After that day down at the test track, James and I seemed to be on the phone to each other almost daily. He'd gotten into the habit of calling me whenever he was in his car, driving to or from somewhere. Especially when he was on his way home after a day down in Guildford. I desperately wanted to come with him again but suddenly I seemed to work every damn Wednesday. The conversations weren't necessarily long, or particularly profound or important, but they didn't have to be
"Hey. This a bad time?"
"Hello! No, no, just elbow-deep in bike parts, trying to figure what is wrong with this old heap of...." James grumbled, sounding frustrated.
"Call Doctor Who. Or a mechanic. But I know either of those is equally impossible to you, so all I can say is good luck, really."
"Thanks. So, what are you up to?"
"Walking home from work. Well, nearly home, actually. "
"Thought you had today off?"
"I did, but they called this morning, desperate for help. I agreed to take this shift instead og going in tomorrow, gives me two whole days off in a row!"
"Woooow," James said in mock awe. While talking I had reached my door and locked myself in, then checked my letterbox.
"Hey, don't knock it, I haven't had two days off in a row since I-- Oh shit...!" I had been reading a piece of paper I had found in my letterbox and had stopped in my tracks, horrified.
"What's up?"
"I've been given a neighbourhood warning by the girl on the ground floor. She's having a massive party tomorrow night in her flat and the backyard , apparently. Fifty plus guests."
"Go downstairs and join it? She'd never know you were there with that many people."
"She is a 21 year old girl who is into rave music... I think I'll pass, James. So much for a quiet weekend," I sighed sadly as I entered my flat.
"Well... You could always come over here if you need to get away. We could.. I don't know, make some food or something."
"Oh god, could I?" I said pleadingly. "The last time she had a party, and that was a small one, I ended up going in to work four hours early."
"Sure. I should be home from around five tomorrow, come over whenever you like."
"Great! You're such a lifesaver. So, what are we making?"
"Here's a fair division of labour; you sort out food, I'll sort out drinks."
"I wouldn't know about "fair", but sure, I'll sort out... something," I said vaguely.
"Take-out would constitute as cheating," he pointed out dryly.
"Damn! All right, I'll try to be creative," I sighed. He gave me his house address and we said our goodbyes. Funny how one potentially bad thing can turn into a good one.
"Hello! No, no, just elbow-deep in bike parts, trying to figure what is wrong with this old heap of...." James grumbled, sounding frustrated.
"Call Doctor Who. Or a mechanic. But I know either of those is equally impossible to you, so all I can say is good luck, really."
"Thanks. So, what are you up to?"
"Walking home from work. Well, nearly home, actually. "
"Thought you had today off?"
"I did, but they called this morning, desperate for help. I agreed to take this shift instead og going in tomorrow, gives me two whole days off in a row!"
"Woooow," James said in mock awe. While talking I had reached my door and locked myself in, then checked my letterbox.
"Hey, don't knock it, I haven't had two days off in a row since I-- Oh shit...!" I had been reading a piece of paper I had found in my letterbox and had stopped in my tracks, horrified.
"What's up?"
"I've been given a neighbourhood warning by the girl on the ground floor. She's having a massive party tomorrow night in her flat and the backyard , apparently. Fifty plus guests."
"Go downstairs and join it? She'd never know you were there with that many people."
"She is a 21 year old girl who is into rave music... I think I'll pass, James. So much for a quiet weekend," I sighed sadly as I entered my flat.
"Well... You could always come over here if you need to get away. We could.. I don't know, make some food or something."
"Oh god, could I?" I said pleadingly. "The last time she had a party, and that was a small one, I ended up going in to work four hours early."
"Sure. I should be home from around five tomorrow, come over whenever you like."
"Great! You're such a lifesaver. So, what are we making?"
"Here's a fair division of labour; you sort out food, I'll sort out drinks."
"I wouldn't know about "fair", but sure, I'll sort out... something," I said vaguely.
"Take-out would constitute as cheating," he pointed out dryly.
"Damn! All right, I'll try to be creative," I sighed. He gave me his house address and we said our goodbyes. Funny how one potentially bad thing can turn into a good one.
Ringing a door bell had never been so nerve-wracking. Being this nervous was ridiculous. James had been at my place, this couldn't be so much different? But it was. It felt like another step in getting to know him better. Getting closer. Which was terrifying and exciting all at once. After what seemed an eternity the door opened, and James greeted me with a smile.
"Hey, you found it!"
"Sorry I'm a bit late, I lost track of time in Morrisons..," I mumbled, holding up a bundle of grocery bags as proof.
"Should I be scared?" He eyed my bags suspiciously.
"Nah, not unless you're more fussy about food than Hammond."
"Not at all. Come in!" He waved, grabbed a few of my bags and disappeared inside. James' house wasn't as I'd imagined it. Looking at James, it's easy to imagine huge chintz armchairs and dark mahogany, pipe smoke and dark velvet curtains. Or maybe that was just my stereotyping of British gentlemen shining through. James' house was a lot brighter and modern than I'd thought, with some simple, functional retro-feel to it. And a bit of colour, which actually wasn't that much of a surprise. He deposited the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and surreptitiously tried to have a peek in one.
"Ok, this doesn't look like anything. Did you go food shopping with a blindfold? Is that why it took so long?"
"No no, there is a method to the madness. Not much, but that is kind of the point." James didn't say anything, but his entire face looked like a question mark. "I'm keeping it juvenile, seeing as I'm a student," I explained. "We're making pizzas."
"Plural?"
"Well, yeah. More like... mini-pizzas. They say you can put almost anything on a pizza if you're creative enough, so I went and got..."
"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow at me.
"Nearly...!" I laughed.
"If this is going to call for creativity I'll need a beer first," James said and got two bottles out of the fridge, opened them and disappeared into his living room. Happily I sank down onto a comfy sofa next to him and accepted a bottle. A movement in the corner of my eye drew my gaze to the armrest next to James.
