The Sound

  He glances down at the book as though surprised to see it in his hand. ‘Oh yeah, I like his stuff. Did you read Cloud Atlas? That’s one of my favourites.’

  I stare at him and my jaw drops open. ‘That’s my favourite book,’ I say. I can’t believe he’s read it.

  He doesn’t smile, he just studies me, frowning as if he’s pondering something, then he says, ‘You like music?’

  I glance at him, to see if that’s a trick question, but he nods at the book I’m still holding – the one about dance culture in the 70s – and so I say, ‘Yeah.’

  He studies me for a moment longer and I feel myself squirming under his scrutiny. There’s something about him which is deeply unsettling – as though he has all this energy leaping angrily around inside of him desperate to lash out, struggling to stay contained beneath his skin. It makes me feel like a ball bearing that doesn’t know if it has a negative or positive attraction so instead just spins like a pillhead on the spot.

  ‘There’s a band playing Thursday night,’ he says, ‘at The Ship.’

  I stare up at him. Is he asking me on a date or is he just casually informing me that there’s a band playing at a place called The Ship?

  ‘OK,’ I say slowly, non-committally.

  ‘You should come. If you think you can cope with slumming it with townies.’

  I frown up at him. What is that supposed to mean? Is it because he saw me with Sophie? Does he now think I’m one of them? A preppie rah? Immediately I feel my hackles rise. It makes me mad. It’s like when people think you’re an emo or an indie kid or a trancehead – why this need to classify? Why can’t you like all types of music and hang out with all different types of people (OK, except the tranceheads)? So I hold his gaze and say, ‘I’ll see you there.’

  He nods, biting back a smile which is just enough this side of smug to make me want to kick him in the shins. ‘Cool, see you later then.’

  He heads to the counter and I gather up my things with slightly trembling hands (which I put down to the caffeine/sugar hit), not knowing what I just agreed to or why.

  15

  On Wednesday Jeremy messages me on Facebook and asks if I want to hang out.

  I spend half an hour instant emailing back and forth with Megan trying to work out the subtext of these three small words and another hour figuring out what clothes to wear for hanging out in. Megan tells me to wear something that doesn’t reek slut but doesn’t spell nun either. As that would define most of my wardrobe it doesn’t help narrow things down.

  In the end, because it’s the evening and we’re going to his house I choose a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt that falls off my shoulder, which happily is no longer sunburnt but rather a nice golden colour. I wear a bandeau bra because straps look tacky with an off-the-shoulder top and because Megan tells me they confuse boys looking to get to second base (they don’t know whether to push them up or down. And if they push them up for a grope, she tells me, that’s when you have to make your excuses and leave because it means they’re both clueless as well as thoughtless).

  I’m not expecting to get to second base with Jeremy but I’ve had a long, deep and meaningful conversation with myself about reaching first. I figure that Megan is right and I should forget Will and move on and what better way to do that than by kissing a hot American boy who opens car doors for me?

  It looks like it’s going to be easier to reach first base than I first think because when Jeremy comes to pick me up at eight, he leans in for a kiss and I turn my head at exactly the wrong (or right) moment and we accidentally end up kissing on the lips. I look away, embarrassed, but he holds on to my arm a little longer than is necessary, his face still close to mine, and whispers, ‘Hi.’

  I look up into his eyes. ‘Hi,’ I say back, feeling butterflies shiver up my legs and start partying in my stomach.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he says.

  I smile and he takes my hand and leads me to the car. His hand. I am holding his hand and I’m suddenly so nervous I could puke.

  We drive back to his house and he tells me all about the pre-med course at Harvard and how he wants to be editor of some review there. That gets us to talking about writing but it soon turns out that he’s more into the academic variety – he was the president of his school year book committee whereas at school I wrote a blog about music which contained the odd bit of celebrity gossip and notes on fashion – I keep quiet on this fact because I don’t think he’ll be that impressed. I also keep quiet on the fact that I ran into Jesse Miller and that he invited me to a gig tomorrow night. I’m not sure why I don’t tell Jeremy. Actually, that’s a big fat lie. I know exactly why I haven’t told him; I accepted an invite from the guy who put his friend in the hospital with a broken jaw and arm. Way to go, Ren!

