself a
70-degree non-biological cotton/polyester wash. So the bath
isn't quite the relaxing experience I'd hoped for, especially as
I have to rinse myself off with cold water through the shower
attachment to try and prevent the worst of the chemical burns.
Looking in the mirror, I notice that I've turned slightly blue.

I transfer the wet denim back in the bath, then in a spirit
of righteous vengeance, I nip down the corridor to Josh's
bedroom door, and when I'm sure he's not there, I nip
in and steal his Apri facial scrub, which basically is grains
of ground-up peach-stone in soap that you rub your face
with. I do so, and get a pretty satisfying lather going, but
when it comes to washing it off, the results aren't good. It
looks like I've been through a plate-glass window. Either
that or someone's rubbed my face very hard with ground-up
peach-stone. There's a lesson to be learnt here, I suppose, and
it's this; acne doesn't rub off.

Tight-faced now, and scared to smile in case my face starts
to bleed, I go back to my room, where my futon is up against
the wall, drying out, put my dirty clothes away, and carefully
choose what books to leave lying around just in case Alice
comes back 'for "coffee'" or more likely, for coffee. I go for The Communist Manifesto, Tender is the Night, The Lyrical
Ballads, The Female Eunuch, some e.e.cummings and the Songs and Sonnets of John Donne, just in case things get
steamy and I need some lyric poetry to hand. I'm in two
minds about The Female Eunuch, because even though I'd
like her to think that my sexual politics are progressive and
radical the illustration on the front cover, of a disembodied


1O9

DAVID NICHOLLS


naked female torso, has always seemed a bit sexy to me, so
much so that I used to have to hide it from Mum.

Then I put on some brand-new black briefs, my best black
slacks, a new second-hand dinner-jacket, bought from the
vintage clothes shop, 'Olden Times', my best white shirt, a
bow tie, and my new black braces. I arrange the dead seagull
on my head, then splash my face with Dad's vintage white
porcelain bottle of Old Spice, which makes me smell a bit
old and spicy, and stings like hell. Then I check my wallet for
the condom that I always carry with me in case of a miracle.
This particular condom is number two in a proposed trilogy,
the first of which met its poignant fate in the wheelie-bin at
the back of Littlewoods. This one has been in my wallet for
so long that it's stuck to the lining, and the foil wrapper has
started to tarnish round the outline of the condom, like some
grotesque brass rubbing. Still, I like to carry it with me, in
the same way as some people like to carry a St Christopher's
medal, despite the fact that I have about as much chance of
using the thing tonight as I have of carrying the infant Jesus
across a river.


On the way to Kenwood Manor I have to stop every hundred
yards or so, because the metal clips on my braces refuse to
gain a purchase on the waistband of my black slacks, and
keep pinging off and snapping against my nipples.

I'm re-attaching them for about the twentieth time when
a voice behind me says, 'Someone stolen your teddy-bear,
Sebastian?'

'Hello, Rebecca, how are you?'

'I'm alright, the question is are you alright?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, what's happened to your hair?'

'Don't you like it?'

'Makes you look like Heinrich Himmler. And why the
fancy dress?'

no


I
STARTER FOR TEN


'Well, you know what they say - clothes niaketh the
man . . .'

'. . . look uncomfortable?'

'I'm taking someone out to dinner, if you must know.'

'Wooooooo!'

'It's just a platonic thing.'

'And who's the lucky lady? Not bloody Alice Harbinson
I hope . . .' I look innocently up at the sky. 'Och, I don't
believe it. You boys, you're sooooo predictable. Honestly, if
you want to play with dolls, why don't you just go out and
buy a doll?'

'What?'

'Nothing. Hey, you'd better get a move on Jackson, or you'll
miss the boat.'

'What d'you mean by that?'

'I just mean that she's clearly a very popular young lady,
that's all. We're on the same corridor, and every night there's
this long queue of drooling rugger-buggers snaking out of her
door, all clutching bottles of warm Lambrusco . . .'

'Really?'

'Uh-huh. And she's got this habit of strolling down the
corridor to the communal bathroom in her little black knickers
and bra. Though for whose benefit that display's for, I really
couldn't say . . .'

I bat the image out of my mind. 'You sound as if you don't
like her.'

'Och, I barely know her - not cool enough for that crowd,
am I? Besides, I don't think she's what you'd call a girl's girl,
if you know what I mean. Personally speaking, I don't see the
appeal of the kind of girl who still draws a smiley face in the
middle of her letter 'O's but, hey, that's just me. So, where
you taking the lovely Alice?'

'Oh, just a place in town. Luigi's?'

'KFC all booked up was it?'

'You think Luigi's is a bad idea?'


111

DAVID NICHOLLS


'Not at all. You're clearly a gentleman of taste and sophistication!
And I
hear the half-pounder with cheese, chilli and
onion rings is to die for. Maybe you can take me there one
day too, Jackson.'

And she walks on ahead, leaving me trying to think of
something clever to say. 'Rebecca,' I call after her. She turns,
grinning. 'Why do you always call me Jackson?'

'D'you mind?'

'Not really. It's just a bit Grange Hill, that's all.'

'Och, I'm sorry. It's meant with affection. Would you prefer
"Brian"? Or the more perky and informal "Bri"? Or "Herr
Himmler" perhaps . . . ?'

'Brian, I think.'

'Okay then, Brian it is. Have fun, Brian. Keep your wits
about you, Brian. Play it cool, Brian' . . . and she disappears
down the corridor . . . 'see you around, Brian.'

I hurry to Alice's room, half expecting to see this great long
queue of boys, but when I get there the door's closed. I can
hear voices from inside - I don't exactly press my ear to the
wood, because that wouldn't be right, but I do stand close
enough to hear.

'Where's he taking you for dinner?' says a voice, female,
thank God.

'Bradley's, I think,' says Alice.

'Bradley's - very posh.'

'Is he rich then?'

'Don't know. Wouldn't have thought so,' says Alice.

'Well, just make sure you're back by eleven, young lady, or
we'll send the police out looking for you . . .' I knock, because
I don't want to hear any more, and there's some whispering
and giggling, and then she opens the door.

She's wearing a low-cut charcoal-grey satin evening dress
with a puff-ball skirt, and her hair's piled high on her head,
so that along with the high heels, she seems about two feet
taller than usual. She's wearing more make-up than usual too,

I


112
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lipstick for the first time, the line of that tiny raised scar still
visible on her lower lip. Most remarkable of all, though is the
low-cut ball gown. She must have some kind of strapless bra
arrangement under there, because her shoulders are bare, as if
the top half of her body were being squeezed gently out of the
dress, and there's a fantastic curve of bare skin, of bare Alice,
rolling, over-flowing the top of the satin bodice. In a nineteenth
century novel, you'd say that she had a 'magnificent bosom'. In
fact, you'd say it now too. She has a magnificent bosom.
You're staring. Don't stare, Brian.

'Hello, Alice.'

'Hello, Brian.'

Behind her, Erin the Cat, and another one of her gang, are
smirking at me. Close your mouth, Brian.

'You look very nice, Bri,' says Erin, without meaning it.

Thank you! So, shall we go then?'

'Absolutely.'

And she takes my arm and we go.


113
fl

14


QUESTION: Consisting of a straight chain of carbon
atoms, with hydrogen atoms along its length, and a
carboxyl growth at one end, Oleic acid is the most
widely distributed example of which lipid component?

ANSWER: Fatty acids.


Politically, of course, I don't really approve of the concept
of physical beauty. The idea that someone, man or woman,
should receive any kind of extra attention or affection or
popularity or respect or adulation, simply because of a quirk
of genetics and some arbitrary, male-media-defined subjective
notion of 'beauty' seems to me inherently wrong and
unacceptable.

Having said that, Alice is clearly just . . . beautiful. In the
candle-light she looks like a De la Tour. Or do I mean
Vermeer? Or Watteau? She knows she's being looked at
as she opens the menu, and she must know that she looks
lovely, but what must that be like? To be looked at, rather
than just glanced at, and to give pleasure, entirely passively,
just by being looked at. Though looking at her now, it occurs
to me that it's not even pleasure as such, just more of an ache,
a low, dull, heavy throb in your belly, that you wish you could
get rid of but can't, because it's too much temptation, to sit
and look, to sit and gaze and take her in.

Ever since I met her, I've noticed people gazing at Alice in
this way. I've watched Patrick do it, smoothing back his hair,
with his fat, stupid astronaut's tongue lolling out, and I watch


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Luigi the waiter do it as he peels her burgundy shawl off her
bare shoulders and shows us to the table, then heads through
the swing doors to spread the word, so that both the chef
and the washer-upper come out of the kitchen on some feeble
pretext, just to look at her. What must that be like? To be
admired before you've even said a word, to be desired two or
three hundred times a day by people who have absolutely no
idea what you're like?

When Mum's watching telly, she'll often appraise a woman,
a film star or something, and say 'she's beautiful . . .' then,
damningly, in her best Old Testament voice'. . .and she knows
if. Whether or not 'beautiful and knows it' is better or worse
than 'ugly and knows it' I'm not sure, and I suppose great
physical beauty must be some kind of burden, but as burdens
go it surely has to be one of the lighter ones.

Over the top of the menu, I steal a glance at the rectangle
of peachy, candle-lit cleavage that I'm trying not to look at
because I don't want her to feel she's being objectified.

'Nice, isn't it?' she says.

I assume that she means the restaurant and say, 'Is it? I
hope so.' I'm having to whisper, because we're the only people
here, and I don't want to offend Luigi, who's busy over by the
plastic-ivy-covered bar, smearing the wine glasses with grease,
and leering. It seems that reserving a table might not have been
as essential as I thought. The tried to get us into Bradley's but
they were fully booked,' I lie.

'Not to worry. This is great!'

'There's pizza and pasta, and over the page there's burgers . . .'

'Oh, so there is . . .' she says, unpeeling the plastic-sealed
pages which come in an A4 binder.

'Or spare ribs if you prefer . . . ?'

'Oooookay.'

'And you have to have a starter too, the works, all on me!'

'Well, we'll see about that . . .'

And we go back to the menu.


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DAVID NICHOLLS


Oh, God.

Silence.

Better say something.

'Hmmmm. Breadsticks!'

I take a breadstick, peel the paper off, unwrap a pat of
butter, and wipe it along the breadstick. 'You know what I
always wonder about spare ribs? Who decides they're sparel Not the pig, surely! It's not like the pig's saying, "Well, I'm
going to need these ribs, but those are spare^ take them! Take
my ribs! Eat! Eat my ribs!"' She gives me a Children-in-Need
kind of smile, glances at my hand, and I look down and realise
that for some reason I'm waving a knife around.

Stay calm.

Stop jabbering.

Put - the knife - down.

But the truth is I'm starting to lose faith in Luigi's as a
venue for a romantic seduction. The floors, I realise, are
linoleum, curling up at the skirting boards, and not particularly
clean, and the chequered tablecloths are actually
vinyl, for ease of wipeability. Also, even though Luigi's seated
us in a romantic corner at the back, we're pretty near the
toilets, which is convenient I suppose, but means there's a
slightly tangy back-note of lemon Harpic to the evening.
I'm anxious that Alice might feel uncomfortable here. She's
certainly starting to look uncomfortable; her puff-ball evening
dress has ballooned up around her, as if she's being consumed
by her gown.
'Shall we order?' I ask.

'It all looks delicious, I have to say,' she says, but I'm not
so sure. We concentrate on the menu, which is sticky to the
touch, imperfectly typed, phonetically spelt - Chilly Concarny,
is that right? - and divided up into 'For Openers!', 'The Main
Event!!' and 'Oh Go On Then ...!!!'. To be honest, it actually
does all look delicious to me; with an emphasis on deep-frying
and charred meats, and hardly any vegetables. Even the cheese


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comes deep-fried, and the portions here are obviously big,
because they tell you on the menu how much all the meat
weighs. But I can't help worrying that Alice is used to lighter
fare, tofu and salads and things that have been steamed, and I
think she may well be one of those quality-over-quantity types.
I'm starting to perspire. And itch too, from the detergent in the
bath. I look down and notice that the cuffs of my white shirt
have a denim-blue tidemark.

The theme from the Cornetto adverts plays on a loop in the
background, and after some silent deliberation, we're ready. I
look around for Luigi, but can tell he's approaching behind me
by the sucking noise his footsteps make on the linoleum. Alice
goes for the stuffed mushrooms and a margarita pizza with a
side salad, while I opt for the whitebait and the barbecued
half-chicken with chips and complementary relish tray. 'Hope
it's not the back half!' I say, and Alice smiles, ever so subtly,
and insists I choose the wine. There's stuff by the carafe, but
even I know that wine shouldn't be that cheap, so I decide to
go for something bottled and sparkling. The champagne's way
too expensive so I settle on the Lambrusco. Didn't Rebecca say
something about her liking it? I don't know much about wine,
but I know white goes with chicken and fish, so I order the
white Lambrusco Bianco.

After the waiter's gone I say, 'Oh God, Faux-Pas City!'

'Why?'

'Well, I asked for white Lambrusco Bianco and of course
"bianco" actually means white! Tautology or what!' As amusing
anecdotes go, I realise that this wouldn't really hold its
own on the Parkinson show, but it serves to break the ice,
and she smiles and we start to talk. Or rather she does, and I
nod and listen, pick sticks of red wax off the candle, melt the
ends, stick them back on at odd angles, and watch her. She's
talking, as she often does, about school days at Linden Lodge,
one of those massively expensive socialist private schools out
in the country, and I have to say it sounds like a pretty cushy


117
DAVID NICHOLLS


number to me, and not like boarding-school at all, more like
a sort of seven-year slumber-party. As far as I can tell from
the way Alice describes it, a typical academic day at Linden
Lodge goes like this:


8.3O/9.30 Smoke joint. Bake bread.

9.30/10 so Have sex with son/daughter of Famous

Person.

10.30/11.30 Build barn.
11.30/12.so Read T.S. Eliot aloud, listen to Crosby,

Stills and Nash, play cello.
12.3O/1.3O Experiment with drugs, have sex.
1.3O/3.3O Double skinny-dipping. Swim with

dolphins.

3.30/4.30 Dry-stone-walling. Sex (optional).
4.30/5.3O Acoustic guitar lesson.
5.3O/6.3O Have sex, then sketch sleeping naked

partner in charcoal.
6.30/O4.OO Compulsory Bob Dylan.
04.00	Lights out, but only if you want to.


Obviously, from a political point of view I don't approve of a school like this, even if it sounds frankly fantastic. What with
all the dope-smoking and sex and endless singing of Simon
and Garfunkel songs, you'd think they'd never actually get
any studying done, but they must be doing something right,
because Alice is here after all, and though I haven't asked
about her A-level grades yet, not on a first date, she is doing
a degree, even if it's only in Drama. Maybe if you listen to
enough Radio 4 from an early age, you just get educated
subliminally.

My whitebait arrive, about thirty of the little silver things
washed up on a leaf of iceberg lettuce, looking up at me and
saying 'we died for you, you bastard, at least do something
amusing!' So I put one in my mouth with the tail sticking out


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and pretend to be a cat. This goes down only moderately well.
She returns to her garlic mushrooms.

'How are they?'

'Nice! Very garlicky. No snogging for me tonight!'

And there it is, the subtle warning, like a klaxon in the ear, in
case I was getting any fancy ideas. I'm not surprised really, it's
pretty much what I expected, and I take comfort from the fact
that it's an ambiguous warning, albeit only very, very slightly
ambiguous - it's not you, Brian, it's the mushrooms - the
implication being that if she'd ordered a different appetiser,
the deep-fried Camembert for instance, then we'd have already
made love by now.

'So did you have many boyfriends there?' I ask casually,
nibbling on a fish.

'Oh, just one or two,' and she proceeds to tell me all
about them.

From the point of view of sexual politics, I think it's
really important not to have double standards about men
and women's sexual history. Of course, there's absolutely
no reason why Alice Harbinson shouldn't have had an active
romantic and sexual past, but still, I think it's fair to say that
'just one or two' is a little misleading. By the time the main
courses arrive, the names have started to blur, but there's
definitely someone called Rufus, who's dad's a famous film
director, and who had to move to LA because their love for
each other was just too dark and intense, whatever that means.
And Alexis, the Greek fisherman who she met on holiday, and
who kept turning up at their London house asking for her hand
in marriage, until they had to phone the police and get him
deported. And Joseph, a really beautiful jazz musician who
she had to finish with because he kept trying to get her to take
heroin with him. And Tony, a potter friend of her father's
who made stunning ceramics in this beautiful crofter's cottage
in the Highlands of Scotland, and was great in bed for a


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sixty-two-year-old, but then wouldn't stop phoning in the
middle of the night and eventually tried to commit suicide
in his own kiln, but is okay now.

And Saul, a really gorgeous and wealthy American model
who was amazing-looking with a (whisper it) 'really massive
penis', but you can't have a relationship based on sex, even
if it's mind-blowing sex. And then, saddest of all, there was
Mr Shillabeer, her English teacher, who turned her on to
T.S.Eliot and apparently once made a girl orgasm just by
reading The Four Quartets aloud, and who fell in love with
Alice while they were doing The Crucible, but became a bit
obsessive. 'In the end he had a nervous breakdown and had
to leave. He's gone back to live with his parents now. In
Wolverhampton. It's quite sad, really, because he was a cool
English teacher.'

By the time she's finished, I've stripped half-a-chicken in
barbecue sauce down to its carcass, and the remains lie on
my plate looking like, well, one of Alice's ex-lovers. Nearly
all of her relationships have ended in madness, obsession
and devastation, and suddenly my wheely-bin adventure with
Karen Armstrong round the back of Littlewoods seems to have
lost some of its tragic grandeur.

'It's strange isn't it - how many of them end badly?' I
say.

'I know! Weird isn't it? Tony, Dad's ceramic friend, the guy
in the kiln, once told me that when it came to love I was like
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!'

'But do you ever end up getting, you know . . . hurt?'

'Of course I do, Brian. That's why I'm not going to have any
relationships at all at university. I'm going to concentrate on
my work,' and then she adds, unaccountably, in an American
accent, T'm going to get me to a nunnery!'

And there it is again, the klaxon. Casually, she goes back to
peeling the melted Cheddar off the top of her margarita, and
wrapping it round her index finger. 'Anyway, sorry - me, me,


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me. What do your mum and dad do, again? I've forgotten . . .'
she says, sucking on her ringer.

'Mum works in Woolworths, and Dad's dead.'

She puts her napkin to her mouth, swallows.

'You didn't tell me that . . .'

'Didn't I?'

'No, I'm sure you didn't.' She reaches across, puts her hand
on my arm. 'Brian, I am so sorry.'

'Oh, it's alright, it was six, no, seven years ago now, when
I was twelve.'

'What happened?'

'Heart attack.'

'Oh God, how old was he?'

'Forty-one.'

'That must have been awful.'

'Oh, well, you know.'

And she's leaning forward now, eyes wide and she's holding
my hand and squeezing it, and with the other hand she takes
the wax encrusted bottle, and puts it to one side so that she
can see me properly.

'Do you mind talking about it?'

'No, not at all,' I say, and I start talking.


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15


QUESTION: Lee J. Cobb, Frederick March and Dustm
Hoffman have all played the unfortunate Willy Loman
in which Arthur Miller play of 1949?

ANSWER Death of a Salesman.


'Dad was a double-glazing salesman, which is a funny job
really, because it's one of those jobs that people think it's
okay to laugh at, like traffic warden or tax inspector or
sewage worker. I suppose it's because, at the end of the
day, no one loves double-glazing. Dad certainly didn't, not
after ten years of it, anyway. He was in the army before that,
where he'd met Mum and had me. He'd done his National
Service, one of the last people to do it, and sort of liked it,
and hadn't known what else to do, so he stayed on. I do
remember worrying, whenever there was a war somewhere on
the news, tension with Russia, or when Northern Ireland was
flaring up or something, worrying that he'd be called up, stuck
into uniform, given a gun. But I don't think he was that kind of
soldier really, I think he was more on the clerical side. Anyway,
when they had me Mum put her foot down and said he had
to leave the army because she was fed up with moving round
all the time, and she hated West Germany, where I was born,
so he came back to Southend, and he got the double-glazing
thing and that was it really.'

'Did he enjoy it?'

'God, no. I mean, he must have at first, I suppose, but I think
he really grew to despise it. It's long hours, you see, because


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you have to catch people when they're in, which means early
mornings, evenings and nighttime, so it was usually dark when
he got home, even in summer. And I think there was a bit
of door-to-door involved; "Excuse me madam, but are you
aware of the huge difference double-glazing could make to
your heating bill," that kind of thing. And I know it was
paid mainly on commission, which meant that there was this
constant worry about money. Whatever job I end up doing, I
never, ever want to be paid on commission. I know it's meant
to be an incentive, but it's just an incentive to fuck up your life,
it's working with a gun to your head. It's really evil, I think.
Anyway. Sorry. Boring.

'Anyway, he hated it. He never told me he did of course,
because why would you, to a little kid, but he must have
because he was angry whenever he got home from work;
not shouting or punching or anything, but just this silent,
clenched, white-knuckled, red-faced rage at the tiniest thing,
like toys left out or wasted food. You want your memories
of your parents to be about picnics or being carried round on
their shoulders, or pooh sticks, or something, but no one's
childhood is perfect and all I mainly remember is him arguing
in the kitchen with Mum about money or work or whatever,
his face all red, clenching and unclenching his fists.'

'That's terrible.'

'Is it? Well, I'm probably exaggerating a little bit. Mostly
I remember watching telly with him, if I was allowed to stay
up until he got home. Sitting on the floor between his legs.
Quiz shows. He loved quiz shows, and nature documentaries,
David Attenborough, educational stuff, he was always going
on about how important an education was, I suppose because
he thought that was the key to a good life, to not being
miserable, to a job you didn't despise.'

'So, how did he, you know . . . ?'

'Well, I'm not sure exactly. I don't like to ask Mum about
it, because it sets her off, but apparently he was out at work, in


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some strangers' house, trying to convince them of the benefits
of double-glazing or whatever, and he just. . . fell over. Right
there, in their living room. I'd got back from school and was
watching telly while Mum was cooking tea, and there was a
knock at the front door, and some talking in the hall, I went out
to see what had happened, and there were two policewomen
and Mum was curled up in a ball on the carpet. To begin
with I thought maybe Dad had been arrested or something,
but this policewoman said he'd been taken poorly, and then
they rushed Mum off to the hospital while I stayed with the
next-door neighbours, and he died shortly after she got there.
Oh, look. No more wine. D'you want some more? Another
bottle? I stayed over at the neighbours, and they told me the
next morning. Another bottle of Lambrusco please, no, we've
not decided about desserts yet, can we have five minutes?

'Anyway. Looking back, I'm not surprised, even though he
was only forty-one, because he was just like this . . . knot, all
the time. And he did drink, I mean a lot, pub at lunchtime
and after work, you could always smell the beer on him. And
he smoked about sixty a day. I used to buy him fags as a Christmas present for fuck's sake. I don't think I've got a single
memory of him where he isn't puffing away on a fag. There's
even a photo of him and Mum with me in the maternity ward,
and he's got a fag lit up. In a hospital, with the ashtray and a
bottle of beer balanced on top of my cot. The silly sod.'

'And how did you react?'

'To him dying? Um. Not sure. Weirdly, I think. I mean I
cried and everything, but they wanted to keep me off school,
which worried me because I didn't like missing lessons, so that
should give you some idea of the kind of swotty, cold little
freak I was. I was more upset by Mum to be honest, because
Mum really loved Dad, and she was only, what, thirty-three
at the time, and he was the only man she'd ever slept with,
before or since, as far as I know, and she did take it really,
really badly. Oh, she was okay as long as there were people


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around, and of course for the first two weeks the house was
absolutely crammed - assorted vicars, and mates of Dad's,
and neighbours, and my gran, and aunts and uncles - so
there wasn't time for Mum to get too upset really, because
she was always busy making sandwiches and pots of tea, and
making up camp-beds for these strange cousins from Ireland,
who we'd never seen before or since. But then after a couple
of weeks they all started to drift off and it was just me and
Mum. And that was the worst time, when things had calmed
down and people left us alone. Quite a weird combination,
a teenage boy and his mum. I mean, you're very aware that
there's someone . . . missing.

'And I suppose, looking back, I could have been better
with Mum, sat with her and stuff. But I used to hate sitting
in that living room every night, watching her watch Dallas or whatever and then suddenly bursting into tears. When
you're that age, that kind of thing, grief, well it's . . . just
embarrassing. What are you meant to do? Put your arms
around her? Say something? What are you supposed to say,
a twelve-year-old boy? So in a strange, terrible way I started
to resent it. I used to avoid her. I'd just go from school to
the public library and from the library to my room to do my
homework; there was never enough homework as far as I was
concerned. God, what a creep.'

'How were they at school?'

'Oh, it was alright. Compassion doesn't come very easily
to twelve-year-old boys, not at my school anyway, and why
should it really? Some of them tried, but you could tell they
were putting it on. Also - and this is really shameful - at
the time it wasn't so much about the person who'd actually,
you know, died, my dad, just dropping dead at the age of
forty-one, or how it was for Mum even, I just thought how
it was going to be for me. What's that word? Solipsism or
solecism or something? Solecism.

'I suppose it got me noticed though, in a terrible way;


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this awful, maudlin kudos, the dead-dad-boy, you know,
lots of girls who've never talked to you before, coming up
and offering you a finger of their Kit-Kat and rubbing your
back. And there was a bit of bullying of course, and a couple of
kids took the piss, calling me Barnardo-boy, that kind of thing,
which isn't even witty, because it's not like I didn't have Mum.
But I had one mate, Spencer, who decided to look after me for
some reason, and that helped. People were scared of Spencer.
Quite right too, because he's a hard bastard, Spencer . . .'

'Do you have a picture of him?'

'Spencer? Oh, Dad. No, not in my wallet. Why, d'you think
I should?'

'Not at all.'

'Back at home I do. If you come back to mine. Not tonight
necessarily, but, you know, whenever . . .'

'And you think about him?'

'Oh, yeah, of course. All the time. But it's hard because we
never really knew each other. Not as two adults anyway.'

'I'm sure he'd have loved you.'

'D'you think so?'

'Of course. Don't you?'

'Not sure. I think he'd have thought I was a bit weird, to
be honest.'

'He'd have been proud.'

'Why?'

'Lots of reasons. University. Star of the quiz team, going on
telly and everything . . .'

'Maybe. The only thing I do still think, and I don't know
why, because it's not rational, and it's not even technically
their fault, but I'd love to meet the people who employed
him, the people who made all the money from making him
work like that, because I think they're cunts. Sorry - bad
word. I don't really know their names or where they are
now, probably in some big fuck-off villa in the Algarve or
something, and I don't know what I'd say to them even if I


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met them, because they weren't doing anything wrong, they
were just running a business, just making a profit, and Dad
could always have left if he hated it so much, got on his bike
and looked for something else, and he would have probably,
you know, gone early at some point anyway, even if he was a
florist or a primary school teacher or something, it's not like
it was criminal negligence, or a mining accident or a fishing
boat or something, he was just a salesman, but it's not right
for anyone to hate their job that much, and I think the people
who made him work like that, well, I do think they're cunts
and I hate them, every day, whoever they are, for taking . . .
anyway. Anyway, will you excuse me a minute? I've just got
to go to the loo.'


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16


QUESTION: The lachrymal duct and gland are primarily
responsible for the production and distribution
of what?

ANSWER: Tears.


In the end I suppose it was a blessing that we were sat so near
the toilets.

I've been in here some time now. Too long probably. I
don't want her to think I've got diarrhoea or anything, but
I don't want her to see me crying either. As a seduction
technique, uncontrollable sobbing is definitely overrated. Now
she thinks I'm one of those boys who cries. She's probably next
door right now, shaking her head, paying the bill and hurrying
back to halls to tell Erin all about it; 'God, you wouldn't believe
the evening I've had. He's only one of those boys-who-cry . . .'

There's a knock on the cubicle door, and I assume it's Luigi,
checking to see if I've done a runner through the fire exit, but
there's a voice . . .

'Brian, are you okay?'

'Oh, hiya Alice!'

'Are you alright in there?'

'Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine.'

'D'you want to unlock the door, sweetheart?'

Oh, God, she wants to come in the toilet cubicle with me.

'Unlock the door, darling . . .'

'Actually, I'm fine, I'll be with you in a minute.' Hang on '
sweetheart' ?


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'O-kay. Come back to me soon though, won't you?'

'Two minutes,' I shout, and, as she's going out the door,
'go ahead and order dessert if you want to!'

And she goes. I wait a moment, then leave the cubicle and
look in the mirror. It's not so bad I suppose - the eyes are a
bit red, but my nose isn't running any more, so I adjust my
bow-tie, mould the fringe back in place, re-attach the braces,
and walk back in, head slightly bowed so Luigi won't see me.
When I approach the table, Alice stands up, and amazingly
puts her arm round me and hugs me really tightly, her cheek
pressed tight against mine. I don't know what to do, so I put
my arms around her too, leaning forward slightly to allow for
the volume of the puff-ball skirt, one hand on the grey satin,
and one on her back, her beautiful back, just where the flesh
swells out over the top of the satin, and she whispers in my
ear - 'you are such a lovely man' - and I think I'm going to
cry again, not because I am such a lovely man, but because I'm
such a disgusting, fucking stupid, fucking twat, so I squeeze my
eyes tight shut and we stay like that for a little while. When I
open my eyes again I see Luigi watching, and then winking
slyly at me, and giving me the thumbs-up. I don't really know
how to react to this so I give him the thumbs-up back, and
immediately feel despicable, because I don't quite understand
what I'm giving the thumbs-up to.

Eventually of course, my braces ping off and Alice breaks
the embrace, and smiles at me with the corners of her mouth
turned down, the kind of rueful smile mums give to tearful kids
in TV commercials. I'm starting to get pretty uncomfortable
now, so I say, 'Sorry about that. I usually don't start crying
until much later in the evening.'

'Shall we go?'

But I don't want to go yet. 'You don't want dessert? Or
coffee or anything?'

'No, I'm alright.'

'They've got profiteroles? Death by chocolate . . . ?'


1S9
DAVID NICHOLLS


'No, really, I'm stuffed,' and from somewhere in the folds of
the puff-ball dress she produces the world's smallest handbag,
and goes to open it.

'Hey, I'm paying!' I say.

And so I pay the bill, which is actually pretty reasonable in
the end, thanks to me having a complete mental breakdown
instead of dessert, and we head out.

On the way back to her digs, we change the subject, and talk
about books, how we both hate D. H. Lawrence and which
Thomas Hardy we prefer; I'm Jude The Obscure, she's Far
From The Madding Crowd. It's a mild late November evening,
and the streets are damp despite the fact that there's been no
rain. She suggests we take the scenic route back, and so we
stomp up the hill that overlooks the city, breathing a little
heavily, because of the exertion and the conversation, which
never falters. The sound of the cars on the city streets gets
fainter and the only noise apart from our voices is the wind
in the trees and the whoosh of her satin ball-gown. Halfway
up the hill she slips her arm through mine, and gives it a little
squeeze, and rests her head on my shoulder. The last person
to take me by the arm like that was my mum, on the way home
after seeing my Jesus in Godspell. She had just watched me
being crucified of course, which is bound to have an emotional
effect on a mother, but I remember even then that it made me
feel a little strange, partly proud, partly deeply embarrassed,
like I was her proper-little-soldier or something. Alice taking
my arm feels no less self-conscious, as if it's something she
picked up from a TV costume drama, but it's nice too, and
I feel warmer and a good two inches taller.

At the top of the hill we sit on a bench, and she nestles her hip
against mine so that we sit snugly in the corner, and even though
I can feel the damp soaking through my slacks, and know they'll
be streaked with algae, I don't mind. In fact I wouldn't mind if
we stayed here forever, looking at the city beneath us, and the
lights of the motorway winding off into the countryside.


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Tve just realised, I haven't wished you happy birthday
yet.'

'Oh, that's okay . . .'

'Happy birthday though . . .'

'Oh thank you, same to you.'

'Except it's not my birthday.' She says.

'No, of course not. Sorry.'

'And I haven't got you a present, either . . .'

'That's okay. Tonight was a present.'

We stop talking, and I contemplate pointing out some of
the constellations, like they do in films. I've learnt them off by
heart for just such an occasion, but it's too cloudy, so instead I
wonder if it's dark enough for me to kiss her, or if she's drunk
enough to let me.

'Brian, what are you doing at Christmas?'

'Um, don't know . . .'

'D'you want to come and stay?'

'Where?'

'With me.'

'In London?'

'No, we've got a little cottage in Suffolk. You can meet Rose
and Michael.'

'Who are Rose and Michael?'

'My parents!'

'Right! Well I'd love to, but I don't want to leave Mum
alone . . .'

'Of course not, but you could come after Christmas, the day
after Boxing Day or something. And my parents pretty much
keep themselves to themselves, so it would just be me and you
most of the time' - she thinks I need persuading - 'we can just
hang out and walk and read and talk and stuff . . .'

'Okay,' I say.

'Fantastic! It's a deal then. I'm cold now. Let's go home.'

It's gone midnight when we get back to her halls of residence,
but there are still a few people padding to and fro


131
DAVID NICHOLLS


along the parquet corridors, the swots and the insomniacs
and the stoners. They all say 'hello Alice' and then glance at
me sceptically, but I don't really mind. I'm too busy thinking
about how we say goodbye, the mechanics of it. At her door,
she says, 'I'd better go straight to bed, I've got a nine-fifteen
lecture.'

'Right. On . . . ?'

'"Stanislavski and Brecht, the Great Divide, question mark".'

'Right, because they're not actually that different in many
ways, though people tend to think that their philosophies are
mutually exclu . . .'

'Actually, Brian, I really ought to go to bed.'

'Okay. Well, thanks for agreeing to come out with me.'

'Brian -1 didn't agree to. I wanted to,' and she leans forward
very quickly and kisses me just near my ear. It's pretty quick,
like a cobra strike, and my reflexes aren't really up to it, so I
just have time to make that smacking noise with my mouth too
loud in her ear, and then the door's closed and she's gone.

And once again, I'm walking up the gravel driveway, on
my way home. So it was okay in the end. I think it was
okay. I've been invited to a cottage, and I think she finds
me 'interesting' now, even if 'interesting' wasn't really what
I was going for. I'm a little uncomfortable about the reasons
why, but still . . .

'Oi, Jackson!'

I look around.

'Sorry, I mean Brian. Brian, up here . . .' It's Rebecca,
leaning out of the first-floor window, ready for bed in a long
black T-shirt.

'So, how'd it go, lover-boy?'

'Oh, you know. Alright.'

'So is love in the air?'

'Not "love". "Like".'

'"Like" is in the air. I thought so. I sensed it. Like is in the
air. Well done, Brian. And you hang in there, pal.'


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On the way home I go to the all-night garage and treat myself
to a Picnic and a can of Lilt with the money I saved by bursting
into tears. When I get home to Richmond House it's nearly
two o'clock. There are three handwritten notes pinned to my
door . . .


7.30 Brian - your Mum rang.


10.45 Spencer rang. Says he's 'bored out of his skull'.
He's at the petrol station all night. Call him.


Brian, can you please not use my Apri without asking?


133
17


QUESTION: What precisely does Dorothy Gale have to

do to return to Kansas?
ANSWER: Click her heels three times, whilst thinking

'There's No Place Like Home'.


Mum's still out at Woolworths when I let myself in, so I make
a mug of tea, flop on the sofa, pick up a pen and methodically
mark up my Christmas television viewing in the bumper edition
of the Radio Times. I feel completely exhausted, which
unfortunately owes more to Josh and Marcus' home-brew than
any academic fervour. The last few weeks of term have passed
by in a blur of sparsely populated parties in strangers' houses,
or drinking games in the kitchen with Josh and Marcus'
pals; big, burly sporty boys, and hearty, perma-tanned girls
from the lacrosse team, all with their shirt collars turned up,
all doing French, all from the home counties, and all with
the same flicked-back blonde hair. I've made up a pretty
good joke about this kind of girl, i.e. that they're all from
Surrey-with-a-fringe-on-top, but unfortunately have no one
to tell it to.

Anyway, whatever else they teach them at those private
schools, they certainly know how to drink. I feel poisoned
and grey and malnourished, and glad to get home, lie on the
sofa, watch telly. There's nothing good on this afternoon, just
some Western, so my eyes wander up to the school photo of me
on top of the telly, taken just before Dad died. Is there anything
more grizzly and joyless than an old school photo? They say


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the camera adds five pounds, but here it seems to have been
added exclusively to my acne. I look positively mediaeval, like
a plague victim, all gums and boils, and I wonder what Mum
gets out of it, having me grimacing out at her while she's trying
to watch the telly.

The photo depresses me so much that I have to turn the telly off, and go out to the kitchen to boil the kettle and
make more tea. While it boils, I look out at the backyard, a
shadowy patch the size of a double-bed that Mum had paved
over when Dad died, to save bother. I make the tea, and take
my bag upstairs to my bedroom. Mum's turned the radiator
off, to save on heating, and it's icy cold, so I get into bed fully
clothed and stare at the ceiling. The bed feels smaller for some
reason, like a child's bed, in fact the whole room does. God
knows why, it's not as if I've got any bigger, but already,
after only three months it's started to feel like someone else's
room. All that's left here is the kid's stuff - the piles of comics,
the fossils on the window-sill, the Brodie's notes, the model
aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling covered in a fur of dust,
the old school-shirts hanging in the wardrobe. I start to feel
a bit sad for some reason, so I think about Alice for a while,
and then I fall asleep.


I haven't spoken to her properly for ages. The Challenge team
meetings broke up two weeks ago, and since then she seems
to have been swallowed into her own little clique, a tight,
noisy gang of cool and beautiful boys and girls that I've seen
in the student bar, or driving round town, seven or eight of
them stuffed giggling into her smoke-filled bright yellow 2CV,
passing a bottle of red wine between them and listening to Jimi
Hendrix, then all going back to someone's Georgian flat to
share interesting drugs and have sex with each other. In fact
the nearest I've got to Alice was in the student bar a couple
of nights ago. I approached and said 'hiya', and they'd all said
'hiya' back, bright and smiley, but unfortunately there weren't


135
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enough chairs at the table for me to actually sit down with
them. Also, Alice was having to crick her neck uncomfortably
to turn and talk to me, and there's only so long you can stand
at the edge of a group like that before you start to feel as if you
should be clearing the empties off the table. Of course I have
nothing but contempt for cool, self-satisfied, privileged cliques
like that, but unfortunately not quite enough contempt to not
want to be part of it.

But we did manage to talk long enough for Alice to confirm
the cottage trip was definitely on. I don't have to bring
anything except lots of books and a jumper. In fact she
laughed at me when I asked if I had to bring a towel. 'We've lots of towels,' she said, and I thought, yes, of course you have.
'Can't wait,' she said. 'Can't wait either,' I said, but I really
meant it, because I know that at college I'm never really going
to be able to take up much of her time, there are too many
distractions, too many lanky boys with bone structure and
money and their own flats. But when we're finally away, just
me and her, then that'll be my chance, my big opportunity to
prove to her the absolute inevitability of us being together.


It's Christmas morning, and the first thing I do when I get up
is eat a big bowl of Frosties and turn the telly on. It's about ten
o'clock, and The Wizard of Oz has already started, so I put
it on in the background while Mum and I open each other's
presents. Dad's there too, in a way, like Jacob Marley's ghost,
dressed like he was in an old Polaroid I have of him, looking
weary and sardonic in a burgundy dressing gown, black hair
slicked back, wearing new slippers and smoking the packet of
fags that I bought and wrapped up for him as a present.

This year Mum's bought me some new vests and the Collected
Works of e.e.cummings that I specifically asked for,
and which she had to order specially. I check the price on the
fly-leaf and feel a twinge of guilt at how expensive it was, a
day's wages at least, but I thank her and kiss her on the cheek,


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and give her my presents in return - a little wicker basket of
smellies from the Body Shop, and a second-hand Everyman
edition of Bleak House.

'What's this then?'

'It's my favourite Dickens. It's brilliant.'

'"Bleak House"? Sounds like this house.'

And that just about sets the tone for the day, really.
Dickensian.

We're joined for Christmas dinner by Uncle Des. Uncle
Des's wife left him for a bloke from her work a couple of
years ago now, so Mum invites him round for Christmas
dinner every year because he doesn't have much family of
his own. Even though he's not my real uncle, just the bloke
from three-doors-down, he thinks he's somehow got the right
to ruffle my hair and talk to me as if I was twelve years old.

'How ya' doing then, brainbox?' he says, in his children's
entertainer voice.

'Fine thank you, Uncle Des.'

'Bloody hell, don't they teach you how to use a comb at
university!' he says, ruffling away. 'Look at the state of you!'
- ruffle, ruffle, ruffle - and it occurs to me that this is all pretty
rich coming from a forty-five-year-old man with a tight blond
perm and a moustache that looks as if it's been cut out from a
carpet sample, but I keep quiet because Mum doesn't like me
back-chatting to Uncle Des. So I squirm bashfully and count
myself lucky that at least this year he isn't pulling fifty-pence
pieces out from behind my ear.

Mum pops her head round the door and says, 'Sprouts are
on!' A waft of warm chlorophyllic air confirms her warning,
and I feel a little wave of nausea, because I can still taste the
Frosties caught between my back teeth. Then she heads back
to the kitchen and Uncle Des and I sit and watch The Wizard
of Oz with the sound turned down low.

'Bloody hell, not this rubbish again!' says Uncle Des. 'Every
Christmas, the bloody-Wizardofbloody-Oz.'


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DAVID NICHOLLS


'You'd think they'd find something else to put on, wouldn't
you?!' I say. Then Uncle Des asks about college.

'So what do you actually do all day, then?' It's a fair question
I suppose, and one I've asked myself a couple of times.

'Lots of things - go to lectures, read, write essays - that
kind of thing.'

'And that's all? Bloody hell - all right for some . . . I'

Change the subject. 'How about you, Uncle Des, how's your
work?'

'Oh, bit quiet, Bri, bit quiet at the moment. . .' Uncle Des is
in the building trade - conservatories, porches and patios - or
at least he was until the divorce and the recession. Now the van
sits idly in front of his house, and Des spends most of the time
dismantling the engine, and then reassembling it again, not
quite correctly, then dismantling it again. 'People don't seem to
want extensions, not in a recession. It's a luxury really, porches
and conservatories . . .' and he smooths his moustache down
with his finger and thumb, and stares mournfully at The
Wizard of Oz, those vaguely disturbing monkeys with the
wings growing out of their backs, and I feel bad for asking
him about work when I know it isn't going well. After a
moment or two of staring blankly at the flying monkeys, he
pulls himself out of it, with a visible physical effort, sitting
up as straight as the settee will allow, and clapping his hands
together. 'Right, how about a drink, then? It's Christmas after
all. What's your poison, Bri?' then, conspiratorially '. . . apart
from Brussels sprouts!'

I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece - it's 11.55. Till have
a lager please, Des,' and he bustles off into the kitchen, almost
as if he lives here.

Over dinner, which we eat in the kitchen with Radio 2
playing, I decide to break the big news.

'By the way - I've got an announcement to make . . .'

Mum stops chewing. 'What?'

'Something that happened at university last term . . .'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'Oh, God, Brian . . / says Mum, hand in front of her
mouth.

'Don't worry, it's nothing bad . . .'

She glances at Uncle Des, then says nervously, 'Go on . . .'

'Well, I'm going to be on University Challenged

'What, that thing on telly?' says Uncle Des.

'Yep! I'm on the team!'

And Mum starts to laugh and laugh, and looks at Des, who's
laughing too. 'Congratulations, Bri,' he says, and he puts his
fork down to free up his hair-ruffling hand. 'That's brilliant
news, really brilliant . . .'

'God, and what a relief,' says Mum, and takes a big swig
of wine, and puts her hand on her chest to calm her heart.

'Why, what did you think I was going to say?'

'Well, to be honest sweetheart, I thought you were about
to tell me that you were a homosexual!' she says, and starts
to laugh again, and looks at Uncle Des, who starts to laugh
again too, laughing so hard that I'm afraid that he's going to
choke on his sprouts.

In the afternoon, after our attempt on the turkey, Uncle Des
pours himself a large scotch and lights up a slim-line panatella,
and Mum lights up a Rothman's, and we peer through the
caramel fug at Top of The Pops. Uncle Des makes a growling
noise every time the camera finds a scantily clad backing
singer, and Mum laughs indulgently and slaps him on the
wrist. She's methodically working her way through a large
box of traditional chocolate liqueurs, biting the caps off the
little chocolate bottles and trickling the various different spirits
into her mouth, like a particularly dainty wino. This is a bizarre
new development in Mum's boozing, and I'm not sure what to
make of it, but keen not to be left behind, I continue work on
my four-pack of lager. Because I'm a young hep-cat, and up
with the current popular music scene, I help out in identifying
the more obscure faces in the Do They Know It's Christmas? video, then we watch the Queen's Speech, then Uncle Des goes


139

DAVID NICHOLLS


off to see his old mum up the road, but promises to be back
at six o'clock for some leftovers and our traditional, infinitely
long game of Monopoly, which Uncle Des will inevitably win,
but only by nominating himself as banker and embezzling.

Then before it gets too dark Mum and I put our coats on,
and head out. Mum takes my arm as we walk the mile or so
to the cemetery to lay flowers on Dad's grave. The cold damp
air makes her a little bit more pissed, and I have to lean down
to hear what she's saying. She smells of sage and onion and
Tia Maria.

As usual I stand with Mum for a while and say how the
gravestone's still looking nice, then I go and stand a little
way off and wait while Mum talks to Dad. I'm always a
little uncomfortable waiting around without a book to read,
so instead I try to identify the birds, but it's just rooks and
magpies (of the family corvidae), starlings (sturmus vulgaris] and sparrows (passer domesticus) and I wonder why cemeteries
always attract such miserable, morbid bloody birds, and after
about ten minutes Mum finishes what she's got to say, touches
the gravestone lightly, and walks away, head down, and
takes my arm, not saying anything until she can control
her breathing a little bit, and can speak normally again. It's
dark now, but a couple of the local kids from the estate are
riding the new BMXs that they got for Christmas in between
the graves, slamming on their brakes and performing long,
low sliding skids that send up waves of gravel. Mum, still
with wet eyes and a little bit drunk from all the chocolate
liqueurs, gets upset about this, and starts shouting at them -
'you shouldn't do that, not in a cemetery, show some respect'
- and one of them flicks the V's and cycles past laughing and
shouting back - 'fuck off, mind your own business, you silly
cow'. I can feel Mum starting to cry again and I suddenly have
this overwhelming desire to run after him, and grab hold of
the hood of his parka and yank him off the back of his new
bike, put my knee in his back and rub his stupid, leering face

14O


I
STARTER FOR TEN


hard into the gravel, and see how long it takes for him to stop
laughing. And then just as suddenly I wish that I was a long,
long way away from here, lying still with someone, in a warm
bed, falling asleep.


141
18


QUESTION: What is the name of the class of organic
compounds with the general formula R-OH, where
R represents an alkyl group made up of carbon and
hydrogen, and OH represents one or more Hydroxyl
groups?	ft

ANSWER: Alcohol.


The Black Prince is a pub that caters specifically for the
under-age drinker. At school we used to call it The Creche,
the rationale of the landlord being that anyone crafty enough
to hide their school tie in their pocket was old enough to drink.
On a Friday afternoon it looked like the set of Grange Hill, and you could barely move for satchels.

Outside of term-time, it's harder to imagine a more desolate
place to meet for a drink. Brown, scabrous and dank, it's a little
like sitting in someone's kidney, but at some point in the last
five years it became traditional to meet here every Boxing Day
night, and traditions are sacred. So here we are, me and Tone
and Spencer, sat in a vinyl booth the colour of a blood clot, the
first time we've met up since September. I'd been a little anxious
about meeting up again, but Spencer seems genuinely pleased to
see me. Tone does too, in his own special way, which basically
involves rubbing his knuckles hard on the top of my head.