"James... Please tell me you have a cat?" I said quietly, staring intently at armrest, where a black cat with white markings now sat gracefully, staring at me like only a cat can.
"What...? No?" Amazingly James kept a straight face for quite a while, and he almost had me going, but then a twitch in his eyes revealed him and he broke out giggling. "Yes, I do have a cat. Meet Fusker," he said and scooped him up into his lap. Fusker accepted this without fuss and started purring immediately. I reached out a hand and scratched the cat gently behind his ears. When I stopped he demonstratively stomped from James' lap and into mine, walked around in a circle once and curled up, like I'd always been a normal thing in his household. Unable to resist I resumed the gentle scratching, and Fusker resumed purring.
"He owns you now. Or at least he thinks so," James warned, and petted him with a finger. Predictably, Fusker tried to bite him lazily. "Oy, thats not very loyal of you."
"Cats don't do loyal," I observed, still petting the purring cat. "They're all psychopaths, to varying degrees."
"Not a cat person, then."
"Nah, I'm a sucker for all animals. I just wouldn't trust a cat. I'd love it and cuddle it as much as any other fluffy animal, but I wouldn't put it past it to try and eat me when I lay dead in my own bed and wasn't feeding it anymore."
"Fair point, actually," he chuckled.
When we had finished our first beers we heaved ourselves out of the sofa and trailed into the kitchen.
"Right. Pizza dough," I said, clapping my hands together and dove into grocery bags to dig out the ingredients along with the recipe I'd jotted down from the internet. "OK, we need um... pint of lukewarm water. Salt. Tablespoon. Olive oil. The rest I've got," I read as I ran my finger down the recipe, and James found the things I needed. Then he rummaged through a cupboard and found a big bowl. "You're supposed to be able to do this without a bowl," I waved.
"How? Magic?" He said defiantly, leaning against the kitchen counter and looking sideways at me, arms crossed.
"No no. You start like.. this..." I said, opened the big bag of flour and poured it gently onto his kitchen counter, making a flour mountain. "Then you do this," I continued, making a deep crater in the top of the mountain with my hand. "See? Bowl made out of flour. Flour bowl!" James didn't say anything, just looked from me to the kilo of flour dumped on his counter, and back to me, doubt etched in his face. Determined not to cave to his scepticism I added salt, yeast powder and olive oil to the lukewarm water, and picked up the measuring cup.
"Where did you read about this, Emily?" James asked innocently, but I could hear in the way he asked that he half expected I had dreamt it.
"Jamie Oliver did it this way. Have faith, man!" I said affronted, trying to pour the liquid gently into the flour crater.
"I don't trust a man with that much of a speech impediment," he said dryly.
"Don't make me laugh, I'm trying to concentrate!" I said, trying to not splash water and yeast everywhere. "Also, that is actually quite a mean thing to say," I added as an afterthought.
"It is, actually," James agreed, hanging his head slightly. "Sorry."
"Right, there. See? It works!" I said excitedly when I had emptied the measuring cup.
"That still isn't pizza dough. That is just a... flour volcano with a crater lake of water. Now what?" he said stubbornly.
"Well, you sort of... stir it..." I said, unable to hide the insecurity in my own voice. Gingerly I started to stir the liquid with the tablespoon, taking more and more flour with me into the mix as I went. To my own amazement it sort of worked.
"Aha!" I exclaimed triumphantly when the mess started to look like proper dough and I could knead it with my hands. James didn't respond at first, just looked down at the lump of dough as if it had been rude to him. The mocking scepticism trickled from his face.
"That isn't a bad way to make pizza dough, actually" he muttered unwillingly, not looking at me. Jokingly I scooped up a sprinkle of left-over flour and threw it at him as punishment for his lack of faith in me. It was barely visible on his stripey jumper.
"Oh are we throwing food, now? That is juvenile!" In return I received a small handful of flour, covering my shirt, chest and face. Without even thinking I chucked as much flour as I could straight at James' face, turning it white. His hair looked like it had suddenly gone light grey. For a moment we looked at each other, narrow-eyed, pondering our next move. Then we cracked, and broke out laughing.
"Okay, fine, it was a perfectly ingenious way of making it, I'll freely admit, can we call a truce now?" James snorted.
"I'm sorry!" I laughed, trying to wipe some of it off his face with my shirt sleeve. Still giggling we brushed flour off our shirts, face and hair as best we could over the kitchen sink. "Right, that needs to be left alone for about 20 minutes." I gestured towards the lump of dough.
"Beer break?" We said in unison, and laughed some more.
"Hey, you found it!"
"Sorry I'm a bit late, I lost track of time in Morrisons..," I mumbled, holding up a bundle of grocery bags as proof.
"Should I be scared?" He eyed my bags suspiciously.
"Nah, not unless you're more fussy about food than Hammond."
"Not at all. Come in!" He waved, grabbed a few of my bags and disappeared inside. James' house wasn't as I'd imagined it. Looking at James, it's easy to imagine huge chintz armchairs and dark mahogany, pipe smoke and dark velvet curtains. Or maybe that was just my stereotyping of British gentlemen shining through. James' house was a lot brighter and modern than I'd thought, with some simple, functional retro-feel to it. And a bit of colour, which actually wasn't that much of a surprise. He deposited the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and surreptitiously tried to have a peek in one.
"Ok, this doesn't look like anything. Did you go food shopping with a blindfold? Is that why it took so long?"
"No no, there is a method to the madness. Not much, but that is kind of the point." James didn't say anything, but his entire face looked like a question mark. "I'm keeping it juvenile, seeing as I'm a student," I explained. "We're making pizzas."
"Plural?"
"Well, yeah. More like... mini-pizzas. They say you can put almost anything on a pizza if you're creative enough, so I went and got..."
"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow at me.
"Nearly...!" I laughed.
"If this is going to call for creativity I'll need a beer first," James said and got two bottles out of the fridge, opened them and disappeared into his living room. Happily I sank down onto a comfy sofa next to him and accepted a bottle. A movement in the corner of my eye drew my gaze to the armrest next to James.