  Also, I haven’t decided whether I’m actually going to go to the gig or not. I only said yes to Jesse because I was distracted by the fact he reads books. And because I wanted to prove to him that I’m not who he thinks I am (i.e. a rah). But once I was in the car, driving home, I realised that reading books doesn’t negate punching people in the face and that what he thinks of me is completely irrelevant. Like I care what someone with a criminal record thinks of me.

  I am still biting my lip about whether to tell Jeremy about Jesse when we pull into a driveway. Jeremy’s summer home is smaller than Tyler’s house but still bigger than my house in London and it’s beautiful – wood-shingled and right by the beach. We get out of the car and Jeremy takes my hand again and says, ‘I thought maybe we could go for a walk on the beach?’

  He looks at me sort of nervously and I get that dip in my stomach as the butterflies decide to hit the dance floor one more time. ‘OK,’ I say. A moonlit stroll on the beach with a cute boy who is holding my hand, or having to go inside and meet his parents and make friendly with Eliza. No contest.

  It’s dark but the moon is almost full. The beach is quiet and we walk close to the water. The whole time I’m a ball of nerves waiting for the moment I know is coming; the moment when he’s going to kiss me.

  Eventually he leads me back towards the dunes where it’s a bit more sheltered and pulls me down beside him. I sit with my knees drawn up to my chest.

  ‘So, Ren, is that as in wren?’ he asks. ‘As in a small sparrow-like bird or as in Ren and Stimpy the cartoon characters?’

  I look at him. ‘That’s a good choice you’re giving me there.’

  I’m surprised he knows who Ren and Stimpy are. I only know because people of my mother’s age have been making jokes about that for a long time. Ren was a scrunch-faced, amphetamine-eyeballed cartoon dog in the 90s.

  ‘You don’t remind me of a little bird,’ Jeremy says. ‘Or a cartoon Chihuahua.’

  I look in the other direction. He’s hit a nerve. But I don’t want him to know it.

  ‘What?’ Jeremy asks, sitting up.

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, tell me,’ he says gently, his hand brushes my knee.

  I take a deep breath and look up, feeling my cheeks starting to flare. ‘I’m just being self-conscious. I know I’m not small and cute like a bird.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Just someone.’

  ‘Someone blind?’

  ‘My ex-boyfriend. He said I had fat thighs.’ I can’t believe I’ve just told him this. Awesome way to pull, Ren. Point out your defects and have him stare at them. Like it wasn’t bad enough having Will give this as his primary reason for dumping me.

  Jeremy actually laughs. ‘Are you serious?’ he asks, shaking his head. ‘You do not have fat thighs. They’re pretty much the sexiest thighs I’ve ever seen and that’s not for want of looking and examining thighs. So any guy who told you you have fat thighs is a jerk. A blind jerk.’

  I pull a face. But inside – inside I’m melting into a puddle.

  ‘I can take care of that blind jerk for you if you like,’ he says, making a joking move to stand.

  I catch hold of him
by the arm and pull him back down beside me. ‘No,’ I say, a little too breathlessly. ‘I’d rather you stayed. And kept talking.’

  He’s lying down beside me now, on his side and looking up at me. His head is not so far from mine.

  ‘About your thighs,’ he says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I need to examine them, in order to verify how mistaken the blind jerk was.’

  He lays his hand just above my knee and the muscle vibrates. I hope he can’t feel it.

  ‘This thigh here,’ he says, ‘is particularly lovely, I think.’ He strokes his finger up the length of it and I am so thankful – so, so thankful that I remembered to shave my legs. His hand stops just at the edge of my shorts. My leg is now jelly in his hand. I am dissolving into the sand. I am ooze.

