asked Amelie.
‘No.’
‘If you went with her, rather than me. It would mean so much to her if she thought you approved.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’re her friend, I’m a stand-in.’
‘Ohhh,’ I moaned, flattered by Amelie’s assessment of my importance, irritated that I was being manipulated.
At 7.52 p.m. exactly I find myself pushing open the door of The Bell and Long Wheat. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and by the profligate confetti of leopard-print tops, huge hooped earrings and sequined Elvis Presley handbags. I didn’t think people still dressed like that, not unless they were starring in sitcoms. The wine bars I frequent are inhabited by people wearing dark suits, smart shirts and discreet ties.
‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ asks Laura.
‘It’s OK as pubs go,’ I mutter ungraciously.
I object, so strongly, to the idea of my best friend falling for a loony busker that I feel miserable about everything associated with him and I’m not going to admit that the pub oozes charm. The windows are original stained glass; the tiny coloured diamonds throw interesting hues around the bar and dance merrily on the optics. There are baroque cherubs climbing the walls, leaving behind them trails of gilded laurels. The chairs are mismatched and worn; the wood has been polished by skittish bottoms and the velvet on the benches is shabby to threadbare. A number of huge ornate mirrors hang on the walls, aged to black in parts. Under any other circumstances this pub would have earned my praise, butI grumble that it is very smoky and it will be difficult to get a seat.
‘How do I look?’ asks Laura. She’s too excited even to be decently nervous.
Despite myself I grin. ‘Amazing, he’s a lucky man.’
We push our way to the bar and order a couple of Pernod and blacks (not our normal tipple but Laura wanted to blend in), then drive our way to the last couple of overlooked seats squashed into the corner of the room.
‘I’m surprised by the crowd in here,’ I comment.
‘You mean the large number of ladies past a certain age?’ asks Laura.
‘No, I expected a fair showing of wrinklies. I’m surprised to see young guys and girls.’
‘I guess they’ve come with their mums to keep them out of trouble,’ giggles Laura.
You can almost taste the anticipation in the air. Some diehards, with their beaded Elvis T-shirts, sit in silence, grimly guarding their table.
Laura and I steal a glance at our watches. The loony busker is due to appear in fifteen minutes.
‘Pop stars never start their gigs on time,’ asserts Laura.
‘He’s hardly a pop star, is he?’ She ignores me and insists on continuing to look expectant and radiant.
I glance around at the women wearing heavy eyeliner and too-red lipstick and I am back in a place I never wanted to revisit. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird and morbid that these women spend their Friday nights idolizing a mimic of a corpse?’ I ask.
‘No. I think it’s romantic that one man affected the lives of so many,’ replies Laura.
‘Jesus,’ I mutter.
‘No, Elvis.’
I am unsure as to whether she deliberately misunderstood my exasperation.
‘Everybody has a face like a slapped arse.’
‘They’re just normal people, Bella. It’s because you’re used to mixing with the beautiful people.’
‘I prefer the beautiful people, call me shallow.’
‘Shallow.’
I glare at her, so she offers to get us both another drink. Laura fights her way to the bar and this time comes back with a couple of vodkas and orange. We drink them far too quickly. Laura is either nervous or excited and I’ve decided this whole evening will be less tedious if I’m drunk.
‘Do you think we’ve got time to get another in?’ I ask.
‘Better had,’ agrees Laura.
It’s my turn to shove my way to the bar. At first I smile flirtatiously as people make way for me, but soon I’m forced to dig my bony elbows into people’s backs. It’s a
‘No.’
‘If you went with her, rather than me. It would mean so much to her if she thought you approved.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’re her friend, I’m a stand-in.’
‘Ohhh,’ I moaned, flattered by Amelie’s assessment of my importance, irritated that I was being manipulated.
At 7.52 p.m. exactly I find myself pushing open the door of The Bell and Long Wheat. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and by the profligate confetti of leopard-print tops, huge hooped earrings and sequined Elvis Presley handbags. I didn’t think people still dressed like that, not unless they were starring in sitcoms. The wine bars I frequent are inhabited by people wearing dark suits, smart shirts and discreet ties.
‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ asks Laura.
‘It’s OK as pubs go,’ I mutter ungraciously.
I object, so strongly, to the idea of my best friend falling for a loony busker that I feel miserable about everything associated with him and I’m not going to admit that the pub oozes charm. The windows are original stained glass; the tiny coloured diamonds throw interesting hues around the bar and dance merrily on the optics. There are baroque cherubs climbing the walls, leaving behind them trails of gilded laurels. The chairs are mismatched and worn; the wood has been polished by skittish bottoms and the velvet on the benches is shabby to threadbare. A number of huge ornate mirrors hang on the walls, aged to black in parts. Under any other circumstances this pub would have earned my praise, butI grumble that it is very smoky and it will be difficult to get a seat.
‘How do I look?’ asks Laura. She’s too excited even to be decently nervous.
Despite myself I grin. ‘Amazing, he’s a lucky man.’
We push our way to the bar and order a couple of Pernod and blacks (not our normal tipple but Laura wanted to blend in), then drive our way to the last couple of overlooked seats squashed into the corner of the room.
‘I’m surprised by the crowd in here,’ I comment.
‘You mean the large number of ladies past a certain age?’ asks Laura.
‘No, I expected a fair showing of wrinklies. I’m surprised to see young guys and girls.’
‘I guess they’ve come with their mums to keep them out of trouble,’ giggles Laura.
You can almost taste the anticipation in the air. Some diehards, with their beaded Elvis T-shirts, sit in silence, grimly guarding their table.
Laura and I steal a glance at our watches. The loony busker is due to appear in fifteen minutes.
‘Pop stars never start their gigs on time,’ asserts Laura.
‘He’s hardly a pop star, is he?’ She ignores me and insists on continuing to look expectant and radiant.
I glance around at the women wearing heavy eyeliner and too-red lipstick and I am back in a place I never wanted to revisit. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird and morbid that these women spend their Friday nights idolizing a mimic of a corpse?’ I ask.
‘No. I think it’s romantic that one man affected the lives of so many,’ replies Laura.
‘Jesus,’ I mutter.
‘No, Elvis.’
I am unsure as to whether she deliberately misunderstood my exasperation.
‘Everybody has a face like a slapped arse.’
‘They’re just normal people, Bella. It’s because you’re used to mixing with the beautiful people.’
‘I prefer the beautiful people, call me shallow.’
‘Shallow.’
I glare at her, so she offers to get us both another drink. Laura fights her way to the bar and this time comes back with a couple of vodkas and orange. We drink them far too quickly. Laura is either nervous or excited and I’ve decided this whole evening will be less tedious if I’m drunk.
‘Do you think we’ve got time to get another in?’ I ask.
‘Better had,’ agrees Laura.
It’s my turn to shove my way to the bar. At first I smile flirtatiously as people make way for me, but soon I’m forced to dig my bony elbows into people’s backs. It’s a
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