"James... Please tell me you have a cat?" I said quietly, staring intently at armrest, where a black cat with white markings now sat gracefully, staring at me like only a cat can.
"What...? No?" Amazingly James kept a straight face for quite a while, and he almost had me going, but then a twitch in his eyes revealed him and he broke out giggling. "Yes, I do have a cat. Meet Fusker," he said and scooped him up into his lap. Fusker accepted this without fuss and started purring immediately. I reached out a hand and scratched the cat gently behind his ears. When I stopped he demonstratively stomped from James' lap and into mine, walked around in a circle once and curled up, like I'd always been a normal thing in his household. Unable to resist I resumed the gentle scratching, and Fusker resumed purring.
"He owns you now. Or at least he thinks so," James warned, and petted him with a finger. Predictably, Fusker tried to bite him lazily. "Oy, thats not very loyal of you."
"Cats don't do loyal," I observed, still petting the purring cat. "They're all psychopaths, to varying degrees."
"Not a cat person, then."
"Nah, I'm a sucker for all animals. I just wouldn't trust a cat. I'd love it and cuddle it as much as any other fluffy animal, but I wouldn't put it past it to try and eat me when I lay dead in my own bed and wasn't feeding it anymore."
"Fair point, actually," he chuckled.
When we had finished our first beers we heaved ourselves out of the sofa and trailed into the kitchen.
"Right. Pizza dough," I said, clapping my hands together and dove into grocery bags to dig out the ingredients along with the recipe I'd jotted down from the internet. "OK, we need um... pint of lukewarm water. Salt. Tablespoon. Olive oil. The rest I've got," I read as I ran my finger down the recipe, and James found the things I needed. Then he rummaged through a cupboard and found a big bowl. "You're supposed to be able to do this without a bowl," I waved.
"How? Magic?" He said defiantly, leaning against the kitchen counter and looking sideways at me, arms crossed.
"No no. You start like.. this..." I said, opened the big bag of flour and poured it gently onto his kitchen counter, making a flour mountain. "Then you do this," I continued, making a deep crater in the top of the mountain with my hand. "See? Bowl made out of flour. Flour bowl!" James didn't say anything, just looked from me to the kilo of flour dumped on his counter, and back to me, doubt etched in his face. Determined not to cave to his scepticism I added salt, yeast powder and olive oil to the lukewarm water, and picked up the measuring cup.
"Where did you read about this, Emily?" James asked innocently, but I could hear in the way he asked that he half expected I had dreamt it.
"Jamie Oliver did it this way. Have faith, man!" I said affronted, trying to pour the liquid gently into the flour crater.
"I don't trust a man with that much of a speech impediment," he said dryly.
"Don't make me laugh, I'm trying to concentrate!" I said, trying to not splash water and yeast everywhere. "Also, that is actually quite a mean thing to say," I added as an afterthought.
"It is, actually," James agreed, hanging his head slightly. "Sorry."
"Right, there. See? It works!" I said excitedly when I had emptied the measuring cup.
"That still isn't pizza dough. That is just a... flour volcano with a crater lake of water. Now what?" he said stubbornly.
"Well, you sort of... stir it..." I said, unable to hide the insecurity in my own voice. Gingerly I started to stir the liquid with the tablespoon, taking more and more flour with me into the mix as I went. To my own amazement it sort of worked.
"Aha!" I exclaimed triumphantly when the mess started to look like proper dough and I could knead it with my hands. James didn't respond at first, just looked down at the lump of dough as if it had been rude to him. The mocking scepticism trickled from his face.
"That isn't a bad way to make pizza dough, actually" he muttered unwillingly, not looking at me. Jokingly I scooped up a sprinkle of left-over flour and threw it at him as punishment for his lack of faith in me. It was barely visible on his stripey jumper.
"Oh are we throwing food, now? That is juvenile!" In return I received a small handful of flour, covering my shirt, chest and face. Without even thinking I chucked as much flour as I could straight at James' face, turning it white. His hair looked like it had suddenly gone light grey. For a moment we looked at each other, narrow-eyed, pondering our next move. Then we cracked, and broke out laughing.
"Okay, fine, it was a perfectly ingenious way of making it, I'll freely admit, can we call a truce now?" James snorted.
"I'm sorry!" I laughed, trying to wipe some of it off his face with my shirt sleeve. Still giggling we brushed flour off our shirts, face and hair as best we could over the kitchen sink. "Right, that needs to be left alone for about 20 minutes." I gestured towards the lump of dough.
"Beer break?" We said in unison, and laughed some more.
"Here's a question," I began as I sat down on a kitchen chair after having accepted a new bottle of beer. "Where the heck do you keep all your cars? I only saw the Fiat out front. And bikes? And where the hell are you whenever you are mending things?"
"I own the industrial building next door, which is connected up to mine. Used to be a wood-shop. When they had to close down I bought it - was tired of walking or having to take a cab to some rental garage when I fancied a drive. So that's where I keep it. Well, most of it."
"That must've been a boyhood dream come true? Have your own, huge workshop in which to keep all your toys and tools?"
"Pretty much," he said with a satisfied smile and had a swig of his beer. Then his eyes lit up with child-like excitement. "Wanna see?"
"Of course!" I trailed after James, beer in hand, through his house and to a heavy, industrial-looking bright-red door. A few steps down, and I was suddenly in workshop. Which was also a garage. And a boys' playground. Most of the tools lived on one very pedantically neat wall. Rows of wrenches and screwdrivers all in ascending length and sizes hung over a huge workbench, dotted with marks from oil-spill and grease and years of tinkering. "You never figured out what was wrong with that starter dynamo?" I teased, pointing at a dismantled heap of metal on the bench.