  And then he leans in, slowly, perfectly, and kisses me.

  16

  Finally! I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to pull.

  Ha ha

  Tell me everything, Megan types furiously. I can hear her fingers smacking the keys even though several thousand miles separate us.

  It was nice, I write.

  Nice? Megan writes back. Just nice?

  It was great, I add.

  Did you shag him?

  I’m not going to answer that question.

  Did you?

  NO, I write, shaking my head at the screen.

  Megan knows I’m a virgin so she’s just saying this to wind me up. She thinks my idea of waiting for the one is sweet but tells me that I am, as a consequence, going to end up a lonely old spinster watching Coronation Street every night with a TV dinner on my lap because the one doesn’t exist except as a fragment of my pathetic imagination, which was irreparably damaged in early youth by the repetitive viewing of Disney films and Spiderman cartoons (for years I entertained the notion that Spiderman was my one true love).

  As well as saying I had fat thighs, Will also accused me of being a frigid virgin, as if the two went hand in hand. My experience with Will is making me wonder if Megan is right and The One doesn’t actually exist but is in fact a myth made up by Hollywood writers and young adult authors to sell their wares.

  So maybe I should just get it over with.

  When are you seeing him again?

  I don’t know. He hasn’t called.

  Play hard to get.

  I would, I think to myself, if he actually was giving me a chance to be.

  Thanks for the advice, Mum, I type.

  BTW, talking of mums, I ran into yours at Sainsbury’s and she said you need to call her.

  Megan works at Sainsbury’s which means she has near daily communication with my mother, who likes to queue up at Megan’s till even if she has fewer than eight items and could go express. They talk as Megan scans. I haven’t Skyped my mum and I promised her I would at least once a week. But I can’t call her tonight. In fact, I realise, as I glance at the clock, I need to get a move on.

  I have to go, I type quickly. Sorry.

  Where? Megan asks.

  A gig.

  After to-ing and fro-ing about it I’ve decided to go. And my decision is based not on Jesse but on the fact that it’s live music and right now I’d listen to Michael Bublé if he was the only live gig in town. There’s something hypnotic and mind-blowing about listening to musicians play live and even bands that suck still give me material for my blog.

  Cool. Jealous. Who with?

  Jesse.

  Who dat?

  Some guy. I hired a bike from him. He kind of invited me.

  On a date? You two-timer.

  No, it’s not a date. There’s a group of them going.

  I’ve figured out that Jesse wasn’t asking me out out when he invited me to the gig. He mentioned that there would be others. And he didn’t offer to pick me up like Jeremy did, which would have maybe qualified it as a date. And if he had meant it as a date I would have said no because I have no intention of going out with someone who hits people for fun and who walks like he has a prison-made shank stuffed down his jeans.

  Does Jeremy know ur going on a d8 with another guy?

  It’s NOT a date!

  Megan is still typing – What has happened to you? You’ve been gone a week and you’re suddenly more popular than X Factor. Total slutbags.

  Thanks. And anyway I don’t fancy him.

  Why? is he a minger?

  No. He’s – I stop. I don’t want to tell Megan about Jesse’s violent past as she’ll go into hysterical panic mode like she did a few months ago when someone in the pub bottled a guy who was standing right next to us. She might do as she did then – freak out and say something to my mum which led to me being grounded for a week even though I hadn’t even been the one wielding the bottle.

  He’s just not my type, I finish but even as I write the words I wonder at that. I mean Jesse Miller is undeniably hot. I shake my head in disgust at myself. I have kissed Jeremy and therefore I shouldn’t even be considering whether another boy is hot – should I?

  Jeremy likes me. I think. And he says nice things about my thighs, whereas Jesse just takes the piss out of my cycling. And I have no idea why I’m even thinking about all this because this is NOT EVEN A DATE.

