‘Where is she, by the way?’
‘She’s over by the DJ, talking to Angelo.’
And there he was, leaning over her, his arms braced on either side as if preventing her escape. In fairness, she didn’t seem too keen to leave, laughing as she was, touching her hair, her face. I picked up two bottles of beer and approached. In honour of this very special day, Angelo had ironed his mechanic’s overalls and shaved his head, and he ran both hands over his scalp as he followed Connie’s look and watched me approach.
‘Angelo, this is Douglas.’
‘Wotcha, Douglas.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Angelo.’ Keen to avoid awkwardness or rancour, I had decided to adopt an amiable, amused demeanour, pointedly relaxed, but he took both my hands, which were encumbered with beer bottles, and pulled me close. Angelo was my height but distinctly broader, his eyes unblinking, very blue, a little crazed — the much-vaunted ‘intensity’, I suppose, turning our conversation into a staring competition.
‘What’s up, my friend? Are you nervous?’ he said as I looked away.
‘No, not at all. Why would I be?’
‘Because you’re sweating like a bastard.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s this jacket. Bad choice, I’m afraid.’
He was holding my lapels now. ‘Corduroy. From the French, “cord du roi”, cloth of the king.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, I’ve taught you something. A noble fabric, very regal. And it’s always good to hear your trousers when you walk, so people know you’re coming. Means you can’t sneak up on people and BOO.’
I jumped and he laughed. ‘Angelo,’ said Connie. I was aware of being bested by this man, and of hating him with a venom that I found new and invigorating.
‘Clearly Connie’s a lucky lady,’ he continued. ‘Lucky to be shot of yours truly, at least. I presume she’s mentioned me.’
‘No. No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’
Angelo grinned and reached for the knot of my tie. ‘Here, you’re coming undone.’
‘Angelo, leave it, please,’ said Connie, a hand on his arm. Angelo stepped back and laughed.
‘Well, we should hang out, yeah? The four of us. That’s my girlfriend, over there, Su-Lin,’ and he indicated a girl out on the factory floor, dancing in her bra and a deerstalker hat. ‘Here …’ and he mopped my forehead with a greasy napkin, tucked it in my top pocket and loped off, howling.
‘He’s really drunk,’ said Connie. ‘He gets a bit manic when he’s drunk.’
‘Well I liked him. I liked him a lot.’
‘Douglas …’
‘I like the way he doesn’t blink, it’s very attractive.’
‘Don’t start, please.’
‘What?’
‘The rutting-stag thing. He was a big part of my life, a long, long time ago. The important word is was, he was — past tense. He was what I needed at that time in my life.’
‘And what do you need at this time in your life?’
‘I’m not even going to answer that.’ She took my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go up to the roof and dry you out.’
The early days of any relationship are punctuated with a series of firsts — first sight, first words, first laugh, first kiss, first nudity, etc., with these shared landmarks becoming more widely spaced and innocuous as days turn to years, until eventually you’re left with first visit to a National Trust property or some such.
We had our first major argument that night, a significant landmark in any relationship, but upsetting nonetheless because everything up to that point had been, well, bliss. I’ve made that point, I think. Just bliss.
As usual, Connie had been drinking — we had both been drinking — and was dancing now with no clear intention of ever stopping. She was always an exceptional dancer, did I mention that? Self-contained, rather aloof. She had a particular face when she danced, intent and inward-looking. Lips parted, eyelids heavy. Frankly, there was something rather sensual about it. At a family wedding, I was once told by my sister that I danced like someone wrestling with a bout of diarrhoea, clenched and anxious, and so I had chosen not to light up any dance-floors since. Instead I leant against the wall and ran through a mental list of all the things I wished I’d said to Angelo. He was still there, of course, dancing with a champagne bottle in his hand and Su-Lin riding on his back.
It was time for me to go home. I crossed the floor to Connie.
‘I think I might head home,’ I shouted, over the clanging music.
She steadied herself with her hand on my forearm. ‘Okay,’ she said. Her make-up was smeared, her hair sticking to her forehead, dark patches on her dress.
‘D’you want to come with me?’
‘No,’ she said, and pressed her cheek to mine. ‘You go.’
And I should have gone, right then, and waited for her at home. Instead …
‘You know, just one time, you might at least try to persuade me.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Okay. Stay. Please.’
‘I don’t want to stay. I’m not talking to anyone. I’m bored. I want to go.’
She shrugged. ‘So go. I don’t see what the problem is.’
I shook my head and began to walk away. She followed. ‘Douglas, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’ll have to guess.’
‘Sometimes I think you’re happier when I’m not around.’
‘How can you say that! That’s not true.’
‘So why do we never go out with your friends?’
‘We’re here, aren’t we?’
‘But not together. You bring me here then walk away.’
‘You’re the one who wants to leave!’
‘But you’re not exactly desperate for me to stay.’
‘Douglas, you’re an individual. Go if you want, we’re not joined at the hip.’
‘Because God forbid we should be that close!’
She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand — are you angry because I’m having fun? Is it because Angelo’s here? Don’t walk away, explain it.’
We were in a concrete stairwell now, storming down the flights past furtive guests kissing or smoking or doing goodness knows what. ‘Why do you never introduce me to your friends?’
‘I do! Don’t I?’
‘Not if you can help it. When we do go out it’s just you and me.’
‘Okay then, because you wouldn’t enjoy it. You don’t want to go clubbing or stay up all night, you’re too worried about work so I don’t invite you.’
‘You think I’d spoil the fun.’
‘I think you wouldn’t have fun, which means I wouldn’t have fun.’
‘I think there’s another reason.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I think you’re embarrassed by me sometimes.’
‘Douglas, that’s ridiculous. I love you, why would I be embarrassed by you? Don’t I come home to you every night?’
‘When there’s no one else around.’
‘And isn’t that better? Just the two of us? Don’t you love that? Because I do! I fucking treasure it, and I thought you did too.’
‘I do! I do.’
We found ourselves out on the street, a wasteland really, the buildings in various stages of demolition. On the roof of the factory above us, there was laughter and music. Faces peered down. Perhaps Angelo was watching us too, down here amongst the breezeblocks and paving slabs, our argument losing its momentum and starting to seem foolish.