"I'll figure it out..." he muttered, throwing the dynamo a dirty look. Bike leathers were hanging neatly on hooks, boots on a shelf next to safety helmets. Bikes in varying states and ages were parked a little hither and thither. A run-down sofa was tucked into a corner, next to a small kitchen unit with a kettle and a sink. Every mechanic needed his tea. At the far end of the building was a huge double garage door, and what looked like a small, and rather schizophrenic, car park. Old classic Bentley and a Rolls Royce, a few spangly new Ferrari's, a tiny little Mini, a few Porsche's... I just walked slowly in between cars, staring lovingly at each one. After a while I came to a halt and just stared at James from across the workshop over the roof of his 458 Italia.
"You like it?" James asked.
"It's.. all right, I guess." I gave a nonchalant shrug of feigned coolness, and I heard James laugh. "No really, it's.. Amazing. I am very jealous. You're a lucky sod," I sighed as I made my way back across the workshop and sat down on the run-down couch. Closing my eyes I tilted my head back and breathed deeply. "I love the smell in here. Smells like my dads' auto garage back home. That smell of... oil, and metal and exhaust and rubber. And cigarettes. Reminds me of spending hours in the garage with my brother when I was a kid, in the evening, while he was doing up one of his cars or his bikes. Me mostly just staring, wide-eyed, not daring to ask questions because I felt stupid and he might kick me out and send me back to mum. And so thrilled whenever I was allowed to help with something. Reminds me of home." Slowly I opened my eyes, taking myself out of a vivid and rather rare flashback to my childhood. James stood rooted to the spot, looking at me with wonder. "What?"
"I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my garage." He sat down next to me.
"It's a good garage," I said, looking around. "Must be a nice place to hide away and just.. be. Leave everything else outside, clean your mind and fix things."
"Mm.. Exactly," James said. "See, you get it."
"Daughter of a car mechanic. What did you expect?"
"Frankly, not that," he said, and for a second everything seemed to stop as he just looked at me. There was something in those eyes I hadn't seen before, something... warm, and tender. Nervously I drew a deep breath and looked down at my hands, holding my beer.
"I'm full of surprises," I said with a half-smile, trying to sound confident. James got up with a sigh, looking at his watch. Whatever tension had been there a moment earlier was gone.
"Come on. Twenty minutes are up. Let's make some food."
"I own the industrial building next door, which is connected up to mine. Used to be a wood-shop. When they had to close down I bought it - was tired of walking or having to take a cab to some rental garage when I fancied a drive. So that's where I keep it. Well, most of it."
"That must've been a boyhood dream come true? Have your own, huge workshop in which to keep all your toys and tools?"
"Pretty much," he said with a satisfied smile and had a swig of his beer. Then his eyes lit up with child-like excitement. "Wanna see?"
"Of course!" I trailed after James, beer in hand, through his house and to a heavy, industrial-looking bright-red door. A few steps down, and I was suddenly in workshop. Which was also a garage. And a boys' playground. Most of the tools lived on one very pedantically neat wall. Rows of wrenches and screwdrivers all in ascending length and sizes hung over a huge workbench, dotted with marks from oil-spill and grease and years of tinkering. "You never figured out what was wrong with that starter dynamo?" I teased, pointing at a dismantled heap of metal on the bench.
"I'll figure it out..." he muttered, throwing the dynamo a dirty look. Bike leathers were hanging neatly on hooks, boots on a shelf next to safety helmets. Bikes in varying states and ages were parked a little hither and thither. A run-down sofa was tucked into a corner, next to a small kitchen unit with a kettle and a sink. Every mechanic needed his tea. At the far end of the building was a huge double garage door, and what looked like a small, and rather schizophrenic, car park. Old classic Bentley and a Rolls Royce, a few spangly new Ferrari's, a tiny little Mini, a few Porsche's... I just walked slowly in between cars, staring lovingly at each one. After a while I came to a halt and just stared at James from across the workshop over the roof of his 458 Italia.
"You like it?" James asked.
"It's.. all right, I guess." I gave a nonchalant shrug of feigned coolness, and I heard James laugh. "No really, it's.. Amazing. I am very jealous. You're a lucky sod," I sighed as I made my way back across the workshop and sat down on the run-down couch. Closing my eyes I tilted my head back and breathed deeply. "I love the smell in here. Smells like my dads' auto garage back home. That smell of... oil, and metal and exhaust and rubber. And cigarettes. Reminds me of spending hours in the garage with my brother when I was a kid, in the evening, while he was doing up one of his cars or his bikes. Me mostly just staring, wide-eyed, not daring to ask questions because I felt stupid and he might kick me out and send me back to mum. And so thrilled whenever I was allowed to help with something. Reminds me of home." Slowly I opened my eyes, taking myself out of a vivid and rather rare flashback to my childhood. James stood rooted to the spot, looking at me with wonder. "What?"
"I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my garage." He sat down next to me.
"It's a good garage," I said, looking around. "Must be a nice place to hide away and just.. be. Leave everything else outside, clean your mind and fix things."
"Mm.. Exactly," James said. "See, you get it."
"Daughter of a car mechanic. What did you expect?"
"Frankly, not that," he said, and for a second everything seemed to stop as he just looked at me. There was something in those eyes I hadn't seen before, something... warm, and tender. Nervously I drew a deep breath and looked down at my hands, holding my beer.
"I'm full of surprises," I said with a half-smile, trying to sound confident. James got up with a sigh, looking at his watch. Whatever tension had been there a moment earlier was gone.
"Come on. Twenty minutes are up. Let's make some food."
Back in the kitchen we deposited empty beer bottles and James found new ones.
"James, does this thing actually have an iPod dock?" I said, pointing at a little stereo radio standing on a shelf.
"Yeah."
"I didn't think you had one of those newfangled gizmos," I smirked.
"I'll have you know I even have an iPad!" He huffed, pointing at me with his beer.
"Woooow," I said sarcastically. "Can I put some music on?" James nodded and I rummaged through my handbag, fishing out my iPod and put the whole thing on shuffle. Which was taking a risk, I knew. Surprisingly, Bob Marley started singing about how I shouldn't worry about a thing.
"I didn't peg you for a reggae kind of girl," James frowned.