  I have to go, I type, while frowning to myself. Bye. Miss you.

  On that note I hit play on the new playlist I’ve put together – keeping it down because the kids are finally asleep and Carrie and Mike are working downstairs – and try to figure out what to wear.

  I don’t want to look like I’m trying to impress, or like I’m trying at all, in fact. So I pull on the clothes that are lying on my chair – my Clash T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans and then my grey Converse. I look in the mirror. Maybe it’s just because Jeremy’s words are still ringing in my head but my thighs actually don’t look fat anymore. They do look sexy. Not that I need a guy to make me realise that, I tell myself sternly. I brush my hair and put on some make-up and then head downstairs.

  Carrie is working in the study but Mike is in the living room, reading through a sheaf of papers while watching a game of football. (Is that what they call the sport where all the men wear crash helmets and leggings and pound each other into the ground over who gets to hug the rugby ball?)

  ‘Hey, Ren,’ he says.

  ‘Hi,’ I answer.

  ‘Do you want to borrow the car?’ he asks.

  I have already told them I am going out tonight. Mike was enthusiastic, telling me that if I wanted to be a music journalist I needed to get out there and see as much live music as possible. Carrie worried about my safety and I kept my mouth shut as to who had invited me, telling her I’d be meeting up with some friends from the beach. She probably thinks that means Jeremy and I’m not about to disabuse her of this notion given her reaction when she found out who I’d rented the bike from.

  I consider Mike’s offer. I’m getting the hang of driving on the right side of the road (the wrong side that is) and I figure that I’m not going to want to cycle the four miles back home late at night, especially after the kerb-crawling incident. So, ‘That would be amazing,’ I say. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mike gets up and tosses the keys to me. ‘Have fun,’ he says turning back to the game.

  17

  I pull into the car park behind the bar and spend several minutes psyching myself up and checking my make-up before mentally slapping myself around the face and getting out of the car.

  I take a deep breath and stroll inside, past the sign that says, ‘Over 21s only’.

  It’s all wood floors and wood-panelled walls inside, and there’s a stage on one side where a band is setting up. People are fiddling with wires and drum kits and microphone stands. Already I can feel the buzz. I have no idea what music the band plays or even their name, but there’s an energy in the air that’s palpable. The crowd is young and hip for the most part, which is also a good sign. If they’d all been over fifty and wearing cowboy boots and plaid I might have been less enthused, t
hough I’m not impartial to a bit of Johnny Cash.

  The floor beneath my feet is glazed and tacky with beer. I unstick my feet and do a circuit of the room, looking for Jesse. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Great, I think to myself, he’s stood me up for our non-date. I think about going to the bar and ordering a drink to give me something to do, and so I look less like a total lemon standing here by myself, but I don’t want to get ID’d and thrown out. I scan the room one more time and then I notice something familiar about one of the people standing with his back to me on the stage. His black T-shirt is rucked up exposing a tanned stripe of skin. He’s wearing scruffy jeans and beat-up trainers. Just then he turns and sees me. I was right. It’s Jesse. He holds a hand up in greeting, then jumps down off the stage.

  ‘You came,’ he says, walking towards me.

  I have to fight the urge to step backwards. I’m acting like a pillhead. I shove my hands into my pockets and aim for a nonchalant slouch. ‘I came,’ I answer.

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’ He’s smiling as if he’s just won a bet.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows and daring him to give me an answer.

  He shrugs. His eyes flash with amusement and something else, curiosity perhaps.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘OK,’ I say, hesitant. Everything always feels like a test with him.

  He holds up his hand and waves at the barman over the line of people already leaning over the bar. ‘Hey, Frank, can you get the lady whatever she wants?’

  Frank the bartender is an older guy – about forty –and old enough to be Jesse’s dad but he doesn’t bat an eyelid and nor does he ask me for ID. He just nods at me and says, ‘Sure, Jesse.’