'What the fuck is going on with your hair?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Bit bouffant, isn't it?' Tone grabs my head by the ears, sniffs
it like a melon. 'Are you wearing mousse'?'


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'No, I'm not wearing any mousse.' I am, m fact, wearing a
little mousse.

'What's it called then, a haircut like that?'

'It's called a Brideshead,' says Spencer.

'It's called a short-back-and-sides. What do they call yours
then, Tone?'

'It doesn't have a name, it just is. So what you drinking
these days - port and lemon? Medium sherry? Sweet white
wine? . . .' It's started, and I haven't even taken my donkey
jacket off yet.

'A pint of lager please, Tone.'

'Special lager?'

'Go on then. Special lager.'

'Special lager' is lager-with-a-gin-top. Part of the landlord's
educational remit here is to nurture experimentation and
innovation, and he won't bat an eyelid, no matter what
repulsive combination you order. Besides, lager-witha-gin
top is actually pretty grown-up by Black Prince standards.
Anything that doesn't taste of coconut or mint or aniseed
counts as refined here.

This is the longest I've gone without seeing Spencer since we
were both twelve years old, and I'm very anxious that there
shouldn't be any awkward silences. But here it is. Silence.
Spencer tries to fill it by flicking his beer mat up in the air
and catching it, while I reach for the matchbox, in case there's
something to read on the back of it.

'So. I thought you said you'd be down at weekends?' he says
finally.

'Well, I was going to, but it got a bit busy.'

'Busy. Right.'

'Good Christmas?' I ask.

'The usual. Same as last year's, same as next year's. You?'

'Oh, you know. The same.' Tone is back with the three
special lagers. 'So . . . what's new?' I ask.

'What's "newnr says Spencer.


143

DAVID NICHOLLS


'At work, I
mean . . .'

'What work?' he asks, with a wink. As far as I know, Spencer's
still signing on and doing cash-in-hand nightshifts.

'At the petrol station . . . ?'

'Well, we've got a very interesting free-setof-wine-glasses
promotion on at the moment, that's causing quite a stir, and
the price of four-star went up the other day, that was pretty
thrilling, too. So all in all, I haven't been this excited since I
had that all-chocolate Kit-Kat. Oh, and last week a bunch of
students drove off without paying . . .'

'I hope you chased after them,' slurs Tone.

'Well, no, Tony, I didn't, on account of them being in a car
and me being on foot. Besides, I only get one pound eighty
an hour. They'd have to pay me a lot more than that before
I break into a run.'

'How do you know they were students?' I ask, taking
the bait.

'Well, they were very badly dressed for one thing. Long
scarves, little round glasses, bad haircuts . . .' He smiles conspiratorially
at Tone, then back at me. 'How's your eyesight,
Bri?' This is a running gag between Tone and Spencer, who
believe that I lied to my optician just to get spectacles.

'Fine, thank you, Spence,' and I decide to go and get
some crisps.

On the way to the bar, I think for a moment about heading
for the door and walking out. I love Spence and Tone, Spencer
especially, and I think it's mutual, though God knows we'd
never actually use the L-word, not sober, anyway. But for my
eighteenth birthday Spencer and Tone tied me naked to the
end of Southend pier and force-fed me laxatives, so it's a love
that expresses itself in unconventional ways.

When I come back they've started talking about Tone's sex
life, so I know I'm going to be in the clear for the next hour
or so. Barmaids, hairdressers, teachers, school friends' sisters,
or mothers even, no one seems immune to Tone's Nordic

I


144
STARTER FOR TEN


charms. The list is endless, and the detail is explicit, and
after a while I start to feel I need a bath, but he's obviously
got something going for him, Tone, something other than
sensitivity or tenderness or consideration. It's far easier to
imagine that, after making love, he rubs his knuckles very
hard on his lover's head. I wonder, but don't ask, if Tone's
practising safe sex, but suspect that he thinks safe sex is for
wimps, in the same way that safety-belts and crash-helmets
are for wimps. If Tone was thrown from a plane, he'd still
think parachutes were for wimps.

'How about you then, Brian, any action?'

'Not really.' This sounds a bit feeble, so I add, nonchalantly,
There is this girl, Alice, and she's invited me to stay with her
tomorrow, at her cottage, so . . .'

'Her cottage? says Spencer. 'What is she? A milkmaid?'

'You know, a house, in the country, her parents' . . .'

'So you're shagging her then?' asks Tone.

'It's platonic.'

'What's platonic mean then?' asks Spencer, even though he
knows.

'It means she won't let him shag her,' says Tone.

T'm not "shagging" her because I don't want to "shag" her,
not yet anyway. If I wanted to, then I would.'

'Though recent evidence would suggest that not to be the
case,' says Spencer.

Tone seems to find this incredibly funny, so I decide to
retreat again, and go and get some more gin-and-lagers; I
stumble slightly as I leave the booth, so I know they're
beginning to do their work. Keenly aware of how pocket
money doesn't stretch very far these days. The Black Prince
is also incredibly cheap, and it's possible for three young men
to get incoherent, aggressive, sentimental and violent, and still
have change from a tenner.

When I sit back down, Spencer asks me, 'So what do you
actually do all day then?'


145

DAVID NICHOLLS


'Talk. Read. Go to lectures. Argue/

'It's not proper work though, is it?'

'Not work. Experience.'

'Yeah, well, I'm very happy in the University of Life, thank
you very much,' says Tone.

The applied for the University of Life. Didn't get the grades,'
says Spencer.

'Not the first time you've said that, is it?' I say.

'Obviously not. So what about politics?' The question feels
like being poked with a stick.

'What about it?'

'Been on any good demonstrations lately?'

'One or two.'

'What for?' asks Tone.

The sensible thing would be to change the subject, but I
don't see why I should compromise my political views just
for the sake of an easy life, so I tell them.

'Apartheid

'For or against?' asks Spencer.

'. . . the NHS, Gay Rights

Tone perks up at this. 'What bastard's been trying to take
away your rights?'

'Not my rights. There's a move by the Tory council to
try and prevent schools from portraying homosexuality in a
positive light; it's legislated homophobia . . .'

'Is that what they do, then?' asks Spencer.

'Who?'

'Schools. Because I don't remember anyone teaching it at
our school.'

'Well, no, they didn't, but . . .'

'So why's it such a big deal, then?'

'Yeah, I mean you turned out gay without being taught it,'
says Tone.

'Yeah, well, that's true, Tone, that's a very good point. . .'

'Well, I think it's a scandal,' says Spencer, with mock

146


I
STARTER FOR TEN


indignation. 'I think it must be taught. Tuesday afternoons.
Double Gayness . . .'

'Sorry, miss, I forgot my horn-work . . .'

'Gay-levels! . . .'

We all try and think of another joke and can't, so instead
Spencer says, 'Well, I think it's great that you're making a
stand about something important, I really do. Something that
affects us all. It's like when you joined CND. Have we had a
nuclear holocaust since? Nope.'

Tone lurches to his feet. 'So. Same again then?'

'No gin in it this time, please Tone,' I say, knowing that
he'll put gin in it.

After he's gone, Spencer and I sit and fold up the empty
crisp packets, into little triangles, knowing this is not quite
over yet. The gin has made me bad-tempered, and sulky;
what's the point of coming out with your mates if all they're
going to do is take the piss? Eventually I say, 'So what would
you protest against then, Spence?'

'Don't know. Your haircut?'

'Seriously.'

'Believe me, it is serious . . .'

'But really, there must be something you'd actually make a
stand about.'

'Don't know. Lots of things. Maybe not gay rights, though . . .'

'It's not just gay rights, it's other stuff, things that affect
you too, things like cut-backs in the welfare state, cuts in dole,
unemployment . . .'

'Well, thanks for that, Brian mate, I'm glad you're making
a stand on my behalf, and I look forward to receiving the
extra cash.'

There's nothing I can say to that. I try something more
conciliatory, in a mate-y tone. 'Hey, you should come up and
visit me next year!'

'Sort of like a Careers Day?'

'No, just, you know, for a laugh . . .' and this is the point


147

DAVID NICHOLLS


where I should change the subject to sex or films or TV or
something. Instead I say, 'Why aren't you re-taking your
A-levels anyway?'

'Ummmm, because I don't want to . . . ?'

'But it's such a waste . . .'

'Waste? Fuck off it's a wastel Reading poetry and wanking
into your sock for three years, that's a waste.'

'But you wouldn't have to do Literature, you could do
something else, something vocational . . .'

'Can we change the subject, Brian?'

'Alright . . .'

'. . . because I get enough fucking careers advice at the
DHSS, and I don't necessarily want it down the pub on
fucking Boxing Day . . .'

'Alright then. Let's change the subject.' As an olive branch,
I suggest, 'Quiz machine?'

'Absolutely. Quiz machine.'

The Black Prince has invested in one of those new computerised
quiz machines, and we take our fresh pints over to
it, balance them on top.

'Who plays Cagney in TV's Cagney and . . . ?'

'C - Sharon Gless,' I say.

Correct.

'The Battle of Trafalgar was in . . . ?'

'B - Eighteen-oh-five,' I say.

'The nickname of Norwich City FC is . . . ?'

'A - The Canaries,' says Tone.

Correct.

Maybe this would be a good time to mention The Challenge.. .

'What did Davros create?'

'A - The Daleks,' I say.

Correct.

'Whose original surname was Schicklegruber?'

'B - Hitler,' I say.

Correct.




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STARTER FOR TEN


/ could just drop it into conversation, casually; 'By the
way guys, did I tell you? I'm going to be on University
Challenge!'

'Which American holds the record for most Olympic . . . ?'

'D - Mark Spitz,' says Tone.

Correct.

'You know, University Challenge, on the telly . . . ?' Maybe
they wouldn't take the piss. Maybe they'd think it was a bit of
fun - well done Bri - we are old mates after all. . .

'One more question, we win two quid!'

'Alright, concentrate . . .'

I'm definitely going to tell them about The Challenge . . .

'Star Wars was nominated for how many Oscars?'
'B - Four,' I say.

'D - None,' says Tone.

'I'm pretty sure it's four,' I say.

'No way. It's a trick question. It didn't get any . . .'

'Not win, nominated . . .'

'It wasn't nominated either, trust me Spence . . .'

'It was four, Spence, I swear it, B - four . . .'

And we're both looking at Spencer now, pleadingly, 'choose
me, please, me not him, I'm right, I swear, choose me, there's
two quid at stake here' and, yes, he chooses me, he trusts me,
he presses B.

Incorrect. The correct answer's D - Ten.

'You see!' shouts Tone.

'You were wrong, too!' I shout back.

'You twat,' says Tone.

'You're the twat,' I say.

'You're both twats!' says Spencer.

'You're the twat, you twat,' says Tone.

'No, mate, it's you that's the twat,' says Spencer and I decide
that maybe I won't tell them about The Challenge after all.

The fourth pint of gin and lager makes us sentimental and
nostalgic about things that happened six months ago, and we


149

DAVID NICHOLLS


sit and fondly reminisce about people we didn't really like and
fun we didn't really have, and was Mrs Clarke the PE teacher
really a lesbian, and exactly how fat was Barry Pringle, and
then, finally, finally, they call last orders.

Outside The Black Prince, it's started raining. Spencer suggests
maybe going to Manhattan's nite-club, but we're not that drunk. Tone nicked a new video recorder for Christmas, and
wants to watch Friday The 13th for the eighty-ninth time, but
I'm too depressed and drunk, and decide to head home, in the
opposite direction.

'You around for New Year?' asks Tone.

'Don't think so. I think I'm staying with Alice.'

'All right mate, well see you around,' and he smacks me on
the back and stumbles off.

But Spencer comes over and hugs me, his breath smelling
of lager with a gin-top, and whispers wetly in my ear, 'Listen,
Brian mate, you really are my mate, my best mate, and it's	|

great that you're out there, meeting all these different people,	*

and having all these experiences, and new ideas, and staying in	.t

cottages and everything, but just promise me something, will	$

you?' He leans in really close. 'Promise me you're not turning	'«

into a complete cunt.'



£


I

"^

I

15O
19


QUESTION. If a burn that affects only the epidermis is
defined as first degree, what is the term for a burn
that reaches the subcutaneous tissue?

ANSWER A third-degree burn


No matter how predictable, banal and listless the rest of my life
might be, you can guarantee that there'll always be something
interesting going on with my skin.

When you're a kid, skin is just this uniform pink covering:
hairless, poreless, odourless, efficient. Then one day you see that
microscope cross-section in the O-level biology text-books - the
follicles, the sebaceous glands, the subcutaneous fat, and you
realise there are so many things that can go wrong. And they
have gone wrong. From the age of thirteen onwards it's been
an on-going medicated soap opera of blemishes and scars and
in-growing hairs, spreading from region to region, taking on
different forms, from discreetly corked pores behind the ears to
lit-from-inside boils on the tip of the nose, the geometric centre
of my face. In retaliation, I've experimented with camouflage
techniques, but all the skin-tone creams that I've tried are a sort
of albino-pink and tend to actually draw attention to the spots
as effectively as a circle drawn with a magic-marker.

I didn't really mind this in my adolescence. Well, I minded of course, but I accepted it as part of growing up; something
unpleasant but inevitable. But I'm nineteen now, an adult by
most definitions, and I'm starting to feel persecuted. This
morning, standing in my dressing gown under the glare of


151
DAVID NICHOLLS


the 100 watt bulb, things are looking particularly bad. I feel
as if I'm leaking gin and lager and peanut oil from my T-zone,
and there's something new, a hard pad of matter under the
skin, about the size of a peanut, that moves around when I
touch it. I decide to call out the big guns. The Astringents.
On the back of one of them is written 'Warning - may bleach
fabrics' and there's a momentary anxiety that something that
can burn a hole in a sofa might not be a good thing to apply
to your face, but I do it anyway. Then I apply a final wash of
Dettol, just for luck. After I've finished the bathroom smells
like a hospital, but my face at least feels taut and scrubbed,
as if I've been through a car-wash strapped to the bonnet of
the car.

There's a knock on the door and Mum enters, carrying my
best vintage white linen granddad shirt, freshly ironed, and a
foil parcel.

'It's some gammon and turkey, for your friend.'

'I think food's laid on, Mum. Besides they're all vegetarians.'

'It's white meat . . .'

'I don't think it's the colour that's the issue, Mum . . .'
'But what are you going to eat?'

Till eat what they eat!'

'What, vegetables?'

'Yes!'

'You haven't eaten a vegetable for fifteen years! It's a
wonder you don't have rickets.'

'Rickets is Vitamin D2, Mum, scurvy is Vitamin C, lack of
fresh fruit.'

'So do you want to take some fresh fruit with you then?'

'No, really, Mum, I'll be fine, I don't need fruit or meat.'

'You might as well take it, for the train journey. It'll only
go off if you leave it.' For my mother, the true meaning of
Christmas has always been Cold Meats so I give in, and take
the foil parcel from her. It weighs about the same as a human


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head. She follows me into my bedroom, to check that I'm
definitely putting it into my suitcase, like a sort of motherly
customs official, and I count myself lucky she's not making
me pack the sprouts.

She's sat on my bed now, and starts neatly folding my
granddad shirt.

'I don't know why you wear these horrible old things . . .'

'Because I like them maybe? . . .'

'Talk about lamb dressed as mutton . . .'

'I don't criticise what you wear . . .'

'Boxer shorts! How long have you been wearing boxers?'

'Ever since I started buying my own underwear . . .'

'Y-fronts out of fashion are they?'

'I have absolutely no idea, Mum . . .'

'I thought you preferred those cotton brief things . . .'

'I mix. It depends . . .'

'Depends on what?'

'Mum . . . I'

'So how long are you staying with your girlfriend for?'

'Don't know. Three days, maybe four. And she's not my
girlfriend.'

'So are you coming back?'

'No, I think I'm going straight back to college, Mum.' I don't
know why, but I've taken to calling it 'college', maybe because
'university' still sounds snooty to me.

'So you're not here for New Year?'

'I doubt it.'

'You're with her?'

'I think so.' I hope so.

'Oh. That's a shame . . .' She's using her martyr voice. The
trick here is not to catch her eye. I concentrate on my packing.
'And are you back here afterwards?'

'I can't really. I've got work to do.'

'You could work here . . .'

'I can't really . . .'


153

DAVID NICHOLLS


'I won't disturb you . . .'

'I need special books, Mum . . .'

'So you definitely won't be here for New Year?'

'Don't think so Mum, no.' From behind me comes an
exhalation so mournful that I fully expect to turn around
and find her lying dead on the bedroom floor. Irritated now,
I say, 'You'll be out getting smashed with Uncle Des anyway,
it's not like we'll see each other . . .'

'I know, it's just it's the first time you won't be here,
that's all. I just don't like rattling round in the house all by
myself . . .'

'Well it was bound to happen one day, Mum.' But we're
both thinking the same thing. It shouldn't have happened,
not like this, not just yet. There's a silence, and then I say,
'I'm going to get dressed now, Mum, so if you wouldn't
mind . . . ?'

She sighs, gets up off the bed.

'It's nothing I haven't seen before.'

Recently too. New Year's Eve 1984/85, I came home so
drunk that I managed to vomit in my own bed. I have a
mercifully vague memory of my mother helping me into the
bath at dawn, and rinsing off the Pernod and lager and
half-digested chicken-and-chips with the shower attachment.
That was just twelve months ago. She has never mentioned it
since and I like to believe that maybe it didn't really happen,
but I'm pretty sure it did.

Sometimes I think there aren't enough psychiatrists in the
world . . .


Mum's cheered up a bit by the time I kiss her goodbye on the
doorstep, though she's still trying to thrust groceries on me.
I reject a loaf of Mighty White, a litre of Dry Blackthorn, a
pack of mince pies, a 250ml pot of UHT single cream, a 5lb
bag of spuds, a packet of Jaffa Cakes, a bottle of peppermint
flavour Iced Magic, and a two-litre bottle of sunflower oil, and

154


I
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every no-thank-you is a knife between my mother's shoulder
blades. Damage done, I head off, dragging my suitcase along
the road, and not looking back in case she's started crying.
On the way to the train station I stop to get a fiver out of the
cashpoint, then stop off at the newsagents to buy some wine
for the Harbinsons. I want to get something nice, so in the end
blow three quid on the one that comes in its own carafe.


155
2O


QUESTION What socio-economic term originally described
the artisan occupants of walled towns in eleventh
century France, occupying a position between the
peasants and the landlords7

ANSWER The Bourgeoisie.


On the train from Southend I look out the window at the wet,
empty streets, the handful of shops open in a halfhearted
take-it-or-leave-it way. The four days in between Boxing Day
and New Year's Eve are surely the longest and nastiest in
the year - a sort of bloated, bastard Sunday. August Bank
Holiday's the worst though. I fully expect to die at about
two-thirty in the afternoon on an August Bank Holiday. Dead
of terminal ennui.

I change at Shenfield, where lunch is a can of Lucozade, a
packet of Hula Hoops and a Twix bought from the windswept
newsagents, and then there's just time to check how my face
is healing in the station toilets' mirror before I'm back on
the train.

Leaving the suburbs and heading into Suffolk the rain turns
to snow. Snow like this rarely seems to reach Southend. The
combination of street lights and estuary air and massed central
heating tends to turn it into a sort of cold, damp dandruff, but
here, through fields as the sun sets, it looks fantastically thick
and clean. I read the first page of Ezra Pound's Cantos five
times without understanding a word, then give up and look
at the landscape. Soulfully. Ten minutes from the station I


156
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pull on my overcoat and scarf and check the reflection in
the train window. Collar up or collar down? I'm aiming for
a sort of Graham-Greene, Third-Man look, but getting an
Ultravox video.

Five minutes away, and I'm practising what I'm going to say
when I see Alice again. I haven't been this nervous since Jesus
in Godspell when I had to take my top off to be crucified. I
can't even seem to smile properly; a lop-sided grin with my
mouth closed makes me look like a stroke victim, but when I
open my mouth my teeth are a jumbled cream-and-black, like
a bag of Scrabble tiles. A lifetime of fresh fruit and vegetables
means that Alice Harbinson has perfect teeth. I imagine her
dentist looking into her mouth and just weeping at the sheer,
pure, snowy splendour of it all.

As the train pulls into the station, Alice is waiting at the
far end of the platform, huddled up against the snow in an
expensive-looking long black overcoat that almost touches
the ground, her head wrapped in a grey woollen scarf, and
I wonder where she's put her balalaika. If she doesn't quite
break into a run when she sees me, she at least walks a little
faster, and as her face comes into focus I can see she's grinning,
and then laughing, her skin whiter, her lips redder and there's
something softer and warmer about her away from college, as
if she's off duty, and she throws her arms around me, and
says she's missed me, and she's so excited I'm there, and we're
going to have so much fun, and for a moment this feels like
perfect happiness, here on a country train station in the snow
with Alice. Until I see, over her shoulder, this dark, handsome,
moody man who I assume must be Alice's dad. Heathcliff in a
wax-jacket.

If I'd had a forelock I'd have tugged it, but instead I offer
him my hand. Recently I've been experimenting with shaking
hands, because it's what I imagine grown men are meant to do,
but Mr Harbinson just looks at me as if I've done something
incredibly un-cool and eighteenth century, like curtseying or


157
DAVID NICHOLLS


something. Eventually he takes the hand, squeezes it just hard

enough to show that he could fracture my skull if he chose to,	I

then turns and walks away.	|

As I drag my bags to the green Land-Rover in the station	|

car park, Alice walks on ahead with her arms looped around
her dad's neck, like he's her boyfriend or something. If I put	*

my arm around my mum's neck like that she'd call social	i

services, but Mr Harbinson seems to take it in his stride, puts	"I

his arm round Alice's waist and pulls her towards him. I trot	|

up alongside.	"*

'Brian's our secret weapon on the team. He's the boy-genius
I've been telling you about,' says Alice.

'Well, I'm not sure if genius is the right word,' I say.

'No, I'm certain it's not,' says Mr Harbinson.

Driving through the country lanes. I sit in the back amidst
the muddy Wellingtons and walking boots and sodden Ordnance
Survey maps, as Alice keeps up a monologue about
all the parties she's been to and the old friends she's seen,	I

and I scrutinise every word, just to check for the presence	^

of Romantic Interlopers, a hot young actor maybe, or some	$

lightly muscled sculptor called Max or Jack or Serge. But the
coast seems clear, so far anyway. Maybe she's censoring herself
in front of her father. I doubt it though. I think Alice is one
of those strange people who behaves exactly the same way in	f

front of her parents as she does in front of her friends.	?'

Mr Harbinson listens and drives in silence, quietly emanating
a subtle buzz of hostility. He's absolutely massive, and	|
I try to imagine why someone who makes art documentaries	*J
for BBC2 should have the physique of a brickie. And hairy, the	*
kind of man who shaves his cheeks twice a day, but obviously
terrifyingly intelligent. It's almost as if he was raised by wolves,
but wolves who knew the value of a decent college education.
He also seems impossibly young, good-looking and cool to be
a dad, as if having a family is something he slipped in between
Hendrix concerts and LSD trips.


158


*'i
STARTER FOR TEN


Eventually we anive at Blackbird Cottage. Except 'collage'
isn't really the word. It's huge and beautiful, the kind of house
that 'rambles', a series of converted barns and farmhouses,
almost a whole village, knocked together to accommodate the
country residence of the Harbinson family; all the luxury of
a stately home, without any of the politically inconvenient
aristocratic connotations. In the snow, it's like an animated
Christmas card. There's even smoke coming out of the chimney,
and it's all very rural and nineteenth century, except for the
sports car, Alice's 2CV, and a tarpaulin-covered swimming-pool
where the cowshed used to be. In fact any notion of practical,
agricultural labour has long since been swept away, and even
the dogs seem middle class; two Labradors who come bounding
up as if to say 'so pleased to meet you, tell us all about
yourself. I wouldn't be surprised to find out they have Grade
Four Piano.

'Meet Mingus and Coltrane!' says Alice.

'Hello Mingus and Coltrane.' There's a slight lapse in dog
etiquette when they start snuffling at the cold meats in my
suitcase as we cross the farmyard. I hoist the bag up into
my arms.

'What d'you think?'

'It's lovely. Bigger than I expected.'

'Mum and Dad bought it for about five guineas or something,
back in the sixties. Come in and meet Rose,' and it takes
me a second to realise Rose is her mum.

There's that old chauvinistic cliche about women turning
into their mothers when you marry them, but in the case
of Alice's mother, I wouldn't mind. Not that I'm going to
marry Alice or anything, but Mrs Harbinson is beautiful. When we come into the kitchen, a vaulted barn of copper
and oak, she's stood at the sink listening to The Archers, and
for a second I think Julie Christie's scrubbing the carrots;
she's small, with soft wrinkles round blue eyes, and a soft
blonde perm. I inarch forward across the bare flagstones, arm


159
DAVID NICHOLLS


extended like a tin soldier, determined to persevere with the
handshake thing.

'So this is the Brian I've heard so much about,' she says,
and smiles, and waggles the tip of my finger with her muddy
hands, and smiles at me, and I have a momentary flashback
to a teacher I had a crush on when I was nine years old.

'Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Harbinson.' I sound like a
nine-year-old.

'Oh, please don't call me Mrs Harbinson, it makes me feel
so old. Call me Rose.'

As she bends forward to kiss me on the cheek I have a
reflex action to lick my lips, so the peck on her cheek is a
bit too moist, and there's this exaggerated smacking noise that seems to bounce off the flagstones. I can actually see
my saliva glistening just below her eye. She discreetly wipes
it away with the back of her hand before it can evaporate,
and pretends to be adjusting her perm. Then Mr Harbinson
looms between us, and kisses the other cheek, the dry one,
proprietorially.

'And what shall I call you, Mr Harbinson?' I ask, cheerily.

'Call me Mr Harbinson.'

'Michael! Don't be mean,' says Rose.

'. . . or Sir. You can call me Sir . . .'

'Just ignore him,' says Alice.

'I bought you some wine,' I say, tugging the bottle out of
my bag and handing it to him. Mr Harbinson looks at it as
if I've just handed him a carafe of my own piss.

'Oh, thank you so much, Brian! You can come again!' says
Rose. Mr Harbinson doesn't look so sure.

'Come on, I'll show you your room,' says Alice, taking me
by the arm, and I follow her up the stairs, leaving Mr and Mrs
Harbinson whispering behind me.

In the maisonette on Archer Road there's a point about
halfway up the stairs where, if you crane your neck ever so
slightly, you can actually see into every room in the house.


160
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Blackbird Cottage is not like this at all. It's massive. My
room, Alice's old room, is at the very top of the house,
under ancient oak beams, in the East Wing or something.
One wall is taken up completely with enlarged childhood
photos of Alice; in a flowery pinafore-dress baking scones;
picking blackberries in a pair of dungarees; playing Olivia in
a school production of Twelfth Night, and, I guess, The Good
Woman ofSchezuan with a drawn-on moustache, and dressed
in a black bin-liner as a rather unconvincing 'punk-rocker' for
a fancy-dress party, V's flicked demurely at the camera. There's
a polaroid of her parents in their twenties, proud owners of one
of the very first bean-bags, looking like members of Fleetwood
Mac, in matching embroidered waistcoats and smoking what
may or may not be cigarettes. Shelves of children's books
indicate that Alice was obviously something pretty big in the
Puffin Club; Tove Jansson, Ingrid Lindgren, Eric Kastner, Herge,
Goscinny, Uderzo, Saint-Exupery - world literature for tots
- and, somewhat incongruously, a broken-backed paperback
edition of Lace. An A-level art montage of Madonnas from
the Uffizi and a cut-out Snoopy comic-strip. Framed certificates
proclaim that Alice Harbinson can swim 1,000 metres, play the
oboe up to grade 6 and the piano up to grade 8, simultaneously
for all I know. My bedroom is The National Museum of
Alice Harbinson. I don't know how she expects me to get
any sleep.

'D'you think you'll be alright here?' she says.

'Oh, I think I can manage.' She watches me scanning over
the photographs, with no pretence of embarrassment or false
modesty. Here is a record of my life - good, isn't it? At four,
she was all you could wish for in a four-year-old, at fourteen
she was just fine, thank you very much.

'No use looking for my diary, I've hidden it. And if you get
cold, which you will do, there's a blanket in the wardrobe.
Here, let me help you unpack. So what d'you want to do
tonight?'


161
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Oh, I don't know, just hang out. Sonic Like It Hot's on telly.'

'Sorry, no telly here.'

'Really?'

'Dad doesn't approve of TV.'

'But he's a TV producer!'

'We've got a telly in London, but he thinks it's wrong in the
country. What's that look for?'

'Oh, I was just thinking - three houses, one telly. With most
people it's the other way round.'

'No need to get all Socialist Worker, Brian, no one's listening.
Boxer shorts, eh?' She's holding my underpants. A mild
erotic frisson fills the air between us, and I'm profoundly
grateful to Mum for ironing them. 'I had you down as a
tanga-briefs man.' I'm trying to work out if this is a good
or bad thing, when Alice squeals, 'Oh my God! What's this . . . ?'

She's found the foil parcel of assorted meats in my bag. I
try to snatch it off her.

'Oh, that's just my mum's packing . . .'

'Let me see . . .'

'It's nothing, really.'

'Contraband!' She tugs the parcel open. 'Meat? You've
smuggled in your own supply of meat!'

'Mum's worried I won't get enough protein.'

'Give us a bit then - I'm gasping.' She takes a piece of pallid
boiled bacon, and flops onto the bed. 'Hmmmm. Bit dry.'

'That's Mum's special recipe. She cooks it overnight, slices
it, leaves it on a radiator, then finishes it off with a hairdryer.'

'Well don't let Rose catch you with it. She'll be mortified.
Blackbird Cottage is a strictly meat-free zone.'

'So what do Mingus and Coltrane eat?'

'Same as us. Vegetables, muesli, rice, pasta . . .' They feed
their dogs pasta. 'What have you got there?'


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'Your Christmas present.' I hold out the gift-wrapped LP.
'It's a tennis racket.'

She glances at the postcard, a provocatively romantic Chagall
sellotaped to the album. I'd laboured long and hard over the
message, and gone through several drafts, before coming up
with the eloquent and emotive; 'To Alice, my newest, bestest
(sp.?!?) friend, all my love always Brian'. I'm particularly
pleased with the way the wryly humorous '(sp.?!?)' comments
on the 'bestest friend/love' element without necessarily
undermining the sincerity of the emotion, but in the end she
doesn't even bother to read it before she starts tearing off the
wrapping paper.

'Joni Mitchell! Bluer

'Oh no, you've got it, haven't you?'

'Only about six copies. You were spot on though. I love Joni. I actually lost my virginity listening to Joni Mitchell.'

'Not "Big Yellow Taxi", I hope.'

'Court and Spark actually . . .' I might have guessed. 'How
about you?'

'My virginity? Can't remember. It was either Chopin's Funeral March or Geoff Love and His Orchestra Play Big
War Themes. "The Dambusters' March", I think. Followed
by an eerie silence.'

She laughs and hands it back. 'Sorry. Have you still got the
receipt?'

'I think so. Is there something specific I should swap it for?'

'Surprise me. No Kate Bush though, please. I'll let you finish
unpacking.'

'When's tea?'

'Dinner's in half an hour.' On the way out she hugs me once
again. 'I am so glad you're here. We are going to have so much
fun, I promise you.'

After she's gone, I put the newly ironed granddad shirts
on wooden hangers, enjoying the feeling of residency and


163
DAVID NICHOLLS


permanence. If I play my cards right, I could actually still be
here on New Year's Day. Even the 2nd, or 3rd maybe . . .
Opening the wardrobe, I half expect to find Narnia.


In the end, protein turns out to be the least of my worries.
Dinner is nut-roast. I'd heard about nut-roast, and sort of
always thought it was a joke, but here it is, a pile of lukewarm,
gritty cake with vegetarian cheese melted on top, my first
experience of nuts as something other than a bar snack. It
sits on my plate like a worm-cast. I wonder what the dogs
are having?

'How's your nut-roast, Brian?'

'Delicious, thank you, Rose.' From somewhere I've picked
up the notion that it's polite to use the other person's name a
lot - 'yes Rose, no Rose, lovely Rose' - but I think it's making
me sound a bit Uriah Heep-y. Best follow it up with a little
humour. 'It's my first experience of nuts as something other
than a bar snack!'

'Shut your stupid, ugly face and keep your filthy, plebby
hands off my beautiful daughter, you unctuous little prick,'
says Mr Harbinson. Well, he doesn't say it, but he looks it.

Rose just fingers her perm, and smiles, and asks, 'Okay with
those courgettes?'

'Absolutely!' In actual fact I've never eaten a courgette in
my life, but just to underline my enthusiasm I pop a forkful
of the damp, watery discs into my mouth, and grin idiotically.
Like all green vegetables, it tastes of what it is, boiled cellulose, but so keen am I to please Rose that it's all I can do to stop
myself rubbing my belly and saying 'hmmmm . . .' I wash the
pond-weed taste away with some wine. There's no sign of my
carafe, and I assume that it's been taken outside and shot.
Or maybe the dogs are having it with their pasta, and some
garlic-bread. This wine, though, is so syrupy and warm that
it feels as if I should be sipping it from a plastic 5ml spoon.

'Your first time in Suffolk, Brian?'


164
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Tve been once before. On a mountaineering holiday!'

'Really? But isn't it terribly flat?' says Rose.

'I was misinformed!'

Mr Harbinson exhales loudly through his nose.

'I don't understand. Who told you . . . ?' says Rose.

'Brian's joking, Mum,' says Alice.

'Oh, I see, of course!'

It's clear that I should stop trying to be funny, but have
yet to work out what the alternative is. Sensing the need for
assistance, Alice turns to me, puts her hand on my arm; 'If you
wanted to see something really funny, Brian, you should have
been here yesterday.'

'Why, what happened yesterday?'

Rose is blushing. 'Oh Alice, darling, can we keep it to
ourselves please?'

'She can tell him,' growls Mr Harbinson.

'But it's so embarrassing! . . .'

'Tell me!' I say, joining in the fun.

'But I feel so foolish,' says Rose.

'Well. . .' says Alice '. . . we had some friends round, like we
always do on Boxing Day, and we were playing charades, and
it was my turn, and I was trying to do Last Year At Manenbad for Mummy, and she was getting so frantic and overexcited,
and shouting so hard, that her cap popped out and landed
right in our next-door neighbour's glass of wine!'

And everyone's laughing, even Mr Harbinson, and the
atmosphere is so fun and adult and amusing and irreverent that
I say, 'You mean you weren't wearing any underwear?!?'

Everyone is silent.

'I'm sorry?' asks Rose.

'Your cap. When it popped out. How did it get ... past
your . . . underpants?'

Mr Harbinson puts down his knife and fork, swallows his
mouthful, turns to me and says, very slowly, 'Actually, Brian,
I think Alice was referring to her mother's dental cap.'


165
DAVID NICHOLLS


Shortly afterwards, we all gu up to bed.


I'm in the bathroom, splashing my face with cold water, when
Alice knocks on the door.

'Hold on two seconds' I say, though I'm not sure why;
I'm fully dressed, and there's not much I can do about my
appearance in two seconds, short of wrapping a towel round
my head.

I open the door, Alice steps in, closes it carefully behind
her and says, very slowly and seriously, 'D'you mind if I say
something - something personal?'

'Sure, go ahead!' I make a mental calculation, and decide
that there's a one-in-three chance that she's going to ask me
to make love to her tonight.

'Well . . . it's a real mistake to scrub your face hard with a
flannel like that. You'll only bleed and spread the infection . . .'

'Oh . . .'

'And you'll scar too.'

'O-kay . . .'

'Now, do you boil-wash your flannels?'

'Well, no . . .'

'Because the flannel's probably part of the problem . . .'

'Right, okay

'I wouldn't use a flannel at all, if I were you, flannels are
absolutely crawling, just water and a basic, non-perfumed
soap . . .' How can I get out of this conversation? '. . . and not
necessarily a harsh medicated soap, because they're generally
far too astringent . . .' It isn't even a conversation, it's me
waiting for her to stop talking. '. . . And you shouldn't use
astringent creams either, they're effective in the short run,
but in the long run they just make the sebaceous glands
more active . . .' By now I'm eyeing the bathroom window,
wondering whether or not to throw myself out of it. Alice
must notice this, because she says 'I'm sorry. Do you mind
me saying all this?'


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'Not at all. You're very knowledgeable though. If "skin
care" comes up on University Challenge, we'll be laughing!'

'Oh, I've upset you, haven't I?'

'No, I just don't think there's much I can do about it, that's
all. I think it must be the onset of puberty! All the hormones.
Any day now I'll start taking an interest in girls!' Alice smiles
indulgently, then goes to give me a sisterly kiss goodnight, her
eyes momentarily scanning my face, trying to find somewhere
safe to land.

Shivering in bed later, lying on my back and waiting for
my face to dry so I don't get blood on the pillow, I carefully
evaluate my strategy for tomorrow and, after much consideration,
decide that my strategy is to be less of a twat. This
will not come easily, but it's absolutely vital that she gets to
see the Real Me. The problem is, I'm starting to suspect this
notion that there's this wise, smart, funny, kind, brave Real
Me running around somewhere out there is a bit of a fallacy.
Like the Yeti; if no one ever actually sees him properly, why
should anyone believe that he actually exists?


167
21


QUESTION: A legal writ that demands the appearance
of a party in front of a court or judge, the Latin term
'habeas corpus' might be translated as . . . ?

ANSWER- You should have the body.


When I wake up the next morning I'm so cold that for a
moment I think Mr Harbinson must have moved me outside
in the night. Why is it that the posher people are, the colder
their house? And it's not just the cold, it's the dirt too; the dog
hair, the dusty books, the muddy boots, the fridges that reek of
sour milk and putrescent cheese and decaying kitchen-garden
vegetables. I swear the Harbinsons' fridge has a top-soil. They
probably have to mow it in the summer. But maybe that's
the definition of true, authentic upper-middle-class status, the
ability to be cold and filthy with complete self-confidence.
That, and the little washbasins in every bedroom. I splash
my face with the icy water, put the copy of Lace back on
the bookshelf, and head downstairs.

Radio 4 is broadcasting loudly from hidden speakers, and
Alice is lying on the sofa, under a blanket of Blue Peter Dogs,
reading.

'Morning!' I say.

'Hiya' she mutters, engrossed in her book.

I squeeze in next to a dog.

'What ya' readin'?' I say in an amusing voice. She shows me
the cover. 'One Hundred Years of Solitude - sounds like my
sex-life!'


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'Sleep well?' she says, when she finally realises that I'm not
going to go away.

'Amazingly, thank you.'

'Cold?'

'Oh, only a little.'

'That's because you're used to central heating. It's very bad
for you, central heating, numbs the senses . . .'

And as if to underline her point, Mr Harbinson strolls
nonchalantly across the living room. He is naked.

'Morning!' he says, nakedly.

'Morning!' Even with my eyes staring fixedly at the top of
the fireplace, it's clear that he's either a very hairy man, or is
wearing a black, mohair jumpsuit.

'Tea in the pot, Alice?' he says, nudely.

'Help yourself.'

And he bends down beside her, bends down from the waist, and pours himself a cup, then strides upstairs, taking the steps
three at a time. When it's finally safe to look, I ask, 'So. Is that.
Fairly. Normal. Then?'

'What?'

'The naked-dad thing.'

'Absolutely.'

'Oh.'

'Not shocked are you?' She says, eyes narrowed.

'Well, you know

'You must have seen your dad naked.'

'Well, not since he died, no.'

'No, of course, I'm sorry, I forgot, but before he died, you
must have seen him naked.'

'Well, maybe. But it's not how I choose to remember him.'

'And what about your mum?'

'God, no! So do you go naked in front of your dad then?'

'Only when we're having sex,' says Alice, then clicks her
tongue and rolls her eyes. 'Of course I do, we all do. We are family after all. God, you're really freaked out, aren't you?


169
DAVID NICHOLLS	]


|

Honestly, Brian, for someone who's meant to be right-on, you're really incredibly square.' For a moment I catch a
glimpse of her as Head Girl, malicious and superior. And
did she really just call me square? 'Well don't worry, Brian,
I keep my clothes on when there are guests around.'

'Oh, please, don't compromise, not for my sake . . .' Alice
knows I'm pushing my luck, and smiles wryly. 'What I mean
is, I think I could handle it.'

'Hmm. Now I wonder if that's strictly true?' Alice licks the
tip of her finger, and turns the page of her book.

Breakfast is toast made from home-baked bread that has the
colour, weight, texture and taste of a heavy-loam soil. Radio
4 is broadcasting in the kitchen too. In fact as far as I can tell
it's on in every room and is apparently impossible to turn off,
like the telescreens in 1984. We chew and listen to the radio,
and chew, Alice reading her book throughout. I feel miserable
already. Partly it's because I'm the first person to be called
'square' since 1971, but mainly I'm depressed by the mention
of Dad. How could she 'forget'? And I despise the way I find
myself talking about him in front of other people. I'm sure Dad
would have been over the moon to know that this was his fate
all along; to be used by his son as raw material for a bunch
of shitty, glib one-liners, or self-pitying drunken monologues.
The hunt for the Real Me is going badly, and I've not even
brushed my teeth yet.

And then we go for a long walk in the snow. You couldn't
call the East Anglian countryside spectacular; it's striking, I
suppose, in a post-nuclear sort of way, and the view tends to
stay pretty much the same no matter how far you walk, which
sort of defeats the object really, but at least it's consistent. It's
also refreshing to be somewhere that you can't hear Radio 4.
Alice takes me by the arm, and I almost forget about the snow
ruining my new suede desert boots.

Since I've been at university, I've noticed that people want
to talk about the same five major topics: 1) 'My A-level


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Results' 2) 'My Nervous Breakdown/Eating Disordei' 3) 'My
Full Grant' 4) 'Why I'm Actually Relieved I Didn't Get Into
Oxbridge' 5) 'My Favourite Books', and this last option is the
one we alight on.

'Top of the pops for me used to be The Diary of Anne Frank. When I was a teenager, I used to really want to be Anne Frank.
Not the ending obviously, just the idea of living very simply
in an attic, reading books, keeping my diary, falling in love
with the pale, sensitive Jewish boy in the attic next door. That
probably sounds a little bit perverse, doesn't it?'

'A little bit.'

'I think it's just a phase all us girls go through at a certain
age, like cutting yourself, and throwing up, and lesbianism.'

'You tried lesbianism?' I ask casually, in near falsetto.

'Well, you more or less had to at boarding-school. It was
compulsory; lesbianism, French and netball.'

'So what did you . . . do?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.' Well, clearly, yes. 'Nothing
much really. I just dipped my toe in.'

'Well, maybe that was where you were going wrong!' She
gives a tired smile. 'Sorry. So - what happened?'

'It just didn't really do it for me, I suppose. I've always liked
sex with men too much. I'd miss the penetration.' We walk on
a little further. 'How about you?'

The? Oh, I miss the penetration too.'

'I'm trying to be serious, Brian,' she says, punching me on
the arm with her mitten. 'So have you?'

'Have I what?'
'Well, I'm assuming you've had sex with men.'

'No!'

'Really?'

'Absolutely not. What makes you say that?'

'I just assumed you would have.'

'You think I'm effeminate?' I ask. The falsetto's back.


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DAVID NICHOLLS


|

'No, not effeminate. And besides, effeminacy is not a signifier
of homosexuality . . .'

'Well, no, of course not.'

'. . . and it's not a bad thing anyway.'

'No, of course it isn't. It's just you sound like one of my
mates from school, that's all.'

'Well, methinks the lady doth protest too much.'

Change the subject. I'm keen to bring the conversation
back to lesbianism, but then dimly remember that she'd said
something earlier about cutting herself. I probably should have
picked up on that.

'What about the ... self-harm?'	|

'What self-harm?'

'You said you used to cut yourself?'

'Oh, only now and again. A cry-for-help, I think they call it.
Or more accurately a cry-for-attention. I got a bit depressed at
school, a bit lonely, that's all.'

I'm  amazed 	 I say.

'Really? Why should that surprise you?'

'It's just I suppose I can't imagine you having anything to
be depressed about.'

'You really have to get over this notion that I'm silver
plated, Brian, some sort of Perfect Being. It's really not the
case at all.'


But that afternoon she's pretty perfect.

When we're nearly home from the walk we have a frisky
little snowball fight on the front lawn, which differs from
all the previous snowball fights I've ever had in that no one
is packing dog shit or broken glass into the centre of their
snowballs. It's not even a snowball fight as such, just a mildly
aphrodisiacal tussle, the kind of self-conscious fooling around
that feels as if it's being filmed, ideally with a black and white
cine-camera. Then we go in and sit on the sofa by the fire to
dry out, and she plays her favourite records, lots of Rickie Lee


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Jones and Led Zeppelin and Donovan and Bob Dylan - even
though she was sixteen in 1982, there's definitely something
very 1971 about Alice. I watch as she jumps around the room to 'Crosstown Traffic' by Jimi Hendrix, then when she's out
of breath and tired of changing records every three minutes
she puts a crackly old Ella Fitzgerald LP on, and we lie on the
sofa and read our books, and steal glances at each other every
now and then, like that bit between Michael York and Liza
Minnelli in Cabaret, and talk only when we feel like it. And,
miraculously, for nearly a whole afternoon I manage not to
say anything fatuous or pretentious or priggish or unfunny
or self-pitying, I don't break or spill anything, I don't slag
anyone off, I don't whine or moan or flick my hair back or
pick at my face while I'm talking. In fact, I'm just about the
best person I'm capable of being, and if that person's not quite
/ofeable, at least he's fairly likeable. And then at about four
o'clock Alice lolls over and lies with her head in my lap and
falls asleep, and for the time being at least, it does seem true,
she is absolutely and entirely perfect. We're listening to Blue, side 2, track 5 now, and Joni's singing 'The last time I saw
Richard was Detroit in '681 and he told me all romantics meet
the same fate/Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some
dark cafe . . .' and when the record finishes, and the room is
silent except for the sound of the log fire, I just sit very, very
still and watch her sleeping. Her lips are slightly parted and I
can feel her warm breath on my thigh, and I find myself staring
at the tiny raised scar on her lower lip, white against the red,
and have this overwhelming desire to run my thumb across it,
but don't want to wake her, so instead I just look at her, look
and look and look. In the end I have to wake her up though,
because I'm worried that the weight and warmth of her head
on my lap will get me over-stimulated, if you know what I
mean, and let's face facts, no one likes to be woken up that
way. Not with that in their ear.

And then, would you believe, it gets even better. Her parents


173
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are out for the evening, eating more vegetables at someone's	™

converted mill in Southwold, so it's just me and Alice alone in

the house. As we stand drinking large beakers of gin and tonics

in the kitchen, I'm ashamed to say that I entertain myself by

fantasising that we live here together. We turn out all the lights

in the house and play Scrabble by candle-light, peering hard at

the letters, and I win, by quite a long way as a matter of fact,

but with modesty and good grace. 'Foxed' and 'amazed' on

triple letter scores, incidentally.

Supper is brown-rice-stir-fry, which looks and tastes a little
like we've stir-fried the dust-pan sweepings, but is just about
edible if you add enough soy sauce. Besides, by the time we get
around to eating it, we're fantastically drunk, and talking over
each other and laughing and dancing around the living room
to old Nina Simone songs, then seeing how far we can slide
along the varnished wooden floors in our socks. Then when
we're lying in a crumpled, giggling heap, Alice very suddenly
takes me by the hands, smiles mischievously and says, 'D'you
want to go upstairs?'

My heart pops up into my mouth.

'Well, that depends. What's upstairs?' I say, foxed and
amazed.

'Come with me and find out,' and she scrambles up the
stairs on all fours, shouting behind her, 'Your bedroom, two
minutes - bring the wine!'

Concentrate. Just concentrate.