"I'm not an anything kind of girl, I listen to lots of things," I said as I started emptying the remaining grocery bag onto the counter. Curious, James started fiddling with my iPod, investigating my musical preferences.
"Hey, there's stuff on here I've actually heard about," he exclaimed sensationally.
"Like what?" James started at the top and listed through.
"Beatles."
"Doesn't everyone listen to The Beatles?"
"Mmmmno. Particularly not at your age."
"Dad played in a band in the late 60s. Turtlenecks, Beatle-mops, the whole deal. They were namned after a Beatles song and played mostly them and Buck Owens."
"Ah. Elvis?"
"Always loved him. I had a cassette tape with him when I was like.. four. I swear he was the only one keeping me sane on endless car holidays with my parents."
"Guns'n'Roses?"
"Stole CDs from my sister without permission." Use your illusion" was probably the first ones I nicked. "Civil War" probably
changed my life."
"Johnny Cash?"
"I'm a country bumpkin, what can I say."
"Pink Floyd?"
"I built all my teenage self-destruction and depressions around The Wall. Bob Geldof was my hero for years."
"Bowie, Stone Roses, Velvet Underground, Tom Waits, Queen, Patti Smith, Neil Young, Genesis... Emily, this is all music from before you were born!"
"That's just... ageist! Just because you were born in the 60s doesn't make you entitled to all the good music. And hey, I'd marry Tom Waits, not one bad word!" I warned, pointing a spoon sternly at him. James raised his hands as a sign of surrender.
"Honestly, I haven't listened enough to him to make any kind of judgment."
"I'll play you a few good ones later," I promised and James joined me at the kitchen counter. "Right. Pizza can be good with anything, so I bought a bunch of stuff; lots of pizza sauce, peppers, mushrooms, pepperoni, chicken, spring onions, different kinds of cheese... And if you have anything in your fridge you want to try on a pizza, go for it." I started dividing up the lump of dough into eight little ones, punched one into a flat circle and pondered for a minute about what to put on it. James was half-buried in his fridge.
"Hm.. wonder if blue cheese works...?" I heard from the depths of the fridge.
"You're welcome to try, just keep it on your pizza."
"Hm... Anchovies...? HP sauce...? Spam...?"
"For the love of... James, this is supposed to be human food.
"How do you think humanity discovered what was edible and what went well together, and what didn't, over the years? Pioneer work! Trial and error!" he argued. "You have to try everyth-- Oh, marmite!"
"NO!" I shouted, turning around. "I draw the line at Marmite pizza! This isn't culinary Russian roulette, you know." Gratefully I noted that James extracted himself from the fridge without holding a jar of Marmite. The music changed as James came over and started with his own pizzas.
"What's this?" He asked.
"Mumford and Sons. They're a London band, actually. "Indie folk rock", isn't that what they call it?"
"I have no idea, I just heard a banjo. It's not that bad, actually."
"Yeah, it's... I don't know, cosy. Happy." We focused quietly on making food for a while, making little mini-pizza and putting them on a baking tray, drinking beer all the while. I couldn't help but hum along to the music, feeling happy. "They should be in for about.. 12 to 15 minutes," I said as James shoved them into the oven. "Did you actually put blue cheese on one?"
"Yes, but I'm not telling you which one," he smirked and had a swig of his beer. I just sighed exasperatedly and went over to the iPod.
"Tom Waits, was it?" A song called LowDown started up, with the familiar backbeat rythm and guitar riff I loved so much. I started clearing up on the kitchen counter, stuffing most of the left-over food in James' fridge as I couldn't be bothered to take any of it with me later. I was half-dancing all the way, humming along. "I love this song. Sexiest song ever, it just begs for a striptease, " I observed absentmindedly. When I looked up at James he just stared at me, wide-eyed, an eyebrow raised. I stared back, thinking, then suddenly I realised what the look was about. "Don't worry, I'm not going to erupt into an impromptu striptease. That would call for a lot of tequila."
"I wasn't.. worried..," James said, shrugging, then hanged his head slightly in mock disappointment.
"James, does this thing actually have an iPod dock?" I said, pointing at a little stereo radio standing on a shelf.
"Yeah."
"I didn't think you had one of those newfangled gizmos," I smirked.
"I'll have you know I even have an iPad!" He huffed, pointing at me with his beer.
"Woooow," I said sarcastically. "Can I put some music on?" James nodded and I rummaged through my handbag, fishing out my iPod and put the whole thing on shuffle. Which was taking a risk, I knew. Surprisingly, Bob Marley started singing about how I shouldn't worry about a thing.
"I didn't peg you for a reggae kind of girl," James frowned.
"I'm not an anything kind of girl, I listen to lots of things," I said as I started emptying the remaining grocery bag onto the counter. Curious, James started fiddling with my iPod, investigating my musical preferences.
"Hey, there's stuff on here I've actually heard about," he exclaimed sensationally.
"Like what?" James started at the top and listed through.
"Beatles."
"Doesn't everyone listen to The Beatles?"
"Mmmmno. Particularly not at your age."
"Dad played in a band in the late 60s. Turtlenecks, Beatle-mops, the whole deal. They were namned after a Beatles song and played mostly them and Buck Owens."
"Ah. Elvis?"
"Always loved him. I had a cassette tape with him when I was like.. four. I swear he was the only one keeping me sane on endless car holidays with my parents."
"Guns'n'Roses?"
"Stole CDs from my sister without permission." Use your illusion" was probably the first ones I nicked. "Civil War" probably
changed my life."
"Johnny Cash?"
"I'm a country bumpkin, what can I say."
"Pink Floyd?"
"I built all my teenage self-destruction and depressions around The Wall. Bob Geldof was my hero for years."
"Bowie, Stone Roses, Velvet Underground, Tom Waits, Queen, Patti Smith, Neil Young, Genesis... Emily, this is all music from before you were born!"
"That's just... ageist! Just because you were born in the 60s doesn't make you entitled to all the good music. And hey, I'd marry Tom Waits, not one bad word!" I warned, pointing a spoon sternly at him. James raised his hands as a sign of surrender.
