mind would say: âGo and get it checked out at the doctorâs, you fucking idiot.â
But the thing is, as long as Paul doesnât get it checked out, it could still be benign.
He watches Damon chugging away on a full-strength B&H, complaining about how much he hates his job but doesnât know quite what he wants to do instead, his lips all chapped, his huge forehead beaded with sweat, his ginger hair sticking up in brittle tufts, his eyes small and round and angry, and thinks: You lucky, lucky bastard.
Take a big swig of your pint, Paul. Itâs Friday night. You should be enjoying yourself. Relax. Take a few deep breaths. Just focus on what Damon is saying.
Paulâs gaze drifts to the twenty-pack of B&H on the table between them.
He takes his phone out of his pocket, checks it, puts it back, then looks at the fag packet again.
âCan I have a cig?â he says.
âIs that really a good idea, mate?â
But before Damon can stop him, Paul opens the pack, sticks one in his mouth and lights it.
A little later, Paul stumbles up the stairs to his flat, fumbles with the key, gets the door open after three attempts, stumbles inside. Heâs bought a pack of ten Marlboro Lights from the garage on the way home. Sarahâs not back until Sunday evening, he reminds himself as he forces the living-room windows open as wide as theyâll go, then heads into the kitchen for something to use as an ashtray.
He comes back in with an old saucer and a fridge-cold can of lager and sits down on the sofa, turns on his laptop, lifts it onto his knees. He lights a Marlboro Light and sucks deeply, then exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
Sarah would go mental if she saw him.
Her uncle died of emphysema.
Her whole family are extremely anti-smoking.
That was one of the things that got Paul off on the wrong foot with her mum in the first place: heâd sneakeddownstairs to have a roll-up in her back garden and then left the stub in one of her plant pots.
The whole family went nuts at him.
On the train back afterwards, heâd promised Sarah he would give up, right there and then.
He opens Facebook, ignoring the âTrumpet Fightâ video that Damon has already posted on his timeline, instead going straight to Alison Whistlerâs profile.
Sheâs changed her profile pic to a photo of a cat wearing sunglasses, and her cover photo is now a neon-pink, galactic-looking background.
The first post on her wall is a rant about how the server in Starbucks was rude to her this morning:
Idgi , it concluded. Why do ppl think itâs alright to treat you that way? 0_o
Paul types âwhat does idgi meanâ into Google.
Takes another swig of his lager.
Lights a cigarette.
Tabs back to Facebook.
He turns on chat, not actually intending to chat to her, letâs get this clear, just to see if sheâs online, and looks down the list of names (mostly people he went to school with, who he never really talks to any more), and when he sees her name with a small green circle next to it, his heart does a little cartwheel.
He swigs his lager and chain-smokes three more cigarettes, all the while looking at Alison Whistlerâs name, wondering what would happen if he just clicked on it.
I could do it, he thinks.
It would be so easy.
I could just type âhiâ.
âHi,â he types.
But Iâm not actually going to press return, he thinks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, feeling drunk and dizzy and for one brief moment like the Paul he used to remember being: the Paul who wrote that novel, mostly very late at night and a bit drunk, pretending he was Charles Bukowski, the Paul who didnât have mouth caâ
He presses return.
Oh shit, he thinks, as soon as heâs done it.
Oh shit, oh fuck. What have I done?
âhiâ Alison messages back, almost instantaneously.
Oh god, Paul thinks. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit.
He considers just quickly closing the
But the thing is, as long as Paul doesnât get it checked out, it could still be benign.
He watches Damon chugging away on a full-strength B&H, complaining about how much he hates his job but doesnât know quite what he wants to do instead, his lips all chapped, his huge forehead beaded with sweat, his ginger hair sticking up in brittle tufts, his eyes small and round and angry, and thinks: You lucky, lucky bastard.
Take a big swig of your pint, Paul. Itâs Friday night. You should be enjoying yourself. Relax. Take a few deep breaths. Just focus on what Damon is saying.
Paulâs gaze drifts to the twenty-pack of B&H on the table between them.
He takes his phone out of his pocket, checks it, puts it back, then looks at the fag packet again.
âCan I have a cig?â he says.
âIs that really a good idea, mate?â
But before Damon can stop him, Paul opens the pack, sticks one in his mouth and lights it.
A little later, Paul stumbles up the stairs to his flat, fumbles with the key, gets the door open after three attempts, stumbles inside. Heâs bought a pack of ten Marlboro Lights from the garage on the way home. Sarahâs not back until Sunday evening, he reminds himself as he forces the living-room windows open as wide as theyâll go, then heads into the kitchen for something to use as an ashtray.
He comes back in with an old saucer and a fridge-cold can of lager and sits down on the sofa, turns on his laptop, lifts it onto his knees. He lights a Marlboro Light and sucks deeply, then exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
Sarah would go mental if she saw him.
Her uncle died of emphysema.
Her whole family are extremely anti-smoking.
That was one of the things that got Paul off on the wrong foot with her mum in the first place: heâd sneakeddownstairs to have a roll-up in her back garden and then left the stub in one of her plant pots.
The whole family went nuts at him.
On the train back afterwards, heâd promised Sarah he would give up, right there and then.
He opens Facebook, ignoring the âTrumpet Fightâ video that Damon has already posted on his timeline, instead going straight to Alison Whistlerâs profile.
Sheâs changed her profile pic to a photo of a cat wearing sunglasses, and her cover photo is now a neon-pink, galactic-looking background.
The first post on her wall is a rant about how the server in Starbucks was rude to her this morning:
Idgi , it concluded. Why do ppl think itâs alright to treat you that way? 0_o
Paul types âwhat does idgi meanâ into Google.
Takes another swig of his lager.
Lights a cigarette.
Tabs back to Facebook.
He turns on chat, not actually intending to chat to her, letâs get this clear, just to see if sheâs online, and looks down the list of names (mostly people he went to school with, who he never really talks to any more), and when he sees her name with a small green circle next to it, his heart does a little cartwheel.
He swigs his lager and chain-smokes three more cigarettes, all the while looking at Alison Whistlerâs name, wondering what would happen if he just clicked on it.
I could do it, he thinks.
It would be so easy.
I could just type âhiâ.
âHi,â he types.
But Iâm not actually going to press return, he thinks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, feeling drunk and dizzy and for one brief moment like the Paul he used to remember being: the Paul who wrote that novel, mostly very late at night and a bit drunk, pretending he was Charles Bukowski, the Paul who didnât have mouth caâ
He presses return.
Oh shit, he thinks, as soon as heâs done it.
Oh shit, oh fuck. What have I done?
âhiâ Alison messages back, almost instantaneously.
Oh god, Paul thinks. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit.
He considers just quickly closing the
Similar Books