I go to the kitchen sink, move the soaking wok to one side,
run the cold tap, and splash my face, partly to sober up, partly
to check I'm not dreaming, then holding the wine bottle and
the half-filled glasses precariously with the tips of my fingers,
I follow her upstairs.

Alice isn't in my room yet, so I go to the sink and very	I

quickly brush my teeth, listening out for her footstep so that
she doesn't catch me at it and think I'm taking things for
granted. Then when I hear her coming along the corridor,


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I rinse and spil, and turn off the oveihead light and arrange
myself nonchalantly on the bed and wait.

'Da - daaaaa!'

She's standing in the doorway, arms out-flung like an Oscar
winner, but I can't tell what I'm meant to be looking at. Her
breasts maybe? Hoping against hope, I wonder if maybe she's
put on special underwear, and then I spot the Rizlas in one
hand and the tiny cling-film pouch in the other.

'What is it?'

'Skunk, man. Wick-ed skunk. We can't do it downstairs -
Michael's like a sniffer-dog. That Bohemian Dad thing only
stretches so far.' She grabs a copy of Richard Scarry's It's a
Busy, Busy World from the bookshelf and starts rolling the
joint on it.

'What about your mum?'

'Oh, Mum actually gets it for me, from this creepy guy
in the village. What can I say! Housewife's ruin. Still, she's
got to fill her days somehow, I suppose. It's amazing stuff.
Amaaaaazing!' God help me, she's putting on a West Indian
accent, Jamaica-cum-Aldeburgh, and for the first time ever I
find myself really embarrassed by her. 'Really strong ganja,
mon, reeeeeally nice weeeeed . . .' Please, stop that Alice,
please? Now she's lit it, and is inhaling deeply, and holding
the smoke in her lungs while her eyes roll back in her head,
then she pouts and blows the smoke out towards the paper
lampshade, and I wonder if marijuana is an aphrodisiac.

Alice looks at me with one lazy eye, and offers me the joint,
as if it were a challenge. Which it is.

'Your turn, Bri.'

'Actually, I don't think I can, Alice.'

'Why not? Why don't you want to get high, Bri?'

This strikes her as very, very funny, and while she bangs
her head against the headboard I say, 'No, I'd love to, it's
just I never learnt to smoke, not even tobacco, I'm useless,
I can't take it back, not without coughing my lungs up


175
DAVID NICHOLLS


anyway.' Actually, smoking was one of the things I hoped
to do at university, like reading Don Quixote, growing a
beard and learning to play the alto sax, but I just haven't
got round to it.

'You're a strange one, aren't you, Brian Jackson?' she says,
suddenly very serious. 'How can you not smoke! Smoking's
pretty much the thing I do best. Or second best anyway . . .' she
says, winking the other lazy eye. Marijuana must be an aphrodisiac.
'Okay, we'll try something a little more provocative.
But first, some music!' And she stumbles over to the clunky,
flat-deck, childhood tape-recorder, which has 'Alice's' written
on it in Tippex, then digs around in her old desk drawer for
a tape, jams it in and presses play. It is, I believe, Brian Cant,
singing 'A Froggy Went A Courtin'.'

'Wow - Proustian Rush!' she says. 'This song is my childhood.
I fucking love and adore this song! Don't you? Right,
come here, young man, sit up straight. . .' We kneel up on the
bed, facing each other, and she brings her face up to within a
couple of inches from mine.

'Okay, put your hands here . . .' and she takes my wrists, and
pushes them behind my back'. . . and purse your lips, like this.'
Her mouth is just inches away, I can smell the sweetness of the
soy sauce and ginger on her breath. Then she takes her hand
and pinches my cheeks together into an exaggerated pout.

'Froggy went a courtin', be did ride, uh-hum . . .'

'Now, what you are about to receive, Mr Brian Jackson, is
called a blow-back, and no, it's not what you think it is, so
nooo sauciness please. I'm going to blow the smoke into your
mouth, and you are to inhale deeply and hold the smoke in
your lungs and you will not cough, d'you understand? I forbid
it! Instead you will hold your breath for as long as physically
possible, and only then will you exhale. Is that clear?'

'Perfectly clear.'

'Okay then. Here we go!'

She places the joint between her lips, and inhales deeply,


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then smiles, raises her eyebrows as if to say 'ready?', and I
nod, yes, I'm ready. She brings her lips right up to mine so that
they are centimetres, millimetres away, surely not even that,
surely they're touching, and then she blows, and I suck in my
breath, which is only natural really, given the circumstances,
and I want the moment to go on forever.

'Froggy went a courtin', he did ride

A sword and pistol by his side

A Froggy went a courtin' he did ride, ub-hum . . .'

Finally, when my lungs are about to burst, I exhale and she
flops back and asks, 'What d'you think?'

Once I've worked out how to operate my mouth, I say,
'Okay!'

'Feel anything?'

'Not massively.'

'Want to go again?'

Oh, God, yes, Alice, do I? More than anything in the
world . . .

'Yeah, yeah, all right . . .'

'Are you sure? It's very strong.'

'Really, Alice, trust me. I can handle it.'


When I regain consciousness, Alice has gone, and I'm under
the duvet, and Froggy's still going a-courtin'. The tape's on
auto-reverse. I've no idea how long I've been under, so I jab
at the stop button and look for my travel alarm clock. 1.30
a.m. I'm suddenly desperately thirsty, but thank goodness
there's still half a bottle of refreshing red wine by my bed,
so I sit up and drain most of the bottle. I check to see if Alice
took my trousers off before she put me to bed, find that she
didn't, but am too stoned to know whether to be pleased or
disappointed.

Besides, I'm too busy thinking about food. I have never been
hungrier in my life. Even courgettes seem appealing. Then
thank God, I remember I am the possessor of Cold Meats,


177
DAVID NICHOLLS

I


bless you Muni. I dig the foil parcel out of my suitcase, tear a
ribbon of fat off a piece of boiled bacon, and stuff the lean into
my mouth. It's good, but something's missing. Bread. Need
sandwich. Must have bread.

Walking is less easy than I remembered, and getting downstairs
seems almost impossible. I don't want to turn any lights
on, but it really is pitch black here, so bracing myself against
the walls on either side I take fairy steps along the hallway
and down the stairs into the kitchen. Time stretches, and
the journey seems to take maybe several days, but I get
there eventually and begin the physically demanding task of
chiselling myself two slices of home-made wholemeal bread.
The resulting sandwich is the size, weight and texture of a
household brick, but I don't care any more, because it contains
Cold Meats. I settle down at the table and pour myself some
milk first, to try and make the bread less gritty, but the milk	I

has curdled and separated, and I'm about to cross to the sink
to spit it out, when the landing light clicks on and I hear a
creak at the top of the stairs.

Maybe it's Alice! Maybe we can carry on from where we
left off. But it isn't. It's Mrs Harbinson. Rose. Naked Rose.
I swallow the curdled milk.

Of course, I should just say something straight away, just
a sexless, casual 'Hullo Rose!' but the dope and the wine have
made me fuzzy and muddled, and I don't want a naked woman
screaming at me at two in the morning, so I just sit there, very
quietly, and hope she'll go. She opens the door of the fridge,
and then she bends over, and the white fridge-light and the
bending-over make her look really naked. Closer scrutiny
reveals she's actually wearing a pair of thick grey socks, which
gives her nudity a sort of wholesome, muesli-quality, like a line
drawing from The Joy Of Sex, and in my drug-fuddled state I
find myself wondering if there is such a word as pubicy. What
is she looking for? And why is it taking so long? I imagine that
she 'looks-good-for-her-age' too, but then I've never actually



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seen a whole woman naked, not in real life and all at once,
only odd bits and pieces, and even then none of them were
older than nineteen, so I'm not really an authority on the
subject. Still, I suppose the situation isn't without a sort of
hackneyed eroticism, albeit one that's tempered slightly by
the parcel of body-temperature gammon nestling on my lap.
Suddenly anxious that maybe she'll smell the meat, I try to
fold the foil over silently, and the resultant crackling seems
to reverberate round the kitchen like an electrical storm.

'Oh my God! Brian!'

'Hello Mrs Harbinson!' I say brightly. I expect her to cover
her nakedness with her arms, but she doesn't seem that
bothered really, and just reaches nonchalantly for a National
Trust tea-towel, which she wraps around her waist and holds
at her hip like a sarong. I can see the word 'Sissinghurst'
running down her thigh.

'Oh dear, I do hope I haven't shocked you,' she says.

'Oh, not really . . .'

'But then I'm sure that you've seen hundreds of naked
women before.'

'You'd be surprised, Mrs Harbinson.'

'I've told you before, call me Rose. Mrs Harbinson makes
me feel so oW!'

There's a momentary silence, and I search for something
to say that will rid the situation of any embarrassment or
discomfort, and come up with the perfect solution.

In an American accent I say, 'Are you trying to seduce me,
Mrs Harbinson?!'

What did I just say? . . .

'I beg your pardon?'

Don't say it again . . .

'Are you trying to seduce me?' I say.

Quick, explain, explain . . .

'You know - like Mrs Robinson?' I explain.

Rose stares at me blankly. 'Who's Mrs Robinson?'


179
DAVID NICHOLLS


'It's a quote. From The Graduate . . .'

'Well I can tell you now, Brian, I have no intention of
seducing you . . .'

'I know, I know, and I don't want to be seduced by
you . . .'

'Right, well, just as well then . . .'

'That's not to say that I don't find you attractive . . .'

'I beg your pardon?'

'What the fuck is going on down here?' says a voice, and
another figure is loping down the stairs, the muscular legs
and barrel chest - the muscular, naked legs and barrel chest
of Mr Harbinson. He seems to be clutching a rolled umbrella
between his legs but closer examination reveals it to be a
penis. Now I really don't know where to look. Not looking
at Rose's genitals seems to bring my eye-line directly down
to Mr Harbinson's genitals, and suddenly it's hard to find
anywhere in the kitchen that's genital-free, so finally I pick
a point on the ceiling just above the Aga, and concentrate,
concentrate, concentrate.

'Nothing's going on, Michael. I just came down for a drink
and Brian was here, that's all . . .' Why is she sounding so
guilty? Is she trying to get me killed?

'So what were you talking about?'

Oh, good Christ, he heard me. I'm already dead.

'Nothing! Brian just made me jump, that's all . . .'

Mr Harbinson and his penis look unconvinced, and I realise
that he's not actually covering his penis with his hand, but holding it, and for a moment I have an irrational fear that
he's going to hit me with it.

'Well keep it down, will you? And Rose, come to bed!' and
he thumps back upstairs, holding his rolled umbrella. Clearly
deeply embarrassed, Rose takes a floral, vinyl apron from a
hook by the Aga, and puts it on grumpily, whilst I brush the
meaty evidence from the table into the foil pack, and stuff it
into the cutlery drawer.


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Finally she comes over to the table, and hisses, 'I think
it's best if neither of us ever mention this again, don't you,
Brian?'

'Okay, but I do just want to say that I really was just
quoting . . .'

'Let's forget about it, shall we? Pretend it never happened ...'
She's peering at my face. 'Brian, are you feeling all right?'

'Absolutely!'

'You look a bit grey.'

'Oh, this is my normal colour, Rose!'

She looks at the glass in front of me.

'Is that the milk?'

'Uh-huh.'

'So you had it all along?'

"Fraid so, Rose.'

'I've been looking for that, Brian.'

'Sorry' - she reaches for the glass - 'I wouldn't drink it
though, if I were you!'

'Why on earth not?'

'It's off, it's curdled, really, it's disgusting . . .'

And she takes the glass of curdled milk, sniffs it, sips it,
and looks me with utter disdain and says, 'It's soya milk, Brian.'

From somewhere in Blackbird Cottage comes the sound of
hysterical laughter, an awful, mad cackle, the laughter of some
pitiable, depraved child, and it takes a little while to realise that
the laughter's coming from me.


When I wake up the next morning, there's the usual three
second delay between knowing that I should feel deeply
ashamed, and remembering the reason why. I groan, actually,
physically groan aloud, as if someone had just jumped on my
chest. I look at the alarm clock. It's 11.30 and I feel like I'm
coming out of a coma.

I lay there for a while, trying to work out the best way to


181
DAVID NICHOLLS


deal with this. The best way to deal with it would be to kill
myself, but the second best way is going to involve a great
deal of grovelling and pleading and self-mockery, so I start
to get dressed, to get it over with, when there's a knock at
the door.

It's Alice, looking sombre, as well she might. Does she know
that her naked mother thinks I attempted to seduce her?

'Hello, sleeping beauty . . .' she whispers.

'Alice, I am so, so sorry about last night . . .'

'Oh, God, that's all right, it's nothing, forget about it . . .'
She obviously doesn't know. 'Look, Brian, something's come
up, I've got to go to Bournemouth . . .' She's sat at the edge
of the bed, and it looks like she's going to cry.

'Why, what's happened?'

'It's Granny Harbinson, she fell downstairs late last night,
and she's in hospital, with a fractured hip, and we've got to
go and see her . . .'

'Oh, God, Alice . . .'

'Mum and Dad have already gone, but I've got to follow on,
so I don't think New Year's going to work out, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, that's okay. I'll find out the times of the . . .'

'Already done it. There's a train to London in forty-five
minutes, I'll give you a lift to the station. Is that okay?'

And so I start to pack, cramming books and clothes in my
bag like it's an emergency evacuation, and in ten minutes we're
in the Land-Rover, with Alice driving. She looks tiny behind
the wheel, like a Sindy doll driving an Action Man jeep. The
snow has turned to a dirty grey slush in the night, and we
seem to be driving much too fast, which all just contributes
to the general air of tension and anxiety.

'I have a terrible headache today!' I offer.

The too,' she replies.

Two hundred yards of country lane go by.

'I ran into your mum and dad in the kitchen last night,' I
say, nonchalantly.


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'Oh, really!'

Another two hundred yards.

'Did they say anything about it?'

'Not really. No. Why should they?'

'No reason.' I'm safe it seems. Obviously I'm not glad Granny Harbinson fell down the stairs, but at least she's
created a diversion.

We arrive at the station with fifteen minutes to spare, and
she helps me carry my bag on to the empty platform.

	I'm so sorry you can't stay for New Year.'

'Oh, that's all right. Send my love to Granny Harbinson.'
What for? I've never even met the woman for Christ's sake.
'And I'm really sorry about overdosing on you last night.'

'Really, that's fine. Look, d'you mind if I don't wait for
you to get the train? It's just I should get going . . .' And we
embrace, but don't kiss, and then she's gone.


I get home at about teatime, and let myself in. Mum's dressed
in her track-suit and is lying on the sofa in the lounge watching Blockbusters on full volume, with an ashtray balanced on her
belly, a bucket of Quality Street and a bottle of Tia Maria on the coffee table in front of her. As I come into the room she
sits up and stuffs the bottle under a cushion, then realises she's
left the sherry glass of Tia Maria out, and tries to conceal it by
wrapping both hands around it, like it's a tiny mug of cocoa
or something.

'You're back early!'

'Yes, Mum, I know . . .'

Till take a P, Bob . . .'

'What's up, then?'

'Alice's nan fractured her hip.'

'How did that happen?'

'I pushed her downstairs.'

'No, really.'

'I've no idea, Mum.'


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DAVID NICHOLLS


'Which P is the main chemical ingredient in the manufacture
of matches?'

'Poor thing. Is she going to be all right?'

'How should I know? I'm not the doctor-in-charge, am I?
Phosphorous.'

'Correct.'

'What?' says Mum.

'The telly!' I snap.

Till take an H please, Bob

'Something wrong, Bri?'

'No, nothing's wrong!'

'Which H gave his name to the . . . ?'

'Did you fall out with your girlfri . . . ?'

'She is not my girlfriend!'

'All right, no need to shout!'

'Bit early for cocktails, isn't it, Mother?'

And then I turn and run upstairs, feeling seedy and mean.
And where did that nasty, peevish 'Mother' come from? I've
never called her 'Mother'. I go to my room, slam the door, lie
on my bed and put on my headphones to listen to my cassette
copy of Lionheart, Kate Bush's staggeringly beautiful second
album, 'Symphony in Blue', side A, track one. But almost
immediately I realise something's missing.

The Cold Meats.

I left the parcel of cold meat in the kitchen drawer last night.
I don't have the Harbinsons' Bournemouth number, so I decide
to phone the cottage and leave a message for when Alice gets
back. After four rings the answering-machine clicks on, and
I'm just working out what to say, when someone unexpectedly
picks up.

'Hello . . . ?'

'Oh. Hello, is that ... is that Rose?'

'Who is this?'

'It's Brian, Alice's friend?'

'Oh, hello, Brian. Hold on, will you.'


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There's a rustling noise, as she puts her hand over the
receiver, and some vague mumbling, and then Alice comes
on.

'Hello, Brian?'

'Hi! You're still there!'

'Yes, yes, we're here.'

'Only I thought you'd be in Bournemouth . . .'

'We were, but . . . then it turned out Granny was feeling
much better, so we drove back. We've just got in, actually.'

'Right. So she's okay then?'

'She's absolutely fine!'

'No fractured hip?'

'No, just bad bruising, and, um, shock.'

'Good. I'm glad to hear it. Well, not glad that she's in shock, obviously, I mean I'm glad it's not life-threatening . . .'

There's a silence.

'So ... ?'

'So I just meant to say, I left the . . . um, the, you know,
cold meat there.'

'I see. And where is this . . . meat?'

'In the drawer of the kitchen table.'

'Oh. Right. I'll go and get it.'

'Wait till your mum's not around though, maybe?'

'Of course.'

'So - see you back at college next year, then?'

'Exactly. See you next year!' And she's gone, and I just stand
there in the hallway, the telephone receiver in my hand, staring
into space.

I can hear the telly in the lounge.

'Which It's three laws accurately describe the motion of the
planets around the sun?'

'Johannes Kepler,' I say, to no one at all.

'Correct!'

I have absolutely no idea what I'm meant to do now.


185
22


QUESTION Finding its origins in the 31-syllable 'tanka',
which Japanese poetic form consists of 17 syllables,
arranged in lines of 5, 7 and 57

ANSWER The haiku


Rebecca Epstein's response is to laugh. She lies on my futon in
the student house on Richmond Hill, and laughs and laughs,
kicking her Doc Martens with sadistic glee.

'It's not that funny, Rebecca.'

'Och, no, trust me, it is.'

I give up, and go and change the record.

I'm sorry, Jackson, but it's just the idea of them all hiding
in the woodshed until you've definitely gone . . .' This sets her
off again, so I decide to go into Josh's room and get more
home-brewed beer.


I'm with Mum for another eighteen hours before I decide to
go back to college. Once again, I tell her it's because I need
some specialist books from the library, and she shrugs, only
half-believing, and by ten o'clock, I'm on the doorstep again,
rejecting the same groceries.

On the train back, I start to cheer up a bit. So what if I'm
spending New Year alone in a student house? I can get some
work done, read, go for long walks, play music as loud as
I want. And tomorrow, on New Year's Eve, I'll fight the
ridiculous tradition that says we have to go out and get drunk
and have fun. I'll stay in instead, and not have fun. I'll still


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get drunk but I'll read a book, and fall asleep at 11.58 p.m.
That'll teach them, I convince myself, without really knowing
who 'they' are.

But as soon as I arrive back at the student house, I realise
I've made a terrible mistake. As I open the front door, a waft
of warm, yeasty gas from Marcus and Joshua's home-brew
Yorkshire Bitter hits me, and it's as if the whole house had
just burped in my face. I go into Joshua's room, and find the
plastic barrel bubbling and hissing near a fully-on radiator. I
open the window to let some of the intestinal gas out.

No one's back yet, obviously, which is what I'd hoped, but I
don't think I was prepared for the house to be quite this empty.
So I decide to go to the mini-market on the corner. It's 5.45,
the optimum time for buying reduced-price food.

The purchase of reduced-price food isn't something one
should enter into lightly. The dented canned goods are generally
safe, but with 'fresh' produce, frankly it's a minefield. As a
general rule of thumb, the degree to which the price is reduced
is proportional to the danger involved in actually eating it, so
the trick is to go for something that's still a bargain without
actually giving you stomach cramps; a measly lOp off a pound
of blue-grey braising steak is hardly worth the risk, but a whole
chicken for 25p is just asking for trouble. Also beef and chicken
are generally safer than pork and fish. Old pork is no fun for
anyone, whereas with old beef you can at least kid yourself that
it's not 'off, it's just 'well-hung'. The same applies to strongly
flavoured foods; it's not 'off, it's 'spicy'. It is for this reason
that the curry is in many ways the classic reduced-price item.

In the mini-market, me and an old lady with a Zapata
moustache eye each other warily over the chill cabinet. As it's
so soon after Christmas there are a great many lethal turkeys
here, as well as a leg of lamb which looks as if it's in danger
of climbing out of the chill cabinet and walking back to the
farm by itself. Generally it's a pretty disappointing haul, so I
decide to go for the dehydrated Vesta curry, at 75 pence off


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and, as a special treat, a tub of banana-flavour Nesquick and
a pint of milk.

But the elation is short-lived. By the time I've got back,
had some Nesquick, boiled the kettle, dissolved the bright
yellow curry powder in a saucepan and eaten it, I'm feeling
like Robinson Crusoe. The house is empty, it's raining outside,
Josh's portable telly is locked in his wardrobe, and it's rapidly
becoming clear that the so-called best years of my life are never
going to happen.

Snap out of this. Do something about it.

I steal some change from the copper-jar in Josh's room and
pile the coins on top of the payphone in the hallway.

But who to call? I contemplate phoning some guy called
Vince I met at a party, but don't want to sit in a pub with
just one other man, and also don't have his number, and
can't remember his surname or where he lives or pretty much
anything about him. Lucy Chang's back in Minneaopolis,
and also thinks I'm a racist. Colin Pagett's still got hepatitis.
I nearly call Patrick before I remember that I don't even
like him. Finally I decide to call Rebecca Epstein, because
Rebecca's a Law student and, as Law's a proper subject,
there's a good chance that she'll actually be doing some
work.

She lives in Kenwood Manor and as her corridor's the
same as Alice's, I have the number. After about twenty rings
a Glaswegian voice finally answers.

'Hello, is that Rebecca?'

'. . . yeeeeess?'

'It's Brian, here.'

A pause.

'Brian Jackson?' I offer.

'I know which Brian. What are you doing back?'

'I got bored, that's all.'

'God, me too.' Another pause. 'So . . . ?'

'So I just wondered, what are you doing tonight?'


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'Waiting for you to call, obviously. Is this a date? she says,
as if she were asking 'is this a turdT

'God, no, I just wondered if you wanted to go to the pictures
or something. They're showing Pasolini's Gospel According
To St Matthew at the Arts . . .'

'Alternatively, we could go and see something enjoyable. . .'

'St Elmo's Fire at the ABC?'

'Would that be Pasolini's St Elmo's Fire?'

'Back to the Future's on at the Odeon . . .'
'How old are you exactly? . . .'

"Cocoon at the ABC . . .'

'God help us . . .'

'You're very opinionated, aren't you?'

'I know. Scary, isn't it? Are you sure you're up to the job,
Brian?'

'I think so. So what do you want to do?'

'Got any booze?'

'Twelve gallons of it. It's all home-brew, though.'

'Och, I'm not fussy. You're in Richmond House?'

'Yep.'

'All right, give me half an hour.'

She hangs up, and suddenly I'm scared.


Forty minutes later, she's sat on my bed drinking homebrew
and laughing at me. As usual, she's wearing her uniform,
which really does look like a uniform; black DMs,
thick black tights under a blue-black denim mini-skirt, a
v-necked black jumper under the black vinyl military-style
belted coat, which I have yet to see her take off. Her short
hair is glossy with Black-and-White pomade, and has been
pushed up into a little, oily quiff in front of her black,
peaked worker's cap. In fact everything she wears seems
designed to suggest a long tradition of tough, manual labour,
which is strange really, because as I recall her mum's a
ceramic artist and her dad's a consultant paediatrician. In
DAVID NICHOLLS


fact Rebecca's only concession to conventional notions of femininity
is a thick smear of glossy ruby-red lipstick and a great
deal of heavy mascara that makes her look intimidating and
glamorous at the same time, like the Hollywood branch of the
Baader-Meinhof gang. She even smokes like a film star, Bette
Davis or someone, but a film star who rolls her own. In fact,
if anything, she looks a little more attractive than usual this
evening, and I find myself worrying that she may even have
made an effort.

When she finally stops laughing, I say, 'Well, I'm glad you
find my sex life funny, Rebecca.'

'Surely it's only a sex life if there's sex in it?'

'She could have actually been telling the truth.'

'Yes, Brian I'm sure she was telling the truth. I told you she
was a cow, didn't I? And don't look all po-faced. You know
it's funny, otherwise you wouldn't have told me about it.' She
puffs on her roily, flicks the ash down the side of the futon.
'Anyway, serves you right.'

'What for?'

'You know what for. The bourgeois wank-fest. Call yourself
a Socialist, but in the end you're just like all the other social
climbers at this university, all ready to roll over and have your
stomach rubbed by the so-called superior classes . . .'

'That's not true!'

"Tis true. Closet Tory! . . .'

'Stalinist! . . .'

'Class traitor! . . .'

'Snob! . . .'

'Inverted snob! . . .'

'Proto-yuppie! . . .'

'D'you want to get your Doctor Martens off my duvet?'

'Scared I'll ruin this exquisite fabric?' But she does move
her feet, and then shuffles along to sit next to me, and taps
her glass of warm beer against mine in reconciliation.

'Why's your bed-frame behind your wardrobe?' she asks.


19O
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'I thought I'd, you know, turn it into a futon.'
'A futon, eh? Well let me tell you, Brian, a mattress on the
floor does not a futon make.'
'That was almost a haiku,' I say.
'How many syllables in a haiku?'
I know this one. 'Seventeen, arranged 5-7-5.'
She thinks for maybe one second, then says:


A mattress on the

Floor does not a futon make.

Smells surely follow.


. . . then she goes to drink, but stops to pluck off a strand
of Golden Virginia that's got matted in her lipstick, a gesture
that's so extravagantly cool and languid that I find
myself staring sideways at her lips in case she does it again.
Then she catches my eye, and I babble out, 'How was your
Christmas, then?'

'We don't do Christmas, we're Jews, we killed Christ,
remember?'

'So how about, what's it called, Passover?'

'Hanukkah. We don't do that either. For someone who's
representing our glorious establishment on University Challenge, Brian Jackson, you're surprisingly ignorant. How many
times do I have to tell you, we're Socialist Non-Orthodox
Jewish Anti-Zionist Glaswegians.'

'Doesn't sound much fun.'

'Believe me, it's not. Why d'you think I'm here with you?'

I think I'll try my hand at Jewish humour.

'Still. Christmas Schmistmas!'

'What?

'Nothing.'

She scrutinises me for a moment, then half-smiles . . .

'Anti-semite.'

And I smile back. I suddenly find myself feeling fantastically


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fond of Rebecca Epstein, and want to make a tentative gesture
of friendship. I have an idea.

'Which reminds me, I got you this! Happy Hanukkah!'

It's Alice's unwanted Joni Mitchell album. I lost the receipt.
Rebecca looks at me questioningly, 'For me?

'Uh-huh.'

'Are you sure? she asks, an East European checkpoint
guard who suspects my passport might be fake.

'Absolutely.'

She takes it between finger and thumb, and peels back a
corner of the wrapping. 'Joni Mitchell.'

'Uh-huh. D'you know it?'

'I'm familiar with her work.'

'So you've got it?'

'No. No, I'm ashamed to say I haven't.'

'Well, let me play it to you . . .'

And I take it from her hand, go to the record player, take off
Tears For Fears, and put on Blue, side 2, track 4, 'A Case Of
You', surely one of the most exquisite love songs ever committed
to vinyl. After we've listened to the whole of the first verse and

chorus in silence, I ask, 'So. What d'you think?'

'I think it's brought on my period.'

'Don't you like it?'

'Well, to be completely honest, it's not really my thing,
Brian.'

'It will grow on you.'

'Hmmm,' she says, doubtfully. 'So, big Joni fan are you?'

'Sort of. To be honest, I'm more of a Kate Bush man.'

'Hmmm - that figures.'

'Why?'

'Because, Brian, you are the Man with the Child in his Eyes,'
she says, and sniggers into her beer.

'So what are you listening to at the moment, then?'

'Lots of things. Durutti Column, Marvin Gaye, the Cocteau
Twins, some early blues, Muddy Waters, The Cramps, Bessie


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Smith, Joy Division, the New York Dolls, Sly and the Family
Stone, some dub. I'll make you a compilation tape, see if I
can wean you off all this fanny-music. You know, you have to
be careful with these singer-songwriters, Brian. They're fine in
moderation but if you listen to too much of this stuff, you will
actually grow wee vestigial breasts.'

'Well, if you don't want your present, just say . . .' I say,
getting up to change the record.

'No! No, I'll keep it. I'm sure I'll grow to love it. Thank you
very much, Brian. Very Christian of you.'

And then I sit back down next to her, and we sit in silence
for a moment. Then she takes my hand, squeezes it pretty
hard, and says, 'Seriously - thank you.'

Ten minutes later, we're lying on the bed, and somehow the
same hand seems to have found its way into her bra.


They say that the personal is political and it's certainly fair to
say that, like her politics, Rebecca Epstein's kissing is radical,
forthright and uncompromising. I'm lying on my back and
she's pushing my head down into the pillow, and her front
teeth are grinding against mine, but I'm determined to give as
good as I get, and I'm grinding back, so it's only a matter of
time before we take off all our enamel. The combination of
the booze and the fumes from the calor-gas heater have made
me feel heady, a little panicky even, but it's fun too, like when
you're at school and you're being bundled. The thick emulsion
of the lipstick creates an airlock around our mouths, so that
when she finally pulls her mouth away I almost expect there
to be a popping noise, like in a cartoon when a sink-plunger's
pulled off someone's face.

'Is this all right? she asks. Her lipstick's smeared round her
mouth now, like she's been eating raspberries.

'Fine,' I say, and she's on me again. She tastes of brewing
yeast and Golden Virginia and the scented oiliness of the
lipstick. For my part, I can't help worrying about the Vesta


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curry I had earlier. Should I pretend to need the toilet, and
go and brush my teeth? But then she'll know I've brushed my
teeth for her sake, and I don't want to appear conventional.
Is bad breath in some way ^conventional? Probably not, but
if I brush my teeth, maybe she'll think I want her to brush
her teeth too, which I don't, really. In fact I quite like the
tobacco taste, that feeling of smoking by proxy. Best just
carry on. But where to go from here? Like a ventriloquist,
I try to put my hand up her top at the back, but she's
still wearing the belted coat, and when I make it past the
belt I find that her jumper's tucked in pretty firmly, so I
try to take an alternative route, via her neckline. I have
to contort my arm to do so, and bend my hand back at
right angles, like the world's most inept pickpocket, but
eventually I get there. Her bra is black, lacy and slightly
padded, which surprises me, and for a moment I find myself
contemplating the politics of this bra. Why is it padded?
Isn't this a bit out of character for Rebecca? Why does
she of all people feel the need to conform to conventional
male-defined notions of femininity? Why should she be obliged
to acquire the conventionally 'sexy' body image that actually no woman is capable of attaining in real life, except maybe
Alice Harbinson.

Then suddenly she breaks away from the kiss, and I expect
she's going to ask me what the hell I think I'm up to, but
instead; 'Brian?' she whispers.

'What?'

'There's something I need to tell you. I wasn't joking earlier.
When I said I was on.'

'That's okay. I'm on too.'

She looks at me quizzically. 'I don't think you are somehow,
Bri.'

'No really, I am. I might not have seemed on, but I really
am . . .'

She's scowling at me now. 'You're on your period^


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'What? Oh, I see. No, sorry, I thought you meant you, you
know . . .'

'What?'

"'On-for-it?'"

'What's "ow-for-it"?'

I think for a second. 'Slang?' I offer, hopefully, but my
hand's out of her bra now, never to return. She's sat up on
the edge of the bed, straightening her tights, checking to see
if I've torn her jumper, and I've blown it.

'Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all.'

'I don't mind, honestly.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I mean I'm cool about your period.'

'Oh, well, I'm glad you're cool about it, Jackson. Just as
well, seeing as there's fuck-all I can do about it, is there?'

'I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say.'

'I bet Alice Harbinson doesn't even have a period . . .'

'What?'

'. . . she probably pays someone to have it for her . . .'

'Hang on, what's this got to do with Alice Harbinson?'

'Nothing!'

She turns, and seems about to snap at me again, but then
breaks into a smile, or a half-smile at least; 'You'd better wipe
the lipstick off your face. You look like a clown . . .' I wipe
my mouth with the corner of my duvet and hear her murmur,
'You are a fucking clown.'

'What have I done now!'

'You know what.'

'Hey, it was you who started it!'

'Started what?'

'Talking about, you know, Alice.'

'Oh for Christ's sake, Jackson . . .'

'I only mentioned her because you mentioned her . . .'

'But you're thinking about her though, aren't you?'

'No, of course I'm not!' I say. But I am. Rebecca holds


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my gaze just long enough to be sure of the fact, then looks
away.

'This is stupid' she says quietly, pressing her eyes with the
heel of her hands. I'		m a wee bit pissed. I think I should go.'
I might not have been sure before, but now I definitely don't
want her to go, so I clamber round in front of her, and try to
kiss her again. She turns her head away.

'Why d'you have to go?'

'I don't ... I don't know - what just happened. Can we
forget about it?'

'Oh. Right. All right. Okay. I'd rather you didn't go, but if
that's what you want . . .'

'I think so. I think I want to go,' and she's on her feet, pulling
her coat together and heading out the door, leaving me wondering
what I've done this time. I mean, above and beyond the usual,
crass ineptitude. I follow her downstairs into the hallway, where
she scrambles over the tangle of bicycles blocking the hallway.

'Now look - I've snagged my bloody tights . . .'

'At least let me walk you home.'

'No thanks.'

'I don't mind . . .'

'I'm all right . . .'

'You shouldn't walk back by yourself . . .'

Till be fine . . .'

'Really, I insist . . .' and she wheels around suddenly, and
points her finger at me, and snaps, 'And I insist you don't! Is
that understood?' We're both thrown by the sharpness of this; it
may be that I even take a step backwards. We look at each other,
wondering what is going on, and eventually she says 'Besides, you
should go to bed. You're "on", remember?' She opens the door.
'Let's never talk about this again, okay? And don't tell anyone,
all right? Especially not Alice-bloody-Harbinson. Promise?'

'Of course not. Why would I tell Alice . . . ?'

But she's already halfway down the steps, and without
looking back she runs off into the night.
Round Three


'I'm sorry,' said Sebastian, after a time. 'I'm afraid I
wasn't very nice this afternoon. Brideshead often has
that effect on me.'

Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
23


QUESTION: Striated, cardiac and smooth are three types

of which tissue?
ANSWER: Muscle.


Some New Year's Resolutions


1	Spend more time working on my poetry. If I'm
serious about poetry as a literary form, as well
as a way of earning extra money, then I'm really
going to have to work at it, especially if I'm to
discover my own distinctive voice. Remember,
T.S.Eliot held down a job in a bank and wrote The Four Quartets, so not having enough time is
no excuse.

2	Stop picking at my face, especially when I'm talking
to people. If science has taught us anything,
it's that picking at your skin just spreads the
infection and causes scars. Just leave it alone, find
something else to do with your hands, learn to
smoke or something. Remember - no one wants
to kiss a bleeding face.

3	Be aloof. Play it cool with Alice - she'll respect
you more for it.

4	Become lightly muscled.


The above were written at about 10.45 p.m. on New Year's
Eve, and I was pretty drunk by then, which means that the


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handwriting's a bit slurred. Twenty minutes later I was
asleep, thereby flouting the conventional, cliched notion
that says we're obliged to have an amazing, fun time on
New Year's Eve, by having an unconventional, unbelievably
shitty time.

Festivities began at 8.35, when I found a screwdriver in the
kitchen drawer, and unscrewed the doors of Josh's wardrobe so
that I could get to his portable television. I then sat and watched
the James Bond film on ITV, joining the massed ranks of elderly
windows, mental patients and everyone else who stays in on New
Year's Eve. But the more I drank, the more I thought about Dad,
and Alice, and the two got strangely muddled in my head so
that by the time Agent 007 had foiled Scaramanga's evil plan for
world domination I was pretty much a physical and emotional
wreck, thereby becoming the only person in the history of the
world ever to cry watching The Man With The Golden Gun with the possible exception of Britt Eckland. Then I pulled myself
together, and wrote the resolutions.

And now, two weeks later, the resolutions still stand. True, I
haven't really grappled with my poetry yet, but will soon, when
I get time. And I've barely touched my face. I've also been very
aloof with Alice too, largely because I haven't seen her or heard
from her and have no idea where she is. In fact, socially, things
have been a bit quiet since term began again. In Brideshead
Revisited, Charles' cousin warns him that your second term at
university is generally spent avoiding all the undesirable people
that you met in the first term, and I'm starting to suspect that I
am, in actual fact, one of those people.

But back to the resolutions. The last one needs some elucidation.
I've decided that it wouldn't do me any harm to have a
muscle or two, and, no, this isn't because I'm buying into some
shallow, gender-based notion of what the advertising media
chooses to define as 'masculine' or attractive, and it's not
because anyone's started to kick sand in my face, not literally
anyway. It's just that I think I've taken the tubercular look to


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its natural conclusion really. Also, ever since school, I've been
working on the principle that you're either clever, or you're
fit, and the two are mutually exclusive, but actually there's no
reason you can't have both; Patrick Watts for instance, is clever
and really, really fit, even if he does have personality problems.
Maybe Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man is a better example;
he's fit and clever, and has integrity too, the kind of guy
who runs five miles carrying a load of library books. Or,
from the real world, Alice Harbinson. Alice Harbinson is
amazingly fresh-faced, healthy and intelligent. Or at least she
was the last time I saw her. Two weeks and three days ago.
Ages ago.

Not to worry. I'm going to sublimate all that energy into a
fitness campaign. I'm thoroughly committed to a strict daily
Canadian Royal-Air-Force-style regime that involves wedging
my feet under the wardrobe, having first ensured that it won't
topple over on top of me, and doing sit-ups, numbering eight,
and press-ups, four. This is fine, but it doesn't really feel as if
I've had a proper, thorough full-body work-out, and I think
I'm going to need something extra. I think I'm going to
need weights. I decide to spend my Christmas money on
weight-lifting equipment.

I eat a healthy, nutritious breakfast from the newsagents,
a chocolate covered muesli bar and a litre of pineapple Just
Juice, and scout-march (run for thirty, walk for thirty) towards
the City Centre, which suddenly seems like an incredibly long
way away, especially when jogging in a donkey jacket and
jeans. But I keep going, along residential streets littered with
the skeletons of all the Christmas trees that the bin-men are
refusing to take away, every now and then giving these little
pineapple-juice burps. It's not long before I get a stitch, which
suggests that perhaps I need to put some work into cardiovascular
health, but this can come later. My first priority is
to increase body mass and improve muscle definition. I don't
want to get all stocky, like a boxer or weight-lifter or anything,


201
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just to get more of a gymnast's physique, like one of those guys
on the parallel bars. If at any point it looks like I'm going to
get massively over-developed then I'll pull back.

I arrive at Sport! shortly after it opens, sweating pretty
heavily. This is perhaps the second time in my life that I've
entered a sports shop, because up until now Mum's bought
all my sports kit for me. I'm pretty nervous about going in,
as if I'm about to enter a pornographer's or something. Once
inside, there's definitely a whiff of the boys' changing room
about the place, emphasised by the shop's manager, who's
about my age, stocky and bullish, and who approaches as if
he's about to flick me with a wet towel.

'Need help, mate?'

'Just looking thanks!' I say, in an ever-so-slightly deeper
than-usual voice, and I browse around the shop, appraising
badminton rackets with an expert eye, before casually heading
over to the dumb-bells. There they are, two of them, made
of heavy-duty iron, with adjustable weights, allowing me to
gradually increase the load so that I am Adonis-like, but no more. There's something pretty self-explanatory about
dumb-bells, so once I've established that, yes, they are very
heavy and made of iron as opposed to grey-painted polystyrene
and, yes, I can afford them, just about, at £12.99, then I heft
them over to the shop assistant. It's only when I've handed
over the cash, and he's put them in a heavy-duty plastic bag
and I've left the shop, that I realise that I've made an extremely
basic logistical error, and it's this: I can't carry them home.

For the first twenty-five yards I convince myself that it's
possible, if I walk quickly enough, and change hands when
the pain of the plastic bag cutting into flesh proves too much.
But outside Woolworths the inevitable happens, the bottom
falls out of the bag and the weights hit the pavement with
a heavy-industrial crunch that causes shoppers, young mums
with their kids in pushchairs mainly, to look at me, and at the
dumb-bells, and in return I give them a 'who snuck dumbbells


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in my bag!' kind of look. The paving-slab seems undamaged,
but one of the dumb-bells is trundling heavily off towards
Boots the Chemist like a tiny tank, and I have to lunge and
stop it with my foot, which causes a certain amount of mirth
amongst the young mums, who are pointing me out to their
kids - 'look at the funny under-developed man!' I pick up a
dumb-bell in each hand and walk briskly away.

I make it to Dorothy Perkins, twenty yards away, before I
have to stop again for breath. Teenage girls see the dumbbells
and grin at me as I lean against the shop window. I decide that
forward momentum is the key; the trick is to keep moving. I'll
be fine if I keep moving. After all, there's only maybe a mile
and a quarter still to go.

Once I'm out of the shopping centre, past the ring road
and into the residential streets, it becomes a little easier to
take regular rests without being stared at. I wait for my
breathing to stabilise, then pick the weights up, arms hanging
baboon-like, and make little stooped runs along the street as
if under machine-gun fire, for as long as my heart can take it.
I feel like I've just been resuscitated. I'm sweaty and red-faced,
my shoulders feel bruised, wrenched and sore, my arms feel
cartoonishly stretched, and the metallic diamond pattern on
the bar of the dumb-bells has transferred itself indelibly to the
palms of my hands, making them look reptilian and raw. I have
a personal tutorial this afternoon, and I'm still nowhere near
home, so I pick up the dumb-bells again, and stoop and run.

Eventually, I reach the south face of Richmond Hill, stretching
vertically up before me, its summit lost in low-level cloud.
I manage to yomp about twenty-five yards before I slump,
doubled over, against a wall. It feels as if someone's stamped
on my lungs, popped them like blown-up crisp packets. I'm
coughing uncontrollably, the breath rasping over the back of
my throat, which is parched, causing me to retch dryly. There's
a sweetly bilious taste in my mouth where I've coughed up
some pineapple Just Juice, and the sweat is pouring off my


2O3
DAVID NICHOLLS


face and dripping off my nose onto the pavement, and then
suddenly there's a hand on my back and a voice saying, 'Are
you all right, are you okay,' and I open my eyes and look up
and it's Alice . . .

'D'you want me to call you a ... Brian?'

'Alice!' breathe, pant, 'Oh ... hi ... Alice,' straighten up,
breathe, pant. 'How are you?' I gasp, aloofly.

'I'm fine, it's you I'm worried about. I thought you were
some old man having a heart attack or something . . .'

'No, no, it's me. I'm fine, really . . .'

She sees the dumb-bells, wedged under my foot to stop
them bouncing off down the hill and killing a child. 'What
are those!'

They're dumbbells

'I know what they are, but what are you doing with them?'

'It's a long story.'

'Need a hand?'

'If you could . . .'

She scoops up a dumb-bell, like she's scooping up a small
dog, and strides on up the hill.


2O4
24


QUESTION: What was identified by Hegel as the tendency
of a concept to pass over into its own negation as the
result of conflict between its inherent contradictory
aspects?

ANSWER: Dialectics.


I leave Alice in my bedroom, listening to my Brandenburg
Concerto LP and giving my bookshelves marks out of ten
while I go and make coffee. The bedroom is not in an ideal
state to be honest. I've made sure that I've not left my poetry
notebook or underpants lying around, but I still don't like
leaving her alone in there. The kettle is taking forever to boil,
so I distract myself by rushing to the bathroom, splashing my
face, and brushing my teeth very quickly to get rid of some of
the biliousness. When I get back to the kitchen, Josh is there,
helping himself to my newly boiled water.

'Of course you do know there's a fox loose in your bedroom?'

'My friend Alice.'

'Well hellooooo, Alice. Mind if I join you?'
'Actually, we're sort of talking about work, actually . . .'
'All right, Bri, I get the message. Just send her in to see me on
the way out, will you? And you might want to do something
about that?' and he gestures to the corner of my mouth, where
there are two little crescents of toothpaste. 'Bonne chance, mon
ami . . .' he says, and heads for the door - 'oh, and someone
called for you - Spencer, is it? - says to give him a call.' I make


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the coffee, pick up the mugs, steal two of Marcus' biscuits, and
head back into the bedroom.

Alice is reclined on the futon, flicking idly through my copy
of The Communist Manifesto, so I hand her the coffee, and
remove the cloudy glass of water and the encrusted old mugs
from the side of the bed, and take a mental photograph of her
head on my pillow.

'Why's your bed-frame behind your wardrobe, Brian?'

'I thought I'd try the futon thing.'

'Right. Futon. Nice.' And she looks at the postcards and
photos Blu-Tacked by the bed. 'Is this your dad?'

'Uh-huh.'

She peels the photo off the wall, looks at it. 'He's very
handsome.'

I take my donkey jacket off, hang it on the wardrobe door.
'Yes, he was.'

She inspects my face, trying to work out why it should have
skipped a generation, then gives me one of her frowning smiles.
'Don't you want to get changed?'

I look down at my sweater, which is living up to its name
and has dark, oily damp patches under the arms, and smells of
wet dog. I hesitate though, bashfully; 'No, I'm fine, really.'

'Go on, get changed. I promise I won't touch myself while
you're doing it.'

And, in the racy, erotically charged atmosphere that this last
remark creates, I turn my back on her and take my top off.

'So what are the weights for, big guy?'

'Oh, I just thought I'd try and get a little healthier . . .'

'Having muscles isn't the same as being healthy - my last
boyfriend had the most amazing body, but could barely walk
two hundred yards . . .'

'Was he the one with the massive penis?'

'Brian!! Who told you that?'

'You did?'

'Did I? Well, yes, that was him. Anyway, your body's fine.'


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'You think?' I ask, holding the jumper in front of me, like
a bashful bride.

'Sort of lean and angular - it's the Egon-Schiele-look . . .'

I turn my back and pull the new jumper over my head, and
decide it's time to change the subject.

'How was the rest of your Christmas break?'

'Oh, you know. Fine. Hey, thanks for coming to stay.'

'Thank you for having me. Did you get rid of the cold
meat okay?'

'Absolutely. Mingus and Coltrane say thank you very
much.'

'And is your nan okay?'

'What? Oh, yes. Yes, she's fine.'

She presses Dad's photo back onto the wall and, taking
care not to look at me, says, 'It got a little bit ... weird,
didn't it?'

'/ got a bit weird you mean. It was losing my drugs-virginity,
I think.'

'It wasn't just that though, was it? You were . . . strange,
like you thought you had something to prove.'

'Sorry. I get a bit nervous. Especially around posh peop . . .'

'Oh, please . . .' she snaps.

'What?'

'Please, don't start with that crap, Brian. "Posh" - what a ridiculous word. What is "posh" anyway? That stuff's all
in your head, it's completely meaningless. Christ, I hate this
complete obsession with class, especially at this place, you
can hardly say "hello" to anyone before they're getting all
prolier-than-thou, and telling you about how their dad's a
one-eyed chimney-sweep with rickets, and how they've still
got an outside loo, and have never been on a plane or whatever,
all that dubious crap, most of which is usually lies anyway, and
I'm thinking why are you telling me all this? Am I meant to feel guilty? D'you think it's my fault or something, or are you just
feeling pleased with yourself for escaping your predetermined


207

DAVID NICHOLLS


social role or some such self-congratulatory bullshit? I mean,
what does it matter anyway? People are people, if you ask me,
and they rise or fall by their own talents and merits, and their
own labours, and blaming the fact that they've got a settee rather than a sofa, or eat tea rather than dinner, that's just an
excuse, it's just whining self-pity and shoddy thinking . . .'