"Honestly, I haven't listened enough to him to make any kind of judgment."
"I'll play you a few good ones later," I promised and James joined me at the kitchen counter. "Right. Pizza can be good with anything, so I bought a bunch of stuff; lots of pizza sauce, peppers, mushrooms, pepperoni, chicken, spring onions, different kinds of cheese... And if you have anything in your fridge you want to try on a pizza, go for it." I started dividing up the lump of dough into eight little ones, punched one into a flat circle and pondered for a minute about what to put on it. James was half-buried in his fridge.
"Hm.. wonder if blue cheese works...?" I heard from the depths of the fridge.
"You're welcome to try, just keep it on your pizza."
"Hm... Anchovies...? HP sauce...? Spam...?"
"For the love of... James, this is supposed to be human food.
"How do you think humanity discovered what was edible and what went well together, and what didn't, over the years? Pioneer work! Trial and error!" he argued. "You have to try everyth-- Oh, marmite!"
"NO!" I shouted, turning around. "I draw the line at Marmite pizza! This isn't culinary Russian roulette, you know." Gratefully I noted that James extracted himself from the fridge without holding a jar of Marmite. The music changed as James came over and started with his own pizzas.
"What's this?" He asked.
"Mumford and Sons. They're a London band, actually. "Indie folk rock", isn't that what they call it?"
"I have no idea, I just heard a banjo. It's not that bad, actually."
"Yeah, it's... I don't know, cosy. Happy." We focused quietly on making food for a while, making little mini-pizza and putting them on a baking tray, drinking beer all the while. I couldn't help but hum along to the music, feeling happy. "They should be in for about.. 12 to 15 minutes," I said as James shoved them into the oven. "Did you actually put blue cheese on one?"
"Yes, but I'm not telling you which one," he smirked and had a swig of his beer. I just sighed exasperatedly and went over to the iPod.
"Tom Waits, was it?" A song called LowDown started up, with the familiar backbeat rythm and guitar riff I loved so much. I started clearing up on the kitchen counter, stuffing most of the left-over food in James' fridge as I couldn't be bothered to take any of it with me later. I was half-dancing all the way, humming along. "I love this song. Sexiest song ever, it just begs for a striptease, " I observed absentmindedly. When I looked up at James he just stared at me, wide-eyed, an eyebrow raised. I stared back, thinking, then suddenly I realised what the look was about. "Don't worry, I'm not going to erupt into an impromptu striptease. That would call for a lot of tequila."
"I wasn't.. worried..," James said, shrugging, then hanged his head slightly in mock disappointment.
When we'd finished eating we cleared up, waddling into the living room and landed heavily on the sofa. We complained a bit about eating too much. Incredibly, the food turned out nice, to our mutual surprise. James hadn't snuck any surprise ingredients on my pizzas, but he had been a bit adventurous on his and made a few research notes for future culinary history. Mainly that all cheese didn't work on pizza. We were both on our fifth beers, and I started to feel it a bit. Food would probably help. Fusker, who has occasionally been lurking around the kitchen hoping he'd be invited to dinner, jumped on to the sofa between us and curled up. James had brought my iPod with him from the kitchen and connected it to the stereo in the living room. We spent the next hours talking about music, skipping between tracks, sometimes arguing amicably but mostly agreeing with each other. We drank beers and laughed, and I absentmindedly petted Fusker while he purred and stretched luxuriously. James' phone suddenly rang, and he looked at it and hit pause on the stereo.
"I think I might have to take this," he said apologetically.
"Yeah, sure, go for it," I waved, and James disappeared out of the living room and into a room down the hallway. For a while I sat looking around, at his books and DVDS, the paintings on the walls, the photos in frames. Inevitably my eyes were drawn to his piano. I knew James used to train as a classical pianist so finding a piano in his living room hadn't surprised me much. Gingerly I got out of the sofa, nervous to find out how drunk I really was. After a few steps I decided I wasn't too bad off after all. I padded over to the piano, sat down on the bench in front of it and lifted up the lid as gently, trying not to make a sound. Absentmindedly I let my fingers brush across the keys. Quietly, to not disturb James on the phone, I started plonking, feeling how old melodies I once knew trickled back into my muscle memory. Lost in the effort of trying to remember I didn't hear James returning from his phone call.
"I didn't know you could play?" The sudden sound of his voice made me jump several feet in the air.
"Waah! What? Um, no.. I can't."
"That sounded like Beethoven to me, so I'd say you can?"
"I tried to learn, many years and moons ago," I sighed as I closed the piano lid and returned to the sofa. "I took classical piano lessons for like.. 7 years, from first grade until the year I turned 13. I've forgotten nearly everything, but a few songs are just... stuck in my hands."
"That's a long time to be taking lessons, why did you stop?" He asked.
"Do you want the easy answer or the emotional one? I'm giving you the choice this time," I said, looking sideways at him with a little smile.
"I think I'd prefer the emotional one, actually. If you want to give it, that is."
"Okay," I nodded. "I stopped playing after I played piano in my mum's funeral. She died suddenly when I as 12, heart failure, she had really heavy asthma all her life and it wore her out. I know, much of my life is a Greek tragedy," I said when James didn't speak but just looked at me, horrified. "She was the most important person in my life. My siblings were twice my age and had lives of their own, and my practical mechanic-dad had no idea how to help a morbidly depressed teenager. So I was left to figure it out on my own. That took me about 10 years of being a wreck. It's all right, I'm fine with it now," I said with a sad smile. "It's been a long time, fifteen years already. But after that funeral I just couldn't deal with pianos for a while."
"No wonder you couldn't. Can I ask what you played?"
"Um, have you seen that film Schindler's list?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Remember the main theme from it? I played a piano arrangement of it. I can't remember any of actually playing it, have no idea how I did it, feels like I wasn't even conscious. All I know is that I didn't make any mistakes."
"I'm sure it must've been very special to hear that," James said, sounding emotional. "I can't even being to understand how you managed to do that."
