Goodnight Steve McQueen by Louise Wener Page A

it with her friend Shelly one night when they were both pissed, so I like to wind her up about it.
    “Hmmmm… what? Oh, nothing, I just turned over. Some kids’ music show I think.”
    “Isn’t that Ant and Dec?”
    “Em… yeah, I think so. Not sure what their names are really.”
    “They’re a right pair of tossers, though, aren’t they? Don’t you reckon?”
    “Dunno, they seem all right.”
    “They’ve definitely got to be shagging each other, haven’t they? Which one of them d’you think’s the daddy?”
    “Neither of them. They’re not. I mean, I think they’re straight.”
    “Yeah, but look at that one’s hair, what’s going on with that dark one’s hair?”
    “Ant?”
    “Ha! … I thought you said you didn’t know what they were called. You even know which one’s which.”
    “I don’t. It was a guess.”
    “You fancy them, don’t you? You fancy Ant and Dec. You want to have a double bunk-up with Ant and Dec and then you want them to have sexy homo love games with each other while you watch.”
    “Danny, shut up. Don’t be disgusting. God, you’re so filthy sometimes.”
    Alison loves it when I’m filthy.
    “So d’you fancy going out for breakfast? We could go to the World Cafe or something.”
    “I can’t,” I say, indicating the cornflakes. “I’ve got to run into town for a couple of things and then I said I’d go over to Sheila’s and mow her lawn for her.”
    “Today?”
    “I know, I’m really sorry, but I sort of promised her and she’s counting on me now. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
    “You’re too nice, Danny McQueen, too nice for your own good, that’s your trouble.”
    And then she taps her lips, indicating that she wants me to come over and give her a snog. Her mouth tastes sweet, sweet and warm from the coffee, and I notice her passport lying on the sofa as I bend down to give her a kiss. It suddenly strikes me as weird: knowing that she’s going away somewhere and
    knowing that I’m not going with her.
    i p.m. What is it with hairdressers? Why do they all keep telling me which day of the week it is? It’s Saturday, sir. I know it’s Saturday. I’ve known Saturday was the day that comes after Friday since I was three years old. Well, you have to book sir. It’s our busiest day of the week, and it is August. August? So what? So friggin’ what it’s August? What fucking difference does it make if it’s August? Well, a lot of people go on holiday in August. A lot of people like to have their hair cut before they go away on holiday. And it is Saturday. Bastard!
    No one will give me a haircut. I only want the whole thing tidied up a bit. Just so as I look a bit more presentable, a little less like a mature sociology student and a bit more like Phil Daniels in Quadrophenia. Who am I kidding? Phil Daniels was about twenty when he made Quadrophenia. Maybe I should be going for more of a sixties Terence Stamp sort of a vibe. Sod it, I’ll just have to go to the barber’s in Crouch End when I’ve finished up here.
    2. p.m. Have just wasted half an hour looking at transitional shoes in Neal Street and now they’ve run out of duck a 1’orange in Marks and Spencer. I just missed the last one. I saw the bloke that got it, some git in a suit with a great haircut, and now he’ll be eating mine and Alison’s duck a 1’orange and it’ll be him getting his knob felt instead of me. Wanker. They’ve got Sancerre, though. Excellent. What else goes with Sancerre? Fuck. Fuck. Can’t decide what to get. Dressed lobster? What’s a dressed lobster, then? What’s it got on, fucking trench coat or something? Can’t get lobster. Looks like I’m trying too hard. Can’t get two Lincolnshire sausages in onion gravy looks like I’m not trying hard enough. What’s this Malaysian curry with lemon-grass and coconut rice? Shit, no good it’s low calorie.
    Suddenly notice extremely attractive-looking woman in
    short skirt buying Honey Chicken with Balsamic Potatoes