The Bach concerto's rising to a crescendo behind her as she
speaks, so I say, 'And you join us live from this year's Tory
Party Conference!'

'Piss off, Brian! That's not fair, that's not fair at all. I don't make judgements about other people because of their
background, and I expect people to treat me with the same
courtesy.' She's sat up on the futon now, stabbing the air
with her finger. 'And anyway, it's not even my money, it's
my parents' money, and it's not as if they got it from nicking
people's dole, or running sweat-shops in Johannesburg or
something, they worked fucking hard for what they've got, fucking hard . . .'

'They didn't work for it all though, did they?'

'What d'you mean?' she snaps.

'I just mean they inherited a lot, from their parents . . .'

'And . . . ?'

'Well, it's . . . privilege, isn't it?'

'So, what, you think people should have their money buried
with them when they die, like in Ancient Egypt? Because I
would have thought passing money on, using it to help your
family, to buy them security and freedom, was just about the only truly worthwhile thing you can do with it . . .'

'Of course it is, but I'm just saying, it's a privilege.'

'Absolutely it's a privilege, and they treat it as such, and
they pay a fuck of a lot of tax, and they do their best to
give something back. But if you ask me, there's no snob
like an inverted snob, and if that doesn't conform to some
conventional, student-approved system of socialist thought,
then I'm sorry, that's how I feel. Because I'm just so fucking

2O8


I
STARTER FOR TEN


bored of people trying to pass plain old envy off as some sort
of virtuer And she judders to a stop, red-faced, and picks up
her mug of coffee. I'm not talking about you necessarily, of
course.'

'Of course not,' and I sip my coffee too, which tastes
bitterly of toothpaste, and there's a pause as we listen to the
Brandenburg Concertos.

'Isn't this the theme from Antiques Roadshow?'

'It is. Though that's not what it says on the album cover.'

She smiles, and flops back down onto the futon. 'Sorry, just
letting off steam.'

'No, that's fine. I sort of agree with you. In places,' I say,
but all I can think of is Mingus and Coltrane eating bowls
of pasta.

'I mean, we're friends, aren't we? Brian - look at me. We're
friends, yes?'

'Yes, of course we're friends.'

'Even though I'm obviously the Queen of Sheba and you're
a snotty-nosed chimney-sweep?'

'Absolutely.'

'So shall we just forget the whole thing? Just forget it and
move on?'

'Forget what?'

'The thing we've just been ... oh I see. So it is forgotten?'

'It's forgotten.'

'Good.' She says. 'Good.'

'So - d'you want to come to the pictures later this afternoon
or something?'

The can't - I've got this audition later . . .'

'Right - what for?'

'Henrik Ibsen's Hedda Gabler."

'Which part?'

'The eponymous Hedda.'

'You'd be a great Hedda.'


2O9
DAVID NICHOLLS


Thank you. 1 hope so. Still 1 doubt if I'll get it. The third
years have got it all stitched up. I'll be lucky if I get cast as'
- cock-er-ney accent - 'Berte the bleedin' maid . . .'

'But you're coming to the team meeting tonight?'

'Is it tonight?

'First of the new term!'

'Oh God, do I have to?'

'Patrick's being very strict. He specifically asked me to make
sure you came tonight, or you're off the team, he says.' He
didn't say any of that of course, but still.
'Okay, I'll see you there, and we'll have a drink afterwards.'
She crosses the room, puts her arms around me so that I can
smell the perfume on her neck, and whispers in my ear. 'And
friends again, yes?'

'Absolutely. Friends again.'


But I'm still brooding over the conversation with Alice when
Professor Morrison says;

'Tell me, Brian, why are you here exactly?'

The question takes me by surprise. I stop looking out of the
window, and turn to Professor Morrison, who's lying back in
his chair, fingers laced across his little pot belly.

'Urn, personal tutorial? Two o'clock?'

'No, I mean here at university, reading English? Why are
you here?'

To ... learn?'

'Because?'

'It's . . . valuable?'

'Financially?'

'No, you know . . .'

'Improving?'

'Yes, I suppose so. Improving. And I enjoy it, of course. I
like education, learning, knowledge . . .'

'"Like it?"'

'Love it. I love books.'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'I he contents of books, or just owning a whole load of
books?'

'The contents, obviously . . .'

'So you're serious about your studies?'

'I like to think so.' He doesn't say anything, just leans right
back in his chair, his arms stretched behind him with his fingers
laced, and yawns. 'You don't think I am?'

'Not sure, Bri. I hope you are. But the reason I ask is because
this last essay, "Notions of 'pride' and 'prejudice' in Othello", is, well, it's really just awful. Everything about it, from the title
onwards, is just awful, awful, awful . . .'

'Yes, well I wrote it in a bit of a hurry actually . . .'

'Oh I know that, I can tell that. But it's such an awful, vapid,
fatuous thing, that I wondered if you'd written it at all?'

'Right, so, what didn't you like?'

He sighs, slumps forward and runs his fingers through his
hair, as if he's about to tell me that he wants a divorce.

'Okay, well for a start, you talk about Othello as if he's this
guy you know who you're a bit worried about.'

'Well that's good, isn't it? Treating him like a real individual.
Isn't that a testament to Shakespeare's vivid imagination?'

'Or your lack of insight? Othello's a fictional character, Brian, he's a construct, a creation. He's a particularly rich
and complex creation in a remarkable work of art, but all
you can say about him is it's a shame he has a hard time
just because he's black. All I learnt from this is that you think
bigotry is "a bad thing". Why are you telling me this? Did you
think that maybe I thought bigotry was a good thing? What's
your next essay, Brian? "Hamlet - Why the long face?" or
perhaps, "Why can't you Montagues and Capulets just get
along?" . . .'

'Well, no, because racism is an issue that I feel passionately
about.'

'I'm sure it is, but what am I supposed to do about it? Phone
lago's mum, tell her to get him to back off? In fact, ironically,


211

DAVID NICHOLLS


as a discourse on race, your portrayal of Othello as a blameless,
suggestible Noble Savage might almost be viewed as racist in
itself

'You think the essay's racist?'

'No, but I do think it's ignorant, and the two aren't unconnected.'

I start to say something, but can't work out what, so just
sit there. I feel hot and red and embarrassed, as if I'm six
years old, and have just wet myself. I want it to be over as
soon as possible, so I half stand, reach over to the table to
pick up the essay; 'Okay, well maybe I should give it another
go . . .' but he's not finished yet, and he pulls the pages back
towards him.

'This to me isn't the work of someone who "loves knowledge",
it's the work of someone who quite likes the idea of appearing as if he loves knowledge. There isn't a shred of
insight or original thought or mental effort here, it's shallow,
pious, ill-informed, it's intellectually immature, it's stuffed full
of received ideas and gossip and cliches.' He leans forward,
picks up my essay with his fingertips, like a dead seagull.
'Worst of all it's disappointing. I'm disappointed that you wrote it, and even more disappointed that you thought it
worth my time and energy to read the thing.'

He pauses, but I can't think of anything to say, so I just
look out of the window, waiting for it to be over. But the
silence is almost as uncomfortable, and when I finally turn
back, he's giving me a look that I think I'm meant to interpret
as 'fatherly'.

'Brian, this morning I had a private tutorial about W.B.
Yeats with a student - a nice enough girl, sure to get on,
privately educated at one of the more exclusive girls' schools
- and at one point during this tutorial, I had to go out to
my car and get my RAC Road Atlas so that I could actually
explain to her where Northern Ireland is.' I go to speak, but
he raises his hand. 'Brian. When I interviewed you in this

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I
STARTER FOR TEN


office a year ago, you struck me as a uniquely enthusiastic
and passionate young man. A little unfocused perhaps, a little gauche - may I say gauche? Is that a fair assessment? - but
at least you weren't taking your education for granted. A
lot of students, particularly at a university like this, tend to
treat their education as a sort of state-subsidised three-year
cheese-and-wine party, with a flat and a car and a nice job at
the end, but I really thought you weren't like that . . .'

'I'm not . . .'

'So what's the problem then? Is something distracting you?
Are you unhappy, depressed . . . ?'

God, I don't know. Am I? Is this what it feels like? Maybe I am. Maybe I should tell him about Alice. Is simply being in
love a good enough excuse for irrational behaviour? It was
for Othello, obviously, but for me?

'So. Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?'

I'm in love with a beautiful woman, more in love than I
ever thought possible, so much so that that I'm incapable of
thinking about anything else, but she is entirely unobtainable,
and finds me amusing at best, repulsive at worst, and I
consequently think that I may be going a little bit mad . . .

'I don't think so, no.'

'Well, then I don't know what the problem is, because looking
at your grades so far this year - 74%, 64%, 58% and for
this, 53% - it would seem that you're actually becoming less
intelligent. Which, strangely enough, is not what an education
is for . . .'


213
25


QUESTION: Where might you find the pons, the arcuate
fasciculus, Wernicke's area and the fissure of Rolando?
ANSWER: The brain.


It's true, I am becoming more stupid. Or do I mean 'stupider'?
And it's not just barely making the team for The Challenge,
it's the lectures. I go in and sit down, all bright-eyed and alert,
and even when it's something I'm genuinely interested in, like
metaphysical poetry, or the development of the sonnet form,
or the rise of the middle classes in the English novel, I find
that, after about ten minutes I'm so lost and confused that I
might as well be listening to a football match on the radio. I
walk into a university library that's almost audibly groaning
with the huge weight and breadth of human knowledge, and
the same two things always happen: a) I start to think about
sex b) I need to go to the toilet. I go to a lecture and I fall
asleep, or I haven't read the book because I'm always falling
asleep, or I don't understand the book in the first place, or I
don't get the references, or I'm looking around the room at
girls, and even when I do understand the lecture, I don't know
what to say about it, I don't even know if I agree with it, or
disagree. I've been given the opportunity, entirely at the state's
expense, to study beautiful, timeless, awe-inspiring works of
art, and my response to them never gets any more profound
than 'thumbs-up' or 'thumbs-down'. And meanwhile some
intense bright, shiny-haired young thing in the front row will
stick up their hand and say something like 'don't you think


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that, formally speaking, Ezra Pound's language is too hermetically
sealed to be readable in structural terms?' and even
though I understand all the words individually, 'readable' and
'formally' and 'is' and even 'hermetically', I have no idea what
they mean when put together in that particular order.

And it's the same when I try to read the stuff, it just turns
to mush in my head, so that an important, profound poem
like Shelley's Mont Blanc goes something like 'The Everlasting
Universe of Things/Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid
blah/Now dark - now bla-di-da - now da-di-bla-di-da' until it
crumbles and disintegrates. Of course if Shelley had released Mont Blanc as a seven-inch single, then I'd be able to recite
it word for word and tell you the highest chart positions, but
because it's literature, and it's actually intellectually demanding, then I just don't have a clue. The sad fact is that I love
Dickens and Donne and Keats and Eliot and Forster and
Conrad and Fitzgerald and Kafka and Wilde and Orwell and
Waugh and Marvell and Greene and Sterne and Shakespeare
and Webster and Swift and Yeats and Joyce and Hardy, really,
really love them. It's just that they don't love me back.

When did this start happening? Why is nothing working out
the way it should have? The brain is, after all, a muscle, and I
thought that if you exercised it enough, really put it through
its paces, it would become this lean, humming, electrically
charged little white fist of protein. Instead it feels as if I
have a head full of warm, moist matter; grey and lardy and
useless, the kind of thing you find wrapped in plastic inside a
supermarket chicken. In fact, now I think of it, I'm not even
sure if the brain technically is a muscle. Is it an organ? Or
tissue? Or a gland? My brain certainly feels like a gland.

And it's at its most gland-ish tonight, at The Challenge
practice meeting in Patrick's flat. It's the first of the new year,
and only a month to go before our first televised appearance,
so Patrick is particularly on edge, especially as he's about to
introduce a whole new exciting element to the proceedings.


215
DAVID NIL-HOLlS


Patrick has spent the Christmas vacation building buzzers four
battery-powered contraptions made from Christmas-tree
lights and doorbells screwed to LP-sized squares of plywood,
which he's painted with red enamel paint - and he's clearly
fiercely proud of this new innovation, because I barely have
time to say hello and Happy New Year to Lucy Chang, or
ask Alice how the audition went, before we're sat on the sofa,
buzzers on our knees. Patrick settles on a swivel office chair
with a thick pad of 4 by 6 index cards, adjusts the angle-poise
over his shoulder, and begins . . .

'So, your starter question, for ten points - which eighteenth
century British Prime Minister was nicknamed the Great
Commoner?'

I buzz. 'Gladstone?' I say.

'Nope,' says Patrick. 'Anyone?'

'Pitt the Elder?' says Alice.

'Correct. That's minus five points, Brian. I did say eighteenth century, didn't I?'

'Yes, you did . . .'

'And Gladstone was ninet . . .'

'Yes, I know . . .'

'Okay then. Which of the following countries does not have
a coastline. Niger, Mali, Chad, Sudan.' I think I know this one,
so I buzz and say . . .

'Sudan!'

'Nope,' says Patrick

Lucy Chang says, 'All of them, except Sudan?'

'Correct. So that's minus ten points, Brian. Okay, the vestibular
nerve, the tempen tympani, the ampulae, utricle and
saccule are all parts of which organ?'

I've no idea, but find that I've buzzed anyway.

'Brian?' Patrick groans.

'Sorry, I pressed by mistake . . .'

'So that's minus fifteen points . . .'

'. . . I know, it was a mistake, my finger slipped . . .'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'. . . What's the answer, Lucy?'

The ear?'

'Exactly, the ear. What are you studying, Lucy?'

'Medicine.'

'And Brian, what are you studying?'

'English Litera . . .'

'Exactly. English Literature. So, Brian, you don't think
maybe Lucy would be better qualified to answer . . . ?'

I'm sure she would, but like I said, my finger slipped. These
buzzers are very touch-sensitive . . .'

'So it's my buzzer'?, fault?'

'Well

'The real buzzers on the day, you don't think they'll be
touch-sensitive too?'

'I'm sure they will, Patrick . . .'

'. . . because I've used those buzzers, guys, and I can tell you,
you have to be very, very sure of the answer before you press
them . . .'

'Look, could we get a move on d'you think?' says Alice,
testily. 'It's just I've got to be somewhere at nine-thirty . . .'

'Where?' I ask, suddenly anxious.

'Just going to see someone - is that okay with you?' She
snaps. Lucy and Patrick share a look.

'Of course, but I thought we were going for a drink, that's
all . . .'

'Can't now. I've got a Hedda Gabler re-call if you must
know' and I bridle slightly, and accidentally press the buzzer.

'Sorry!'

'Actually, I don't think my buzzer's working at all,' says
Lucy Chang, and Patrick snatches it off her, likes it's poor
Lucy's fault, and jabs at it with the huge Swiss Army knife he
keeps on his big bunch of keys. Alice and I glance at each other
warily and we seem a long way from being a winning team.

After that, I don't bother answering any more questions,
even the ones I actually know the answers to. I just leave them


217
I

DAVID NICHOLLS


I

to Lucy, mainly, and Alice, occasionally, and as soon as Patrick
has given his post-match analysis - don't get trigger-happy
with those buzzers, always concede to the person with greater
expertise in that area, listen to the question, be wary of
interruptions - Alice has got her coat on and is heading
for the door. Just before she exits, though, in the spirit of
appeasement, she says, 'Oh, by the way, some friends of
mine are having a party tomorrow night, twelve Dorchester
Street, eight o'clock? You're all invited,' and then she smiles
an apology at me, I think, and goes.


I walk home with Lucy Chang, who lives up the hill from me,
and she's actually incredibly nice. I realise that Lucy is the first
Chinese person I've really talked to outside of a restaurant
environment, but decide not to say this out loud. Instead we
talk about what it's like training as a doctor and she's very
interesting on the subject, but very quiet, and I have to lean
in to hear what she's saying, which makes me feel a bit Prince
Philipish.

'What made you want to be a doctor?'

'My parents, really. They always said being a doctor was the
highest ambition you could have. You know, actually making
a difference to the quality of life.'

'And you enjoy it?'

'Absolutely. I love it. How about you, how about literature?'
'Oh, I like it. I just don't know if I'm improving the quality
of anyone's life, that's all.'

'Do you write?'

'Not really. I've just sort of started writing a bit of poetry.'
I'm still practising saying this aloud, but Lucy doesn't sneer,
not out loud anyway. 'Sounds a bit pretentious, doesn't it?'

'Oh, not in the least. Why?'

'I don't know, it's just like Orwell said; the natural response
of the Englishman to poetry was extreme embarrassment.'


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LWell, I don't know why. Some might argue that poetry is
actually the purest form of human expression.'

'Yeah, well, you haven't read my poems.'

She laughs quietly, and says, 'I wouldn't mind reading them.
I'm sure they're very good.'

'And I wouldn't mind you operating on me either!' I say,
and then there's a pause while we both try to work out why
this sounds dirty.

'Well, let's hope it doesn't ever come to that!' and we walk
on a bit further, trying to shake off that 'operate-on-me'
comment, which is still hanging in the air between us like
a fart in an art gallery.

'So - dissecting anything good at the moment?' I ask eventually.

'The cardiovascular system.'

'Right. And do you enjoy that?' asks Prince Philip.

'Yes, yes I do.'

'And is that what you'd like to specialise in when you
leave?'

'Surgery I think, though I don't know in what area yet. I'm
torn between heart and brain.'

'Aren't we all!' I say, which sounds pretty witty to me. In
fact I say it before I can actually work out what it means, so
that it just hangs there in the air, too. And then Lucy comes
up with a complete non-sequitur.

'Alice is cool, isn't she?'

'Yes. Yes. She can be.' It was a non-sequitur, wasn't it?

After a while. 'Very beautiful.'

'Hmm.'

After a while. 'You seem pretty close.'

'Well, yes, I suppose we are. Sometimes.' And encouraged
and surprised by this new-found easy familiarity between Lucy
and I, say, 'Patrick is a very strange man, isn't he? I think
perhaps he . . .' but Lucy stops suddenly, and puts her hand
on my forearm and squeezes slightly . . .


219
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Brian - can I tell you something? Something personal . . .'

'Of course,' I say, then realise what she's going to say . . .

'This is a little embarrassing for me . . .' she says, frowning.

She's going to ask me out! 'Go on, say it . . .'

'Ok-aaaay . . .' she says, taking a deep breath . . .

What should I say? Well - no. Clearly I have to say no ...

'Here goes . . .'

. . . but how do I let her down gently, without upsetting
her . . . ?

'Well . . . it's just that when you talk to me, you have this
habit of over-enunciating everything, like I'm profoundly deaf
or something?'

'Oh. Do I?'

'Uh-huh, you kinda lean over and nod and use very simple
words, like I've got this incredibly limited vocabulary? And
I don't know if it's because I'm "of Chinese Origin" or
American or something, but I've never been to China, I don't speak Chinese, I don't even particularly care for Chinese food,
so I will be able to understand if you just, you know, talk good
old, regular, colloquial English . . .'

'Sorry. I didn't realise I was doing it . . .'

'It's okay, it's not just you, I get it a lot. I mean, all the
time . . .'

'I'm so embarrassed . . .'

'Don't be, it's fine, it just sounds a little patronising, that's
all.'

'Actually I think you'll find it's pronounced patronising!'

'Not funny, Brian.'

'No, right, of course not.' We're outside Richmond House
now. 'So, will I see you at the party tomorrow?'

'Maybe. I'm not so good at parties.'

'But maybe.'

'Maybe,' and she sets off up the hill.

'By the way - can I just ask you something?'


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She pauses, a little nervously 'Go on/

'The brain - medically speaking, is it a muscle or a gland?'

'Well, it's a concentration of various kinds of nerve tissue,
all with a similar, connected purpose, so technically I suppose
that would make the brain an organ. Why?'

'Just wondered. See you tomorrow.'

'Bye,' and I watch her panda disappear off up the hill.

Then I turn and am about to trot up the steps to the front
door when I notice a hunched shape in the shadows, slumped
against the front door, head down, barring the way. I freeze
halfway up the steps, and peer at the man, who runs both
hands over his closely shaved head before looking up at me.
I'm just coming to terms with discovering what it's like to be
mugged when the dark shape lurches to his feet and speaks:
'So - who's the Asian babe then, Bri?'

And, stepping out of the shadows, I recognise the sharp,
shrewd eyes of Spencer Lewis.


221
26


QUESTION Frequently used in sculpture, where it is
sometimes known as Florentine marble, what is the
hydrous fine-grained translucent variety of gypsum
formed by bedded deposits precipitated from evaporating
sea water?

ANSWER Alabaster.


'Spencer? What are you doing here?'

'Just thought I'd come and visit, that's all,' and I run up the
stairs and go to hug him, and he goes to punch the top of my
arm, and we do that weird little dance that boys do when they
greet each other. 'And you did invite me . . .'

'Yeah, I know I did, but . . . hey, what's happened to your
hair . . . ?'

He runs his hand over his head, which has been shaved right
down to the scalp. 'It's the escaped-convict look - don't you
like it?' he says, and I notice the thick, slurred quality to his
voice, indicating that he must have got pissed on the train.

'Yeah! Yeah, it's very . . . bold. Who did it?'

'I did.'

'For a bet, or . . . ?'

'Fuck off, Brideshead. So, can I come in or what?'

'Of course,' I unlock the door and turn the hall light on,
and we squeeze past the bikes in the hallway. He looks
different in other ways too, his eyes look hooded and tired,
smudged purple underneath, like bruises. Despite the bitter
cold he's wearing just a crumpled, old Harrington that I


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remember from school, and as luggage he's carrying a thin
plastic bag, which as far as I can tell, only contains two cans
of lager.

'I did phone this morning, spoke to some posh bloke,' he
says as we climb the stairs.

That's my housemate, Josh. It's Josh and Marcus.'

'What are they like then?'

'Oh, they're all right. Not really your type.'

'So are they your type then?'

'I don't think they're anyone's type actually.' And we're
outside my bedroom. I open the door.

'So - this is where all the action takes place is it? Nice . . .'

I take my coat off, and throw it casually over the dumbbells
before Spencer sees them.

'Make yourself at home. D'you want a cup of tea, or coffee
or something?'

'Got any booze?'

'I think there might be some home-brew.'

'Home-brew?'

'It's Marcus and Josh's really.'
'What's it like?'

'Bit like piss?'

'Alcoholic though?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Go on then.'

And, reluctantly, I leave him alone in my room, and hurry to
the kitchen to get the booze. I need a drink, too. Spencer's arrival
has thrown me completely, partly because he's clearly being a bit
weird and mean, and partly, I suppose, because I never expected
in my life to be unhappy to see him. Also, I'm a little anxious,
because I think I may have left my poetry notebook on my desk,
open on a tentative new erotic sonnet that I'm working on. The
first line contains the words 'breasts of alabaster', and if Spencer
reads that, then I'll never hear the end of it.

And suddenly I can hear the opening of the Brandenburg


223
I


DAVID NICHOLLS


O

Concertos playing very loudly from my room, so I grab the
mugs of beer and hurry back to find him sitting at my desk
with a fag in his mouth, the Bach album sleeve in one hand,
the Communist Manifesto in the other.

'So what are you these days, communist or a socialist?'

'A socialist I suppose,' I say, turning the volume down.

'Right. So what's the difference then?' I know he knows
the difference, and that I'm being teased, but I tell him
anyway.

'A communist is opposed to the notion of private property
and ownership of the means of production, whereas socialism
is about working towards . . .'

'Why's your mattress on the floor?'

'It's a futon.'

'Right. A fu-ton. Did the Asian babe teach you that then?'

'"Asian babe" - racism and sexism in the same phrase!'
I say, slipping the breasts-of-alabaster poem into the desk
drawer. 'Actually Lucy's originally from Minneapolis. Just
because she's of Chinese origin, doesn't mean she's Chinese.''

'God, you're right, this beer really is piss. Can't we go down
the pub or something?'

'Bit late, isn't it?'

'We've still got half an hour.'

'I've got to do some reading before tomorrow morning.'

'What have you got to read?'

'Pope's The Rape of the Lock.'

'Sounds racy. Do it in the morning though, yeah?'

'Well . . .'

'Come on, just a quick one?'

I know I shouldn't go, of course. But this room suddenly
feels too small and bright, and getting drunk now seems like
a necessity, so I say okay, and we go to the pub.


The Flying Dutchman is still busy when we arrive, and as I
wait at the bar, I look across to where Spencer's standing,


224
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glaring round the room with his red eyes narrowed, puffing
sourly on another cigarette. I get a pint for me, a pint and a
vodka for him.

'So, a student pub this, is it?' he asks.

'Don't know. I suppose it is. Shall we see if we can find
a table?'

We squeeze through to the back, holding our pints over our
heads, find an empty table and settle, and there's a moment's
silence before I say, 'So - how's things at home?'

'Oh - wonderful. Really Al.'

'So what brings you here then?'

'You invited me; come any time, remember?'

'Of course.'

And he's silent for a moment, seems to make a decision,
and then says, a little too casually 'And like I said - I'm an
escaped convict, aren't I?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, let's just say I'm in a spot of bother. With the legal
system.'

I laugh, and then stop laughing. 'What for? Not another
fight . . .'

'No, I got caught, didn't I? Fiddling the dole.'

'You're joking . . .'

'No, Bri, I'm not joking,' he says wearily.

'How come?'

'Don't know - someone must have split on me I suppose. Hey, it wasn't you, was it?'

'Yeah, Spencer, it was me. So what's going to happen?'

'Don't know, do I? Depends on the magistrate I suppose.'

'You're going to court?'

'Oh yeah. They're having a crackdown apparently, so I'm
up in court next month. Good news isn't it?'

'So what are you going to say?'

'In court? Don't know yet. I thought I might say that God
told me to do it.'


225
DAVID NICHOLLS


'And are you still working at the petrol station?'

'Well, not exactly, no.'

'Why not?'

'Because I got caught.'

'Caught doing what?'

He takes a large gulp of the vodka. 'With my hand in
the till.'

'You're jokingV

'Brian, why d'you keep asking me if I'm joking? D'you think
this is the kind of thing that I'd find funny?'

'No, I just meant . . .'

'They had a camera hidden over the till, and I got caught
taking the cash out at the end of the night.'

'How much?'

'I don't know, a river, tenner sometimes, a little bit here and
there from not ringing in sweets and crisps and stuff.'

'So are they going to prosecute you as well?'

'No, they can't, 'cause I wasn't on the books. But let's just
say my manager wasn't very happy. He's kept a load of my
wages back and told me if he ever saw me again he'd break
my legs . . .'

'So how much does he think you took?'

'A couple of hundred?'

'And how much did you take?'

Spencer exhales smoke. 'Couple of hundred sounds about
right.'

'Bloody hell, Spencer . . .'

'They were paying me one pound fucking eighty an hour,
Brian, what the fuck did they expect?'

'I know, I know!'

'Anyway, you're a Communist, I thought you didn't agree
with private ownership.'

The don't, but Marx is talking about the means of production,
not the contents of the till at a petrol station. And besides
I don't disapprove, and anyway I'm a socialist. And I just


226
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think, well, it's a shame, that's all. What do your mum and
dad say?'

'Oh, they're very, very proud of me,' and he drinks about
half a pint in one go. 'Anyway. The point is I'm well and truly
fucked.'

'But you'll get another job though, won't you?'

'Oh, definitely - an unqualified, unemployed petty thief with
a criminal record. In terms of today's competitive job market,
I'm absolute fucking gold dust. Want another pint?'

'A half, maybe.'

'Well, you'll have to get them, I find myself a little embarrassed,
financially speaking.'

So I head to the bar again, and get the pints in, and accept
that I'm probably not going to get round to reading The Rape
of the Lock tonight after all.


Needless to say we're the last to leave the pub. After they've
called last orders, Spencer takes it upon himself to pour the
remnants of other people's discarded drinks into our glasses,
something I haven't done since I was sixteen maybe, so that by
the time we get back to Richmond House, we're both pretty
pissed. There we finish off the mugs of milky home-brew, and
open the two cans of Special Brew that make up Spencer's
luggage, along with the Daily Mirror and a half-eaten pasty.
I tell him all about New Year and Alice, and my version
of the encounter with her naked mum in the kitchen, and
Spencer unclenches a bit, and laughs for the first time, a
proper, generous laugh, rather than a sneer or a snigger.

Then I get up to change the record, and put on The Kick
Inside, Kate Bush's remarkable but challenging debut album,
and he reverts to type, laughing all the way through 'The Man
With The Child In His Eyes', and taking the piss out of my
record collection and the postcards on my wall. To distract
him I put on the tape he made me, 'Bri's College Compilation',
and we both slump drunkenly back on the futon and watch the


227
DAVID NICHOLLS


ceiling buckling, warping and revolving over our heads as we
listen to Gil Scott-Heron singing 'The Bottle'.

'You know you're in this, don't you?'

'In what?'

'This song - listen . . .' and he crawls on his hands and knees
over to the music system, presses stop and rewind. 'Listen very
carefully . . .' and the song starts, a live recording, the first
sixteen bars just electric organ and percussion, and then a jazz
flute solo starts, and Gil Scott-Heron says something I don't
quite hear . . .

'Get it?' says Spencer, excited.

'No ... ?'

'Listen again, cloth-ears, listen properly,' and he presses
rewind, stop, play, turns the volume to full and this time I
hear Gil Scott-Heron say, quite clearly, 'Brian Jackson on flute
for ya!' and the crowd applauding.

'Get it?'

'Yeah!'

That's you!'

'Brian Jackson on flute!'

'Again . . .'

And there it is again - '. . . Brian Jackson on flute for ya'.

'That's amazing, I've never heard that before.'

That's because you never listen to the compilation tapes
I make you, you philistine bastard,' and he crawls back to
the futon, flops on his back, and we listen to the song for a
minute or so, and I decide I quite like jazz after all, or soul
or funk or whatever this is, and resolve to explore the world
of black music more fully in the future.

'So's Alice the one you fancy then?' says Spencer, eventually.

'I don't fancy her, Spence, I love her . . .'

'You love her . . .'

'I looooove her . . .'

'You loooooove her . . .'


228
STARTER FOR TEN


'I absolutely, completely, totally love her, with all my
heart

'I thought you loved Janet Parks, you fickle tart . . .'

'Janet Parks is a cow compared to Alice Harbinson. "Not
Janet Parks but Alice do I love/Who shalt compare a raven to
a dove?"'

'Whassat then?'

'Midsummer Night's Dream, act two, scene three.'

'Jackson, you pillock. So will I meet her then, this Alice?'

'Maybe. There's a party tomorrow night if you're still
around.'

'Want me to put a word in for you, mate?'

'No point, mate. Like I said, she's a goddess. What about
you, though?'

'Not me, mate. You know me, I'm a robot.'

'You must love someone . . .'

'Only you, mate, only you . . .'

'Yeah, well I love you too, mate, but that's not sexual,
romantic love is it?'

'Oh, yeah, definitely sexual. What d'you think I've come all
this way for? It's because I want you. Give us a kiss, big boy,'
and Spencer jumps on me and sits on my chest, making wet,
smacking noises, and I try to push him off, and it turns into
a scuffle . . .

'Come on Bri, give in, you know you want to . . .'

'Get off!'

'Kiss me, my love! . . .'

'Spencer! That hurts! . . .'

'Don't fight it, my darling . . .'

'Get off me! You're sat on my keys, you bender . . .'

And then there's a knock on the door, and Marcus stands
blinking in the doorway, mole-eyed behind lop-sided aviator
specs, in his ruby-red towelling dressing gown;

'Brian, it's two-fifteen, is there any chance of you turning
the music off?'


229
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Sorry, Marcus!' I say, and crawl across the floor towards
the stereo.

'Heeeeelloooo, Marcus,'' says Spencer.

'Hello,' mumbles Marcus, pushing his specs up his nose.

'Marcus's a lovely name, Marcus . . .'

This's my best mate Spencer, Marcus!' I say, slipping on all
the S's.

'Just keep it down, will you?'

'Okay, Marcus, nice to meet you Marcus . . .' and, once he's
closed the door '. . . bye, Marcus, you wwwwwanker . . .'

'Shhhhh! Spencer!'

But with the music off, it doesn't seem so much fun any
more, so with some difficulty, and quite a lot of noise, we get
the heavy iron bed-frame out from behind the wardrobe, and
tip it over next to the futon. There's a brief debate as to who
should sleep where, but Spencer gets the futon, because he's
a guest after all, and I lie on the bare wire bed-frame, fully
clothed, beneath a pile of coats and towels, with my head on
an inch thick polyester pillow, feeling the floor buck and spin
underneath me, and longing to be sober again.

'So how long you staying for, Spency?'

'Don't know. A couple of days maybe? Just till I can get my
head sorted out? 'S that all right, mate?'

'Course's alright. Stay's long's you want. 'S what friends are
for, isn't it?'

'Cheers, mate.'

'Cheers.'

After a while, I say, 'But you're all right, mate, aren't
you?'

'Don't know, mate. Don't know. Not sure. How 'bout you?'

"M all right.'

And after a while, he says, 'Brian Jackson on flute!'

And I say, 'Brian Jackson on flute . . .'

And he says, 'And the crowd go wild . . .'

And then we fall asleep.


23O
27


QUESTION: How is the 'calumet', a central ceremonial
object in Native American culture, more commonly
known?

ANSWER The peace pipe.


At about four-thirty in the morning I throw up.

Thankfully I stumble down the corridor to the bathroom
just in time, but when I look up from the sink, wet-lipped, pale
and shaking, at my reflection in the mirror, I nearly throw up
again because it becomes clear that I have transformed in the
night into some kind of freakishly hideous man-lizard, with
a diamond-shaped pattern of scales all down one side of my
face. I cover my mouth to suppress my scream, and then realise
that it's just the imprint of the bed-frame's wire mesh on my
face, so I go back to bed.

The alarm goes off at 8.15, like an ice-pick in my ear, and
I lie in bed and listen to the rain pelt against the window.
God knows I've had hangovers before, most days in fact, but
this is a strange new kind; almost hallucinatory. It's as if my
whole nervous system has been re-calibrated, so the slightest
sensation - the rain outside, the light from the anglepoise,
the smell from the empty can of Special Brew that's rolled
under the bed-frame - all have a grotesquely exaggerated
effect. All my nerve endings seem uncomfortably alive and
twitching, even the ones inside my body, so that if I lie still
and concentrate, I can actually feel the shape and location of
my internal organs; the lungs bellowing wetly, the exhausted,


331
DAVID NICHOLLS	||j


*|

perspiring yellow-grey mass of my liver slumped against my
backbone, the engorged, aching, bruised purple kidneys, the
hot, spasming lower intestine. I try to move, to physically
shake this last image out of my head, but the noise of my hair
rustling against the pillowcase sounds massively amplified too, so I lie very still on my side and look at Spencer, lying a few	]

feet away, his mouth pouting open slightly, a damp patch of
opaque saliva soaking into my pillow. I'm lying close enough
to smell his breath, which is stale, muggy and warm. God, I'd
forgotten about the skinhead haircut. He looks like a fascist; a
good-looking, charismatic fascist, but they're the worst kind,
as history tells us. What if people see me with him at the party
tonight, and think that I'm friends with a fascist? Maybe he
won't be here tonight. Maybe he'll have gone home. Maybe
that'll be for the best.

Getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed-frame feels
Herculean, and I can actually hear the contents of my stomach
shift and settle, like a thin plastic bin-bag full of warm, gently
effervescing custard. The idea of changing out of last night's
clothes seems frankly untenable, so I don't, and I'm not even
sure if I can lace up my shoes without throwing up on them,
but I manage somehow, then pull on my coat/blanket and
manage to leave the house with Spencer still asleep, and walk
up the hill towards the English department. There's a steady
drizzle, and a squally wind. I had this fanciful idea that I'd be
able to read The Rape of The Lock as I walk, but the pages
are getting soaked, and besides it's all my nervous system can
handle just to walk without falling over.

Outside the lecture hall, I lean against the wall and rub my
hands briskly over my face to try and give it some colour other
than grey, when I see Rebecca Epstein striding out through the
gate. For a second I imagine that she's seen me but decided to
just walk away, but that can't be right, because that would
mean that she's ignoring me.

'Rebecca!' I shout, but she's stomping off down the street,


232
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the collar of her black vinyl coat turned up, head down against
the rain. 'Rebecca . . . ?' I hold on to the bag of fizzy custard,
and try to run without moving my head.

'Rebecca, it's Brian!'

'So it is. Hello, Jackson,' she says blankly.

'How are you?'

'Fine.'

And we walk on a little further.

'Good lecture?' I ask.

'Uh-huh.'

'What was it on?'

'Do you really want to know or are you just making
conversation?'

'I'm just making conversation.'

I think I see the ghost of a smile, but maybe I imagine it
because the next thing she says is: 'Shouldn't you be heading
off to a lecture yourself?'

'Well, I was meant to, but I'm not sure if I'm up to it
somehow . . .'

'What's it on?'

'Do you really want to know or are you just . . . ?'

'You look like shite by the way.'

'I feel like shite.'

'Good. I'm glad.'

She seems hostile. She always seems hostile of course, but
more so today. We walk on a little further, with me just
behind her, and I wonder how someone with such short legs
can manage to walk so much faster than me.

'Bees, are you angry with me or something?'

'"Bees"? Who the fuck is "Bees"?'

'Rebecca, I mean. Well, are you?'

'Not angry. Just . . . disappointed.'

'God, not you as well.' She looks me in the eye, for the
first time. 'I just seem to be disappointing everyone at the
moment. I don't know why. I'm trying hard not to, really I


233
DAVID NICHOLLS


am.' She stops at this, and we stand in the street in the rain
for a moment while she looks me up and down.

'You do know your face is completely grey, don't you?'

'I know.'

'And you've got white stuff in the corner of your mouth.'

I wipe it away with my coat sleeve and say, 'Toothpaste,'
though I'm not sure if it is. 'Look, have you had breakfast?'

'What about your lecture?'

I remember my resolution, to attend every single possible
lecture, but Rebecca feels more important than resolutions,
so I say, 'I think I'll skip the lecture,' and she thinks for a
moment, then says, 'Come on then' and we walk back down
the hill.

The steam and grease from the breakfast specials fog the
cafe window, condensing on the cold glass, and dripping down
and pooling on our red Formica table. Rebecca and I have got
a booth to ourselves, with a mug of tea for her, and milky
coffee, a can of Coke, a crispy bacon roll with brown sauce
and a Mars bar for me. Rebecca's doodling in the steam on
the window with her finger, while I say,'. . . he's getting done
for fiddling his dole, which I think is outrageous, personally.
I mean, if you think about the huge amounts that all those
fat-cat businesses get to fiddle in tax evasion, and no one bats
an eyelid . . .'

'. . . hmmm . . .'

'. . . I mean, what is it, a measly twenty-three quid a
week or something? No one can live on that. And what do
they expect people to do anyway, if there's no proper work
around . . . ?'

'Uh-huh . . .'

'. . . I'd like to see some of those bastard Tories survive on
that money. Anyway, I'm worried that he's going to ask if he
can borrow money from me, because I can't afford to lend
him money, not with grants at this level . . .'

. . . and here I stop talking because I realise that Rebecca's


234
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written the words 'Heeeelp meeeef backwards in the steam
on the window.

'Sorry. I'm being a bit boring, aren't I?'

'Well, Jackson, you know me, usually I'd love nothing better
than to discuss Tory social policy of a morning, it's just, well,
it's not really the important issue here. Is it?'

'No, I suppose not.' I take a deep breath. 'Sorry about the
other night.'

'And do you know exactly what you're apologising for?'

Do I? 'Not exactly, no.'

'Not really an apology then, is it?'

'No. No, I suppose not.' Looking back on that evening, I
suppose it was a little like getting caught up in a drunken scuffle
outside a pub on a Friday night; exciting and vivid and scary
at the time, but afterwards you're not sure exactly who did
what to whom, or even who started it. I contemplate communicating
this analogy to Rebecca, but no one likes being told that
kissing them is like being beaten up outside a pub, so instead I
just say, 'I presumed it was just, you know, the usual.'

'What's the usual?'

'You know, just me being useless.'

'Och, well, you're no worse than me . . .'

'I'm much worse than you.'

'You're not . . .'

'I am . . .'

'No, you're not . . .'

'I am, I'm appalling . . .'

'All right, Jackson, let's not get into a dialectic about it,
yeah?' and she sips her tea, and seems to chew it, then says,
'Look, I got a bit drunk and made a mistake, "misread the
signals" or whatever the phrase is, and I'm not particularly angry with you, I'm just embarrassed really. It's not very
often that I make myself . . .' and she gives a little, bitter
laugh, '. . . vulnerable, is that the right word?' Then she
licks the tip of her finger, and uses it to swab the crumbs


235
DAVID NICHOLLS


of my bacon roll from my plate. 'Still, I'm sure I'll learn to
love again.'

The conversation is clearly taking on a new and intriguing
personal dimension here, so I lean forward on the table and
rest my head at an angle against the wet window in a style
that I believe denotes a kind of wistful sensitivity, and in a
low voice say, 'So, have you had, you know, bad emotional
experiences, in the past then, emotionally speaking?'

Rebecca pauses, mug halfway to her mouth, then looks over
both shoulders. 'Sorry, but are you talking to me?'

'It's a fair question, isn't it?'

'It's also none of your fucking business. What d'you want
me to say? It's because Daddy never let me have a pony? I
got drunk, and I fancied a bit of, human, whatever, contact,
and I made a pass, and I got rejected. It's not that big a deal.
Just because everyone else at this fucking place is emotionally
fucking incontinent, doesn't mean I have to be . . .'

'I think you swear too much.'

'Bollocks I do . . .'

'I think if you swear all the time, then you're going to devalue
the effectiveness of the swear words.'

'And who are you, Mary-fucking-Poppins?' she says, but
smiling ever so slightly, which is as much as I can hope for,
I suppose. Then she sips her tea, looks out the window, and
says casually, 'Anyway, if you must know, the last relationship
I had ended up in an abortion clinic, so ... well . . . anyway,
I'm not quite as free and easy about these things as some people
are. That's all.'

I don't know how to react to this. Or rather, I know how to
react from a political point of view, but I'm just not sure how
I'm meant to react as a human being. I don't know what to do
with my face. Perhaps the thing is not to get too sombre, not
to make too big a deal about it.

'Who was he?'

'Just some guy from home, some guy I made the mistake of


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shagging. No one you know,' she says, picking holes in my
balled-up serviette.

'And he packed you in because you . . . ?'

'No, of course not. Well, not immediately. Not at all. It was
complicated . . .' then she sighs, glances at me, then back down
to the serviette. 'Guy called Gordon, who I was at sixth form
with. First-true-love, all that crap. We'd been going out about
six months, and we were going to go inter-railing together
that summer, after our Highers, then take a year out and
go and live somewhere abroad, see how things worked out,
see if we wanted to, you know, whatever. So we set off
round Europe, seeing the sights, sleeping on beaches, all very
love's-young-dream, then halfway round Spain, turned out I
was pregnant. So we talked it through, decided what to do,
came straight back, sorted things out. And he said that we'd
get through it together and he'd stick by me, which he did.
But only for a week and a half. So. There you go.'

'And did you, you know, love him?' She frowns, purses her
lips, but doesn't reply, just looks out the window, then back
to the balled-up serviette. I don't know what to say, but feel
like I ought to say something. 'Well I'm sure you did the right
thing at the time.'

Rebecca's eyes flash back at me; 'Brian, I know I did the
right thing. I wasn't asking for your approval. . .'

'No, I know . . .'

'. . . and there's no need to start talking in that dopey voice
either . . .'

'What voice?'

'You know what voice. It does happen you know, abortion,
a lot, more than you know . . .'

'I do know . . .'

'. . . and we don't all curl up into a little ball about it either,
we don't all crawl away into a corner with a copy of The Bell
Jar you know. Most women just get on with things . . .'

'I'm sure


237
DAVID NICHOLLS


'. . . so let's just change the subject then, shall we?'

'Okay.'

'Is that your Mars bar?' she says, and I have a tiny little
moment of anxiety, because I can't remember whether or not
we're meant to be boycotting Mars bars.

'Uh-huh.'

'Give it here, then.' I dutifully hand it over to her, and she
takes a bite, chews it for a moment or two. 'Why's everything
you eat and drink brown} I've never seen so much brown food.
It wouldn't hurt you to eat the odd piece of fruit and veg every
now and then, you know . . .'

'You sound like my mum,' I say.

'Well, she's a wise lady. You should listen to her. And me.'
She takes another bite. 'So, have you seen her, then?' she says
with her mouth full.

'Who? My mum?'

'No, not your mum . . .'

'Who, then?'

'You know who; FarrahFuckingFawcett.'

'Oh, just a couple of times.'

She takes another bite, then tosses the Mars bar back across
the table at me, where it lands sticky-end down. 'And do you
still . . . like her then?'

I recognise that there's a very real danger that I could end up
with a teaspoon in my eye, so I choose my words very carefully,
and just say, 'I think so.'

'And what do you think she thinks about you?'

'I think she finds me . . . interesting.'

She looks at me, and goes to say something, then looks out
of the window, and starts to draw in the condensation again, a
smiley face. 'Interesting, eh? Well, it's very touching of you to
hang in there, I suppose. Persistence in the face of indifference.
Very . . . plucky,' she says, with a curl of the lip.

'Yeah, well. I don't really seem to have much choice in the
matter, to be honest.'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'Oh no, there's always a choice, Brian. YouVe always got
a choice whether or not to be a complete and utter sap.'


When I arrive home in the middle of the day, I see Marcus
coming out of the house and locking the front door. I duck
behind a wall and even contemplate running away, but don't
have full control of my legs yet, and besides he's seen me, and
waits at the top of the steps, tapping the palm of his hand with
an invisible rolling-pin.

'Hiya, Marcus!'

'Hello, Brian."

I try to get past him to the front door out of the drizzle, but
he's not budging.

'Sorry about last night, Marcus,' I say, you little squirt . . .

'You do know overnight guests aren't allowed on university
premises, don't you?'

'Yes, I know . . .' I say, taking his aviator spectacles off his
face . . .

'I mean, Josh and I might want to have people to stay, but
we don't, because we respect the university rules . . .'

'I know, Marcus . . .' I say, snapping the spectacles neatly
in two across the bridge . . .

'So how long's he staying then?'

'Don't know. The next couple of days? Just till he's sort of
sorted himself out. . .' and I toss the broken spectacles on the
ground, grind the glass under foot . . .

'Seemed to me that might take more than a couple of
days . . .'

I look up to my bedroom window, worried that Spencer's
still lying in bed, listening, then offer, in a low voice, 'Tomorrow?
He'll be gone by tomorrow.'

Marcus weighs this up, and finally finds it acceptable.
'Okay, tomorrow. But no later,' he says, brushing past me,
and I plant my foot at the base of his spine and shove him
down the flight of stone steps to his death.


239
I

DAVID NICHOLLS


|

'Have a good day, yeah?' I say.

In the grey mid-morning light, my bedroom is a mess of bed
frames, and album covers, coats and mattresses, duvets and
moist towels. There's a sort of tangy, effervescent ammonia
and alcohol smell, a feeling that if I'd walked in smoking a
cigarette, my bedroom would have actually exploded in my
face, so I open the window wide in spite of the rain and turn
on the overhead light to see if Spencer is still lolling under a
duvet somewhere. He isn't. Instead, there's a note on the desk,
scrawled on a piece of lined A4.

'Gone to the pub. See you later.'

The travel alarm clock on my mantelpiece says 11.55. Next to the clock is the pile of change that I emptied out of my
pockets last night. There should be approximately four pounds
fifty-five there, but I count it anyway, just in case.

Four pounds fifty.