"Frankly, me neither. But I'm glad I did. I remember the funeral um.. guy, who was one of my mum's old classmate incidentally, said something to me that has stuck with me: "This is your chance. Even if you don't feel like it - if you have the tiniest doubt about it, do it. Or you might regret it for the rest of your life."
"I'm starting to understand why you're so...," James began, but trailed off.
"So what?" I urged, curious.
"You've always seemed so... independent, and somehow older than your age. You know, strong. And with a lot of thought and compassion for other people." These words rendered me speechless for a moment.
"Aw, thank you," I said quietly when I had regained the ability to talk, feeling blushed. "That's.. probably one of the nicest things anyone has said to me."
"People haven't said much nice things to you, then."
"People generally don't, do they," I observed. "We're so much better at niggling and criticising each other, rather than supporting and encouraging. Now, put on some music, and nothing sad. I hate being such a buzzkill." James turned on The Stooges and I nodded approvingly. Another plonky sound emerged from James' phone, notifying him about a message. "At least someone is popular," I teased and had a drink.
"Not exactly popular. Wanted dead, more like."
"Uhoh, what did you do?"
"Remember that date Jezza mentioned when we were down at the track?" Another stab shot through my heart, and I tried not to flinch and act casually.
"Mm yeah?"
"She's angry with me," he said, looking more annoyed than anything.
"Why?"
"God knows why. Hell if I can suss it out. I doubt she even knows herself."
"Ugh, women," I scoffed sympathetically. "Who the hell understands them." James laughed, albeit a little sadly.
"I certainly don't get this one," he sighed and put his phone down.
"It'll sort itself out. If you want it to," I added, not wanting to be too encouraging. He made a noncommittal grunt.
"Now I'm being a buzzkill," he grumbled. Yes, you are. Suddenly he seemed to remember something and lit up a bit. "Oh, I meant to tell you!" I just raised my eyebrows quizzically at him. "Christmas Party. Over at Top Gear. You're invited. I reckon you'll get an invite in the post soon."
"What? Me? Why?"
"Well, we all met you on a Top Gear shoot. You've sort of become a.. Top Gear..."
"... nurse?" I supplied.
"Yeah. And friend. Mostly friend."
"I think I might have to take this," he said apologetically.
"Yeah, sure, go for it," I waved, and James disappeared out of the living room and into a room down the hallway. For a while I sat looking around, at his books and DVDS, the paintings on the walls, the photos in frames. Inevitably my eyes were drawn to his piano. I knew James used to train as a classical pianist so finding a piano in his living room hadn't surprised me much. Gingerly I got out of the sofa, nervous to find out how drunk I really was. After a few steps I decided I wasn't too bad off after all. I padded over to the piano, sat down on the bench in front of it and lifted up the lid as gently, trying not to make a sound. Absentmindedly I let my fingers brush across the keys. Quietly, to not disturb James on the phone, I started plonking, feeling how old melodies I once knew trickled back into my muscle memory. Lost in the effort of trying to remember I didn't hear James returning from his phone call.
"I didn't know you could play?" The sudden sound of his voice made me jump several feet in the air.
"Waah! What? Um, no.. I can't."
"That sounded like Beethoven to me, so I'd say you can?"
"I tried to learn, many years and moons ago," I sighed as I closed the piano lid and returned to the sofa. "I took classical piano lessons for like.. 7 years, from first grade until the year I turned 13. I've forgotten nearly everything, but a few songs are just... stuck in my hands."
"That's a long time to be taking lessons, why did you stop?" He asked.
"Do you want the easy answer or the emotional one? I'm giving you the choice this time," I said, looking sideways at him with a little smile.
"I think I'd prefer the emotional one, actually. If you want to give it, that is."
"Okay," I nodded. "I stopped playing after I played piano in my mum's funeral. She died suddenly when I as 12, heart failure, she had really heavy asthma all her life and it wore her out. I know, much of my life is a Greek tragedy," I said when James didn't speak but just looked at me, horrified. "She was the most important person in my life. My siblings were twice my age and had lives of their own, and my practical mechanic-dad had no idea how to help a morbidly depressed teenager. So I was left to figure it out on my own. That took me about 10 years of being a wreck. It's all right, I'm fine with it now," I said with a sad smile. "It's been a long time, fifteen years already. But after that funeral I just couldn't deal with pianos for a while."
"No wonder you couldn't. Can I ask what you played?"
"Um, have you seen that film Schindler's list?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Remember the main theme from it? I played a piano arrangement of it. I can't remember any of actually playing it, have no idea how I did it, feels like I wasn't even conscious. All I know is that I didn't make any mistakes."
"I'm sure it must've been very special to hear that," James said, sounding emotional. "I can't even being to understand how you managed to do that."
"Frankly, me neither. But I'm glad I did. I remember the funeral um.. guy, who was one of my mum's old classmate incidentally, said something to me that has stuck with me: "This is your chance. Even if you don't feel like it - if you have the tiniest doubt about it, do it. Or you might regret it for the rest of your life."
"I'm starting to understand why you're so...," James began, but trailed off.
"So what?" I urged, curious.
"You've always seemed so... independent, and somehow older than your age. You know, strong. And with a lot of thought and compassion for other people." These words rendered me speechless for a moment.
"Aw, thank you," I said quietly when I had regained the ability to talk, feeling blushed. "That's.. probably one of the nicest things anyone has said to me."
"People haven't said much nice things to you, then."
"People generally don't, do they," I observed. "We're so much better at niggling and criticising each other, rather than supporting and encouraging. Now, put on some music, and nothing sad. I hate being such a buzzkill." James turned on The Stooges and I nodded approvingly. Another plonky sound emerged from James' phone, notifying him about a message. "At least someone is popular," I teased and had a drink.
"Not exactly popular. Wanted dead, more like."
"Uhoh, what did you do?"
"Remember that date Jezza mentioned when we were down at the track?" Another stab shot through my heart, and I tried not to flinch and act casually.
"Mm yeah?"