And I don't know what makes me feel sadder, the idea of
Spencer in a pub before noon, or the fact that I checked to see
if he'd stolen my money.


24O
28


QUESTION Which secret Greco-Roman festivals began
as events exclusively for women, later admitting men,
before finally being banned by the Roman Senate in
186 BE on the grounds of their supposedly orgiastic
nature?

ANSWER: Bacchanalia.


As a general rule of thumb, you know a party's in trouble
when they start playing show tunes.

When Spencer and I arrive on the doorstep of 12 Dorchester
Street we can clearly hear 'Gee, Officer Krupke' from West
Side Story blaring out loudly from the living-room hi-fi,
accompanied by several ostentatiously word-perfect male voices,
and whilst I love Broadway musicals as much as the next man,
there's a time and a place for these things. Also, the next man in
this case is Spencer, who's not really a musical theatre fan, and
eyes me warily.

'You sure about this?'

'If they put Starlight Express on, we'll leave. All right?' and
then the door's opened by Erin the Cat.

'Hiya, Erin!' I chirp.

'Hello, Brian,' she sighs.

No one moves. I see her eyes flick up to Spencer's shaved
head.

'This is my friend, Spencer!'

'All right?' says Spencer.

'Hm,' says Erin, clearly not sure if this is all right, so I hold


241
DAVID NICHOLLS


up the bottle of wine and four cans of lager as an incentive,
and finally she opens the door.

'The kitchen's through there,' says Erin, before heading
back into New York's tough West Side, where the macho,
street-smart Jets are being portrayed by three larky, skinny,
over-excited boys from the Drama Department. To her credit,
Erin takes West Side Story off the stereo, and puts on Sly and
the Family Stone instead. 'Oh! But it's "I Feel Pretty" next!'
wails one of the Jets petulantly, and I see Spencer the Shark
shaking his head and running his hand over where his hair
used to be, and I have the definite sensation of having arrived
at a party with a cocked and loaded shotgun.


When I get back from breakfast with Rebecca, I check to see
if Spencer's stolen any money, then decide to write some notes
in my poetry notebook. On a new page, opposite my 'breasts
of alabaster' poem, I write;


steam and grease condense
on a cafe's plate
glass windows, breakfast specials


. . . then I get tired, and decide that that's probably enough
for today. I don't really have the energy, so instead I lie on the
futon, start to read The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, and
get as far as 'It was an Ancient . . .' before the warmth and
fumes from the gas heater make me fall into an appropriately
narcotic slumber.

I wake up in the afternoon gloom, fully dressed and sweaty
and glue-mouthed, to find Spencer sat with his feet up on my
desk, reading Coleridge.

'All right, Sleeping Beauty?'

'What time is it?'

'About four o'clock?' and there it is again, that all too
common pang of regret at having entirely wasted another


242
STARTER FOR TEN


perfectly good day. Great chunks of my life have slipped by
in this manner, the long school holidays especially; my salad
days apparently, the supposedly idyllic long, hot summers, all
evaporated away in a hazy torpor of hangovers and pointless
ambles round Woolworths, and headache-inducing afternoon
naps, and video-nasties watched for the fifteenth time with the
curtains drawn, and drunken bickering and name-calling, and
take-away food and fitful sleep and hangovers again and then
back to Woolworths. Hadn't I made some kind of resolution
about all this? Wasn't this meant to have stopped by now?
I'm already nineteen; I can't afford to let life slip through
my fingers like this. So why have I done it again? I decide
it's Spencer's fault, and sit up grumpily.

'Who let you in?'

'Some long-haired prick in a velvet waistcoat.''

'Josh?'

'"Josh." Not very friendly.'

'Were you very friendly?'

'Probably not. Why, should I have been?'

'Well I do have to live with him, so . . .' Spencer doesn't say
anything, just tosses the Coleridge back onto my desk. I get
a waft of lager, cigarettes and perspiration. 'Where have you
been then?'

'Went to the pub. Read the paper. Walked round the
shops.'

'Buy anything?'

'What with?' The same thing you bought the lager and
cigarettes with maybe? I think, but instead say:

'Nice city though, isn't it?'

'Yeah, 's alright' and he rubs his hands over his face. 'So what
now?'

'Well, there's this party tonight, which should be quite cool,
but I have to do some work first really . . .'

'Nah, you don't.'

'Spence, I do . . .'


243
DAVID NICHOLLS	J|

i

'All right, I'll just sit and read or something.'

But I have to get out of this room, as soon as possible, so

instead I say ... 'or we could just go to the pictures?'

So we go to the pictures and watch the 5.15 p.m. screening

of Amadeus, which seems to me a beautiful and profound

exploration of the nature of genius, and which Spencer sleeps

through.


Things perk up, as they tend to, when we go to the pub. We
argue over what to put on the jukebox, blow fifty pence on the
slot-machine, then sit in a little booth and have a laugh again.
Spencer tells me that Tone has joined the Territorial Army.

'You're joking . . .'

I'm not . . .'

'But he's a nutter . . .'

'Doesn't matter. They prefer nutters . . .'

'So they're going to arm him?'

'Eventually.'

Too-oooo w-risky,' we say, in unison, and I realise I haven't
said 'too-oooo w-risky' for years. Then Spencer says, 'Initially
of course, they're just training him to sit on the enemy's chest
and fart in his face . . .'

'. . . or just sneak up behind him and rub his knuckles really
hard on the top of their head.'

'. . . then nick their stereo equipment . . .'

'. . . fucking hell - Sergeant Tone . . .'

'. . . the ultimate deterrent . . .'

'The free world sleeps safe in its bed,' and Spence gulps his
pint, then adds, The tell you what's really funny - he's trying to
get me to join, too. Thinks I need some order and discipline
in my life apparently.'

Tempted?'

'Absolutely. Weekends spent in a fart-filled tent on Salisbury
Plain with a bunch of Tory gun-nuts. It's just the short-sharp
shock I need.'


244
STARTER FOR TEN


And I see my opportunity to slip it in undetected, so I keep
smiling and say 'So have you thought about going back to
college maybe . . . ?'

But Spencer spots it and says, 'Fuck off, Bri . . .' Not in
an unkind way, but not kindly either, just wearily. 'Anyway,
university's just National Service for the middle classes.'

'So what about me then? I'm not middle class.'

'You are middle class . . .'

'No, I'm not . . .'

'Yes, you are . . .'

'My mum earns loads less than your parents . . .'

'It's not about money, though, is it? It's about attitude.'

'Actually, technically it's about who owns the means of
production . . .'

'Bollocks, it's about attitude. Your mum could have sent
you down a coal mine, and you'd still come up middle class.
It's the things you say, the books you read, that film you just
made me sit through, it's the way you go on school trips and
spend your money on educational books and postcards instead
of fags and arcade games, it's the way you ask for black pepper
in the chippy . . .'

'I've never done that . . .'

'You have, Bri! I was with you.'

Actually, in my defence, my memory of the incident is that
I didn't ask for black pepper, I chose black pepper, because
they had black pepper there, but I don't want to labour the
point. 'So you think just because someone likes reading, or
wants to learn something, or prefers black pepper, or wine to
beer or whatever, that makes them middle class?'

'Yeah, more or less . . .'

'Because some people might think that's a bit of a stereotype
. . .'

'Look, Bri, the fact is, you call yourself a socialist, but if
you'd been around during the Russian revolution, and Lenin
had given you the job of executing the Czar and his family,


245
DAVID NICHOLLS


you wouldn't have done it. And you know why? Because
you'd have been too busy trying to get off with the czar's
daughter . . .'


All remnants of this morning's hangover disappear after the
third pint, and I am once again taken aback by the restorative
and medicinal power of lager. Obviously, this party is a big
opportunity for me to move things forward with Alice, and
I've thought long and hard about how to play it, and have
decided that the trick is to be Devastating and Aloof. Those
are tonight's watchwords. Devastating. Aloof. It's therefore
important that I don't get too drunk, so for supper we eat
three bags of crisps each, and some dry-roasted peanuts, for
the protein, then head off to the party.

When we arrive at 12 Dorchester Street, it's clear the
party's at that could-go-either-way stage. Even a cursory
glance around the kitchen tells me that there's a strong theatrical
bias to the guest-list - most of the chorus of The Bacchae are here, all talking at once, and Neil whatsisname, star of
last term's acclaimed modern-dress production of Richard
III is leaning on the fridge, talking amiably with the Duke
of Buckingham, and Antigone, one of the hosts, is emptying
cheesy wotsits into a big bowl. There's no sign of Alice yet,
and I'm unaccountably nervous, though whether it's about
what Spencer will make of Alice, or what Alice will make of
Spencer, I'm not quite sure.

And all of a sudden she's there, standing in the kitchen
doorway, talking to Richard III. She hasn't seen me, so I
lean, Devastating and Aloof, against the kitchen sink and
watch her. Her hair is gathered up on the top of her head
in an artfully dishevelled fashion, and she's wearing a very
tight, black long-sleeved party dress made from the same
stuff as leotards, scooped very low at the front, giving her
this amazing sort of bib of cleavage, and I'm reminded of the
outfit Kate Bush used to wear in her early stage appearances,


246
STARTER FOR TEN


before she decided to concentrate exclusively on her studio
recordings. In fact she's a dead ringer, right down to the dark
crescents of perspiration that are starting to form under her
armpits.

'That's Alice,' I whisper to Spencer.

'The one with the breasts of alabaster?' says Spencer, and
before I can say anything she's rushing over to us at the sink,
barking 'Salt! Salt! SALT! . . .'

'Hello, Alice,' I say, Devastating and Aloof.

'Have you seen the salt? Someone's spilt red wine on Cathy's
Afghan rug . . .'

'This is my best mate from home, Spencer . . .'

'Pleased to meet you, Spencer. I need a cloth, shift will you,
Brian!. . .' she says, moving me away from the sink, and I can't
help noticing the quarter-inch doily of black lace bra peeking
over the top of her leotard . . .

'Here's the salt!' shouts Antigone, and Alice runs back out
of the kitchen with the wet cloth.

'That was Alice,' I say.

'Well, there's clearly a real spark between you, Bri . . .'

'You think so?'

'Absolutely, just by the way she told you to get out of
her way.'

I tell him to fuck off, and we leave the kitchen.

In the hallway we meet Patrick and Lucy, arriving together
and both nursing identical litres of long-life orange juice, which
seems strange to me, but which I put down to coincidence. I
have a little pang of anxiety because I haven't told Spencer
about The Challenge, but reassure myself that it's unlikely to
come up in casual conversation, so breezily I introduce them.

'So how d'you know Bri, then?' asks Spencer, on his best
behaviour.

'He's on the team with us,' says Patrick.

'What team's that then?' asks Spencer, swigging from his
can.


247
DAVID NICHOLLS


i!

'The University Challenge team,' says Patrick, then steps
deftly back just in time to avoid the spray of lager . . .
'You're joking^ says Spencer, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand.

'No,' I say wearily. 'The team's us three and Alice . . .'

'You never told me that.'

The haven't got round to it,' I say, smiling apologetically
towards Patrick and Lucy.

'Fucking hell, Brian Jackson on University Challenge . . .'

'Yes.'

v>

'Though technically Brian was just the reserve . . .' adds
Patrick. 'If the other team member hadn't got hepatitis . . .'	I

'Actually on telly . . .' laughs Spencer.

'Uh-huh.'
'When?'

'Three weeks' time.'

'With Bomber Gascoigne . . . ?'

'Yes, with Bamber Gascoigne.'

'You seem to find it amusing,' says Patrick, through a tight
little smile.

'No, no, sorry, I don't, it's just, well, I think it's . . . amazing.
Well done, Bri mate. And you know what a big fan I am of the
show . . .' and he starts to laugh again.

Patrick sniffs and says, 'Actually, I'm just going to get a
drink . . .', tucks his carton of orange juice under his arm
and heads off to the kitchen, followed by Lucy, who's smiling,
embarrassed, and once they've gone I say, 'Nice one,
Spence . . .'

'What? What have I done now?'

'You've just laughed in their faces, that's all.'

'No, I didn't.'

'Well, yes, you did.'

'Well, I'm sorry, Bri, but I've always wondered what kind
of nerdy, weird, repressed nutter would want to be on that
programme, and it turns out it's you, Brian. It's you . . .' And


248
STARTER FOR TEN


he's laughing again, so I laugh again too, and tell him to fuck
off, and he tells me to fuck off, and I tell him to fuck off, and
I find myself wondering if it's natural for best friends to tell
each other to fuck off quite so much.

We decide to explore upstairs, and find ourselves outside
a bedroom with a hand-made No Entry sign sellotaped to
the door. We enter, and inside there's a circle of seven or eight people all sat on the floor passing round a joint, and
listening to Chris with the dirty nails continuing his epic
journey 'Across The Punjab Without a Toilet Roll', all to
the accompaniment of early Van Morrison. Holding on to
Chris's arm is his girlfriend, a toothy lank-haired miniature
Chris, who I'm pretty sure is called Ruth. 'Come on, let's go,'
I whisper to Spencer. But Chris hears me, turns around: 'All
right, Bri!'

'Hiya, Chris! Chris is in my tutorial group. Chris, this is my
best mate from home, Spencer . . .'

'Hiya, Spencer!' says Chris.

'. . . and this is Ruth . . .' I say.

'Actually, my name is Mary,' says Mary, turning around
and waggling the tips of Spencer's fingers. 'Hi, Spencer, really pleased to meet you . . .' and she shuffles to one side and pats
the floor, allowing us, obliging us to join the circle.

Chris passes the joint to an extremely small, snub-nosed girl
with her blonde hair held back in an Alice-band, sat against
the bed with her legs tucked neatly under her. I don't know her
name, but recognise her as Richard Ill's first wife Lady Anne,
and vaguely recall a rumour that she's actually a Lady in real
life too, and will one day inherit a large chunk of Shropshire.
She takes the joint, inhales regally, then hands it over to us.
'Guys?'

'Cheers,' says Spence, and inhales very deeply, which is
strange, because he's usually strictly booze and fags, and is
generally pretty contemptuous of stoners. 'So, what were you
talking about?' he asks.


249
DAVID NICHOLLS


'India!' says everyone in unison.

'Have you been, Spencer?' asks Chris.

'No, no, can't say I have . . .' holding his breath.

'Did you take a year out, then?' asks Mary/Ruth.

'Not ... as ... such,' he says, then exhales slowly.

'So where are you studying, then?' asks Chris.

'I'm not,' says Spencer.

'At the moment!' I add brightly, and Spencer gives me a
look, and a crocodile smile, before taking another, deeper
puff on the joint and passing it on to me. I take it, put it in
my mouth, cough, take it out, pass it on, and then there's a
brief pause, while people sit and listen to Van Morrison and
me coughing. Then Lady Anne suddenly sits up on her knees
and slurs.

'I know! Let's play "If This Person Were . . ."!'

'What's that then?' says Spence, exhaling slowly.

'Well, we pick a person, and then we go out of the room,
and then that person - no, that's not right, no, we pick a person
to go out of the room, and then the people in the room pick another person, and the person outside the room comes back in and they have to go round the circle, person-by-person, and
ask questions like, um, "if this person were a type of weather
what type of weather would they be?" and that person has to
answer and say something like "this person ..." - the one
we've secretly picked - "... would be a bright sunny day!"
or "heavy thunder!" or something, they have to personify that
person depending on how they perceive that person to be, and
then the person who went out the room asks the next person
"if this person were a type of fish, or a type of underwear, say, what type of fish or underwear would they be?" and that
person . . .' and slowly and laboriously, she goes on explaining
the rules to 'If This Person Were . . .' for maybe another two or
three days, giving me plenty of time to look at Spencer, who's
sitting slack-jawed, looking dazed and confused and smiling
quietly to himself. I hear a crack, look down, and realise that


25O
STARTER FOR TEN


I'm crushing the can of lager in my hand. I decide to get us
out of there . . .

'Come on Spencer, let's go get a drink,' I say, grabbing his
arm, and pulling him up.

'Ohhhh, don't you want to play?' sighs Ruth or was it
Mary.

'Maybe later. Just need a drink,' I say, holding up my full can
of lager, and I tug Spencer towards the door, shut it behind us
and thank God, we're on our way out of the room and heading
back towards the stairs.

'But I wanted to play!' giggles Spencer, behind me. I look
around, and he's steadying himself against the wall, and
smiling woozily, so I pretend that I need the toilet, point at
the door on the landing, and hide.

In the toilet I lean against the sink, look in the mirror at my
great stupid, boiled ham of a face and wonder why Spencer
has to ruin everything. I love Spencer, but I hate him like
this, drunk and mean. Drunk and sentimental is all right,
but drunk and mean is scary. Not that he gets violent, not
usually, not unless he's provoked, but I have to get him to
stop drinking, and short of actually prising the booze out of
his hand, I don't see how I can. We could just leave I suppose,
but if I don't see Alice tonight, then it's a whole week before
the next team meeting, and I really can't wait that long. The
fact is, I'm finding it very hard to be Devastating and Aloof
with Spencer here.

And worst of all I have to work out a way of telling him
that he has to go home tomorrow. Of course, while I stay here
with the door locked, I don't have to deal with any of these
things, but there's an urgent knocking at the door, so I go to
flush the toilet, and notice that the person who used it before
me has managed to pee abundantly all over the black plastic
toilet seat. I contemplate wiping it down, and even have a ball
of toilet paper in my hand, but decide that wiping up other
people's pee is just the kind of servile, degrading behaviour that


251
DAVID NICHOLLS


I've been trying hard to avoid, and really not my responsibility
at all. Remember - Devastating and Aloof. I flush the toilet
and leave.

Alice is next in the queue.

She's standing in the doorway, talking to Spencer, laughing
very hard.

'Hello, Brian!' she says brightly.

'I didn't pee on the toilet seat' I say, Devastating and
Aloof.

'Well, Brian, that's . . . good to know,' she says, goes in and
closes the door.


252
29


QUESTION. In which play of 1594 do old friends Proteus
and Valentine fall out over the love of the beauteous
Silvia?

ANSWER Two Gentlemen of Verona


'So - you've been talking then!' I ask Spencer.

'Uh-huh.'

'Nice, isn't she?'

'Yeah, she seems all right. Very sexy . . .' he says, glancing
at the toilet door.

'But interesting too?'

'Well, Bri, we only talked for five minutes, but I definitely
wasn't bored. Not with her in that leotard anyway . . .'

'What did you talk about then? I mean has she said anything?
About me . . . ?'

'Bri, just play it cool mate. She obviously likes you, just
don't push it . . .'

'You think so?'

'I'm sure.'

'Right. I'm going to the kitchen. You coming . . . ?'

'Nah, I'm waiting,' and he nods at the toilet door, so I head
on downstairs, and it's only when I'm halfway down that I
start to wonder what he means by 'I'm waiting'. 'I'm waiting
for the toilet'? Or 'I'm waiting for Alice'?

Out of nowhere an idea starts to form in my head, and
takes on the solidity of irrefutable fact: Spencer's chatting
her up. He's come all this way to seduce her. He's heard


253
DAVID NICHOLLS


me talk about her and he's thought, / like the sound of
that, I'll have a crack at that. After all, it wouldn't be the
first time - it's the Janet Parks fiasco all over again. The
girls I fancy always fancy Spencer Lewis, and the fact that
he obviously couldn't care less just adds to the appeal. Why
is that? What's he got that I haven't got? He's good-looking, I
suppose, even as a heterosexual man I can make an objective
assessment and say that he's good-looking, and mysterious,
and cocky, and irresponsible, and not particularly clean, and
all those things that women pretend not to like, but obviously
do. And all right, he's not Posh, but he is Cool, and
Cool beats Posh in Alice Harbinson's eyes, sure as scissors
beats paper. Of course, I see it all now, clear as day; the
bastard's pulling a Heathcliff on me. Even as I'm thinking
this I bet his hand is snaking down the top of her leotard
and . . .

'What's up with you then, smiler?'

Rebecca's standing at the bottom of the stairs.

'Oh, hi, Rebecca. What are you doing here?'

'I'm not gate-crashing. I was invited, you know.'

'Who invited you?'

'The lovely Alice as a matter of fact,' she says, and takes
her own little private bottle of whisky out of the pocket of
her vinyl coat.

'Really?'

'Uh-huh.' She swigs her whisky. 'Between you and me, I
think she's taken a bit of a shine to me.'

'But I thought you didn't like her?'

'Och, she's all right, once you get to know her.' Giggling,
she prods me in the chest with the whisky bottle, and I realise
that she's very drunk; not gloomy drunk or surly drunk, but
frisky drunk, playful drunk, which is a good sign, I suppose,
but still a little strange and unsettling, like seeing Stalin on a
skateboard. 'Why, d'you think I'm being a hypocrite'} D'you
think I should go, Brian?'


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'No, not at all, it's nice to see you, I just thought it wasn't
really your thing.'

'Ah, well, you know me, there's nothing I like more than
two hundred pissed-up drama students all having a singalong,'
and she nods her head at the lounge, where Richard III, the
multi-faceted Neil whatsisname, has produced an acoustic
guitar from somewhere and is starting to play 'The Boxer'
by Simon and Garfunkel.


The na-na-nas are still going on some forty-five minutes later.
It's actually gone beyond a fade-out, and has turned into
something else, a kind of trance-like mantra, harmonies and
all, that may yet go on for several days. Rebecca and I don't
mind too much though, because we're squeezed on the sofa at
the other end of the room, passing the bottle of whisky back
and forth, and laughing.

'Och, I don't fuckin' believe it - that wanker Neil Maclntyre's
found a tambourine . . .'

'Where did he get a tambourine from? . . .'

'From up his own fuckin' arse, presumably . . .' she says,
and swigs whisky. 'D'you think it will ever end?'

'I think we'll be fine as long as they don't start on "Hey
Jude".'

'If they do, I'll take a pair of pliers to the fuckin' guitar, I
swear.'

The party's reaching critical mass now. All the rooms in the
house are heaving, and here in the lounge, people are clinging
to the furniture like it's The Raft of The Medusa by the French
nineteenth century realist painter Gericault. I should get us
more drink, but Rebecca and I are in prime positions, wedged
in between the six other people on the two-seater settee, and
I can tell the booze has run out anyway because people keep
scampering into the lounge, looking for bottles and holding
them up to the light, or checking discarded cans of lager for
cigarette ash on the rim. Also I don't want to move because


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Rebecca's drunk, and very funny and a little bit flirty I think,
breathing her whisky breath in my ear, which is helping me
take my mind off 'The Boxer' and Alice and Spencer, who
at this very moment are almost certainly having breathless
intercourse on a pile of coats.

'. . . you know, if I ruled the world, which I fully intend to do
one day by the way, first thing I'd do 's ban acoustic guitars all
right, not ban, but at least limit access, introduce a licensing
system, so 's like owning a shotgun or a fork-lift truck, and
there'd be these really draconian rules; no playing after dusk,
no playing on beaches or near camp fires, no "Scarborough
Fair", no "American Pie", no harmonies, no more than two
persons singing at any one time . . .'

'But won't legislation just drive it under ground?'

'Which's 'xactly where it belongs, ma friend, 'xactly where it
belongs. And I'd ban marijuana too. I mean, as if stuuuudents
weren't fatuous and self-obsessed enough already. Yeah, I'd
definitely ban marijuana.'

'Isn't it banned already?' I say.

'That's a very good point, my friend. Objection sustained!'
and she drains the last of the whisky from the bottle. 'Now,
alcohol, alcohol and nicotine, they're the only proper drugs.
'S there anything in that can of lager by your foot?'

'Just fag ends . . .'

'Ah'll leave it then,' and she catches me smiling at her.
'What's funny?'

'You are . . .'

"N what's funny about me, mister?'

'Your opinions. D'you think you'll mellow? You know,
with age?'

'Absolutely no way\ Ah'll tell you one thing, Brian Jackson.
You know that load of crap they tell you about how you're
meant to be left-wing till you're thirty, then you're suddenly
meant to realise the error of your ways and go all right-wing?
Well, big fat bollocks to that. If we're still friends in the year


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2000 which is, what, fourteen years' time - and I hope we
will be, Brian, my of' pal - anyway, if we're still friends,
and I have in any way altered or compromised my political,
ethical or moral views about tax or immigration or apartheid
or trade unions, or if I've stopped marching, or attending
meetings, or have turned even remotely right-wing, then I
give you permission to shoot me,' and she taps the centre
of her forehead. 'Right. Here.'

'Okay. I will.'

'Do. Do.' Then she blinks very slowly, licks her lips, and
attempts to swig from the empty bottle before saying, 'Hey, listen,
I'm sorry about getting all heavy with you this morning.'

'What d'you mean?'

'You know what I mean - getting all Sylvia Plath on you.'

'Oh, that's all right . . .'

'I mean, I still think you're a complete prick and everything,
but I'm sorry for giving you a hard time.'

'And why am I a complete . . . ?'

'You know why . . .'

'No, go on, tell me . . .'

She smiles at me sideways, from under heavy black eyelids.
'For not having it off with me when you had the chance.'

'Ah, well . . .' and I think about kissing her for a moment,
but there are too many people looking, and Alice upstairs, so
I say '. . . maybe . . . some other time?'

'Oh no, you blew it, I'm afraid. Once-only offer, pal . . .'
and she bops me on the shoulder with her head. 'Once. Only.
Offer . . .' and we sit there, not looking at each other, until
Rebecca says 'So where's your friend then?'

'Spencer? No idea. Upstairs, I think.'

'I thought he was meant to be having some kind of mental
breakdown or something . . .'

'Yeah, well, Alice is helping him get over it.'

'So do I get to meet him or what?'

Rebecca and Spencer isn't a combination I'd imagined


257
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before, and the consequences could be disastrous, but 1 need
to know where he is and what he's doing and how far down
Alice's top his hand is, so I say, 'If you want,' and we heave
ourselves up out of the depths of the sofa and start to look.

We peer into each of the rooms in turn, until we find them,
in a small, packed back bedroom at the top of the house, over
in the corner, about two inches apart. All around them people
are dancing, or not dancing, because there's not enough room,
but bobbing their heads to 'Exodus' by Bob Marley, and Alice
is waggling her shoulders too, slightly out of time, biting her
lower lip, and, okay, they're not kissing as such, just 'talking',
but they might as well be, considering how close they're
standing. Spencer's got that annoying lop-sided charm-boy
expression on his face, like he's The Fonz or something, and
Alice is mooning up at him all cow-eyed and interested with
her arms crossed over her leotard, as if auditioning for the role
of 'country wench', shoving her cleavage up under his chin,
just in case he'd missed it.

'That's him, in the corner,' I say.

'The suede-head?' says Rebecca.

'He's not a fascist,' I say, though I don't know why I'm
defending him, he probably is a fascist, or as good as.

'Good-looking isn't he?'

'Oh, right, well, yeah, right, thanks for that, Rebecca,' I
say.

'Aw, shut ya face, ya daft sod. You've got nothing to
worry about on that score.' Is she being sarcastic? I can't
tell, and I can't concentrate anyway because now Alice is
actually running her hand over the top of Spencer's head, and giggling, and trying to pull her hand away in a sort
of pathetic, girly, oooh-doesn't-it-feel-fuzzy kind of way, and
Spencer's stooping, taking her hand again, and putting it back
on top of his head, and grinning his stupid lop-sided Fonzie
grin, and saying no, go on, have a feel, have a feel. He'll be
showing her his scars from that glass-fight next, and I think,


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what a scam, shaving your head to make your rnends think you
were having some kind of crisis or breakdown, when in fact it's
just a cheap trick to get beautiful women to stroke your scalp.
I wonder how long it would take me to go downstairs, fill the
washing-up bowl with cold water, come back and throw it
over them when, God bless him, Patrick Watts goes over and
does it for me by starting a conversation.

'. . . Oi, are you listening to me, you nutter?' says Rebecca.

'Uh-huh.'

'So are you going to introduce me or what?'

'Absolutely, let's go. Just don't get off with him though,
will you?'

'Och, what do you care?' she says, and we head over.

'. . . and Patrick is the captain of our team!' Alice is announcing
proudly, as we arrive.

'Yeah, I heard,' says Spencer, not looking Patrick in the
eye.

'Oh, hiya, Rebecca!' says Alice, and, bizarrely, throws her
arms around her. Rebecca hugs her back, but pulls a face at
me over her shoulder.

'Spencer, this is my good friend Rebecca,' I shout over the
music, and they shake hands.

'The famous Spencer. Pleased to meet you at last,' says
Rebecca. 'Brian's told me a lot about you.'

'Right!' says Spencer and there's a little pause, and the five
of us just stand there, all bobbing slightly, and then from out
of nowhere, I find myself shouting . . .

'Hey, you should talk to Rebecca about your LEGAL
PROBLEM, Spencer!'

I'm not sure why I say it, but I do. I think, in fact I'm pretty
sure, it's because I'm trying to be helpful and friendly and keep
the conversation going, but I say it anyway, and after a little
pause, still smiling, Spencer asks, 'Why's that?'

'Because she's a lawyer.'

'I'm studying law, that's not the same thing . . .'


259
DAVID NICHOLLS


'No, but still

'So what's your legal problem then?' says Patrick, interested
now.

'Spencer's getting done for fiddling his dole . . .' I say.

'You're joking. . .' says Alice, coming over all righteous and
left-wing all of a sudden, and squeezing Spencer's arm '. . . the bastards. You poor thing . . .'

'Nice one, Brian . . .' mouths Spencer, smiling but not
really.

'Well, if you didn't do it, then I'm sure you'll be fine,' says
Patrick, loftily.

'But he did do it,' I say, just to clarify things.

'So you've got a job then?' says Patrick.

'Just cash-in-hand. Petrol station,' mumbles Spence.

'Except he got caught with . . .' but Spence's eyes flick across
at me, and I stop speaking.

'Well then . . .' Patrick sniggers, shrugging his shoulders, 'I
have to say, best of luck, mate.'

Spencer's glaring at me steadily now as Rebecca starts on
Patrick: 'So what if there's no work out there?'

'Well, there obviously is work out there . . .'

'No, there's not . . .'

'I think you'll find there is . . .'

'There's four million unemployed!' says Rebecca, turning
nasty now.

'Three million. And he's clearly not one of them, is he?
That's the whole point. If he was working cash-in-hand, he
obviously could get a job, but it seems that the pay wasn't
good enough for his particular lifestyle, so he decided to take
money from the state instead' - is he going to keep calling him
'he' I wonder? - 'you can hardly blame the state for wanting
something back when they find it's been stolen. It is my money
after all . . .'

Bob Marley is singing 'No Woman, No Cry', and I watch
Spencer as he necks his lager, glowering at Patrick all the time


26O
STARTER FOR TEN


from under hooded eyes. I catch his eye for just a second,
then quickly look back to Rebecca, who's gone red-faced and
is belligerently jabbing her finger into Patrick's chest in an
attempt to tear out his still beating heart.

'It's not your money, you don't pay tax!' says Rebecca.

'No, but we will, we all will, a great deal of tax in fact. And
call me old-fashioned, but I think I have a right to demand
that it doesn't go to "unemployed" people who aren't really
unemployed . . .'

'. . . even if the job pays below the breadline?'

'Not my problem! If the employee wants a better job,
then there's a great deal he can do about it; join a Youth
Opportunities Scheme, get some qualifications, get on his
bike and look for ...'... and the next words Patrick says
are 'PLEASE-GET-HIM-OFF-ME-PLEASE!' because Spencer
has stepped forward suddenly, jammed his forearm hard under
Patrick's chin and is holding him high, high up against the
wall, and even though I've seen Spencer get into fights maybe
seven or eight times now, it still takes me by surprise, like
suddenly discovering that he can tap-dance. In this instance,
it all happens so quickly and deftly that for a while no one
else outside our circle sees what happens, they just keep
bobbing away to 'No Woman, No Cry'. But then Patrick
starts kicking out with his legs, denting the plasterboard walls,
and Spencer's forced to brace Patrick's body with his own,
and is pushing his free hand into Patrick's face, squeezing his
mouth together.

'Come on mate, for Christ's sake . . .' I say.

'Okay then, question number one, who's "he""}' hisses
Spencer, his face inches away from Patrick's.

'What d'you mean?' lisps Patrick.

'Well, you keep talking about "he" - who's "he"?'

'You, of course . . .'

'. . . just let him go,' I say.

'And what's my name?'


261
DAVID NICHOLLS


'What?'

'. . . come on, please, just pack it in . . .'

'My name, what's my name, you pompous little prick . . . ?'
says Spencer, squeezing Patrick's cheeks for emphasis, pushing
his head back hard against the wall. The record comes off with
a scratch, and people start to turn to watch. Patrick's face is
bright red now, his teeth clenched, his toes searching for the
floor, and he's spluttering through saliva and orange juice as
he says, 'I ... can't . . . remember . . .'

'Pack it in, you two!' shouts someone from the doorway,
where a crowd has started to form on the landing. 'We're
calling the police' shouts someone else, but Spencer's indifferent,
and I hear him say, in a whisper, his forehead touching
Patrick's, 'Well, the correct answer's Spencer, Patrick, and if
you've got any careers advice you want to give to me, you'll
have some respect, and give it to my face, you stuck-up,
little

And then there's another flurry of motion as Patrick gets an
arm free, and brings it up open-handed against Spencer's ear, a
noisy ineffectual glancing swipe, but enough to make Spencer
release the pressure on Patrick's neck, and then suddenly
Patrick is lashing out, arms and legs flailing madly, hissing
and spitting like an incensed child. People are screaming, and
tumbling backwards out of the tiny room, and in the chaos I
see Alice holding on to Spencer's arm, trying to pull him out
of the way too, like some sort of movie-poster heroine, but he
shakes her off and she falls back against the window frame,
cracking her head loudly. I see her scowl and put her hand to
the back of her head, checking for blood, and I want to cross
the room to her to make sure she's all right, but Patrick is still
swinging his arms round madly, lashing out at Spencer, who's
crouching low, ducking out of the way, until suddenly he sees
his moment. He stands, places one hand flat on Patrick's chest,
holding him out of range, pulls the other arm back and then
throws his whole weight forward into his fist, making contact


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with the side of Patrick's head with a loud, wet smacking noise,
like meat slapped down on wood, sending him spinning round
once, twice, and down face-first onto the floor.

There's a moment's silence, and then a sudden rush of
people over to Patrick, who has rolled over on to his back,
and is tentatively dabbing at his nose and mouth with his
hand, checking for blood, and finding it in abundance. 'Oh,
my God,' he's mumbling, 'oh, my God,' and I think he's
about to cry as Lucy Chang squeezes through to the front,
supporting the back of his head with her hand, helping him
up into a sitting position, and I only really see three people
clearly after that.

Rebecca is standing in the middle of the room with her hands
over her mouth, suspended somewhere between laughter and
tears.

Alice is leaning against the window frame, staring openmouthed
at Spencer, one hand rubbing the back of her head.

Spencer has turned his back to Patrick, and is flicking his
hand out into the air, examining his knuckles, breathing
heavily. He looks up at me, blows air out through his gritted
teeth and says, 'Let's go then, shall we?'

Downstairs they're all singing along to 'With A Little Help
From My Friends'.


263
3O


QUESTION: The conditions blepharitis, ectropion, amblyo
phobia and heterophoria would all result in what condition?

ANSWER An inability to see clearly.


We stride down the terraced streets in silence, Spencer somewhere
close behind me. I can hear his footsteps slap the wet
pavement, but I'm too angry, too embarrassed, too drunk and
confused to talk to him just now, so I keep my head down and
stride on.

'Great party!' says Spencer eventually.

I ignore him, stomp on ahead.

'I liked Alice.'

'Yeah, I noticed!' I say, without looking back.

We walk a little further in silence.

'I know, Bri! How about a game of "If This Person
Were ..."?'

I start to walk a little faster.

'Look, Bri, if you've got something to say to me, just say it
now, 'cause this is just fuckin' stupid . . .'

'And what if I don't? You going to hit me, too?'

'It's certainly very tempting,' he mutters under his breath.
'All right, mate,' he says, 'you've made your point, just listen
will you?' but I keep walking. 'Please?' he says. The word
doesn't come easily, and he sounds like a petulant child, forced
to say it against his will, but I stop and turn to listen.

'All right, Brian. I'm very sorry ... for hitting... the captain


264
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of your University Challenge quiz team . . .' but he can't get
to the end of the sentence without starting to giggle, so I turn
again, and keep on walking. After a while I hear him running
up behind me, and I flinch maybe, but then he's standing in
front of me, scowling, walking backwards quickly. 'What did
you want me to do, Bri? Just stand there and take it? He was
treating me like shit. . .'

'So you decided to hit him?'

'Yeah . . .'

'Because you disagreed with him?'

'No, not just that . . .'

'And you didn't think of maybe arguing with him, debating
your point of view, in a calm, rational way?'

'What's my point of view got to do with it? He was trying
to make me look like a tit . . .'

'. . . so you resorted to violence!'

'I didn't resort to it. Violence was my first choice.'

'Oh, yes, very cool, you're very hard, Spence . . .'

'Well, you weren't exactly going out of your way to help
me, were you? Or were you scared he'd drop you from
the team?'

'I was sticking up for you!'

'No, you weren't, you were just flapping your big fucking
social conscience around in front of your girlfriends. If you
hadn't raised the subject . . .'

'What did you want me to do, hold his arms behind his back
for you? Those are my friends, Spencer . . .'

'That pillock? Your friend? Fucking hell, Brian, it's worse
than I thought. He treats you like a piece of shit.'

'He does not!'

'He does, Bri, I saw him do it. He's a complete wanker and
he deserves what he got . . .'

'Well ... at least he doesn't try and get off with the girls I
like . . .'

'Whoa, whoa, hang on there.' And he stops me, putting one


265
DAVID NICHOLLS


open hand on my chest, just as he did to Patrick, before he
punched him, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart
is beating. 'You think I was trying to get off with Alice'} You
really think that's what I was doing?'

'Well, it certainly looked that way to me, Spence - all that head-rubbing . . .' and I go to put my hand on his head, but
his other hand snaps up, grabs my wrist and holds it tight.

'You know Bri, for someone who's meant to be educated, you can be pretty fucking stupid sometimes . . .'

'Don't talk to me like that . . .' I say, wrenching my hand
away.

'Like what?'

'Like that, like you always talk to me! What is it, Spence, this
need to ... smash everything up? I'm sorry things aren't going
well for you at the moment, I'm sorry if you're not happy, but
there's stuff you can do about that, Spencer, practical stuff, and
you just choose not to, because it's easier to just fuck about,
and fuck things up, and sneer, and take the piss out of people
who are actually trying to do something with their lives . . .'

'What, like you, you mean?' he says, sniggering.

'You're just jealous, Spencer, you always have been jealous
of me, just because I work hard, just because I'm clever and
got some qualifi . . .'

'Whoa, hang on. Clever? Is that what you call it, you cocky
cunt? When I first met you, you couldn't even tie your fucking
shoe-laces! I had to teach you to do it. You had "left" and
"right" written on your plimsolls till you were fifteen! You
couldn't even get through a game of football without bursting
into tears, you soft sod. If you're so clever, then how come you
don't know what people say about you behind your back, how
much they laugh at you? I've stuck up for you for years and
years since your dad died . . .'

'What's my dad got to do it with it?'

'You tell me, Brian - you tell me.'

'Just leave my dad out of it, all right!' I shout.


266
STARTER FOR TEN


'Or what? What are you going to do, cry}'

'Fuck off, Spencer, you fucking . . . bully.' But there's a hot
itchy feeling behind my eyes, a tight knot of panic in my
stomach, and I suddenly realise that I have to get away from
him, so I turn around and walk back the way we came.

'Where you going?' he shouts after me.

'Dunno!'

'You running away, Brian? Is that it?'

'Yeah, if you like.'

'So how am I meant to get back?'

'Dunno Spence. Not my problem is it?'

And then I hear him say, quite quietly, almost to himself
'Go on then. Piss off,' so I stop and turn, expecting to see him
sneering or grinning, but he's not. Instead he's stood quite still
some distance away, under a street light, with his head tilted
back, his eyes tightly closed and the heel of one hand pressed
against his forehead, fingers curled up tight.

He looks about ten years old. I have this sense that I should
go up to him, or at least just stand a little bit closer, but
instead I shout down the street: 'You've got to go, Spence!
By tomorrow morning. You can't stay in the house any more.
It's against the rules.'

He opens his eyes, which are wet and red and tired, and
looks at me levelly.

'And is that why you want me to go, Brian? Because it's against the rules}'

'Yeah. Partly.'

'Right. Well. I'll go then.'

'Okay.'

'And I'm sorry if I've . . . embarrassed you. In front of your
friends.'

'You haven't embarrassed me, I just . . . don't want you
around. That's all.'

I turn, and walk quickly away without looking back, and
I'm sure, I'm convinced that I should feel good, and defiant,


267
DAVID NICHOLLS


and strong about having finally stood up to him for once, but
for some reason I don't. I just feel hot and hollow and stupid
and sad, and I have no idea where to go.


I'm not sure how long I walk for after that. I'm vaguely aware

that I've got the only keys to the house, and that the sensible

thing to do would be to go home and let Spencer in. But he can

always wake Marcus or Josh up; after all, I'm not my brother's

keeper. I'll just give him enough time to find his way home and

get to sleep, and give myself a chance to walk off the booze

and the confusion, and then sneak back home and sort things	?|

out in the morning. But after an hour or so the drizzle starts

to thicken into rain, and though it's really not my intention,

consciously anyway, I eventually find myself outside Alice and

Rebecca's halls of residence.

The front gates are locked at one in the morning to all but
key-holders, so I have to clamber over the high old cast-iron
railings. I manage to do so without setting off any alarms or
impaling myself, but then almost immediately slip over on the
smooth soles of my brogues and toboggan down the muddy
wooded embankment, finally coming to rest underneath a
rhododendron bush. I wipe the thick mud off my hands on
wet leaf mulch, crouch under the bushes and wait for someone
to come along the gravel path to the main entrance.

Ice cold water is dripping from the leaves and dribbling
down the nape of my neck, and thick muddy water is starting
to soak into my suede brogues, so that it feels as if my feet
are wrapped in cold, damp cardboard. I'm just about to give
up and head home when I finally see someone coming down
the driveway to the house. I slip out of the bushes and walk
a little way behind them, and when they've opened the door
I shout 'wait' and they stop and turn.

'Hold the door!' The man, who I don't recognise, regards me
suspiciously. 'Forgotten my keys! Would you believe it! And on
a night like this!' He's looking at my shoes and trousers, which


268
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are caked with leaf mould. 'Fell over! God, I am soakedl' but
he's not moving, so I fiddle in my wallet with numb slimy
fingers, and show him my NUS card - trust me, I'm a student

-	and this seems to do the trick for some reason, because he
opens the door and lets me in.

I slap wetly down the dark corridors, leaving a trail of
compost on the parquet, until I come to Alice's room. There's
a narrow ribbon of orange light under the door, so I know
she's awake. I press my ear against the door, and can hear
some music - it's Joni singing 'Help Me' from Court and Spark

-	and I can almost feel the warmth and light through the heavy
wooden door, and desperately want to be on the other side.
I knock gently. Too gently in fact, because she doesn't hear
anything, so I knock again, and whisper her name.

'Who is it?'

'It's Brian,' I whisper.

'Brian?' and she opens the door. 'Oh, my God, Brian, look
at you!' and she takes my by the hand and tugs me inside.

She leads me to the centre of the room and immediately takes
charge of the situation, adopting the demeanour of a strict but
kindly Edwardian housekeeper - 'Don't sit down, and don't touch anything, not until we've dried you off, young man!'

-	and she starts to root through her drawers, pulling out a
baggy green hand-knitted jumper, a pair of loose tracksuit
bottoms and a pair of hiking socks. 'And here, you'll need
this, too,' and she undoes the cord of her white towelling
dressing gown, takes it off and throws it to me. Underneath
she's wearing an ancient grey T-shirt, shrunk up to above her
belly-button, with a print of Snoopy lying on his kennel on
the front, cracked and faded like a mediaeval fresco, a pair of
big, battleship grey cotton knickers, and a pair of black men's
socks rolled down to her ankles, and it occurs to me that this
is without doubt the most sensual and erotic sight that I have
ever seen in my whole life.

'Look at you - your hands are shaking.'


269
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Are they?' I say, and when I open my mouth to speak, I
realise my teeth are chattering too.

'Come on, get your kit off, or you'll get pneumonia,' she
says sternly, hand outstretched. I'm a bit nervous about getting
undressed, partly because the dumb-bells haven't really had a
chance to kick in yet, and also because I'm wearing one of my
old school vests, so there's bound to be a slight war-time-orphan
look about me. But I seem to remember that my boxers are in
fairly good nick, and I am extremely cold, so I relent. She stands
next to me as I start to get undressed, and notices that my hands
are shaking too much to undo the buttons of my shirt.

'Here, let me,' she says, and starts to undo them, top to
bottom. 'Why aren't you with Spencer?'

'We had a bit of a falling-out.'

'So where is he then?' Why's she still talking about Spencer?

'No idea - back at my house probably.' The buttons are
undone, and she backs away, so that I can take the shirt off.
'I'm so sorry about all that . . .'

'What?'

'You know - Spencer, the punch-up . . .'

'Oh, God, don't worry about that. I quite enjoyed it actually.
I mean, I'd usually never condone physical violence, but in
Patrick's case I'm prepared to make an exception. Wow,
your friend Spencer can really fight, can't he?' Her eyes
twinkling at the memory of it. 'I know I shouldn't say this,
but I do think there's something quite exciting about men
fighting, you get a sense of the appeal, you know, like in
ancient Roman gladiatorial combat.' I'm sat on the edge of
her desk now, trying not to get mud on it, unravelling the
slimy mud-soaked laces of my shoe. 'I once went out briefly
with this guy who was an amateur boxer, and I used to love
going to watch him train and fight. We always used to have
the most amazing, animalistic sex afterwards; all the blood and
bruises and everything, there was something really beautiful
and sensual about it. The blood on the pillow afterwards . . .'


27O
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and she stands there for a moment, with my mouldy shoes in
her hand, and gives a little involuntary erotic shudder at the
memory. I start to gingerly peel my wet trousers off. 'Of course,
outside the bedroom and the boxing ring, we didn't have a lot
in common, so it was doomed from the start really. Not a
good basis for a relationship, is it? If you're only attracted to
them when they're half-naked and beating someone's brains
out. Have you ever hit someone, Brian?'

I'm standing in my pants and vest, so you'd have thought
the answer would have been fairly self-explanatory. The?
God, no.'

'Or been hit ... ?'

'Oh, once or twice - you know, just playground bundles,
scuffles in pubs. Thankfully I have a black belt in hiding under
tables.' She smiles, takes my clothes off me, eyes averted, and
starts shaking them out, folding them neatly.

'So he didn't hurt you then?' I say.

'When?'

'Spencer, in the fight.'

'When?'

'I saw him push you against the wall . . .'

'Oh, that was nothing, just a little bump on the head. Why,
can you see a bruise?' She turns around, parting the hair on the
crown of her head, with one hand, and I stand close behind her,
and pull the hair to one side and don't really look, just inhale.
She smells of red wine and clean cotton, warm skin and Timotei,
and I have this overwhelming urge to kiss the top of her head,
the small raised area where the bruise is. I could get away with
it too. I could lean forward now and kiss it and then say 'there
you go, kissed it better!' something along those lines, but I do
have some pride, so instead I just place my fingers gently where
the redness is.

'Do you feel anything?' she asks. Alice, you have no idea . . .

'There's just a tiny bruise,' I say. 'Nothing much.'

'Good,' she says, and starts hanging my clothes on the


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radiator. I'm still standing in my vest and pants, and a quick
glance down at my boxers reveals that it looks as if I'm
smuggling executive toys, so I quickly pull on the tracksuit
bottoms and the old jumper that still smells of her. 'I've got
some whisky. Want some?'