"She's angry with me," he said, looking more annoyed than anything.
"Why?"
"God knows why. Hell if I can suss it out. I doubt she even knows herself."
"Ugh, women," I scoffed sympathetically. "Who the hell understands them." James laughed, albeit a little sadly.
"I certainly don't get this one," he sighed and put his phone down.
"It'll sort itself out. If you want it to," I added, not wanting to be too encouraging. He made a noncommittal grunt.
"Now I'm being a buzzkill," he grumbled. Yes, you are. Suddenly he seemed to remember something and lit up a bit. "Oh, I meant to tell you!" I just raised my eyebrows quizzically at him. "Christmas Party. Over at Top Gear. You're invited. I reckon you'll get an invite in the post soon."
"What? Me? Why?"
"Well, we all met you on a Top Gear shoot. You've sort of become a.. Top Gear..."
"... nurse?" I supplied.
"Yeah. And friend. Mostly friend."
We went back to talking, conversation flowing easily like it always did between us. But the mention of James' mystery date kept cropping up in my mind, I couldn't shake it. It made me insecure, and jealous. I kept wondering if she'd been the one who had called earlier. Had he mentioned me? That I was there? Was that why she was upset with him? I knew I should just leave it, stop fretting about it, because obviously it wasn't any of my business.
"Bloody hell, is that the time?" I said the next time I had the impulse to look at my watch. The surprise was genuine, as it was already half past midnight. Time flies when you're having fun.
"Looks like it," James said with a whistle, examining his own watch.
"I better be getting home," I sighed. "Didn't realise it was getting this late."
"Will you be all right getting home?"
"Am I that drunk?" I smirked.
"No, no. I only meant.. It is late, and cold, and.."
"James, I'll be fine. There's night buses, and taxis. It's fine."
"Sure? I have a guest bedroom if you want to stay over."
"That's really nice of you, but I didn't bring anything. And I'll spare you my lovely, hungover morning personality," I smiled. "Plus, I have to see if my building is still standing."
"All right, then... "he said reluctantly. Fusker had been sleeping heavily in my lap for a long time, and I looked down at the ball of cat, feeling guilty.
"I'm really sorry, kitty-cat, but you will have to move a little bit..." I gently tried lifting him off my lap, and he woke up, meowing sadly when I put him down on the sofa. "Aaaw, don't give me that, Fusker..." I whined. I scrambled out of the sofa, relieved that I didn't wobble when I got up. James trailed after me into his hallway. "Hey, James, I've had a really good evening. Thanks a lot for inviting me," I said as I slipped on my jacket.
"I'm glad you came over," James said. "It's been fun. Being with you is always fun."
"So is being with you."
"Listen. Be safe, yeah? Send me a text when you're home safely."
"Will you worry an awful lot if I forget?"
"Yes," he said simply. I couldn't help but smile, loving the way he worried about me.
"All right. Then I won't forget." James' arms closed around me in a long, warm hug, and for a fraction I buried my face against his
shoulder and got lost in the smell of him. He gave me a last squeeze and let go of me.
"Good night, Emily," he said, smiling a little.
"Night, James." And I was out the door.
"Bloody hell, is that the time?" I said the next time I had the impulse to look at my watch. The surprise was genuine, as it was already half past midnight. Time flies when you're having fun.
"Looks like it," James said with a whistle, examining his own watch.
"I better be getting home," I sighed. "Didn't realise it was getting this late."
"Will you be all right getting home?"
"Am I that drunk?" I smirked.
"No, no. I only meant.. It is late, and cold, and.."
"James, I'll be fine. There's night buses, and taxis. It's fine."
"Sure? I have a guest bedroom if you want to stay over."
"That's really nice of you, but I didn't bring anything. And I'll spare you my lovely, hungover morning personality," I smiled. "Plus, I have to see if my building is still standing."
"All right, then... "he said reluctantly. Fusker had been sleeping heavily in my lap for a long time, and I looked down at the ball of cat, feeling guilty.
"I'm really sorry, kitty-cat, but you will have to move a little bit..." I gently tried lifting him off my lap, and he woke up, meowing sadly when I put him down on the sofa. "Aaaw, don't give me that, Fusker..." I whined. I scrambled out of the sofa, relieved that I didn't wobble when I got up. James trailed after me into his hallway. "Hey, James, I've had a really good evening. Thanks a lot for inviting me," I said as I slipped on my jacket.
"I'm glad you came over," James said. "It's been fun. Being with you is always fun."
"So is being with you."
"Listen. Be safe, yeah? Send me a text when you're home safely."
"Will you worry an awful lot if I forget?"
"Yes," he said simply. I couldn't help but smile, loving the way he worried about me.
"All right. Then I won't forget." James' arms closed around me in a long, warm hug, and for a fraction I buried my face against his
shoulder and got lost in the smell of him. He gave me a last squeeze and let go of me.
"Good night, Emily," he said, smiling a little.
"Night, James." And I was out the door.
I spent the entire bus ride back to Bloomsbury in a heated argument with myself over whether I did the right thing, going home. What would've happened if I stayed? Nothing, intoned my inner pessimist. Maybe I would've just lain there, in the guestroom, wide awake, hoping. James was kind, and thoughtful, which was probably his only motive for asking me to stay over. And the thought of that date kept bugging me. Keeping my distance would be best. When I got home I crawled out of my clothes and straight into bed, feeling drunk and exhausted. I picked up my phone and typed in a message.
"Hey. Home safe and sound, just crawled into bed. Again, thanks for a good night. Sleep tight. Emily." Not long after my phone beeped.
"Good to hear. Means I can actually sleep now. Fusker misses you. Sleep tight, sweetie." Bastard. Maybe I should've stayed?
"Hey. Home safe and sound, just crawled into bed. Again, thanks for a good night. Sleep tight. Emily." Not long after my phone beeped.
"Good to hear. Means I can actually sleep now. Fusker misses you. Sleep tight, sweetie." Bastard. Maybe I should've stayed?
No comments:
Post a Comment