'Absolutely,' I say, then sit on her bed and watch as she
rinses out two teacups in the handbasin. In the light of the
anglepoise I notice that the flesh at the top of her thighs is very
white and dimpled slightly, like risen bread dough, and as she
turns sideways-on against the light I see, or think I see, a little
wisp of pale brown hair escaping at the top of her underwear
against the small, soft bulge of her belly.

'So what are you going to do about it?'

I snap to. 'About what?'

'Your friend, Spencer.' There she goes again - Spencer,
Spencer, Spencer . . .

'I don't know - talk in the morning, I suppose.'

'So what are you walking around in the rain for?'

'I just wanted to give him a couple of hours to go to sleep.
I'll head back soon . . .' I say, and pretend to shiver.

She hands me a teacup with an inch of whisky in it. 'Well,
you can't go back out tonight. You'll have to sleep here . . .'

This is my cue to feign resistance. 'Oh, really, that's all right,
I should head back . . .' I'm actually quite warm now, but try
to make my teeth chatter artificially, which is actually a lot
harder than you'd think, so I don't push it, but just quietly
say, Till drink this and go.'

'Brian, you can't go back out there, just look at your shoes.. . I'
My ruined suede brogues are steaming on top of the radiator like
hot pasties, and I can hear the rain being blown hard against the
window. 'I refuse to let you leave. You'll have to sleep with me
tonight.' The bed is single. This is a very narrow bed. Very narrow. More like a ledge.

'Oh, all right then,' I say, '. . . if you insist.'


272
31


QUESTION: Discovered accidentally by the Dutch physicist
Pieter van Musschenbroek in 1746, and also by
the German inventor Ewald Georg von Kleist in 1745,
a Leyden jar is a sealed glass container used for
storing what?

ANSWER: Static electricity.


There are things that a nineteen-year-old man such as myself
might reasonably be expected to have done by now. For
instance, I think you should be able to assume that, at nineteen,
I'd have travelled by plane, for instance, or ridden on
a motorbike, or driven a car, or scored a goal, or successfully
smoked a cigarette. By the age of nineteen Mozart had written
symphonies, operas and played for the crowned heads of
Europe. Keats had written Endymion. Even Kate Bush had
recorded her first two studio albums, and I've yet to eat tinned
sweetcorn.

But I have to say I don't really mind all that, because tonight
I'm about to crack the big one. Tonight, for the first time in my
life I am about to spend a whole night in bed with someone.

All right, I should qualify that a little. Last summer I shared
a one-man tent with Spencer and Tone on Canvey Island, and
that was pretty cosy. I slept in the same bed as Mum for the
first couple of nights after Dad died. And the night before his
funeral I shared my single bed at home with my Irish cousin,
Tina, but of course this last one doesn't count because, leaving
aside the sombre circumstances and the incest taboo, cousin


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Tina was, and remains, a deeply violent person. To clarify
then, I've never, ever, in my life shared a bed as an adult for
the whole night with a member of the opposite sex to whom
I'm not closely related and/or afraid of. Until now.

We stay up for an hour or so, drinking whisky, sitting on the
bed next to each other and talking and listening to Tapestry and the new Everything But The Girl album. Because I know
that I'm here for the duration, I relax a little and we start to
have fun again, proper fun, reliving the party, the fight, the
look on Patrick's face while he tried to remember Spencer's
name. She sits right up next to me with her legs crossed in front
of her, her T-shirt tugged down over her belly for propriety's
sake, but when she's not looking I can still see the mottled
pink and white smoothness on the inside of her thighs, the
beginning of a dark hollow at the top of each leg.

'By the way,' she says, 'I've got something to tell you.'

'What?' I say. I'm in love with Spencer or something, I
expect.

The got some good news tonight,' she says, making a meal of
it.

'Go on . . .'

The ... am ... Hedda GablerV

'Congratulations! That's brilliant news!' To be honest, I'd
been secretly hoping that she wouldn't get the role, partly
because it means she'll be rehearsing all the time, and partly
because, like a lot of actors, she can frankly be pretty monumentally boring on the subject. But never let it be said that I
don't have a huge talent for insincerity. 'That's amazing! The
eponymous Hedda! You'll be great! I'm so pleased!' I say, and
hug her and kiss her on the cheek, because after all, I might as
well get something out of it. 'Hey, you are still going to do University Challenge, aren't you?'

'Absolutely. I've checked. The dates don't clash, even if we
do get through to the second round . . .'

'Which we will.'


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'Which we will.'

And then we both talk for an hour or so about the many and
varied challenges involved in tackling Hedda Gabler, which
isn't easy, because to be honest I've never read it, so I drift
off and just look at her for a little while, and then she's
saying . . .

'. . . and the really great thing is that Eilert Lovborg is being
played by Neil Maclntyre . . .'

'Who's Neil . . . ?'

'You know - he was that amazing Richard III last term?'

'Oh, himl' I say, meaning 'Oh, the twat with the tambourine!'
Neil Maclntyre's the actorly bastard who spent most
of the last term hobbling ostentatiously round the student
bar on a pair of crutches to 'get into character'. Many's the
time I've been tempted to kick his crutches away, but Alice
is obviously pretty fired up about the experience that awaits
her because she's getting incredibly animated and passionate,
waving her hands in the air, biting her lip, and pressing her
hand against her forehead. In fact she's pretty much running
through her whole performance scene by scene, so I try to
stay awake by blinking heavily when she's not looking, and
sneaking occasional surreptitious glances at the faded print of
Snoopy on her T-shirt, rising and falling, or the pale skin on
the inside of her thighs, taking little mental photographs.

Finally, after Hedda's thrown her beloved Lovborg's manuscript
into the flames, and committed suicide off-stage, Alice
says, 'God, I'm bursting for a pee,' and pads off down the
corridor to the communal toilet. As soon as she's gone I
surreptitiously have an illicit roll of her Cool Blue underarm
deodorant, and adjust the angle of the bedside radio-alarm
clock in the hope that she won't see that it's gone three in
the morning and start getting sleepy. But when she comes
back to the room the first thing she does is yawn and say,
'Time for bed,' then goes to the handbasin and starts to brush
her teeth.


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'You'll have to borrow my toothbrush, I'm afraid,' she says,
through a mouthful of foam. 'Hope you don't mind.'

'I don't if you don't!'

'Here you go then,' and she passes it to me, and I rinse it
under the tap, but not too much, and then we stand side by side
at the sink, and I brush my teeth while she takes her makeup
off with blue cleanser. There's a little bit of comic business
when I accidentally spit on her hand as she reaches across the
washbasin for a cottonwool pad, and we catch each other's
eye in the mirror, and she laughs brightly as she swiftly rinses
my minty flob off her wrist. And it occurs to me that there's
something a little bit cosily domestic about the moment, as
if we're getting ready for bed having just hosted a delightful
and hugely successful dinner party for our closest friends, but
I don't say this out loud, because I'm not, after all, a complete
and utter cretin.

I take the green jumper and tracksuit bottoms off in a way
that doesn't seem too sexually provocative, and contemplate
leaving the hiking socks on, for comfort's sake, but it's not a
good look, pants and socks, so I take them off and put them
by the bed, just in case.

'Do you want to be up against the wall, or . . . ?' she says.

'Don't mind . . .'

Till be up against the wall then, shall I?'

'Okay!'

'Got a glass of water?'

'Yep,' and she gets under the hand-made patchwork eiderdown,
and I follow.

To begin with we don't actually touch each other, not on
purpose, and there's some shuffling round as we realise just
exactly how small the bed is. Finally we adjust ourselves into
what seems like a workable position, which involves lying
curled up in parallel, like quotation marks, but with me not
actually daring to touch her, as if she were a live rail. Which,
in a way, she is.


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'Comfy?' she says.

'Uh-huh.'

'Nifty-nift, Brian.'

What? '"Nifty-nift?"'

'Just something Daddy used to say, you know, instead of
nighty-night?'

'Nifty-nift to you too, Alice.'

'Turn the light out, will you?'

'Don't you mean turn the "lift" out?' I say, which if you
ask me is a pretty witty thing to come up with at 3.42 in the
morning, but she doesn't say anything or make a noise even,
so I turn off the light. For a moment I wonder if this will act
as some sort of catalyst to make us lose our inhibitions and
unleash our potent mutual secret longings, but it doesn't, it just
makes the room dark. We lie exactly as before, in quotation
marks, not touching, and it soon becomes clear that the actual
muscular tension required to stay rigid and not touch her is
going to be impossible to sustain, like holding a chair out
at arm's length all night. So I relax slightly, and the top of
my thigh comes into contact with the warm curve of her left
buttock, and she doesn't seem to flinch or elbow me in the
gut, so I assume it's all right.

But now I realise that I don't know what to do with my
arms. The right arm, under my torso, is starting to tingle, so
I wrench it out from under me, jabbing Alice in the kidneys.

'Ow!'

'Sorry!'

"S alright.'

But now they're just sort of dangling pointlessly in front
of me, at weird angles, like a discarded marionette, and I'm
trying to remember what I usually do with my arms when I'm
not in bed with someone, i.e. my whole life. I try folding these
strange new extra limbs across my chest, which doesn't seem
quite right either, and now Alice has shifted slightly nearer the
wall, taking the eiderdown with her, so that my backside is


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hanging over the edge of the bed, and a draught is blowing up
the leg of my boxer shorts. So I can either yank the covers back,
which will look a bit rude, or risk moving closer, which I do,
so that I'm now lying curled-up tight against her back, which
is wonderful, and I think is technically called spooning. I can
feel the rise and fall of her breathing, and try and synchronise
my own with hers in the hope that this will make me fall asleep,
though this seems unlikely, because my heart is clearly beating
way, way too fast, like a greyhound's.

And now her hair is in my mouth. I try to flick it away
by spasming an assortment of facial muscles, but this doesn't
seem to work, so instead I crane my head backwards as far as
I can, but her hair's still there, creeping up my nostrils now.
My arms are still folded across my chest and pressed against
Alice's back, so I have to lean backward and extricate my
arms and brush the hair away, but now my left arm is outside
the eiderdown, and cold, and I don't know where to put it,
and my right arm is starting to tingle, either from cramp or
an impending heart attack, and the under-arm deodorant is
smelling overwhelmingly Cool and Blue, and my boxers are
out in the draught again, and my feet are cold, and I'm
wondering if I should maybe reach over and get the hiking
socks and . . .

'Quite a fidget, aren't you?' mumbles Alice.

'Sorry. Can't work out what to do with my arms!'

'Here . . .' and then she does the most amazing thing. She
reaches over and takes my arm and pulls it tight around her
ribs, under her T-shirt, so that my hand is resting against the
warm skin of her belly, and I think I feel the curve of her breast
brush against my forearm.

'Better?'

'Much better.'

'Sleepy?' she asks, which is an absurd question really,
considering that her right breast is rubbing against my wrist.

'Not . . . really,' I say.


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The neither. Talk to me.'

'What about?'

'Anything.'

'Okay.' I decide to grasp the nettle. 'What did you think of
Spencer?'

'I liked him.'

'You thought he was all right?'

'Yeah! Bit bloke-y, bit full-of-it . . .' she says, putting on
her Radio 4 cockney accent '. . . bit ov a jack-the-lad, but I
thought he was great. And he obviously loves you.'

'Well, I don't know about that . . .' I say.

'No, he does. You should have heard him, singing your
praises.'

'I thought he was chatting you up . . .'

'God, no! Quite the opposite . . .' she says. What does that mean?

'How come?' I ask.

She hesitates, and half turns her head and says, 'Well . . .
he seemed to have this idea in his head that you had ... a bit
of a crush on me.'

'Spencer said that? To you, tonight?'

'Uh-huh.'

So there it is. It's out there. I don't know what to say or
where to look, so I roll onto my back and sigh, 'Well, thanks
Spencer, thank you very much . . .'

The don't think he meant any harm by it.'

'Why, what else did he say?'

'Well, he was pretty pissed, but he said that you were a really
good guy, and well, his exact words were that you could be a
bit of a twat sometimes, but that you were really loyal, and
decent, and that there weren't many blokes out there like you
and if I had any sense I should ... go out with you.'

'Spencer said all that?'

'Uh-huh,' and I have this fleeting image of Spencer standing
under the streetlight, in the drizzle with his eyes closed, the heel


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DAVID NICHOLLS


f

of his hand pressed against his forehead, and me walking the
other way.

'What are you thinking?' says Alice, facing the wall again.

'Um. Don't know, really.'

'I assume it's true though, yeah? I mean, I had an idea that
it might be true.'

'Is it really so obvious?'

'Well, I suppose I have caught you looking at me every now
and then. And then there was our dinner date . . .'

'Oh, God, I'm so embarrassed about that . . .'

'Don't be. It was nice. It's just . . .'

'What.'

She's silent for a moment, and then sighs deeply and squeezes
my hand, the kind of gesture that lets you know your hamster's
died, and I brace myself for the good old 'let's-be-friends'
speech. But then she flips over to look at me, pushes her
hair behind her ears, and I can just about make out her face
in the pulsing orange glow of the radio-alarm clock.

'I don't know, Brian. I'm really bad news, you know.'

'No, you're not . . .'

'I am though, really. Every relationship I've ever had has
ended up with someone being hurt . . .'

'I don't mind . . .'

'You would though, if it was you. I mean, you know what
I'm like . . .'

'I know, you've told me. But like I said, I don't mind, because
isn't it better to try? I mean, wouldn't it be better to give it a go,
see how we got on? It would be up to you, obviously, because
you might not like me in that way . . .'

'Well, I've thought about it, obviously. But it's not even
to do with you. I haven't really got time for that whole
boyfriend-girlfriend thing, what with playing Hedda, and the
team and everything. I value my independence too much . . .'

'Well, I really value my independence, too!' I say, though
this is of course a lie of absolutely epic proportions, because


28O
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what am I supposed to do with independence? You know what
'independence' is? 'Independence' is staring at the ceiling in the
middle of the night with your fingernails digging into the palms
of your hand. 'Independence' is realising that the only person
you've spoken to all day is the man in the off-licence. 'Independence'
is a value meal in the basement of Burger King on
a Saturday afternoon. When Alice talks about 'independence'
she means something completely different. 'Independence' is
the luxury of all those people who are too confident, and busy,
and popular, and attractive to be just plain old 'lonely'.

And make no mistake, lonely is absolutely the worst thing
to be. Tell someone that you've got a drink problem, or an
eating disorder, or your dad died when you were a kid even,
and you can almost see their eyes light up with the sheer
fascinating drama and pathos of it all, because you've got an issue, something for them to get involved in, to talk about and
analyse and discuss and maybe even cure. But tell someone
you're lonely and of course they'll seem sympathetic, but look
very carefully and you'll see one hand snaking behind their
back, groping for the door handle, ready to make a run for
it, as if loneliness itself were contagious. Because being lonely
is just so banal, so shaming, so plain and dull and ugly.

Well, I've been lonely as a snake all my life and I'm sick
of it. I want to be part of a team, a partnership, I want to
sense that audible hum of envy and admiration and relief
when we walk into a room together - 'thank God, we're all
right now, because they're here' - but also to be slightly scary,
slightly intimidating, sharp as razors, Dick and Nicole Diver
in Tender is the Night, glamorous and sexually enthralled with
each other, like Burton and Taylor, or like Arthur Miller and
Marilyn Monroe, except stable and sensible and constant,
without the mental breakdowns and infidelity and divorce.
I can't say any of this out loud, of course, because there's
nothing at this moment that would scare her more, short of
producing an axe, and I certainly can't use the word 'lonely'


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because it does tend to make people uncomfortable. So what
do I say instead? I take a deep breath, and sigh, and put my
hand to my head, and finally this is what I come up with.

'All I know is that I think you're absolutely amazing, Alice,
and stunningly beautiful of course, not that it matters, and that
I just love being with you, spending time with you, and I think
that, well I really think that we should . . .' and then there's a
pause, and that's when I do it. I kiss Alice Harbinson.

And then I'm kissing her, actually kissing her properly, on
the mouth and everything. Her lips are warm but dry at
first, and very slightly chapped, so that I can feel a little
hard, sharp spur of dead skin on her bottom lip, which I
contemplate biting off, but wonder if maybe that's perhaps
a bit audaciously sensual, biting, within the first few seconds.
Maybe I could kiss it off, might that be possible? Can you
kiss off dead skin? What might that involve? I'm just about
to try when Alice pulls her head away, and I think maybe I've
blown it, but instead she just smiles and reaches up and pulls
the little flap of dead skin off her own lip and drops it down
the side of the bed. Then she blots her lip with the back of her
hand, glances at it to check she's not bleeding, licks her lips
and we're kissing again, and it's heaven.

When it comes to kissing, I'm obviously no connoisseur, but
I'm pretty sure that this is good kissing. It's very different from
the Rebecca Epstein experience; Rebecca's a great person and
a lot of fun and everything, but kissing Rebecca Epstein was
all hard edges. Alice's mouth appears to have no edges at all,
just warmth and softness, and despite the ever-so-slight tang
of hot, minty bad breath from one of us, me probably, it is
pretty much heaven, or it would be if I wasn't suddenly aware
that I don't know what to do with my tongue, which suddenly
seems to have grown massive and meaty, like something
you see shrink-wrapped in plastic in a butcher's. Is a tongue
appropriate here, I wonder? And then in answer I feel her tongue just tentatively touching my teeth, and then she takes


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my hand and moves it on top of her T-shirt, Snoopy lying on
his kennel, and then underneath her T-shirt, and then after
that I have to confess that everything starts to get a little bit
blurred.


283
32


QUESTION: What was the more familiar name of the
Hungarian rabbi's son Eric Weisz, famed for his feats
of escapology and disappearance?

ANSWER Harry Houdini.


The next morning we kiss some more, but with less of the
ardent erotic abandon of the previous night, now that we're
in daylight and she can see what she's up against. Also
Alice has got a 9.15 Mask Workshop, so just after 8.00
I'm holding on to my mud-caked shoes, and heading for
the door.

'Sure you don't want me to walk in with you?'

'No, no, that's okay . . .'

'You're sure?'

'I've got to get my stuff together, have a shower and
everything . . .' I'd be very happy to hang around for that, and feel in some indefinable way that I've earnt it, but it's
a communal bathroom, which obviously makes things difficult,
and besides, I've got to remember, play it cool, play it
cool...

'Well, thank you for having me,' I say, trying for a kind
of saucy swagger that I don't quite pull off, then I lean
in and kiss her. She pulls away a little too quickly, and
for a moment I wonder if I should be offended, but she
immediately provides a perfectly rational explanation; 'Sorry,
bad breath!'

'Not at all,' I say, even though her breath actually does smell


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really, really bad. I don't care though. She could be breathing
fire and I wouldn't mind.
'You could be breathing fire and I wouldn't mind,' I say.

She makes a sceptical 'hmmm' noise and rolls her eyes
delightedly, and says, 'Yeah, well, you'd better go, before
anyone sees you. And Brian?'

'Uh-huh?'

'You're not to tell anyone. Promise?'

'Of course.'

'Our secret . . . ?'

'Absolutely.'

'Completely?'

'I promise.'

'Okay - ready?' and she opens the door and peers down
the corridor to check that the coast is clear, then gives me a
loving little shove out of the door, as if pushing an unwilling
parachutist from a plane, and I turn around just in time to see
her beautiful face disappearing behind the door, smiling, I'm
pretty sure.

I sit on a radiator in the corridor, and tap my ruined shoes
together, flaking mud all over the parquet floor.


I float home. I've not really eaten anything except crisps and
peanuts for twenty-four hours, so I'm starving hungry, and
I've managed to pull a muscle in my neck while kissing Alice,
which has got to be a good thing. I also have that dizzy,
hollow, drugged feeling that you get when you've stayed up
all night, and am pretty much running on adrenaline, elation
and someone else's saliva, so I stop in the garage and get a can
of Fanta, a Mars bar and a Mint Aero for breakfast, and start
to feel a little better.

It's a beautiful crisp winter morning, and there are crowds
of school kids holding hands with their parents, strolling to
school. Standing eating the Mint Aero at a pelican crossing I
catch the eye of the little girl stood next to me, who's glancing


285
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curiously at my shoes and trousers which are still caked in
mud, so that it looks as if I've been dipped in milk chocolate.
This strikes me as the kind of quaint picture-book image that
little kids respond to, so I smile at the little girl, bend down and
say aloud, in a J.D. Salinger-ish kind of way: 'I've actually been
dipped in milk chocolate!'

But something happens to the words between my brain and
my mouth, and it suddenly sounds as if this is the strangest
and most disturbing thing that anyone has ever said to a child.
Her mum seems to agree too, because she scowls at me like
I'm The Child-catcher, picks up her child and hurries across
the road before the lights have even changed. I shrug if off,
because I'm determined not to let anything spoil this morning,
because I want to keep hold of this feeling of slightly queasy
elation, but there's something else bothering me, something
that I can't quite shake off.

Spencer. What do I say to Spencer? Apologise, I suppose. But
not too solemnly, I won't make a big deal about it, I'll just sort
of say, hey, sorry about last night, I think things got a bit out
of hand, mate, and then we'll just sort of laugh it off. And I'll
tell him about how Alice and I made love, except I won't call
it that, I'll call it 'got off with each other', and then things will
be back to normal. Of course it's probably best if he does still
leave today, but I'll make an effort, I'll bunk off lectures and
patch things up and escort him to the train station.

But when I get back to Richmond House, he's not there.
In fact the room seems exactly the same as when we left
it yesterday afternoon - the bed frame, the mess of duvets
and cold, damp towels, the smell of ammonia and Special
Brew and Calor gas. I wonder if he's left any possessions
here, and then remember that he didn't actually have any
in the first place; just a thin plastic bag with a three-day
old Daily Mirror and a stale meat pasty in it, still beside
my desk where he left it. Anxious, I pick up the plastic
bag, and head out to the kitchen, where Josh and Marcus


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die eating poached eggs and cheeking then share prices in The Times.

'Did either of you see Spencer last night?'

'No, 'fraid not,' says Josh.

'Isn't he with you?' grumbles Marcus.

'No, we got split up at a party. I thought he'd make his own
way back.'

'Why? Where have you been then, you dirty stop-out?'
leers Josh.

'Just staying over at a friend's place. My friend Alice's
actually,' I say, and then remember that I'm not meant to
tell anyone.

'Whooooooooooo,' they say in unison.

'Well, you know how it is, you've either got it or you
haven't!' I say, put Spencer's stuff in the bin, and leave. I
haven't got 'it' of course, I've never had 'it', never will have
'it', am not even sure what 'it' is, but there's no reason why
I shouldn't let people think that I do have 'it', even if it's just
for a little while.


287
Round Four


Rosemary stood up and leaned down and said her
most sincere thing to him: 'Oh, we're such actors you
and I.'

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
33


QUESTION: In his article of 1926, published in the review
'Lef by the poet Mayakovsky, Sergei Eisenstein proposes
a new form of cinema that relies less on the
static, logical, linear unfolding of action, and more on
a stylised juxtaposition of images. What is Eisenstein's
name for this new cinematic form?

ANSWER: Montage of attractions.


There's a generic convention, recognisable particularly from
mainstream American film, where the hero and heroine fall
in love with each other during a protracted, wordless montage sequence, inevitably underscored by some sort of lush
orchestral ballad, usually with a sax solo. I'm not sure why
falling-in-love should be wordless - maybe because the actual
business of sharing your most intimate thoughts and secrets
and desires is a bit of a chore for those not immediately
involved. But anyway, this sequence illustrates all the various
fun things that young lovers are meant to do - eating popcorn
at the movies, giving each other piggy-backs, kissing on a
park bench, trying on goofy hats, drinking glasses of wine
in a foam-filled bath, falling into swimming pools, walking
home arm-in-arm at night whilst pointing out the different
constellations etc. etc. etc.

Well, with Alice and me, the last week has been absolutely
nothing like that at all. In fact, I haven't heard from her,
which is fine because my new watchwords are Cool and
Aloof, and I'm taking great care not to infringe on her precious


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independence, especially as she's so busy with Hedda Gabler. And I really don't mind not hearing from her. In fact, I've
only telephoned her, what, five, six times during the entire
week, and I haven't left messages either, so the beauty of
it is that, as far as Alice is concerned, I haven't phoned her,
either! Admittedly, there was one slightly sticky moment when
Rebecca Epstein picked up the phone, and I had to subtly alter
my voice a little way into the call, but I think I got away
with it.

Instead, I've been distracting myself by listening to a lot of
mid-period Bush and pouring all my feelings into a love poem
that I've been working on for Valentine's Day, in three days'
time, the day before The Challenge. Of course I recognise that
Valentine's Day is nothing more than a cynical, exploitative
marketing construct, but there was a time when Valentine's
Day was a really big thing for me, and involved this huge, Reader's Digest-style mail-out. I'm a lot older now, more
emotionally discerning, so now it's just a card to Mum and
Alice and that's my limit. The Cool and Aloof thing to do with
Alice, of course, would be not to send her a card at all, but I
don't want her thinking that I've gone off her or, worse, that
what happened between us was only about sex.

As for the poem, it's going okay, but I can't seem to settle
on the appropriate verse form, and have been experimenting
with the Petrarchan sonnet, the Elizabethan sonnet, rhyming
couplets, Alexandrines, haikus and blank verse, and may well
end up writing a limerick.

Alice, palace, chalice, phallus, malice . . .


In the end, it turns out that Patrick's nose isn't broken at all.
That's not to say it isn't red and misshapen and swollen, and
it's certainly taken the edge off the Action Man good looks for
the moment. There's a scar on his cheek too, appropriately
enough, which I think looks pretty cool and hard, but I don't
tell him this.


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'Docs it hurt?' I ask.

'Does it look like it hurts?' he scowls.

'A bit.'

'Well, it does hurt. It bloody hurts as a matter of fact,' and
to prove his point he touches it to make it hurt, then winces
theatrically. We're in his neat military-style kitchen, making
tea before the rest of the team arrive for the last rehearsal before our TV appearance. 'You do realise that it's still going
to be like this next week? When we're on television'} In front
of millions of people?'

'Not that many millions, Patrick. And anyway, I'm sure
they'll be able to cover it up with make-up or something.'

'Well, I hope so, Brian, because more or less the whole of
my family are going to be there in the studio, and I don't want
to have to explain that some skinhead cockney oik did it just
because he didn't happen to agree with my political views.'

'That's not the only reason he did it, is it though?'

'He did it because he's a wild animal who should never have
been let off his leash. He's just very lucky that I've decided not
to sue.'

'No point. He hasn't got any money.'

'No wonder, too. I'm not surprised he can't get a decent
job . . .'

'Actually, he's very intelli . . .'
'. . . not if that's how he behaves himself . . .'

'Well, you were being a bit . . .'

'A bit what?'

I contemplate telling him - pompous, ignorant, obnoxious,
rude, patronising - but decide against it, because at the end of
the day my best friend did beat him up, so instead I just say,
'Anyway, I got you this - a peace offering, to say sorry, on
Spencer's behalf . . .' and I hand over the gift, a massive slab
of a Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, a left-over Christmas present
from Nana Jackson. This feels a bit unprincipled, because of
course Spencer would never, ever dream of apologising, and


293
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tor a moment I contemplate bringing the slab of Fruit and
Nut down hard on the bridge of his supercilious right-wing
nose, imagine the noise it would make, that satisfying loud
crack, but I hand it over politely instead, because we are
meant to be a team after all. Patrick mumbles a terse 'thank
you very much' and stashes the chocolate on the very top of
the wall-cupboards so that he doesn't actually have to share
it with anyone.

The doorbell rings. 'If that's Lucy, Brian, then you should
apologise. I think she was a little shaken by the whole thing,
to be honest.' I run downstairs, and open the door to Lucy
and her panda.

'Hello, Brian!' she says, brightly.

'Lucy, I just wanted to say that I'm really, really sorry about
the fight the other day . . .'

'Oh, that's okay. I was going to call you in the week to
see if . . .'

ALICE! Alice appears over Lucy's shoulder.

'Hiya, Alice!' I say.

'Hello, Brian,' she says, and gives an imperceptible smile,
because after all, we have a secret.

The rest of the meeting passes uneventfully enough. There's
no news about who our competition's going to be, because
they like to keep it secret until the day of recording, but
Patrick tells us not to be thrown if it's Oxbridge or the Open
University; 'They're very overrated,' he says. Then there's
a lot of practical stuff about hiring the minibus from the
hockey team, and putting up posters in the Student Union
for anyone who wants to come along and support us. One
of Patrick's big-boned, right-wing pals from the Economics
department has offered to drive the minibus of supporters up
to Manchester, providing we can get enough people to show
an interest. 'So if there's anyone you want to come along, get
them to sign the form in the Student Union.'

Alice is going to invite the cast of Hedda Gabler, and Lucy


294
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has some medic pals, but the only person I can think of to
invite is Rebecca. I'm not entirely sure that she wouldn't boo,
or cheer the other side, but I decide to at least give her the
option.

'Now . . .' says Patrick, consulting his type-written notes
'. . . the final item on the agenda. We need to decide on some
kind of team mascot!'

I don't really own anything that could qualify as a mascot,
and Patrick owns nothing even remotely soft or amusing, so
in the end it's a toss-up between Alice's favourite old teddy,
Eddie, or the skull of Lucy's anatomical skeleton, which very
wittily Alice suggests we wrap in a college scarf and call
Yorick.

We go for Eddie.

After we finish, I have to run off down the street to catch
up with Alice, who's got to get straight to rehearsals.

'So what are you doing tomor . . . ?'

'Rehearsing . . .'

'But during the day?'

'Well, I've got to get an essay in, so . . .'

'Fancy the pictures?'

'The pictures?' She stops in the street, looks both ways to
check no one's looking, and says, 'Okay. The pictures.' We
make an arrangement, and I skip home to really get cracking
on that poem.


And the following afternoon, she bunks off her essay to be
with me exclusively and we go to the pictures together. The
cinema's not ideal, of course, because the opportunities to
talk or to just look at her, are limited. Also, she wants to
go and see Back to the Future at the Odeon, which she
insists will be 'a laugh, a bit of fun', but I have something
a bit more intellectually demanding in mind. So instead
we go and watch the Tuesday afternoon double-bill of
ground-breaking early silent film at the Arts Cinema; Dali


295
DAVID NICHOLLS


and Bunuel's startling surrealist 1928 masterpiece Un Chien
Andalou and Eisenstein's masterly Soviet polemic Battleship
Potemkin (1925).

We buy a whole load of confectionery from the newsagents
beforehand, because, as I point out, the mark-up on
confectionery in the cinema is absolutely outrageous, and then
settle down in centre aisle seats, two of only six people in the
whole auditorium. The lights go down, and the atmosphere
of suppressed sexual desire, like a mild electric current running
through us, is almost tangible, as is the smell of damp
cigarettes and curdled Kia-ora, and the cold, and the vague
feeling of infestation. It's Un Chien Andalou first. During the
startling sequence involving the slitting of the eyeball and the
decomposing donkey on top of the piano, Alice leans forward
in her seat with her hands over her eyes, and I rather cornily
put my arm round the back of her chair, as if shielding her
from Dali and Bunuel's grotesque insight into the workings of
the subconscious mind.

Then the lights come up and there's a brief intermission
during which we eat a big bag of chocolate-covered peanuts,
drink cans of Lilt, and debate surrealism and its relationship
to the unconscious mind. Alice isn't a fan. 'It just leaves me
cold. It's very ugly and alienating. It just doesn't move me or
involve me emotionally, that's all . . .'

'It's not meant to engage or involve you emotionally, not
in a conventionally sympathetic way. Surrealism is meant to
be strange, unnerving. I find it very emotional, it's just that
the emotions that we feel are often ones of anxiety and
disgust . . .' and of course the ironic thing is that, unlike the
surrealists, all I want is for Alice to be engaged and involved
in a conventionally sympathetic way, and not to feel emotions
of anxiety and disgust.

Then the lights go down, and things perk up again as Battleship Potemkin comes on. I keep sneaking looks at her
during the famous Odessa Steps sequence until she smiles back


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at me, and I lean across and kiss her. And thank God, she kisses
me back, for quite a while actually, and it's great. There's a
slight citrus/dairy clash of flavours, because she's moved on
to wine gums while I'm still on chocolate peanuts, and I can't
really let rip because there's a peanut kernel wedged back in
my wisdom teeth, and I don't want the kissing to get too fiery
or wide-ranging in case she dislodges it. In the end I needn't
have worried, because Alice soon breaks away and whispers, 'I
think I'd better watch the film. I want to know what happens
to the sailors!' and we go back to Battleship Potemkin.

It's dark when we leave the cinema, and I'm feeling a little
nauseous from all the sweets and kissing, but she takes my arm
as we walk back through the town centre, and we talk about
Eisenstein with revolutionary zeal. 'He really is the father of
modern film narrative technique,' I say and, when I finally
run out of that kind of dreary crap, 'Coffee and a flapjack?
Or the pub? Or back to mine? Or yours?'

'Better not. I've got lines to learn.'

'I could test you?' I suggest, though something tells me I'm
testing her quite enough as it is.

'Actually, I'm better off on my own,' she says, and I realise
with dismay that we're heading back towards her halls of residence,
and that this is the end of our falling-in-love montage for today.

Then on the ring road, just past the National Express coach
station, I see something and have an idea.

'Come with me a second . . .'

'What for?'

'I've had an idea. It's going to be fun, I promise.' I ever so
subtly tighten my grip on her arm so that she can't run away,
and we head into the grey diesel haze of the coach station,
and the Photo-Me Booth.

'What are we doing?'

'I just thought we'd get our pictures done,' I say, searching
in my pockets for change.


297
DAVID NICHOLLS


'Of the two of us?

'Uh-huh.'

'What on earth for?' she says, pulling away slightly. I tighten
my grip.

'Just a souvenir,' I say, but that word isn't right. 'Souvenir',
noun, from the French verb souvenir, to remember. 'You know
- for fun!'

'No way,' she says firmly, and I wonder how I'm going to get
her in there, without the aid of a chloroformed handkerchief.

'Oh, go on . . .'

'No!'

'Why not?'

'Because I look terriblel' she says, when of course what she
really means is 'Because you look terrible . . .'

'Rubbish, you look fine - come on, it'll be fun,' I say, again
tugging her across the station forecourt by her hand; it will be fun,
it will be fun, it will be fun ... I pull back the diesel-and-nicotine
infused orange nylon curtain and we squeeze into the booth, and
there's some light-hearted fidgeting about as we adjust the height
of the stool and work out how we're going to sit. Eventually Alice
perches on my knee, then has to get off again so that I can remove
a bunch of keys and get the change out of my pocket, then nestles
once more on my lap, both legs swung over mine this time, and
wraps her arms around my neck. She's playing along now, and
it seems as if this might even be fun after all, so I lean forward
and put the 50p in the slot.

The first camera flash happens just as I'm pushing the great
loose flap of hair out of my eyes.

For the second flash I take off my spectacles, suck in my
cheeks and pout, pulling a sort of tongue-in-cheek male-model
face, because it will be fun.

For the third photo I try relaxed, light-hearted laughter, head
tipped back, mouth open.

And for number four, I kiss Alice on the cheek.

It seems that several hours pass as we wait for the photos


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to come out of the machine. We stand around in the coach
station in silence, inhaling diesel fumes and listening to the
tannoy. The 5.45 coach for Durham is about to leave.

'Ever been to Durham?' I ask.

'No,' she says. 'You?'

'No,' I say. 'I'd like to, though. Lovely cathedral apparently.'
The coach rumbles past us, belching exhaust. I contemplate
throwing myself under it. Then finally, with a
whirr and a click, the machine spits out the strip of photographs,
which are sticky with developing fluid and smell of
ammonia.

Some primitive tribes believe that having your photograph
taken steals a little bit of your soul, and looking at this strip of
photos it's hard not to think that maybe they've got a point. In
the first, my hand and my hair are obscuring most of my face,
and the only thing you can see clearly is the acne round the
corners of my mouth, and the great fat mottled tongue lolling
out obscenely, as if I've just been punched. Number two, the
'comedy male-model shot', is possibly the most grotesquely
mirthless thing you've ever seen in your life, an effect that's
reinforced by one, just one, of Alice's eyes rolling back into her
head. Number three, entitled 'laughter!', is horribly bright and
over-illuminated, so that you can see up my nose, past matted
nostril hair into the black centre of my skull, and down into
the pink-ribbed roof of my mouth, past the stubby silver-grey
fillings on my molars all the way down to my epiglottis.
Finally, in number four, I'm kissing Alice with a chapped,
puckered haddock mouth while she winces, eyes squeezed
tightly shut.

One for the wallet then.

'Oh dear,' I say.

'Lovely,' says Alice, flatly.

'Which two do you want?'

'Oh, I'm all right, I think. You keep them, as a souvenir.'
And there's that word again, souvenir, noun, from the French


299
I


DAVID NICHOLLS


Ai

verb souvenir, to remember. 'Sorry, Bri, I've got to run.' And	'

she does. She runs.


Sat at home that evening, putting the finishing touches to the
poem, and looking at the strip of photographs Blu-Tacked
to the wall by my desk - me kissing Alice, her wincing it
strikes me that our fun-day-out has only been a partial
success. I should forget about it of course, but I'm worried
that I won't be able to sleep unless I speak to her again, so
I pull on my coat and head off to the student bar, in the hope
that I'll accidentally bump into her after rehearsals.

She's not there, of course. When I arrive the only other
person I know is Rebecca Epstein, surrounded by her little
coterie of fuckingangryactuallys. She seems pretty pleased to
see me, and gets her comrades to redistribute some of the space
on the bench so that I can squeeze in next to her, but the table's
covered in empties; she's been alternating lager and whisky all
night, and seems pretty drunk.

'Have you seen Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin^ I say,
keeping an eye out for Alice.

'Can't say I have. Why, should I?'

'Absolutely. It's amazing. They're showing it at the Arts
Cinema all this week.'

'Okay then, let's go, shall we? I'll bunk off lectures tomorrow
afternoon . . .'

'Well, actually I went to see it this afternoon.'

'On your own?'

'No. With Alice actually,' I say, as casually as I can. But
Rebecca can spot that kind of thing a mile off, and pounces,
'Well, you two are awfully friendly at the moment, aren't you?
'S there something I should know?'

'We've just been spending a bit of time together, that's all.'

'Is that right?' says Rebecca, sceptically. She starts to roll
another cigarette, even though she still has one glued to her lip,
and it's like watching someone load a revolver. 'Is ... that. . .'


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(licks the Rizla) '. . . right? Well, Jackson, you certainly know
how to show a gal a good time, don't you? A masterpiece of
Soviet propaganda in the afternoon, then maybe on to Luigi's
for prawn cocktail, half a barbecue chicken and two pints of
Lambrusco bianco. It really is the high-life. I only hope, after
a magical day out like that, she at least let you have a wee feel of her tits . . .'

The clever thing to do, of course, would be not to rise to
the bait.

'Actually, we're sort of going out with each other,' I say.

Rebecca raises her eyebrows and smiles to herself. She lights
her new cigarette before speaking again.

'Are you now?' she says, quietly, and picking tobacco off
her lip. 'So how come I haven't seen you together round at
our halls of residence?'

'We're being discreet. Taking it slow,' I say, unconvincingly.

'Right, right. So was that you who phoned up in the week
to talk to her?'

'No!'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes!'

'Because it sounded awfully like you . . .'

'. . . well . . .'

'. . . putting on a funny voice . . .'

'. . . well it wasn't . . .'

'So have you shagged her yet?' she snarls, rollie dangling
from her curled lip.

'What?'

'Have you had sexual intercourse? You know - congress,
coitus, the beast-with-two-backs. Come on, you must have
at least heard about it. After all, you're going on University
Challenge - what are you going to do if it comes up as a question?
"Jackson, from Southend-on-Sea, reading Eng. Lit, what actually is sexual intercourse?" "Ummmmmmm . . . Can I confer with
the rest of the team, Bamber? Alice, what's sexual inter ...?"'


3O1
DAVID NICHOLLS

9'


"I know what it ts, Rebecca . . .'

'So, have you done it then, or are you saving yourself
for your wedding day? Or maybe she's worried about your
sexual history; after all, you can't be too careful these
days. Except as I recall you don't actually have a sexual
history . . .'

And before I even know what I'm saying, I say, 'Yeah, well,
it's not like yours is anything to write home about, Rebecca.'

She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, rests her hand
against the edge of the table, and is silent for a moment.

'Good point, Jackson. Good point.' She downs the last inch of	j

her pint, winces. Touche, Jackson!' And then we sit in silence.

'I didn't mean . . .'

'. . . no, that's all right

'. . . I wasn't referring to . . .'

'No, I know you weren't.'

I decide to leave.

'So are you coming to the filming?' I say, pulling on my
coat.

'What filming?'

'The University Cha . . .'

'When is it?'

'Day after tomorrow?'

'Can't. I've got tutorials, so . . .'

'. . . there's a list on the second-floor notice-board if . . .'

'. . . I know . . .'

'. . . just sign your name if . . .'

'. . . I'll see . . .'

'. . . I'd really, really like you to come . . .'

'Why?'

'. . . I just would. See you there maybe?'

'Aye. Well. Maybe.'


I swing by Alice's halls of residence, just in case, and drop my
Valentine's card in; hand hovering by her mailbox, then taking


3O2
STARTER FOR TEN


a deep breath and letting go. Then I hang aiound, pretending
to read the notice-boards, in case she comes back. But I don't
want to run into Rebecca again tonight, so I soon head back
home and arrive just as Josh is pinning a note to my door.

'Ah, there you are, lover boy. Message for you. From
someone called. . .'Alice maybe?'. . . from someone called . . .
Tone. He says you're to call him urgently.'

'Really?' I say. What on earth does Tone want? Maybe
he's coming to stay too. I can't have Tone coming to stay,
not with Valentine's Day tomorrow, and The Challenge and
everything. I check my watch. Half eleven. I go to the payphone
in the hall.

'Hiya, Tone!' I say, brightly.

'All right, Bri . . .'

'Didn't wake you up, did I? It's just I had a message
to call.'

'Yeah, that's right . . .'

'Are you coming up to stay, Tone? Because if you are, it's
not the best time at the mo . . .'

T'm not coming to stay, Bri. Actually I was just wondering
when you were going to come down here?'

'Well . . . not until Easter, I don't think.'

'No, I mean to see Spencer.'

'Why, what about Spencer?'

'You haven't heard then?'

I press the receiver tighter against my ear, lean against
the wall.

'Heard what?'

Tone exhales into the mouthpiece, and says, 'There's been
a bit of an accident.'


3O3
34


QUESTION: At whose wedding do 'funeral bak'd meats . . .

coldly furnish forth the wedding tables'?
ANSWER- The marriage of Gertrude and Claudius, in

Hamlet


I head back to Southend first thing on Valentine's Day, before
the post arrives, and get back to the maisonette on Archer
Road round about noon. I've been desperate for a pee since
the change at Fenchurch Street, but the toilets on the train
were spectacularly blocked, so I've waited and now have this
throbbing ache in my kidneys. I take the stairs at a run, head
into the bathroom, and scream . . .

'OH MY GOD!'

There's a man in the bath, shampooing his hair. He starts
to scream too . . .

'WHAT THE BLOODY HELL . . . I'

And then Mum's coming out of her bedroom, doing up her
dressing gown, and over her shoulder I see the unmade bed
in disarray, the red and white Y-fronts hanging from the
headboard, the men's trousers gaping on the floor, the bottle
of sparkling wine . . .

'BRIAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING BACK!'
shouts Mum. I turn away, because she's not quite done up
her dressing gown properly, and see that the man in the bath
is standing up now, wiping at the shampoo in his eyes with
one hand, clasping a face flannel to his groin with the other.

'What the hell's going on!' I say.


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'I'm trying to have a bloody bath!' blusters Uncle Des.

'Wait downstairs!' snaps Mum.

'I need to use the toilet!' I say, which I do, urgently.

'BRIAN - WAIT DOWNSTAIRS!' She's shouting now,
holding her dressing gown closed, pointing at the stairs. I
haven't heard her shout like this since I was a kid, and
suddenly I feel like a kid, so I go downstairs, unlock the back
door, and pee in the corner of the garden.

I'm in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when I hear
Uncle Des and Mum sneaking down the stairs, then whispering
furtively in the hallway, like a pair of teenagers. I think I hear Till
call you later', then the sound of a kiss, the sound of my mother kissing Uncle Des, then the front door closes, and I hear the fizz of
a match being struck, the sound of Mum inhaling, breathing out
slowly, and then she's stood behind me in the doorway, wearing
a powder blue tracksuit, sucking hard on the fag in one hand,
holding a greasy glass of sparkling wine in the other.

The kettle's still not boiling.

Finally Mum says, The thought you were going straight to the
hospital?'

The missed lunch-time visiting. I'm going later.'

The wasn't expecting you.'

'No, well, obviously not. So - something wrong with Uncle
Des's bath is there?'

'Don't take that tone, Brian . . .'

'What tone?'

'You know what tone,' and she drains the remains of the
wine. The kettle finally clicks off. 'You making coffee?'

'Looks like it.'

'Make me one. Then come into the lounge. We need to have
a little talk.'

Oh, God. My heart sinks. We're going to have a little
talk, a frank discussion, a heart-to-heart, a one-to-one. We're
going to talk to each other like adults. I've managed to avoid
this kind of thing so far. Dad died before he could do the


3O5
DAVID NICHOLLS


'when-a-man-and-a-lady-really-like-each-other' number, and
I think Mum must have assumed that either it was never
going to be relevant, or that I'd find out about the strange
mystery of physical love by myself one way or another, which
I did I suppose, after a fashion, up against a wheelie bin at
the back of Littlewoods. But there's no getting away from
this one. I pluck two mugs off the tree, spoon in the coffee
powder and try to work out what to think. I try to imagine
that there's some kind of innocent explanation to Uncle Des
being in our bath at one in the afternoon on Valentine's Day,
but can't. All that comes to mind is the obvious explanation,
and the obvious explanation is ... unthinkable. Uncle Des and
Mum. Uncle Des from three doors down and my mum in bed
together in broad daylight, Uncle Des and Mum having . . .

Kettle's boiled.

Mum's in the lounge, drawing deeply on a Rothmans and
peering through the net curtains. I hand her the mug of
coffee and sit glumly on the sofa, in silence, and I find
myself wondering if this is what it feels like to be told by
your wife that she wants a divorce.

I notice my Valentine's card on the mantelpiece, a Chagall
postcard. 'I see you got a card, then!'

'What? Oh yes. Thank you very much, sweetheart. Very
nice.'

'How d'you know it was from me?' I ask, a feeble attempt
at lightheartedness.

'Well you wrote "To Mum" on it, so . . .' and she tries
a smile, then turns back to the window and blows smoke
at the window pane, exhaling so hard that the net curtains
move. Finally, she says, 'Brian, your Uncle Des and I are
having an . . .' and she's about to say 'affair', but plumps
for 'having an ... relationship.'

'For how long?'

'A little while now. Since last October.'

'Since I went away you mean?'


3O6
STARTER FOR TEN


'More or less. He came round for a curry one night, to keep
me company, and one thing led to another and well, I was
going to tell you Brian, at Christmas, but you weren't around
much, and I didn't want to do it over the phone . . .'

'No. No, I can imagine,' I mumble. 'So is it... serious?'

'I think so. Well. . .' and she sucks on her fag again, purses
her lips, exhales and says '. . . as a matter of fact we've been
talking about getting married.'

'What?'

'He's asked me to marry him.'

'Uncle Des?'

'Yes.'

'Marry him?'

'Brian . . .'

'And you've said yes?'

'. . . I know you don't get on, I know you don't like him, but
I do, I like Des a lot. He's a good man, and he likes me, and
he makes me laugh. And I'm forty-one years old Brian, I know
that must seem ancient to you - God knows it feels ancient
sometimes - but you'll be forty-one one day, sooner than you
think. Anyway, I'm still, I still, well, I still get lonely, Brian, I
still like a bit of company every now and then, a bit of . . .' she
draws on her cigarette, looks at the floor, '.. . well, I'm sorry,
but your dad's been gone a long time now Brian, and Des and I
aren't doing anything wrong. I won't be made to feel like we're
doing anything wrong . . .'

But I'm still trying to take things in. 'So you are going to
marry him?'

'I think so . . .'

'You don't know?'

'Yes! Yes, I am going to marry him!'

'When?'

'Later in the year sometime. We're not in any rush.'

'And then what happens?'

'He's going to move in here, with me. We're thinking . . .'


3O7
DAVID NICHOLLS


and she pauses, nervous again, and I can't imagine what else
she could possibly have to tell me'. . . we're thinking of turning
it into a B and B.'

I think I laugh at this, not because I find it funny, or any of
this funny in fact, just because I don't have another appropriate
response.

'You're joking.'

'No, I'm not.'

'A Bed and Breakfast?'

'Uh-huh.'

'But there's no room!'

'Not for families - for singles, or young couples, businessmen.
Des is going to convert the loft' - she glances at me
nervously, then back at the net curtains - 'and your room.
We thought we'd maybe clear out your room.'

'And what happens to my stuff?'

'We thought you could . . . take it with you.'

'You're throwing me out of my room!'

'Not throwing you out, just . . . asking you to move your
stuff.'

'To university?'

'Yes! Either that or throw it away. It's just a lot of books
and comics and model planes, Bri, it's not anything you're
going to need. You are a grown-up after all . . .'

'So I am getting thrown out!'

'Don't be daft, of course you're not. You can still stay in
the holidays if you really want to, and over the summer . . .'

'But isn't that your peak season . . . ?'

'Brian . . .'

'Well, that's very good of you and Uncle Des, Mum, but
how much do you charge per night?' I can hear my own voice
now, high-pitched and wheedling.

'Don't be like this please, Brian . . .' Mum says.

'Well, what d'you expect me to do? I mean, I'm only getting
thrown out of my own house


3O8
STARTER FOR TEN


And then she spins, and turns to me, and jabs at me with
the remains of her fag and shouts, 'It's not your house any
more, Brian!'

'Oh really!'

'No, I'm sorry, but it's not! You were here, what, one week
at Christmas? One week, and even then you couldn't wait to
get back to college. You don't come back at weekends, you
don't phone for weeks, you certainly don't write to me, so, no,
actually, no, this is not your house. It's mine. It's the house I live
in by myself, just me, every bloody day, day after day, since your
dad died, this is where I've slept every night on my own, and that,
that there, that bloody settee, that's where I've sat nearly every
night on my own, watching the telly or just staring at the wall,
while you're away at college, or if you do deign to stay here
you're out with your mates, or hiding in your room because
you're so bloody obviously bored of talking to me, your own
mother. D'you have any idea what that's like, Brian, being here
all by myself, year after year after bloody, bloody year . .. ?' but
then her voice starts to crack, and she clasps her face with her
hands and starts sobbing, great heavy, wet sobs and once again I
realise that I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do.

'Hey, come on, Mum . . .' I say, but she just waves her hand
at me, gesturing for me to keep away.

'Leave me alone, please Brian,' she says, and I'm tempted
to do as she says, because it would be easier after all.

'. . . Mum, there's no need to get . . .'

'Leave me alone. Just go away . . .'

What if I pretend I haven't heard any of this? The lounge
door's still open after all. I could just go out, come back in an
hour or so, let her calm down, just go. After all, that's what
she's told me to do, that's what she wants, isn't it?

'Please Mum, please, don't cry. I hate it when you . . .' and
I can't finish the sentence because I find that I'm crying myself,
and I cross over to her and fold my arms round her and hold
onto her as tightly as I can.


3O9
I

35



QUESTION- Circles of standing stones at Lindholm Hoje
near Alborg in Denmark indicate that it was a site for
which ancient ritual7

ANSWER Viking burial.


I
meet Tone at two-fifteen in The Black Prince on the sea front.
There's no one in apart from a couple of tubercular old geezers
nursing the last warm inch of their pints and reading dog-eared
copies of the Sun., but it still takes me a moment to notice him
because I'm instinctively looking for light-blue denim, not the
charcoal single-button suit, white socks and light-grey slip-ons
that he's wearing today.

'Bloody hell, Tone, what's happened to your hair?' The
Viking look has gone, and instead he's got a neat short-back
and-sides with a parting slightly too far to the left. Tone, in a
suit, with a parting.

'Had it cut, that's all.' I go to ruffle it, but he karates my hand
away, not quite playfully. I want to keep things light-hearted
so I say, 'Here, are you wearing gel?'

'A little bit. So what?' he says, then takes a sip from the
half-pint of lager in front of him. I don't think I've ever seen
Tone holding a half-pint glass, and it's playing tricks with
scale, like he's some sort of giant.

'D'you want another drink?' I ask.

T'm all right . . .'

'Another half then?

'I can't . . .'


31O


I
STARTER FOR TEN


'Go on, you wuss . . .' I cajole, lightheartedly.

'Can't. I've got to get back to work,' he says.

'Surely you've got time for a . . .'

7 don't want another half, all right?' he snaps. I go and get
myself a pint and sit back down.

'So - how's work?'

"S alright. I'm out front on the shop floor now, so that's
why . . .' and half apologetically, he tugs on the long thin lapel
of his suit.

'Which department?'

'Hi-fi and audio.'

'Great!'

'Yeah, well. It'll do. And there's commission, so . . .'

'Spencer told me about you and the Territorials.'

'Did he? Have a good laugh about it, did you?'

'No, course not . . .'

'I don't suppose you approve.'

'I didn't say that, did I? I mean I am a unilateralist, and
I think we should definitely reduce defence spending and
plough some of that money into social services, but I still
understand the need for some form of . . .' but Tone's looking
at his watch, not really interested. 'So have you seen Spencer?'
I say.

'Of course I've seen Spencer,' he snaps, and I accept that,
for today at least, it's going to be impossible for me to say anything that doesn't piss someone off.

'And how is he?' I ask.

'Well, considering he's been through the windscreen of a
Ford Escort, he's pretty good actually.'

'So what happened, Tone?'

'Don't know, exactly. We were down the pub Friday as
usual, and after closing he wanted to go on into London, to
a club or something so we could keep drinking, and I said no,
'cause I was working the next day, and he was pretty pissed,
but he went anyway, took his dad's car. The next thing I knew


311
DAVID NICHOLLS


was two days later when his mum called and said he was in
hospital.'

'Was anyone else hurt?'

'No . . .'

'Well thank God for that

'. . . just our mate Spencer,' he adds, with a sneer.

'I didn't mean ... I just meant . . . And is he in trouble? I
mean, legally?'

'Well, he was over the limit, he's only got a provisional
licence, it wasn't his car and he wasn't insured, so, yeah, from
a legal standpoint, things aren't looking too rosy.'

'And how's he ... feeling?'

'I don't know, Brian, ask him yourself, will you? I've got to
get back to work,' and irritably, he drains the rest of his half,
takes a packet of mints out of his pocket and pops one in his
mouth, without offering me one.

We step outside the pub and walk along the street back
towards the pier. The wind's blowing rain in off the estuary,
and Tone folds the two thin lapels of his jacket over to protect
his shirt and tie as we march on up towards the High Street.

'So you staying over tonight?' he asks, clearly not caring
much either way.

'No, can't I'm afraid.' I wonder if I should tell him that I'm
on University Challenge tomorrow, but decide against it. 'Got
a tutorial tomorrow, first thing, so I'm going back later. But
I'll be back at Easter I think, so ... see you then?'

'Yeah, well, whatever.'

'Tone - have I done something to, you know, piss you off?'

He snorts. 'Whatever gave you that impression?'

'Was it something Spence said?' No reply. 'What did he
say, Tone?'

Without looking at me, Tone says, 'Spencer told me about
coming to see you. It didn't sound as if you were much of a
mate to him, Bri. In fact it sounded to me as if you behaved
like a bit of a cunt. That's all.'


312
STARTER FOR TEN


'Why, what did he say?'

'. . . doesn't matter . . .'

'I couldn't let him stay any longer, Tone, it was against the
rules . . .'

'Oh, well, if it was against the rules, Bri . . .'

'He was the one who started the fight, Tone . . .'

'Look, I'm not interested, Bri, that's between you and
Spence.'

'So I suppose it's my fault he decided to get pissed-up and
drive into a tree as well?'

'I didn't say that, did I? Just sort it out Brian, all right?' and
Tone hurries on up the street, head down against the rain, then
pauses for a second, half turns. 'And try not to be too much of
a twat about it. Yeah?' Then he turns and hurries off back to
work, and I find myself wondering if I'll ever see him again.


313
I

m

36



QUESTION: First isolated by F.W.A. Serturner in 18O6,
what is the common name of the narcotic analgesic
derived from the unripe seeds of papaver somn/ferum?

ANSWER Morphine.


A morning in May 1979, three days after Dad's funeral. I'm
lying on the sofa with the curtains still drawn, watching
Saturday morning television in my school uniform. Technically
of course, I don't need to be in school uniform, but I tend to
wear it all year round anyway, because it's easier, and I don't
really know what else to wear; my concession to the weekend
is that I don't put my tie on.

The relatives have all gone home and it's just Mum and me
now. Mum's not at her best, and has taken to sleeping in late,
then padding round the house in her dressing gown, leaving
a trail of dirty mugs and cigarette ends, or dozing curled up
on the sofa all afternoon and on into the evening. The whole
house has a hot, grey, sickly aspect, but neither of us can quite
find the energy or motivation to draw the curtains and open
a window, empty an ashtray, turn the television off, wash up
the dishes, cook something other than spaghetti hoops. The
fridge is still crammed with left-over cake, ding-wrapped
sausage rolls and flat bottles of cola from the wake. I'm
eating cheese-and-onion crisps for breakfast. This is pretty
much the worst time.

When the doorbell rings, I assume it's one of the neighbours
popping round to check up on Mum. She answers, and I hear


314


starter for ten


a voice in the ball that I don't recognise, then Mum's opening
the lounge door, dressing gown held dosed for propriety's
sake, and putting on the funny 'well-spoken' voice she uses
for important visitors.

'There's someone here to see you, Brian!'

She steps to one side, and Spencer Lewis walks in.

'Alright, Bri?'

I sit up straight on the sofa. 'Alright, Spence?'

'What are you doing?'

'Nothing.'

'Glass of Coke, Spencer?' asks Mum.

'^es, please, Mrs Jackson.'

Mum backs discreetly out of the room, and Spencer comes
and sits next to me on the sofa.

It's hard to over-emphasise the significance of a visit from
Spencer Lewis. It's not like we're even mates or anything;
we've barely spoken before - maybe just a bit of name-calling
on the football pitch, a nod of recognition in the queue for
the ice-cream van. There seems to be no possible explanation
as to why someone as cool, popular and hard as Spencer
Lewis should come and visit me, the kind of nutter who
wears his school uniform on a Saturday. But here he is, sat
on the settee.

'What you watching?'

'Swap Shop.'

The bloody hate Swap Shop,' he says.

'Yeah, me too.' I sniff sardonically, though secretly I like
it. We sit in silence for a moment or two, then he says, The
accidentally called your mum Mrs Jackson. D'you think she
minds?'

'Nah. She's alright,' I say.

And apart from that, he doesn't mention Dad dying at all, or
ask about the funeral or 'how I'm feeling', thank God, because
that ivouldjust be embarrassing - we are twelve-year-old boys
after all. Instead, he sits and drinks flat cola and watches telly


315


DAVID NICHOLLS


with me. He tells me what bands are crap and what bands are
good, and I believe him, and agree with everything he says. It
feels like a film star's come to visit, or someone better than a
film star, someone like Han Solo. And it feels like an act of
absolute kindness.


Spencer's left leg is broken in three places, his right in two.
His collar bone has snapped, which is particularly painful
because it's impossible to set a collar bone in plaster, so
he can't really move the top half of his body. His arms
seem to be okay, though there are some cuts on the palms
of his hand and his forearm from broken glass. Thankfully
there's no damage to the spine or skull, but six of his ribs are
fractured where they impacted against the steering wheel. This
makes breathing painful and unaided sleep almost impossible,
so he's on quite a lot of medication. His nose is broken, red
and swollen, and the brow over his right eye is badly split,
and contains six thick black stitches. The eye itself is deep
black and purple and swollen, and remains half-closed. The
top of his head meanwhile is peppered with dark red scabs
from the shattered windscreen, clearly visible beneath the
still-short hair, and there's more stitches in his left ear where
the lobe was partially torn off by the broken glass.

'But apart from that?'

'Apart from that I'm actually feeling really good,' says
Spencer, and we both laugh for a while, before sinking back
into silence.

'You think / look rough! You should see the tree!' he
says, not for the first time I suspect, and we laugh again,
Spencer sniggering and wincing at the same time, because
of the pain from his ribs and collar bone. He's on pills, of
course. He's not sure what they are exactly, but it's definitely
something a bit stronger than aspirin, some kind of opiate
he thinks. And it seems to be doing the trick, because there's
an uncharacteristic mirthless smile lurking around the corner


316


STARTER FOR TEN


of his mouth. Nothing disturbing, not like Jack Nicholson at
the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, just a strange
sort of vaguely inappropriate amusement. His speech, usually
so sharp and direct, is groggy and distant, as if a hand were
pressed over his mouth.

'Still, the good news is they've postponed my court case
about the dole-fiddling thing . . .'

That's good.'

'Yeah, almost makes this all worthwhile. Haven't got any
fags have you?'

'Spencer - I don't smoke.'

I'm gasping for a fag. And a pint.'

'It's a hospital, Spencer . . .'

'I know, but still . . .'

'What's the food like?' I ask.

'Not particularly tasty.'

'And the nurses?'

'Not particularly tasty.'

I smile, and make a noise to show that I'm smiling, because
I'm out of his eye-line, and he doesn't seem to be able to move
his head too well. 'And what about all this . . . ?' I indicate
the plaster-cast on his legs, his bandaged hands . . . 'are there
going to be any, you know, legal . . . repercussions?'

'Don't know yet. Probably.'

'Bloody hell, Spencer . . .'

'All right Bri, don't start . . .'

'. . . well, you must have known that something . . .'

'You haven't come all this way to tell me off, have you
Bri?'

'No, of course not, but you have to admit . . .'

'. . . yeah, I know - don't smoke, don't fight, don't fiddle
your dole, don't drink and drive, wear a seat-belt, work hard,
go to night-school, get your qualifications, go on a scheme -
you're like a fucking walking-public-information-film sometimes,
Brian . . .'


317


DAVID NICHOLLS


'. . . sorry, 1 . . .'

'. . . we don't all do the sensible thing all the time, Brian . . .'

'. . . no, I know . . .'

'. . . we can't all be like you . . .'

'. . . hey, I don't always do the sensible . . . I'

'. . . you know what I mean, though, don't you?'

--and he doesn't shout any of the above, because he can't
shout, he just sort of hisses it between his teeth, before lapsing
into silence again. There's something I know I have to say,
and haven't quite found the words yet, but I'm about to open
my mouth to try when he says, 'Pour us some water, will
you?' I pour him a plastic cupful, hand it over, and as he
strains to sit up straight, I can smell his breath which is hot
and metallic.

'Anyway . . .'he sighs, letting his head fall back on the pillow
'. . . how's Alice?'

'Oh, alright. I stayed over the other night, so . . .'

'You're joking - really?' he says, smiling sincerely, turning
his head on the pillow to look at me. 'So you're actually going
out with her, then?'

'Well, we're taking it slowly,' I say, a little bashfully. 'Really, really slowly actually, but yeah, it's good.'

'Brian Jackson, you dark horse . . .'

'Yeah, well, we'll see.' I sense that this is the time to do the
proper, adult thing, so I take a deep breath. 'Alice said you
put a word in for me. At that party.'

'Did she?' he says, without looking at me.

'I was a bit of a wanker to you, wasn't I?'

'No, you weren't . . .'

'I was, Spence, I was a complete wanker . . .'

'Bri, you're fine . . .'

'I don't set out to be a wanker, you know, it just sort of
happens . . .'

'. . . let's just forget it, yeah?'

'No, but still . . .'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'All right, if it makes you happier, Bii, then yes, you were
a complete wanker. Now can we forget about it?'

'But how are you feeling, though . . . ?'

'What about . . . ?'

'. . . about, you know, things?'

'In general, you mean? Don't know. To be honest, I'm just
really tired. Tired and a little bit scared, Bri.' He says this
very quietly, and I have to lean forward in my chair to hear
him, and notice that his eyes are red and wet. He senses me
looking at him, and puts both hands vertically over his face,
pressing his eyes hard with his fingertips, exhaling slowly and
deeply, and I feel twelve years old again, sad, embarrassed,
with no idea what to do now - some sort of act of kindness I
suppose, but what? Maybe put my arm around him? But I feel
awkward about getting up out of my chair, anxious about the
other people in the ward seeing, so I stay where I am.

'It's meant to be scary though, isn't it?' I say. 'You know,
life, this bit of it. That's what people say . . .'

'Yeah. S'pose so . . .'

'It gets better . . .'

'Does it?' he says, his eyes still covered. "Cause it seems
like I've just fucked everything up, Bri . . .'

'Rubbish! You're fine, mate, you're going to be absolutely
fine,' and I reach across, and put my hand on his shoulder,
and squeeze it. The gesture feels clumsy and self-conscious,
leaning forward in my chair with my arm outstretched, but
I stay like that for as long as I can, until his shoulders stop
shaking. Eventually he takes the hands away from his eyes.

'Sorry - it's these painkillers,' he says, wiping his eyes with
his cuffs.

Shortly afterwards, we run out of things to say, and even
though I've got plenty of time, I stand up and grab my coat.

'Hey, I better run, or I'll miss my last connection.'

'Thanks for coming, mate . . .'

'Pleasure, mate . . .'


319


DAVID NICHOLLS


'Well, not a pleasure . . .'

'Well, no, but, you know . . .'

'Hey, aren't you going to sign my plaster-cast first?'

'Yeah, yeah, of course,' and I go to the end of the bed, grab a
biro from one of the clipboards and find a blank space to write.
There are a lot of 'best wishes' and names I don't recognise, and
a 'serves you right, you twat' and The Zep Rule!' from Tone.
I think for a moment, and write, 'Dear Spence. Apologies and
Thanks. Break a leg! Ha-Ha! Loads of love, your mate Bri.'

'What have you written then?'

'Oh - Break a leg . . .'

'"Break a leg"! ...'

'You know - good luck. It's a theatrical term . . .'

And Spencer looks at the ceiling, laughs through his teeth
and says slowly, 'You know Brian, you really can be the most
unbelievable prick sometimes.'

'Yeah, Spence, I know mate. I know.'


32O


37


QUESTION: Which third century Christian martyr, either
identified as a Roman priest and physician who died
during the persecution of Christians by the emperor Claudius II Gothicus, or as the Bishop of Terni, also
martyred in Rome, has, since the fourteenth century,
had a feast day in his name allocated specifically as a
festival for lovers?

ANSWER: St Valentine.


Whenever I hear Edith Piaf sing 'Non, je ne regrette rieri1 which
is more often than I'd like, now that I'm at university
- I can't help thinking 'what the hell is she talking about?' I
regret pretty much everything. I'm aware that the transition
into adulthood is a difficult and sometimes painful one. I'm
familiar with the conventions of the rites of passage, I know
what the literary term bildungsroman means, I realise that it's
inevitable that I'll look back at things that happened in my
youth and give a wry, knowing smile. But surely there's no
reason why I should be embarrassed and ashamed about things
that happened thirty seconds ago? No reason why life just
should be this endless rolling panorama of bodged friendships,
fumbled opportunities, fatuous conversations, wasted days,
idiotic remarks and ill-judged, unfunny jokes that just lie on
the floor in front of me, flipping about like dying fish?

Well, not any more. I've decided that enough is enough. On
the train home, contemplating the latest round of incredible
fuck-ups, I resolve that I'm going to have to change my life.


321


DAVID NICHOLLS


Generally speaking, I resolve to change my life on average
maybe thirty to forty times a week, usually at about two a.m.,
drunk, or early the next morning, hungover, but this one is a
big one, I'm going to live life well from now on. Being Cool
and Aloof clearly isn't working for me, and probably never
will, so instead I'm going to concentrate on living a life based
on the central tenets of Wisdom, Kindness and Courage.

When the train finally pulls into the station, I make a start on
my wiser, kinder, braver life. I find a call-box on the platform,
check that I have enough change, and dial the number. Des
answers; now it's out in the open, I suppose there's no reason
why he shouldn't.

'Hello?' he says.

'Hi! Des, it's Brian here!' I say, bright as a button, then
realise that I've unconsciously called him Des, not Uncle Des,
though whether this is a symptom of my more mature attitude
to life, or a Freudian response to the fact that he's having sex
with my mother, I'm not entirely sure.

'Oh. Hello there,' he says, bizarrely sounding scared of me,
though God knows why, since Des weighs about fourteen
stone, and besides it's not as if I can punch him down the
phone line. There's a pause as he re-adjusts the receiver. 'Sorry
about, you know, flashing my fella at you this morning.
Obviously we were going to tell you, about me and your
mum . . .'

'Des, really, it's fine, completely fine,' I assure him, and catch
sight of my reflection in the call-box glass, grinning like a circus
clown. 'Is Mum there?' I ask, which is a pretty stupid question
really, considering it's her house.

"Course. I'll pass you over,' and I hear a rustle as he puts
his hand over the receiver, mumbles something, and then Mum
picks up.

'Hello?' she says warily, the receiver not quite near her
mouth.

'Hi, Mum.'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'Hello, Brian. Did you get back home alright?' she asks,
over-enunciating slightly, which means she's drunk.

'Uh-huh,' I say, and there's a silence, and I have a fleeting
desire to hang up. But then I remember my new watchwords,
Wisdom, Kindness, Courage, so I swallow hard and start
speaking.

'Look, hi, I just wanted to say . . .' what do I want to say?. . .
'I just wanted to say I've thought about it and I'm really, really
pleased about you and Des, and I think it's fine that you're
getting married, really I do. In fact I think it's a great idea,
and he's a really nice bloke, and I'm sorry if ... well, it was
a shock that's all . . .'

'Oh, Brian . . .'

'And I'm okay about the B and B too. I'll come down in the
Easter break and clear out my stuff and then it's all yours. Like
you said, it's only a load of model planes, after all. So what I'm
saying, what I mean to say, is that I think it's a good thing.
I'm . . . pleased you're happy.' There's no reply from the other
end of the line, just the sound of Mum's breathing, shifting the
receiver from one hand to another. 'As long as you don't expect
me to call him "Dad", that's all!' I say, as light-heartedly as I
can manage.

'Of course not, Brian . . .' and she's about to say something,
then decides not to, stops.

'Well, that's it really. You're still coming tomorrow?'

"Course I am - wouldn't miss it for the world.'

'And you're sure you can afford it, the train fare and
everything?'

'Brian, don't worry about that . . .'

'The ticket will be on the door, in your name . . .'

'Oh, and Brian? There's one other thing . . .' The pips are
going and even though I can feel the weight of the loose change
in my pocket, it feels as if I've said all I need to say. 'Got to go
now Mum, out of money . . .'

'Brian, I need to ask you something else . . .'


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'Go on then, quick . . .'

'Can Des come, too?' and then the line goes dead.

I stand in the phone-box with the receiver in my hand. The
fact is I'd always expected Dad to be there. Not literally, obviously, not with him being dead and everything, but in
my head, it had been Dad sat in the audience, next to Mum,
smiling, clapping, putting two thumbs up, and Mum must
have known this too, otherwise she wouldn't have been so
nervous about asking. And now it's not Dad, but Des, some
bloke called Des, who I don't really know and I don't really
like, and . . .

I take change from my pocket, pick up the phone, dial the
number, and Mum picks up almost immediately.

'Mum?'

'Oh, yes, Brian, I was just going to ask . . .'

'I heard you Mum. Of course you can bring Des.'

'Oh. Okay.'

Till sort out the ticket tomorrow.'
'Oh. Okay then, Brian. If you're sure . . .'

'I'm sure.'

'Bye then.'

'Bye then.'

And I hang up.

I stay in the phone-box for a while after that, standing,
thinking, well, it's early days but the Wisdom, Kindness,
Courage policy seems to be working out pretty well, so far.
I think I might even have done something good for once. And
even though I should go home to work out what to wear for the
filming tomorrow and get a good night's sleep and everything,
I decide to go and see Alice, because it is Valentine's Day after
all, and she'll have read my poem by now.


324


38


QUESTION: Adam Heyer, Frank Gusenberg, Pete Gusen
berg, John May, Al Weinshank and James Clark were
amongst the victims of which bloody event on North
Clark Street, Chicago in February 1929?

ANSWER: The St Valentine's Day Massacre.


'Listen Alice, I've been doing some thinking, about us, and,
well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet John
Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "7 am two fools I
know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and
I think, well, 7've been a bit like that. What I mean to say
is I've been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you
kicking-and-screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy,
bad poetry in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know
how important your independence is, and that's fine by me, it
really, really is. I'm in love with you of course, massively so, but
that's not important, that needn't get in the way, because at the
end of the day I think we get along really well, that we're good
friends, soul-mates even. I'd certainly rather spend time with
you than anyone in the world, really I would, even though I
know I can be a complete prick sometimes. Most of the time
in fact, and, alright, look, I'm not completely stupid, I know
you don't love me now, but you might do, mightn't you, one
day? I mean you might grow to? It is possible, it does happen,
and I've got patience, loads and loads of patience, and I don't
mind waiting. So what I'm trying to say is - let's wait and see.
Just wait and see what happens. Let's not push things, let's just


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keep spending time together and have some fun. And wait. And
see. Okay?'

That's what I'm going to say to Alice when I see her, more
or less. I'm not sure if I can get away with the John Donne
quote, because I'm worried it might come across as a tiny bit
pretentious, but I'm going to see how it plays in the moment.
I'm going to say all of the above, nothing more, and see how
she takes it, but not get into a big, heavy discussion, and then
I'm going to pull on my coat, go home and get a good eight
hours' sleep. And I'm definitely not going to try and kiss her.
Even if she asks me to stay and make love to her or whatever,
I'm going to say no, because it's The Challenge in the morning.
We've both got to be fresh for The Challenge. Like boxers no
sex before a fight.

I'm standing outside her door. I knock.

There's no reply.

I knock again. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage, Wisdom, Kindness,
Courage . . .

'Who is it?'

'It's Brian.'

'Brian! It's nearly midnight!'

The know, sorry, I just wanted to say hi!'

I hear her get out of bed, the rustle of her pulling on some
clothes, and then she peers round the edge of the door, in the
Snoopy T-shirt and a black pair of knickers.

'I'm actually asleep, Bri . . .' she says, rubbing her eyes.

'Are you? God, sorry. It's just I've had a bit of an eventful
day, and I wanted to talk to someone about it.'

'Can't it wait 'til . . . ?'

'Not someone. You.'

She bites her lip, and tugs the front of her T-shirt down with
her spare hand.

'Oh, come on then.' And she opens up the door. I go and
sit on the edge of the unmade bed, which is warm to the touch
from where she was sleeping.


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'So - how was Valentine's Day?'

'Oh fine, fine . . .'

'Get anything special?' I ask meaningfully. 'In the post this
morning? Get anything nice? . . .' I wish she'd come and sit
next to me.

'Ye-eees, I did, thank you Brian, and it was a lovely,
lovely poem.'

Why won't she come and sit next to me?

'You really think so? Phew! Because I was a bit embarrassed
about it. It's the first time anyone's actually read anything I've
written so . . .'

'No, I thought it was lovely, really. Very . . . frank. And . . .
raw. Emotionally. Quite derivative of e.e.cummings I thought,
well not derivative, inspired by, it reminded me of him, I
mean. In fact I think there were some lines that I actually
recognised . . .' Hang on, is she accusing me of plagiarism!
'. . . but anyway, it was lovely, really. Thank you. I was
very . . . touched . . .'

'That is assuming it was from me!' I say lightheartedly.
'What poem! I didn't send any poetry!' I'm jabbering, I know
I am, but she smiles, and scratches her elbow and makes a
tent of her T-shirt by stretching it down and hooking it over
her bare knees. And I'm struggling to keep things lighthearted
now, because I can't help noticing that on the desk behind her,
looming over her shoulder, is a massive bouquet of perfect
red roses slumping sideways in a huge, battered aluminium
saucepan of water that she's nicked from the communal
kitchen. Of course there's no reason why she shouldn't receive
Valentine's gifts from other men, I'd be a fool not to realise
that she would, I'm not naive, she's bound to, what with being
beautiful and popular and conventionally sexually attractive
and everything, but this bouquet is just . . . vulgar. So vulgar
that I'm trying not to draw attention to it, and to focus instead
on my small, sincere, little heartfelt hand-crafted homemade
poem. But there they are, looming over her shoulder, stinking


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DAVID NICHOLLS


up the place like cheap air-freshener, that big fuck-off bunch
of perfect fucking red fucking roses . . .

'Lovely roses!' I say.

'Oh, those!' she says, doing a little double-take over her
shoulder, as if they'd somehow crept up behind her, like
Birnam bloody Wood . . .

'Any idea . . . who might have sent them?' I say, lightly.

'No idea at all!' she says. It's some posh bastard obviously.
That's a whole term's grant there, slumped in that saucepan
of water. And of course she knows who they're from; because
what's the point of being that generous if you're going to
remain anonymous?

'Well - was there a card attached or . . . ?'

'Is this any of your business, Brian?' she snaps.

'No. No, I suppose not.'

'Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .' she says, and
gets out of her chair, and puts her arms round me, and gives
me a stooped hug. I look down along the length of her back,
where the T-shirt has ridden up, and put one hand on the warm
bare skin just above her underwear, which incidentally seems
to be made of some sort of translucent black mesh or lace or
something, and we stay like that for a time, while I stare at
the roses lolling in the saucepan.

'Sorry . . .' she whispers in my ear. 'I'm such a bitch for
snapping at you, it's just we had a really long, difficult
rehearsal tonight, and I think I might still be in character . . .'
then she sits next to me and laughing, says, 'God, did I really
just say that? That is without a doubt the most pretentious
thing I've ever said in my life . . .' and we're both smiling
again, and I wonder if I might try for a kiss, but then remember
my new mantra. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage.

'Look, I really ought to be getting back to bed now, Brian.
Big day tomorrow and all that . . .'

'Of course, I'll go . . .' and I half-stand, then sit down again.
'But can I just say something first . . . ?'


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'O-kay,' she says warily, sitting down beside me.

'Don't worry - it's nothing scary. I just wanted to say . . .'
and I take her hand, take a deep breath and say, 'Alice . . .
Okay, listen, Alice I've been doing some thinking, about us,
and, well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet
John Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "/ am two fools I
know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and I
think, well, I've been a bit like that. What I mean to say is I've
been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you kicking
and screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy, bad poetry
in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know how much
you value your independence, and that's fine by me, it really,
really is. I'm in love with you of course, massively so . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says.

'. . . but that's not important, that needn't get in the way,
because at the end of the day . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says.
'. . . hang on, Alice, just let me finish . . .'

'. . . no, Brian, you have to stop . . .' she says, standing up
and crossing to the far side of the room. 'This isn't right . . .'

'But, it's not what you think it is, Alice . . .'

'No, I'm sorry, Brian, I can't take it any more. Let's get this
over with . . .'

And the strange thing is, she doesn't say this to me, she says
it to her wardrobe.

'Come on, Neil, this isn't funny any more . . .'

'That's strange,' I think, 'why is she calling her wardrobe Neil? What does she call her chest of drawers!' I wonder,
as she knocks on Neil the Wardrobe's door with the flat
of her hand, and the door opens slowly by itself, as if in a
conjuring trick.

There's a man in the wardrobe.

He's holding his trousers in his hand.

I don't understand.

'Brian, this is Neil,' says Alice.


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DAVID NICHOLLS


Neil unfolds out of the wardrobe, gets to his feet.

'Neil is playing Eilert Lovborg. In Hedda Gabler.'

'Hello, Neil,' I say.

'Hello, Brian,' says Neil.

'We were . . . rehearsing,' says Alice.

'Oh,' I say, as if this explained everything.

And then, I think, I shake his hand.


%

J

33O


The Final Round


'What do you think of her?'

'I don't like to say,' I stammered.

'Tell me in my ear,' said Miss Havisham, bending
down.

'I think she is very proud,' I replied, in a whisper.

'Anything else?'

'I think she is very pretty . . .'

'. . . Anything else?'

'I think I should like to go home now . . .'

'. . . You shall go soon,' said Miss Havisham, aloud.
'Play the game out . . .'

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

I

1

39


QUESTION 'Once there were four children named Peter,
Susan, Edmund and Lucy ' So begins the most famous
work of a scholar, novelist and Christian apologist But
what is the name of the book7

ANSWER The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe


The cliche about meeting famous people in the flesh, of course,
is that they're often disappointingly a lot smaller than they
appear on the screen. But in real life Bamber Gascoigne is
actually a lot bigger than I'd imagined; very slim, and smiley,
and surprisingly good-looking, like a benevolent character
from C.S. Lewis who's about to take you on an amazing
adventure, but with sex appeal. The four of us are stood
in a line in the TV studios, waiting nervously, and he's
working his way down the line, a little like a Royal Variety
Performance.

Alice is avoiding me, and is first in the line, so I can't hear
what she's saying to him but presume that she's attempting to
seduce him. Then Patrick, who's practically doubled over with
humility, and is making a big show of having met him before,
this time last year, and is acting as if they're big, big pals,
like they've been on holiday together or whatever. Bamber's
very charming, smiling a lot, and saying, 'Yes, yes of course I
remember you!' when he's probably thinking 'who the hell is this idiot?'

Then Lucy, who is incredibly quiet and nice as usual, and
then it's my turn. The question is do I call him Bamber, or


333


DAVID NICHOLLS


Mr Gascoigne? He approaches, shakes my hand, and 1 say:
'Pleased to meet you, Mr Gascoigne.'

'Oh, please, call me Bamber,' he says, grinning broadly,
taking my hand in his two hands. 'And your name is?'

'Brian, Brian Jackson,' I mumble.

'. . . reading?'

'Eng. Lit.' I say.

'Beg your pardon?' he says, and leans in.

'Eng-lish Lit-erature,' I say loudly, over-enunciating this
time, and I notice Bamber recoiling, almost imperceptibly,
and guess that it's because he can smell the alcohol on my
breath, and has realised that I'm pretty much pissed out of
my head.


Despite the best efforts of the licensing authorities, the fact
remains that no matter how late it is, you can always get a
drink if you need it badly enough.

After I run from Alice's room at Kenwood Manor, I walk
the streets for a while, trying to calm down, trying to stop
shaking, until I find myself outside The Taste of The Raj, a
curry house that doubles as a sort of Indian speak-easy; you
can drink pretty much all night, as long as you're always within
ten feet of an onion bhaji.

Tonight, at just gone midnight, the place is empty. 'Table
for one?' asks the solitary waiter.

'Yes, please,' and he shows me to a booth at the very back
of the restaurant, near the kitchen. I open the menu, and notice
that The Taste of The Raj is offering an extra-special, bitterly
ironic Valentine's Day Menu for couples out on a romantic
date, but decide that even though the menu represents good
value for money, I doubt if I'd be able to swallow anything.
Besides, I'm not here for the food. I order a pint of lager, two
poppadoms, an onion bhaji, and a gin and tonic.

'No main course, sir?'

'Maybe later,' I say. And the waiter nods mournfully, as if


334


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lie unclei stands the sometimes brutal workings of the human
heart, and goes to get my booze. I've finished both the pint
of lager and the gin and tonic before I even hear the ping of
the microwave from the kitchen behind me. The waiter slides
the warmed-through onion bhaji in between my elbows on the
table, and I offer up the empty glasses.

'Another pint of lager, and a gin please. No tonic this time,'
and the sad-eyed waiter nods wisely, and sighs, and heads off
to get my order.

'And, excuse me?' - I shout after him - 'could you make the
gin a double?' Half-heartedly, I pick the crust off the onion
bhaji and dip it into the sweet, watery mint yoghurt, and when
the waiter returns with my drinks, I sip the top inch off the
pint and pour in the gin, stir it with the handle of my fork,
and think about all the things that I know.

I know the difference between a pterosaur, a pteranadon,
a pterodactyl and a ramphorhynchus. I know the Latin name
for most of the common domestic British birds. I know the
capital cities of nearly every country in the world, and most
of the flags too. I know that Magdalen College is pronounced Maudlin College. I know the complete plays of Shakespeare
except Timon of Athens, and the complete novels of Charles
Dickens except Barnaby Rudge, and all the Narnia books,
and the order in which they were all written, approximate
in the case of Shakespeare. I know every lyric of every song
Kate Bush has ever recorded, including B-sides, as well as the
highest chart position of every single she's released. I know all
the French irregular verbs, and where the phrase 'toe the line'
comes from, and what the gall bladder's for, and how oxbow
lakes are formed, and all the British monarchs in order, and
the wives of Henry VIII and their fate, the difference between
igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks, and the dates
of the major battles of the War of the Roses, the meanings of
the words 'albedo', 'peripatetic' and 'litotes', and the average
number of hairs on a human head, and how to crochet, and


335


DAVID NICHOLLS


the difference between nuclear fission and fusion and how to
spell deoxyribonucleic and the constellations of the stars and
the population of the earth and the mass of the moon and
the workings of the human heart. And yet the important and
most basic things, like friendship, or getting over Dad dying,
or loving someone, or just simply being happy, just being good and decent and dignified and happy, seem to be utterly and
completely beyond my comprehension. And it occurs to me
that I'm not clever at all, that in fact I am without a doubt
the most ignorant, the most profoundly and hopelessly stupid
person in the whole world.

I start to feel a bit blue, so to cheer myself up I order another
pint of lager and another double gin, pour the gin into the
lager, stir it with my fork, dip a shard of poppadom into the
mango chutney, and the next thing I remember is waking up
in my clothes at 6.30 in the morning.


'Brian! Brian, wake up . . .'

'Leave me alone . . .' I say, and pull the duvet up over
my head.

'Brian, come on, we're late . . .' Someone's shaking me by
the shoulder. I push their hand away.

'It's still night-time - go away.'

'It's 6.30 in the morning, Brian, we're due at the studio at
9.30, and we're not going to make it. Come on, get up . . .'
and Patrick yanks the duvet back. 'You've been sleeping in
your clothes?'

'No . . . I' I say indignantly, but pretty unconvincingly, since
I clearly am asleep, and wearing clothes. 'I got cold in the night,
that's all . . .'

Patrick yanks the duvet off completely.

'You've still got your shoes on!'

'My feet got cold!'

'Brian - have you been drinking?'

'No ... I'


336


STARTER FOR TEN


'Brian, I thought we had an agreement - an early night and
no drinking before the match . . .'

'I have not been drinking!' I slur, hauling myself upright,
hearing the gin and lager and the onion bhaji settling in my
stomach.

'Brian, I can smell it on your breath! What's your mattress
doing on the floor, anyway?'

'He says it's a futon,' says Josh from the doorway, shivering
in his underpants. Marcus peers, blinking over his shoulder.

'I had to wake your flatmates up to get in,' explains Patrick.

'Ooooops. Sorry Josh, sorry Marcush . . .'

'I don't believe it - you're still drunk!'

'I'm not drunk! Five minutes - just give me five more
minutes!'

'You've got three minutes. I'll be waiting downstairs in the
car,' snarls Patrick, and flounces out, followed by Josh and
Marcus. I sigh, rub my face with my hands, sit on the edge
of the futon.

I remember Alice.

I go to my wardrobe, and take out Dad's brown corduroy
jacket.


The journey to Manchester is pretty grim. We're travelling in
Alice's 2CV, and she gives me a patronising little no-hard
feelings smile, which I pretend not to see as I clamber in the
back, the crisp packets and shattered cassette cases crunching
underfoot. I tug the door shut by means of the length of
washing-line that passes for a door-handle, and the exertion
causes me to belch a little, the air hissing through clenched
teeth. Dr Lucy Chang detects this, makes her diagnosis, and
gives me the hospital smile that they teach her to use as part
of her training. I pull my coat up under my chin like a blanket
as we set off, and try to ignore the lurching of the 2CV, which
apparently seems to have no suspension at all, and feels like
the Waltzers at a fun fair.


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DAVID NICHOLLS


Needless to say good old Patrick has prepared several
hundred questions for the journey as a fun, fun warmup,
all meticulously typed on 6 by 4 index cards, and he insists
on bellowing them out very loudly over the noise of the 2CV's
lawnmower engine as we judder along the motorway at a
steady 55 miles per hour. I resolve not to answer any of them,
just to teach them all a lesson. The trick about getting through
today is to remain dignified. Pride and Dignity, that's the key.
That, and not throwing up on myself.

'Three bonus questions on battles. What year was the Battle
of Blenheim fought? Anyone? No one? Lucy?'

'Seventeen . . . twelve?' suggests Lucy.

'Nope. Seventeen-oh-four.'

'Where is the Bulge, as in the Battle of the Bulge? Anyone?
The Bulge? Anyone have any idea at all? The Bulge. Come
on, think about it, the Bulge, the Battle of the Bulge . . .'

'Holland!' I mutter from under my coat, partly just to stop
him saying 'Bulge'.

'The Ardennes in Belgium,' says Patrick, clicking his tongue
and shaking his head. 'Question number 3. Also known as
the Battle of the Three Emperors, the Battle of Austerlitz was
fought between which . . .'

'Patrick, can I just ask, what is the actual point of all this?' I
say, leaning forward in my seat. The mean, do you honestly think
that, by some miracle, any of these questions is going to come
up in the actual quiz? Because if not, it's a bit of a pointless
waste of everyone's time, isn't it?'
'Brian . . .' says Lucy, a hand on my arm.

'It's a warm-up, Brian!' screeches Patrick, leaning round in
his seat so we're face to face. 'A warm-up for those of us who
aren't quite as fresh this morning as we maybe ought to be?'

The don't know why you're getting at me!' I say, shouting
now. 'What time did you get to sleep last night, Alice?' and she
glares at me in the rear-view mirror, her cool, contemptuous
head-girl glare.


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'Brian, we'll talk about it later, alright . . . ?'

'Talk about what later?' asks Patrick.

'Nothing,' says Alice, 'nothing at all . . .'

'So is it just the four of us today then, Alice, or have you
got someone hiding in the boot?'

'What?' says Patrick.

'Brian, not here, alright . . . ?' hisses Alice.

'Will someone please tell me what's going on . . . ?' barks
Patrick.

'Okay, everyone! Okay! Let's all ... just listen to some
music shall we?' says Lucy, the peace-maker. One hand is
holding on to my arm, kindly but firmly, and I almost expect
to see a hypodermic syringe in the other hand, so I slump
back into my seat, pull my coat up high over my head again
to try to get some sleep, and we listen to a warped, warbling
cassette of 'The Look of Love' by ABC over and over and
over again, all the way to Manchester, until I think I'm going
to start screaming.


Shortly after I accidentally breathe booze in Bamber Gascoigne's
face, he disappears off to his office to look through the
questions and it's left to our old friend Julian, the nice young
researcher, to unveil the opposition for the first time. It's just
as we feared. One word. Oxbridge. Patrick forces a great big
smile, and the sound of his teeth grinding together echoes
round the studio.

The four of them amble casually across the studio floor
towards us in a long line, like gunslingers. They've all gone for
the matching blazer-and-tie look, and are all wearing college
scarves and spectacles in a further attempt to intimidate us.
Theirs is an all-white, all-male team, so I suppose we can
at least congratulate ourselves on striking a blow for sexual
equality by having two women on our team, even if one of
them is a vicious, deceitful, scheming, two-faced witch.

Of course, our rivals have yet to discover Alice's true


339


DAVID NICHOLLS


nature, so they all make straight for her, and cluster round
as if they're asking for her autograph, while Patrick bobs
uselessly at the edge of the circle, desperately trying to shake
someone's hand, anyone's hand. Their captain, Norton reading
Classics - a complacently handsome broad-shouldered,
floppy-haired type, the kind of good-looking bastard who
looks as if he rows everywhere - is shaking Alice by the
hand and refusing to let go. 'So - you must be the mascot!'
he drawls lecherously, which strikes me as a pretty obnoxious
and chauvinistic thing to say, and I have a moment of feminist
indignation on Alice's behalf, but then I remember last night,
the wardrobe. Besides, Alice doesn't seem to mind, because
she's laughing too, and biting her lip, all doe-eyed, and tossing
her freshly washed hair, and Norton tosses his lovely, glossy
hair back, and she tosses her hair in return, and he tosses
his, and she tosses hers, and it's like some mating ritual on
a wildlife programme. I'm ashamed to say that the words
'prick-tease' enter my head, but because the phrase is both
gender-specific and misogynist, I suppress it, and instead
stand just outside the group, with no one to shake hands
with, and watch. Lucy Chang spots me, comes over, takes
me by the elbow and introduces me to Partridge, a peachy
skinned, balding nineteen-year-old from Saffron Walden, reading
Modern History, and I smile, and smile, and chat, and
smile and wonder if there's somewhere I can go and have a
little lie-down.

But there's no time, because Julian is jollying us over to our
seats for a quick rehearsal, just for fun, with him standing in
for Bamber. Needless to say, Patrick has fixed the seating
plan, so that I'm at the very, very end, as far away from
him and Lucy as possible, more or less in the next studio,
in fact. Alice sits between us, which would have been fun
twenty-four hours ago, but now is just pure misery, and
we sit there, staring blankly and silently ahead, as Julian
reminds us that it's only a bit of fun, only a game, the


34O


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important thing is to enjoy ourselves. The desk and buzzers
all feel surprisingly shoddy and make-shift, as if someone's
knocked them up in a woodwork class, and I can actually
see the bare light bulbs that are illuminating my name on the
front of the panel. I could unscrew one if I wanted to, maybe
steal it after the show and keep it as a souvenir, as a kind of
studenty, undergraduate lark. I think about pointing this out to Alice, then remember that we're not meant to be talking to
each other, and feel sad again. Julian, meanwhile, is inviting
us to try out our buzzers, just to get the feel of them. We
all do so, and I lean forward over the front of the plywood
desk, to see my name flashing on and off. Jackson. Jackson.
Jackson . . .

'At last! My name's in lights!' says Alice. I don't look at
her of course, but can tell by her voice that she's smiling
desperately. 'You know, I always thought the only way I'd
get my name in lights is if I changed it to Fire Exit!' she says,
but I don't smile, I just tap out some Morse code on the buzzer;
dot dot dot, dash dash dash . . .

'Strange, isn't it? Finding ourselves here! After all this
time . . . I'

But I still don't reply, so she reaches across and takes my
hand, pulls it off the buzzer.

'Brian, talk to me, please,' says Alice, unsmiling this time,
then in a whisper, 'Look, I'm sorry about last night, and I'm
sorry if you feel I've led you on, but I never made any promises,
Brian. I was always honest with you, always very, very clear
about how I felt. Speak to me, Brian, please? I can't bear you
not speaking to me . . .'

I turn to her, and she looks sad and beautiful and tired
around the eyes. 'I'm sorry, Alice, but I don't think I can.'
She nods, as if she understands, and then before we can say
anything else Julian is clearing his throat and the rehearsal is
beginning.

'The final separation between the Eastern and Western


341


DAVID NICHOLLS


mi

Christian churches, sometimes known as the East-West Schism,
happened in which year?'

I think I know this one, so I buzz.

'Fifteen-seventeen?'

'No, I'm sorry, I think you may be thinking of The Reformation.
I'm afraid that's a five-point penalty.'

'Ten fifty-four?' says Norton, with the floppy hair, reading
Classics.

'Correct,' says Julian, and Norton smiles and gives his lovely
hair a victory toss. 'So Norton, that's ten points, and your team
now get the chance to answer three bonus questions on the
Roman Gods . . .'

And ironically, of course, I actually know all the answers.


At the end of the fifteen-minute rehearsal, which is just for fun,
just to get us all relaxed, remember it's only a game, we've lost
by 115 points to 15. Standing in the scenery dock behind the
set, Patrick is so angry that he can barely speak. He just walks
in tight little circles, clenching and unclenching his fists, and
squeaking. Actually squeaking.

'Good, aren't they?' says Alice.

'They're okay,' says Lucy, 'they got lucky, that's all. Partridge
is the one to watch . . .'

'. . . three years I've been waiting for this, three years . . .'
mutters Patrick, walking in his tight little circle.

'. . . we're just a little on edge, that's all,' says Lucy, 'we just
need to lighten up a little! Start to have fun, relax!'

I suddenly need a drink. Is there a bar in the building, I
wonder? 'Maybe we should all just go to the bar, have a pint or two, just get loosened up a bit?' I suggest.

Patrick stops walking. 'What?' he hisses.

'You don't think it's a good idea, then?'

'Brian, you answered eight starter questions during that
rehearsal and got six of them wrong. That's minus thirty
points . . .'


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'That's not true . . .' I insist. 'Is it?1 and 1 look to Lucy for
some support, but she's just staring at her shoes. Patrick turns
on her.

'Lucia, dimmi, parli Italiano?' and, embarrassed, Lucy says, lSi, un pochino.''

Then to Alice, 'E to Alice, dimmi, parli anche to I'italiano?'

'Si, parlo I'italiano, ma solo come una turista . . .' sighs
Alice.

'He's asking us if we speak Ital . . .' whispers Lucy.

'I know what he's asking, Lucy!' I snap.

'So, do you speak Italian?' asks Patrick.

'No! No, not as such . . .'

'And yet Lucy does, and Alice does, and / do, and yet it
was you, Brian Jackson, you, the sole non-Italian speaker on
the team, who felt qualified to attempt to answer a starter
question on Italian musical terms . . .'

'No one else was buzzing, so I thought I'd have a stab . . .'

'And that's the problem with you, isn't it Brian? It's just
stab, stab, stab with you, stabbing away in the dark, getting it wrong every time, but just stabbing away, over and over again,
just getting everything wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,
wrong, wrong, and losing the game, and dragging us all down
with you.' His face is bright burgundy now, the same colour
as his university sweatshirt, and inches away from mine . . .

'Hey, come on guys, it was just a rehearsal,' says Lucy, trying
to squeeze in between us while Alice stands a little further off,
her hands over her face, peeking through her fingers.

'. . . I don't even know why I let you on this team in the
first place! You turn up pissed and reeking of booze, you act
like you know it all when in fact you know nothing. As far as
this team is concerned you're a complete dead-weight. . .' his
hands on my chest, fingers splayed and I can feel a fine spray
of his saliva on my cheek . . . 'we'd probably be better off
with some bloke off the street, even that stupid bloody mate
of yours, Spencer, you're both as pig-ignorant as each other.


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344

1


DAVID NICHOLLS

w

It's like they say, you can take the boy out of Essex, but you
can't take . . .'

And I suppose he must carry on talking after that, because
his mouth continues to move, but I don't really hear what
he's saying because all I'm aware of is his hands tugging on
the lapels of Dad's brown corduroy jacket, pulling me up on
to my toes. That's when I make my decision, that's where
something snaps - except it doesn't really snap, just stretches
- and maybe it's the mention of Spencer, or the remnants of
last night's booze, but that's the point at which I decide to
head-butt Patrick Watts. I take a little leap up into the air, not a
basketball player's leap by any means, just a little spring on the
balls of my feet, and I bring my head down as hard as I possibly
can into the very centre of his screaming burgundy face. And
I'm ashamed to say that I have a fleeting but intense sense of
pleasure and satisfaction and righteous vengeance before the
pain finds its way to my brain and everything goes black.



I

4O


QUESTION: In T.S. Eliot's Love Song Of J. Alfred
Prufrock, the evening is 'spread out against the
sky . . . ?'

ANSWER: '. . . Like a patient etherised upon a table.'


'As a Glaswegian, born and bred, I think it's safe to say that
what we're looking at here is an absolutely classic misunderstanding
of the basic principle of the head-butt,' says Rebecca
Epstein. 'The whole point of a head-butt is to bring the hard part of your forehead down with as much force as possible on
to the soft part of your opponent's nose. What you've done
here, Brian, is bring the soft part of your nose down against the hard part of his forehead. Hence the blood and the loss
of consciousness.'

I open my eyes and find myself lying on my back on two
office desks pushed together. Lucy Chang is standing over me,
brushing my fringe back out of my eyes, holding up three
fingers and asking, 'How many fingers am I holding up?'

'If I get the answer wrong, do we lose five points?'

She smiles. 'Not this time, no.'

'Then the answer is three.'

'And the capital of Venezuela is . . . ?'

'Caracas?'

'Attaboy, Mr Jackson,' says Lucy. 'I think you're going to
be just fine.'

We seem to be a couple of floors up; looking out over the
back of the TV studios in the University Challenge production


345


DAVID NICHOLLS


office; reference books scattered everywhere, photos of past
winners on the walls. I turn my head to the side and see
Rebecca, sat on the edge of a desk opposite me, looking
pretty - not pretty, because the word 'pretty' is reactionary
and gender-specific, but attractive - in a long, plain, clingy
black dress under a black denim jacket, swinging her Doc
Martens backwards and forwards.

'You came, then?'

'Oh, aye. Wouldn't have missed this for the world. There
I was on the minibus with a bunch of pissed-up Young
Conservatives all with their college scarves and their ironic
teddy-bears, and paying three quid towards the petrol I might
add, which is an absolute rip-off if you do the maths, and I
thought, Christ, what am I doing here? This is hell\ And then
we arrive and we're all getting a wee pre-show tour of the
studio, and we turn a corner just in time to see you lying
on the floor unconscious in a pool of your own blood, and
I thought, well, there you go, if that's not worth three quid,
then I don't know what is.'

I look down, and see that I'm wearing just trousers and a
vest, the same vest I've been wearing for the last thirty-six
hours, which is dappled in blood down the front, and has a
tang of gin to it. In fact, it's more than just a tang. It's fumes.
I'm giving off fumes.

'What happened to my clothes?'

'We ravished you, Lucy and me, while you were unconscious.
Don't mind, do you?'

Lucy blushes. 'Alice is washing your shirt in the ladies'
washroom, trying to get it dry under the hand dryer . . .'

'Is the jacket all right?'

'The jacket's fine . . .'

'. . . it's just it was my Dad's jacket . . .'

'It's fine, really . . .'

Gingerly I sit up sideways, on the edge of the desk, and
imagine that I can feel my brain shifting too, buffeting against


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the sides of my skull. Lucy holds up the mirror from her
make-up kit, and I take a deep breath and look. It could be
worse I suppose; my nose seems no more lumpy and misshapen
than usual, though there's a dark waxy rim of what looks like
red crayon around each nostril.

'How's Patrick?' I ask Lucy.

'Not a scratch on him,' she says.

'Pity,' I say.

'Hey, that's enough now,' she says, but smiling conspiratorially.
Then with a straight face, 'There is a problem, though.'

'What?'

'Well... I don't think they're going to let you do the show.'

'What* You're kidding!'

'I'm afraid not.'

'But why not?'

'Well, you did assault our team captain.'

The didn't assault him! I hit him oncel And he provoked
me, you saw that, he was lifting me up by my jacket! And
anyway, I'm the one who got hurt! How can I have assaulted
him if I'm the one who got hurt? . . .'

'And that, m'lord, is the case for the defence,' says Rebecca.

'I know, Brian, but still, Patrick's not happy. He's got a
friend, from the Economics Department, who's prepared to
take your place at the last minute . . .'

'You're kidding . . .'

'You can't really blame him, Brian. You turn up stinking of
booze, get a whole load of questions wrong, then try and break
his nose . . .'

'But my mum's here and everything!'

'It's only a stupid quiz, Brian,' says Rebecca, still swinging
her feet.

'But she's come all the way from Southend! . . .' and I can
hear my voice crack slightly, which is pathetic in a man of
nineteen, I know, but I wanted so much to be on the show.
I have a sudden vision of me trying to explain to Mum why


347


DAVID NICHOLLS


I'm not out there after all. It's going to feel like being sent
home early from school, it's so embarrassing, so shaming that
I can't bear to think about it.

'What does Julian say?'

'Julian says it's up to Patrick. He's with him at the moment,
talking it through . . .'

'And what do you think?'

Lucy frowns for a moment, then says, 'I think that if you
both promise to play nice, and stop behaving like children, and
agree to work together as a team, and go a little easy on the
buzzer, then I think that, yes, you should do the show . . .'

'Well, can you say that to him for me, Lucy? Please?'

And she sighs, checks her watch, looks at the door, and
says, I'll see what I can do,' then she heads out, leaving
me and Rebecca in the production office, sat on the edge
of opposite desks, about fifteen feet apart from each other,
both swinging our legs and trying to ignore what I think is
called 'an atmosphere between us'. When the silence becomes
too uncomfortable, Rebecca nods towards the door.

'She's nice.'

'Who?'

'Lucy.'

'Yes. Yes, she is. Really, really nice.'

'So why don't you go out with her then?' says Rebecca.

'. . . What?'

'. . . I just think she seems nice, that's all . . .'

'. . . because I don't want to! . . .'

'. . . but you just said she was nice . . .'

'. . . lots of people are nice . . .'

'. . . not beautiful enough for you, is that it? . . .'

'. . . I didn't say that, did I? . . .'

'. . . not sexy enough? . . .'

'. . . Rebecc . . .'

'. . . because, let me tell you, you're no oil-painting yourself,
pal . . .'


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STARTER FOR TEN


'. . . no, I know . . 

'. . . sat there in your blood-stained vest . . .'

'. . . all right . . .'

'. . . which is none too fresh I might add, even from here . . .'

'. . . thank you, Rebecca . . .'

'. . . so why not, then? . . .'

'. . . because she probably doesn't like me! . . .'

'. . . how d'you know? If you haven't asked? You didn't
see the way she was looking at you while you were in your
coma . . .'

'. . . rubbish . . .'

'. . . brushing your hair out your eyes and everything, it was
a very touching scene . . .'

'. . . rubbish! . . .'

'. . . lovingly sticking toilet-roll up your nostril, it was
actually quite erotic . . .'

'. . . Rebecca! . . .'

'. . . it's true! If I hadn't been here she'd've probably had
your kecks off too, and you none the wiser . . .'

'. . . rubbish! . . .'

'. . . so why are you blushing then? . . .'

'. . . I'm not! . . .'

'. . . so why don't you ask her? . . .'

'. . . ask her what? . . .'

'. . . ask her out . . .'

'. . . because I don't . . .'

'. . . what? . . .'

'. . . I'm not . . .'

'. . . go on . . .'

'. . . in . . . love with her . . .'

'. . . same as you're not with me?'

'. . . what?

'. . . you heard . . .'

'. . . Rebecca, can we? . . .'

'. . . what?'


349


DAVID NICHOLLS


'. . . talk about this later?'

'. . . why not now?'

'Because!' and I take a deep breath, the first for some time.
'Because I've got other things on my mind. Okay?'

'Okay,' she says. 'Okay, point taken,' and she slips down
off the high desk, tugging her long dress, as if she's not quite
got the hang of it, crosses the office and sits next to me on the
edge of the table.

'Is that a frock you're wearing?' I say.

'Fuck-off it's a frock. It's a dress. How's your head?'

'Oh, you know. A bit sore.'

She reaches into the inside pocket of her coat and pulls out
a quarter-bottle of whisky.

'Care for some medicine?'

'Better not.'

'Go on, hair of the dog?'

'It was a different dog. Gin.'

'Och, that's just plain nasty. You do know gin's a depressant,
don't you?'

'I think that's why I was drinking it.'

'Hmmmmmmm, self-pity and self-loathing - a winning combination. No wonder women find you irresistible. You're
quite the Travis Bickle.' And she takes a swig from the
bottle, offers it to me again. 'Trust me, scotch is definitely
the way to go.'

'They'll smell it on my breath,' I say, but she reaches deep
into her other pocket, and pulls out a packet of extra-strong
mints. 'Go on, then,' I say. She passes me the bottle and I
take a long swig, then pop a mint in my mouth, letting
the tastes combine, and we look at each other and smile,
and sit there, like school kids, feet dangling off the edge of
the desk.

'Of course, you know Alice has been seeing someone else?'
I say.

'Uh-huh.'


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STARTER FOR TEN


That guy Neil, the one who played Richard 111 last term,
always hobbling around in the student bar . . .'

'The cunt on crutches . . .'

That's the one. I suppose you knew.'

'Well, I saw him scuttling out of her room a couple of times
so let's just say I had an inkling . . .'

'Or a bunchr She looks at me quizzically, 'You know, like a hump, like Richard III . . . ? So why didn't you tell me then?'

'Not really any of my business, is it? Your love life.'

'No. Maybe not,' and I have to confess that, even with all
that's happened, and Alice and the knock on the head and
everything, that I think about kissing her, tucking the mint to
a back corner of my mouth with my tongue, and leaning over
and kissing her right now, just to see what would happen.

But the moment passes and instead I look at my watch.

They're taking their time.'

'Who?'

The jury.'

'Want me to go and check?'

'Yeah, that would be great,' and she pushes herself off the
edge of the desk, and heads for the door. 'Put a good word in
for me,' I say.

Till see if I can think of one,' she says, adjusts her dress, and
goes, and I'm left alone.

I always get a bit fidgety by myself with nothing to read,
especially sat in a vest, but thankfully this office is crammed
with books - mostly reference books, but still books - so I
pick up the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, which they'd
been using as a pillow, and that's when I see it.

On the desk.

A blue clipboard.

On the clipboard are some photocopied A4 sheets. It has
Julian the researcher's name handwritten at the top, so I
assume it's just his production notes. He must have brought
it with him when they carried me up here, and just left it on


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DAVID NICHOLLS


the desk. The A4 sheets aren't particularly interesting - just
the names of the team members, a seating plan, list of crew
names, all that kind of stuff. But in front of this is an envelope,
a thick manila envelope that feels as if it contains two packs
of playing cards. I unclip the envelope the clipboard.

The envelope isn't sealed. Or it is, but barely, just a half-inch
of glue holding it closed. All I'd need to do is slide my thumb
along the . . .

I throw the envelope down on the desk, as if it had just
become blisteringly hot.

Then I nudge it, pushing it away across the desk with the
tip of a fingernail.

Then I nudge it again, the way you nudge something to
check that it's dead.

Then I grab one corner, pull it back towards me.

Then I pick it up in two hands, hold it on my lap, look at
it.

Then I slide it back down the desk again, as far out of my
reach as possible.

And then I think 'oh bollocks to this' and I reach over and
open it.


352


41


QUESTION James Hogg, Saint Augustine, JeanJacques
Rousseau and Thomas de Quincey all have what literary
genre in common'''

ANSWER They all wrote 'Confessions'.


When I was doing my O-levels, just before the Chemistry
multiple-choice paper, I had a mild case of gastric flu. That was
what I was calling it anyway, and because it's contagious and I
had a fever - well, not a fever, just a very slight temperature
- I was allowed to take the exam un-invigilated in a tiny
little office next to the staff room, because that's the kind
of school-kid I was; absolutely and entirely trustworthy.

And I cheated.

Not in any major way, you understand. I just checked that
no one was coming, got my revision guide out and very
quickly looked up the periodic table to check the valency
of potassium or magnesium or something, then put it back
again, and that was it.

Also, incidentally, when I played Scrabble by candlelight
with Alice in Suffolk just after Christmas, I pulled out an '£'
and an 'S' and swapped them both surreptitiously for 'Z' and
'X', hence 'Amazed' and 'Foxed' on triple word scores.

And that's about it, cheating-wise. I'm not proud of myself
in either instance, but apart from the shame and what I believe
Sartre would call the 'bad faith' involved, the worst thing is
the nagging sense that the cheating was unnecessary. I'd have
won anyway, and all the cheating did was taint that sense of


353


DAVID NICHOLLS


victory. As Mum, and Sartre, would probably say, 'you're only
cheating yourself.'

But this isn't Scrabble or O-level Chemistry, this is much
more important. This is The Challenge, and there are at least
eight good reasons why it seems a perfectly reasonable idea for
me to cheat. 1) It's on telly for a start. Everyone I know will see
it, Spence, and Tone and Janet Parks, all my old teachers, and
Professor Morrison, and that bastard Neil Maclntyre, and then
of course there's 2) the studio audience; Mum's out there, and
Des, my stepdad-to-be, and Rebecca, and Chris the Hippie,
and that cow Erin. And then there's 3) my team-mates Patrick
and Lucy, especially Lucy, who I've been letting down, and	j|

who deserves so much to win, and 4) Alice of course, who
thinks I'm an idiot and a drunk and a liability and a fool, and
who I think I might still be in love with, and besides 5) I might
not even be on the team, so all this ethical wrestling could be
academic anyway, and 6) in a way, this situation isn't even my
fault, it's Julian's fault, for putting temptation in my way, and
7) everyone would do the same in the circumstances, everyone, and besides 8) I'm only human.

And that's why I decide to do what I do, which is technically cheating, but into which I introduce a strong element of
chance; I will allow myself to look at one card, and one card
only, that's all, I swear. But I'll have to be quick. I run over to
the door, open it a crack, look both ways, don't see anyone,
run back to the desk, take the cards out of the envelope.

They're divided with elastic bands into two piles, one of
starter questions, another of bonus questions. I cut the pile of
starter questions, about two-thirds of the way through, place
the two cut piles carefully on the desk face down, so that I
can put everything back precisely in the right place, close my
eyes tightly and pick a card from the top of the exposed pile,
holding it about three feet away from my closed eyes.

I can feel the blood beating in my eyelids.

I open my eyes and see, neatly typed . . .


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STARTER FOR TEN


QUESTION: How is the Dickensian character Philip Pirrip
better known?


. . . and I feel a little flush of irritation because I know this one, it's
easy, it's Pip in Great Expectations. What's the point in wrestling
with this kind of ethical dilemma if I know the answer already?
And even though I'd made a strict deal between myself and God,
or whoever, that I would only look at one card and one card
only, I grab another, the next in the pile, and turn it over.
Now that's better . . .


QUESTION: The state of California is bordered by three
states of the USA and one Mexican state; what are
they?

ANSWER: Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and the Mexican
state of Baja ('Lower') California.


Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. Perfect - just hard
enough to look impressive, but not so hard as to make me
appear freakish. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. But is that pronounced Baja, or Bayal Doesn't matter, I'll
make that part of my answer; I practise saying it aloud,
acting naturalistically; 'Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona?
And Baja . . .' (little smile, because my Spanish is a little
rusty) ... 'or is that perhaps Baya California?'

But what if Lucy knows the answer, too? I bet she does.
Doesn't matter, as long as one of us gets there before the other
team. In fact, it would actually be better for Lucy to answer,
because then my conscience will be clear. Oregon, Nevada,
Arizona and Baja California. Quickly now, put them back
in the right place in the pile, tap the edges together against
the desk, wrap the elastic band round, once, twice, put both
piles in the envelope and lick it, but not too much, just either
side of where I broke the seal, reattach it to the clipboard,


355


DAVID NICHOLLS


put the clipboard back exactly where I found it, practise
again, aloud. 'Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona and is it
Baja California? . . .'

I go to the window, look out over the rooftops and chimneys
of Manchester, and think about what I've got to do now. An
apology to Patrick first, sincere, humble but not grovelling,
acknowledging that we both got a little carried away, but
still maintaining Pride and Dignity. Then make some kind of
temporary peace with Alice, show that, yes I'm upset with her,
but that she's making a terrible mistake with this Neil guy, it's
her loss. And then I just have to prove to her what she's been
missing; with style and grace and modesty and with Alice by
my side, I'm going to win this game. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona
and Baja California . . .

There's a knock at the door, and Patrick enters looking
sombre, but flanked by Alice and Lucy, both of whom are
trying to conceal their smiles.
'Patrick.'

'Brian.'

'Apologies for earlier.'

'Apology accepted.' Then he clears his throat, and Lucy
gives him a little encouraging poke in the ribs. 'Well, um,
look, I've been talking with Lucy and Alice here, and we've
decided that maybe we've all been getting a little carried away,
a little over-excited, what with the studio lights and everything,
and - anyway, we've all decided that we'd very much like you
to stay on the team.'

'Thanks, Patrick,' I say, giving a solemn little nodding
bow.

'Thank you, Brian,' bowing back.

And Lucy is winking at me and laughing, and giving me the
thumbs-up discreetly at waist level, and Alice is holding out my
clean, newly ironed shirt and Dad's brown corduroy jacket.

'Okay, then,' I say. 'Let's go and kick some ass!'


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42


QUESTION- In E.M. Forster's novel Howards End, how
does Leonard Bast meet his unfortunate end?

ANSWER A bookcase falls on top of him, and his heart
gives way.


But before we go and kick some ass, we have a cup of tea
and some plain biscuits, then I go to the gents' and wash
my armpits with liquid soap and start to feel a little better.
Then we go to separate dressing rooms to have a little bit
of make-up applied. When your skin is as bad as mine, this
is potentially a pretty embarrassing experience, but a nice girl
called Janet does me, and it's really just a case of damage
limitation; a little spot of cover-up and just enough powder
to stop the oily droplets from my sebaceous glands glistening
under the studio lights. Three of us don't take long; Patrick's
had his university sweatshirt ironed, and his hair sealed safely
beneath a solid transparent carapace of hairspray, and Lucy's
changed into a very clean, neat, buttoned-up shirt, and has put
on a little lipstick and pinned her hair back with a butterfly
hair-grip. We stand around in the corridor, chatting amiably,
and it strikes me how nice she looks, and I'm trying to work
out a way of telling her this without sounding creepy, when
Alice steps out of her dressing room.

She's wearing a long, tight black sheath of a dress, high
at the neck, and tapered towards her ankles, some form of
fish-net hosiery, and strappy black high-heeled shoes, despite
the fact that her legs will never appear in front of the desk. She


357


DAVID NICHOLLS


looks like a film star, glowing, luminescent, and 1 suddenly feel
sick again.

'You think it's too much?' she says.

'Not at all. Alice, you look wonderful,' says Lucy. Julian
comes to fetch us, clutching the infamous clipboard, and gives
a little double-take when he sees Alice. 'Okay then, ladies and
gentlemen, when you're ready?' and we follow him down the
corridors to the studio. I stand behind Alice so that I can watch
her walk.

The other team are taking their seats when we arrive
at the studio, and we can hear the applause and shouts
of their supporters as we stand in the wings. Then Julian
gives us a nod, and it's time to make our entrance into
the gladiatorial arena. I follow Alice as we cross to take
our places, and hear a collective intake of breath from the
audience, stage-crew and cameramen stopping and staring,
whispering into their mouthpieces, and an audible hum of
admiration beneath the applause and whoops and cheers. She
hitches up her dress slightly as she slides behind our desk, as if
sliding into a limousine, and someone in the audience actually
wolf-whistles, which from a sexual-political point-of-view I
don't really approve of, but which causes a roll of laughter
through the studio. Alice laughs and holds our mascot, Eddie
the Teddy, in front of her face, and it's just like Mum always
says - 'beautiful and knows it. . .'

We settle in our seats, and smile at each other as the
excitement dies down.

'Peace?' she says.

'Peace,' I say, and then we peer out into the audience. Rose
and Michael Harbinson are there, and Rose gives a proud
little wave.

'Nice to see them with their clothes on!' I say, and Alice
gives me a reprimanding slap on the wrist. Mum, who's in the
second row just behind Rebecca, gives me a little fingers-only
wave, and two thumbs up, and I wave back.


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'Is that your mum?' asks Alice.

'Uh-huh.'

'She looks nice. I'd like to meet her.'

'I'm sure you will. One day.'

'Who's the man with the Tom Selleck moustache?'

'Uncle Des. Not a real uncle, we just call him that. As a
matter of fact, he's marrying Mum.'

'Your mum's getting married again?'

'Uh-huh.'

'That's brilliant news! You didn't tell me that!'

'Well, I was going to, yesterday night, but . . .'

'Yes. Oh. Yes, of course. Listen, Brian, that thing with Neil,
it isn't really going anywhere . . .'

'Alice

'It was just a fling, it doesn't mean that you and me . . .' but
she doesn't get to finish, because Bamber's making his entrance
now. The crowd's applauding and cheering, and Alice takes my
hand, and squeezes it tight, and my heart starts to beat faster,
and it's time to finish this thing, once and for all.


And of course eighteen minutes later we've lost.

Or as good as, anyway. It's 45 points to 90, but Partridge,
the peach-fluff-faced balding child, is clearly some incredible
genetically enhanced mutant freak who's been created in
a secret laboratory somewhere, because he just keeps firing
out correct answers, on every conceivable subject, one
after another '. . . Pope Pius XIII, The San Andreas Fault,
Herodotus, 2n-l(2n-l) where both n and 2n-l are prime
numbers, potassium nitrate, potassium chromate, potassium
sulphate . . .' and all this from someone who's meant to
be doing Modern History and who looks about six years
old. It isn't even fair to call it general knowledge, it's just knowledge, pure concentrated knowledge, and I decide that,
at the back of Partridge's head somewhere, there's a small
concealed button, and if you press it his face pops open


359


DAVID NICHOLLS


revealing banks of diodes and microchips and flashing l.e.d.s.
Meanwhile their captain, Norton, from Canterbury reading
Classics, barely needs to do a thing, just pass on the correct
answers to Bamber in his lovely, low, well-modulated voice,
then lean back and stretch and play with his lovely, lustrous
hair and shoot meaningful, see-you-afterwards looks
at Alice.

Patrick is starting to panic. There's a damp rim of sweat
forming round the neck of his burgundy sweatshirt, and he's
starting to get trigger-happy and make mistakes, terrible mistakes,
his trembling finger jabbing at the buzzer in a desperate
attempt to pull something back.

Buzz.

'George Stephenson?' says Patrick.

'No, I'm sorry, that's minus five points.'

'Brunei?' says Partridge.

'Correct! That's ten points . . .'

Buzz.

'Thomas Paine's The Rights of Man?' pleads Patrick.

'No, sorry, that's minus five points . . .'

'Paine's The Age of Reason,' says Partridge.

'Correct! That's another ten points . . .'

And so it goes on. Alice and I meanwhile are worse than
useless. She gets one question wrong, saying Dame Margot
Fonteyn when it should be Dame Alicia Markova, and I'm
barely opening my mouth at all, just nodding madly at whatever
Lucy says during team consultations. In fact, if it wasn't
for the amazing Doctor Lucy Chang we'd actually be in minus
figures by now, because for everything Patrick gets wrong, she
gets one right, just quietly, modestly. 'The study of bees?' Correct
- 'I think therefore I am?' - Correct - 'Zadok The
Priest by Handel?' - Correct - and at one point, I find myself
leaning past Alice and watching Lucy, pushing her glossy black
hair behind her ear, modestly looking at the floor as the crowd
applauds her, and I think about what Rebecca said; maybe I


36O


STARTER FOR TEN


should have asked her out? Why didn't I think of that? Maybe
that's the answer. Maybe, if this thing with Alice doesn't work
out . . .

But what am I thinking about? We're losing 65 points to
100 now, and the freaky boy Partridge is answering three in
a row about the mathematical theories of Evariste Galois or
something completely incomprehensible, and I'm just sat here
dumbly staring at the back of our mascot's head, and we're
losing, losing, losing, and I realise that even with Oregon,
Nevada, Arizona and Baja California up my sleeve, the only
way we can possibly win is if someone in the audience,
Rebecca Epstein say, takes Partridge out with a high-powered
sniper's rifle.

And then something amazing happens; a question that I
know the answer to.

'Porphyria's Lover, in which the protagonist strangles his
beloved with a braid of her hair, is a narrative poem by which
Victorian poet?'

And no one buzzes. No one except me. I buzz, then try
to open my mouth, which seems to be stuck together with
flour-and-water paste, and manage to get the words out.

'Robert Browning?'

'Correct!'

And there's applause, actual applause, led by my Mum I
have to say, but it's applause none the less, and we've got a
crack at the bonus questions . . .

'. . . which are on plant-cell structure!'

Alice and I groan audibly and slump back in our chairs,
redundant. But it doesn't matter, because Doctor Lucy Chang's
there, and what Doctor Lucy Chang doesn't know about
plant-cell structure isn't worth knowing. She polishes them
off without breaking a sweat.

'. . . parenchyma . . . collenchyma. ... is it sclerenchyma?'

Oh yes, it is sclerenchyma, and the crowd are cheering again,
because we're back in the game, 90 plays 115 now, and I'm


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DAVID NICHOLLS


awake again, because I now know that 1 - no, not I, but we, the team - can win this after all.

'Another starter question, the Dickensian character Philip
Pirrip is . . . ?'

Know it.

Buzz.

'Pip in Great Expectations,' I say, clearly and confidently.

'Very well anticipated,' says Bamber, and there's a round of
applause from the audience, and a wolf-whistle even, I think
from Rebecca, who I can see in the front row beaming away,
and I imagine that this is what it might feel like to score a goal.
I try not to smile though. I just look serious and confident and
my mind is racing because I know what's coming up soon. 'Oregon, um, Arizona, eh, Nevada and Baja - or is it Baya?
- California? But keep calm, keep calm, bonus questions first,
a potential fifteen points, plus the ten I've just won for us,
enough to put us in neck and neck, 115 all, but it all depends
on what the bonus questions are about . . .

'And your bonus questions are all about opening and closing
lines from the plays of William Shakespeare.'

'Yesss/' I think, but don't say, or show in my face, 'I can
do these, I bet I know these.' The opposition harrumph of
course, slump down in their chairs because they know they'd
have been able to get them right too, and Norton, reading
Classics, tosses his hair despondently, but tough luck boys,
because they're ours now. Alice must be feeling confident too,
because she glances at me, nods and smiles, as if to say 'Come
on then, Bamber, do your worst, it won't matter, because
me and Brian are soul-mates and together we can handle anything you throw at us' and here it comes, the first bonus
question . . .

'Which play begins with the lines, "Hence! home you idle
creatures, get you home/Is this a holiday?"'

Know it.

'Julius Caesar,' I whisper to Patrick.


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STARTER FOR TEN


'Sure?' says Patrick.

'Absolutely. Did it for O-level.'

'Julius Caesar,' says Patrick, decisively.

'Correct!' says Bamber, and there's a smattering of applause,
not much, just enough, before the next question is on its
way.

'Which play ends with the words, "Myself will straight
abroad; and to the state/This heavy act with heavy heart
relate."'

Know it. Othello.

'Is it Hamlet?' Alice whispers to Patrick.

'No, I think it's Othello,' I say, kind but firm.

'Lucy?' says Patrick.

'Sorry. No idea.'

'I really am ninety-nine per cent sure it's Hamlet,' says
Alice again.

'Brian?'

'I think Hamlet ends with something about bodies being
taken out and shots being fired. The "heavy act" here is
the death of Desdemona and Othello, so I'm fairly sure it is Othello, but if you want to say Hamlet, Patrick, then by all
means go with Hamlet.'

And Patrick looks between us, Alice and I, makes his choice,
turns back to his microphone, and says 'Is it ... Othello?'

'It is Othellol' and the crowd goes wild. Patrick reaches
down the length of the desk and rubs my forearm madly,
and Lucy winks, and Alice looks at me, this glowing look
of gratitude and humility and genuine fondness, a look that
I've never seen from her before. Her hand reaches underneath
the desk between us, rubs my thigh and then finds my hand
and squeezes it, rubbing my hot damp palm with her thumb,
and now she's squeezing her strappy black shoe in between
my two great, flapping fat feet, and rubbing my ankle, and
we look at each other for what must only be a second
but seems like forever, and the applause goes on and on


363


DAVID NICHOLLS


and I smile, despite myself, but Bamber's speaking again,


saying . . .

'Your final bonus question; Which play ends with the sung
lines "But that's all one, our play is done/And we'll strive to
please you everyday"?'

Know it.

And still holding hands under the table, as one, in perfect
unison, Alice and I whisper, 'Twelfth Night!'

'Twelfth ,V/gM?' says Patrick

'Twelfth Night is correct!' says Bamber, and the crowd
applauds and still secretly holding Alice's hand under the
desk I peel out at Rebecca in the audience, and she's sat
up in her seat, whooping and whistling with her fingers in
her mouth and clapping with her hands up above her head.
Mum's sat m the row behind, putting two thumbs up, and
Des is clapping too, leaning across, saying in her ear, 'How
the hell docs your son know all this stuff? You must be so
proud!' or something like that I imagine, and under the sound
of the applause I think I hear Alice say something like 'you're
absolutely Amazing', and then Bamber's saying:

'Very well done! That brings you neck and neck, with four
minutes lefton the clock, so still plenty of time for both teams.
Here we gothen, fingers on the buzzers and your next starter
question, for ten points. The state of . . .'

Know it.

And still holding on tightly to Alice's hand under the desk,
with my right hand I reach for the buzzer, and buzz, and say,
with absolute clarity: 'Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja or
is it pronounced Baya? - California?'

And ther I sit back in my chair and wait for the applause.

Anditdcesn'tcome.


Nothing.

No applpse, just this terrible silence.


I.

I don't.


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STARTER FOR TEN


I don't understand.

I look to Alice for some explanation, but she's just staring
straight at me with this strange, confused half-smile on her
face, which initially I take to be awe, frank awe at my
brilliance, but which changes in front of my eyes and settles
into something much, much worse. I look down the desk, and
there it is again, the same look, from Lucy and Patrick, a kind
of horrified . . . contempt. I look out into the audience, and see
that it's a serried rank of silent black holes, mouths hanging
open under mystified frowns, except for Rebecca, who is leant
forward in her chair with her head in her hands. There's a
growing rumble from the studio audience, and then someone
starts to laugh, loud and hysterical, and with a sudden spasm of
pain and regret that feels like pitching backwards into space, I
realise what I've done.

I've answered the question correctly before it has been
asked.

Bamber Gascoigne is the first to break the silence.

'Well, rather remarkably, that is in fact the correct answer,
so. . .' his finger's in one ear, consulting with the control room,
and then he's saying '. . . so I think perhaps we'd better . . .
stop . . . recording . . . for a moment or two?'

And underneath the desk, Alice lets go of my hand.


365


Epilogue


A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the Brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.

Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism


I know that something good is going to happen.

And I don't know when,

But just saying it could even make it happen.

Kate Bush, 'Cloudbusting', The Hounds of Love

43


THE FINAL QUESTION: At 16O miles long on its East-West
axis, the largest of the Greek Islands, with its administrative
centre at Heraklion, which Mediterranean island
was the home of the first true European civilisation, the
Minoans?

ANSWER: Crete.


12th August 1986
How-di stranger! (*'Howdy?' Sp.!?)


How ya doing? Bet this is a surprise, after all this time! Yes,
the postmark on the front is correct - I'm actually abroad for the
first time. Somewhere hot too! I even have a tan, of sorts, or will
have when the peeling stops. Rather predictably I 'over-did it on
the first day' and was in quite a lot of pain for a while, and had to
eat standing up, but am better now. (My skin's cleared up too, but
you don't need to know that!!!) I've also learnt to snorkel, subject
to panic-attacks. Food is great - lots of burnt meat, absolutely no
vegetables. Today I ate my first piece of Feta cheese. Hmmm little
bit like salty packing material. Do you remember that time
we went to Luigi's, and you wore that ball gown?

Anyway.

Your postcard arrived just before we left, and was a nice
surprise, and a relief too. After our little, um, adventure, I thought
perhaps that you might still be a bit angry with me. Do you ever
see Patrick? Is he recovered yet, or is my name still mud? Send
him my regards, stand back and watch his face change colour.


369


DAVID NICHOLLS


1 think that's really great news about you playing the rule of
Helen Keller next term. I imagine that it's going to be a real challenge. Still, at least there's no lines to learn! What was it Noel
Coward said about acting being all about not bumping into the
furniture? Ha-ha! Sorry!!! Not funny. Seriously, really, really well
done. You'll be a great Helen. Maybe I'll come down and see you in
it, especially as I missed your Hedda (as the remorseful goalkeeper
once said! Geddit? A football joke! Ha-ha!) It would be good to
see you again, after all this time. There's loads to tell you . . .


. . . and I have to stop writing at this point, because I can hear
her coming up the stairs from her early evening swim, so I
quickly tuck the airmail letter inside the book, throw myself
on the bed, and pretend to be reading One Hundred Years of
Solitude.


In the end, it was Julian the nice young researcher that I felt
most sorry for. For my story to make any sense, I had to drop
him in it a bit.

Basically it went like this; while I was lying on the desk I'd
accidentally knocked the clipboard, his clipboard, the one he'd
left behind when they carried me up there, onto the floor, and
the envelope had burst open, scattering the question cards all
over the floor. Naturally, as soon as I realised what the cards
were I'd put them back in the envelope straight away, but
obviously I must have noticed what was written on one of
the cards before I could get it out of sight. You know, sort
of subliminally.

And they were pretty nice about it, considering that they
had to scrap the recording and send everyone home. I mean,
they weren't like the Gestapo or anything, they didn't shine
an anglepoise in my eyes or rough me up, because I suppose technically I hadn't done anything wrong. Nothing that I could
be prosecuted for, anyway.

Of course they had to disqualify the whole team, because even


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though I insisted that it was only me involved, and completely
my fault and everything, they couldn't risk it. So that was it.
That was the end of The Challenge. For everyone.

And I have to admit, the whole affair was pretty embarrassing.
So much so that I didn't feel I could really travel back
with the rest of the team, because I wasn't sure that they'd
let me in the car with them, and I was pretty certain that I
wouldn't be welcome on the supporters' minibus. So I went
back to Southend with Mum in Des's van instead, squeezed
in the front seat. You know that footage that you see on the
news, of criminals being rushed out of police stations hidden
under a grey blanket? Well, it was a bit like that. As we drove
out of the car park, I could see the others standing around
Alice's yellow 2CV and Patrick looked as if he was shouting
and kicking the tyres of the car, and Lucy was trying to calm
him down, and Alice was leaning up against the car, still in that
wonderful black dress with Eddie the Teddy dangling from one
hand, just looking so sad and beautiful. I caught her eye as we
drove past in the van, and she must have said 'Look, there he
is!' or something, because they all turned, and, well, there isn't
really any obvious way to behave in a situation like that, there
isn't really a facial expression to adopt, so I just mouthed the
word 'sorry' through the glass.

I'm not sure if they saw it.

Patrick started shouting something that I couldn't make out,
and looking around for something to throw, and Alice just
shook her head very slowly.

But I noticed that Lucy waved, which I thought was really
nice of her.


When she's safely asleep, having her early evening doze, I go
out onto the veranda that overlooks the sea, sit at the wooden
table, and carry on writing.


Sorry about that. Got interrupted. Where was I? Yes, maybe


371


DAVID NICHOLLS


7 could come down and see you do your Helen Keller thing,
though it's quite a long way to travel. I'm moving to Dundee
you see. I've got a place, starting next October. Eng Lit again,
though up there they just call it 'Literature', as I think it's a
bit of an issue. It feels quite good, having a fresh start and all
that. I am hopeful for the future, and hope to concentrate a
bit more on my studies this time . . .


I told Mum the same story that I'd told the authorities, and
I think she believed me, though she didn't say much at the
time. But in the early hours of the next morning, when we
finally arrived back in Southend and I walked up the stairs to
my old bedroom, she said that it didn't matter, and that she
was proud of me anyway, and it was nice to hear her say it,
even if I wasn't sure it was actually true.

Then the next afternoon I phoned the English Department,
and said that I wouldn't be back for a week or so on account
of a sudden illness. But word must have got around already,
because Professor Morrison didn't even ask what was wrong
with me. He just said that he quite understood, that it sounded
like a good idea, and to take as long as I wanted. So I
spent most of that week in bed, sleeping mainly, reading,
not drinking, waiting for the smoke to clear.

But some smoke you know is just never going to clear. After
two weeks had passed and I still hadn't really left my bedroom,
I decided that maybe it was best not to go back after all. So
Des and me drove up one afternoon in his van, picked up all
my stuff while Marcus and Josh were out, and drove home
the same afternoon. Then I went back to bed, and pretty much
stayed there, until Mum insisted that I go and see the doctor,
and after that things started to seem a little bit better.

The rest of the year I spent back in my old job at Ashworth
Electricals, the toaster factory. I think they were pleased to
have me back. Mum and Des had to put the grand opening
of their B-and-B empire on hold for six months, but they were


372


STARTER FOR TEN


pretty good about it, and Des is all right I suppose. Spencer
was up and about by April, and got a suspended sentence and
a pretty hefty fine. But I managed to get him a job in Ashworth
Electricals with me, and so I got to spend a bit more time with
him, which was good. I didn't tell him the whole story about
what happened, and he didn't ask, which was maybe best. I
saw Tone a bit too, but not so much, because he always seems
to be away on 'secret manoeuvres' on Salisbury Plain.

What else? I read a lot. I wrote some poetry, most of it
pretty rotten, some short stories, and a radio play; a first
person, stream-of-consciousness interior monologue based on Robinson Crusoe, but updated, and from Man Friday's point
of view. I listened to The Hounds of Love over and over again,
and decided that it is almost certainly Kate's best album.

And then in June, completely out of the blue, I got a
phone call.


Anyway, must close soon. I can smell burning meat, which
means it's nearly time for dinner!!!

Looking back, it was a funny time, wasn't it, Alice?
Strange, I mean. The metaphor (or do I mean 'simile'???!)
that keeps coming back to me is that it's a bit like when I
was a kid and Dad would buy me an Airftx kit. I'd sit down
at the kitchen table and before I even opened the box, I'd
make sure that I had all the right tools, the right kind of
glue and all the right paints, matt and gloss, and a really,
really sharp craft knife, and I'd promise myself that I was
going to follow the instructions absolutely to the letter, and
really take my time, not leap ahead, not rush things, proceed
with care, concentrate, really, really concentrate, so that at
the end I'd have this perfect model plane, the Platonic ideal
of what a model plane should be. But somewhere along the
line things would always start to go wrong - I'd lose a piece
under the table, or smudge the paint, or a propeller that was
meant to revolve would get glue on it and stick tight, or I'd


373


DAVID NICHOLLS


get paint on the see-through cockpit, or the transfers would
tear as I slid them on - so that when I showed it to Dad there
was something about the finished product that was somehow
just . . . not quite as good as I'd hoped for.

I've been attempting to use this extended metaphor as the
basis of a poem, but haven't quite cracked it yet.

Anyway, all the best for the new academic year. I'll
drop you a line as soon as I'm settled and then maybe
we can . . .


'Who are you writing to?' she says, her eyes blinking sleepily
in the evening sun.

'Just Mum,' I say. 'How was your swim?'

'Very refreshing. Except I've got something in my hair.'

'Want me to pick it out?'

'Yes, please,' and without putting on her top she strolls
out on to the veranda, and sits down on the floor between
my knees.

'D'you want to put some clothes on first, maybe?' I say.

'D'you want a smack in the teeth, maybe? . . .'

'People can see! . . .'

'So what! God, Jackson, I swear, it's like going on holiday
with Mary-fucking-Poppins . . .'

'You know, you really do swear much too much.'

'Just shut your face and look, will you? See anything?'

'Uh-huh. Looks like oil or tar or something.'

'Is it coming out?'

'Not really.'

'Think it might be easier to do in the shower?'

'Yeah, maybe.'

'So - you coming then?'

'Yeah. Alright.'


So here we are. It's early days of course. The original idea
when we talked on the phone was that as we travelled around


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we'd definitely get separate bedrooms, or at least a room with
two single beds in, but that plan proved too expensive, and
sort of fell to bits on the third night, after a very long, frank
conversation and a whole bottle of Metaxa brandy.

But, anyway, like I say, here we are. I'm not really where
I expected to be, or even necessarily where I wanted to be,
but then, who is? And I didn't expect her to be here with me
either, to be honest. She still swears too much of course, but
she makes me laugh a lot too. Which doesn't sound like much,
but actually didn't even seem possible just a few months ago.
So it's all right.

It's actually pretty much all right.

All young people worry about things, it's a natural and
inevitable part of growing up, and at the age of sixteen
my greatest anxiety in life was that I'd never again achieve
anything as good, or pure, or noble, or true, as my O-level
results. And I suppose I still might not. But that was all a long,
long time ago. I'm nineteen now, and I like to think I'm a lot wiser and cooler about these things.


375


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Thanks are due to the following people for their input, support
and jokes: everyone at Hodder for their enthusiasm, in
particular Mari Evans for her superb editing; Jonny Geller
and all at Curtis Brown. A particular debt of thanks is also
owed to Hannah MacDonald for her invaluable advice and
to Roanna Benn, for her early enthusiasm. Also Douglas
Kean, Michael McCoy, Josh Varney, Nicola Doherty, Emma
Longhurst, Justin Salinger, Tamsin Pike, Christine Langan,
Camilla Campbell, Nicholas Wilson-Jones, Olivia Trench,
Susie Phillips, Crispian Balmer, Sophie Carter, Eve Claxton,
Matthew Warchus and Nell Denton for wearing that dress.
For dramatic purposes, certain deliberate alterations have been
made to the University Challenge rules and filming procedure
- apologies to any purists.

I am indebted to innumerable reference books, but in particular
the Encyclopaedia Britannica and Peter Gwyn's University
Challenge: The First 40 Years, both of which no home
should be without. I would also like to offer sincere thanks to
Bamber Gascoigne, Kate Bush, Jeremy Paxman and the 2002
champions, Somerville College, Oxford, for their unwitting
inspiration.

Most of all, I would like to thank Hannah Weaver, who is
on every page whether she's aware of it or not.


376


Author's Note


Thank you to the following for their permission to reproduce
copyright material:


Howards End by E. M. Forster, extract reproduced by permission
of the Provost and Scholars of King's College, Cambridge,
and the Society of Authors as the literary representatives of the
E. M. Forster Estate.


Love Cats, Words and Music by Robert Smith and Lawrence
Tolhurst © Fiction Songs Ltd. All rights reserved. Used by
permission.


Get Up (I Feel Like Being A Sex Machine], Words and Music
by James Brown, Bobby Byrd and Ronald Lenhoff © 1971
Dynatone Publishing Co., USA, Warner/Chappell Music Ltd.,
London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International
Music Publications Ltd. All rights reserved.


Cloudbusting, Words and Music by Kate Bush © 1985. Reproduced
by permission of Kate Bush trading as Noble & Brite,
London WC2H OQY.


Perfect Skin, Words and Music by Lloyd Cole © 1984. Reproduced
by permission of EMI Songs Ltd., London WC2H
OQY


Life on Mars, Words and Music by David Bowie © 1971.
Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd./Moth
Music/Tintoretto Music, London WC2H OQY.


Words by Joni Mitchell taken from the songs The Last Time
I Saw Richard and Big Yellow Taxi. By kind permission of
Sony/ATV Music Publishing.


377


DAVID NICHOLLS


A New England by Billy Bragg, lyrics reproduced by kind
permission of BMG Publishing UK.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock © The. S. Eliot, Collected
Poems 1909-1962, reproduced by kind permission of Faber
& Faber Ltd.


Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, first published by
The Bodley Head, extract reproduced by permission of David
Higham Associates.


Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, copyright © Evelyn
Waugh 1945, extract reproduced by permission of PFD on
behalf of the Evelyn Waugh Trust.


The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis,
copyright © C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. 1950. Extract reprinted
by permission.


Every reasonable effort has been made to contact all copyright
holders, but if there are any errors or omissions, Hodder &
Stoughton will be pleased to insert the appropriate acknowledgement
in any subsequent printing of this publication.


378


»"



David Nicholls is a screenwriter
who created Rescue Me, starring
Sally Phillips, and / Saw You, starring Fay Ripley, and co-wrote
the third series of C-©ld F«t.
He was also co-writer for the
film adaptation of Sam Shepherd Simpatico, which starred Nick
Nolte, Jeff Bridges and Sharon
Stone. Starter for Ten is David's
first novel.


Author photograph: © Joss Barratt / Stay Still Ltd