November.’
There was a long pause.
The long pause grew longer.
The long pause grew so long that unless one of us said something soon, the only thing left to say would be good-bye. I panicked and said the first thing that came into my head.
‘Ahhhhh.’
There was another long pause.
‘What does “Ahhhhh” mean?’ enquired Kate, mimicking my ‘Ahhhhh’ note perfectly.
I hadn’t a clue what to say next and was running out of plausible ideas at an alarming rate. ‘Nothing really. Well not much anyhow. It’s just that . . . I used to know a Katie at junior school. She was the fastest runner in the whole of our year until she was ten. It was amazing. I’ve never seen a girl go so fast. I’ve often wondered whether she ever made it to the Olympics or anything like that. You’re not that Kate, are you?’
‘’Fraid not, Mr Spaceman,’ said Kate.
‘Spaceman?’ I repeated.
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘No, you don’t, do you?’ I thought of making one up purely for my own amusement, but somehow the honesty and the purity of her voice shamed me into not being so pathetic. ‘Names are irrelevant. They’re just labels. I mean, how can you tell what a child should be called before they’ve even had a chance to do anything?’
I was well aware of how pompous it sounded, because I’d thought exactly the same thing when I heard Simon say it to a girl at a party. The reason I was employing its use now was that I desperately wanted to ape the fantastic results he’d got using it.
‘Don’t you like your name?’ asked Kate.
‘It’s all right,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘But it’s not the name I would have chosen.’
She laughed, which wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been looking for. I asked her what she found amusing and she said something about boys being all the same and then asked me what name I would’ve chosen, which proved unfortunate as I couldn’t remember which name Simon had used.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I said nervously. I jammed the phone up against my ear with my shoulder, leaving my hands free to frantically tear the letter I’d written to the bank into little pieces.
‘I think I’d call you James,’ she said playfully.
I was intrigued. James? I listed all of the cool Jameses I could think of: James Bond (shaken but not stirred cool), James Brown (‘soul power’ cool) and James Hunt (daredevil motor racing cool) – in spite of my list and the fact that the odds were a million to one against, I couldn’t help feeling she had a different James in mind. James Baker, to be exact, a small lad in the year below me in junior school who perpetually had scabs around the edge of his lips.
‘Why James?’ I asked defensively.
‘I don’t know,’ she said whimsically. ‘You just sound like a James. But if names are irrelevant why did you ask me what mine was?’
‘Because I wanted to know how wrong your parents were.’
‘And how wrong were they?’ asked Kate guardedly.
‘Only quite wrong,’ I answered. ‘Not far off the mark, I suppose. Three out of ten for effort.’
The rude streak that dwelled within me had risen to the surface. I’d like to pretend that my obnoxiousness was part of my seduction technique but it wasn’t. It was sheer blatant crapness. My mouth always ran away with itself, intoxicated by the power it wielded. It happened any time I came face to face with genuine niceness, as if scientifically testing the limitations of my chosen subject’s pleasant nature – to see how far was too far.
‘Are you trying to be offensive?’ she asked, more stunned than hurt.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said, apologising profusely. ‘Forgive me, I’m stupid. It’s just . . . it’s just that I’m just having a bit of a rough time at the moment.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Kate, genuinely concerned.
I tried to stop myself but couldn’t.
‘It’s my girlfriend,’ I said. ‘She dumped me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I
There was a long pause.
The long pause grew longer.
The long pause grew so long that unless one of us said something soon, the only thing left to say would be good-bye. I panicked and said the first thing that came into my head.
‘Ahhhhh.’
There was another long pause.
‘What does “Ahhhhh” mean?’ enquired Kate, mimicking my ‘Ahhhhh’ note perfectly.
I hadn’t a clue what to say next and was running out of plausible ideas at an alarming rate. ‘Nothing really. Well not much anyhow. It’s just that . . . I used to know a Katie at junior school. She was the fastest runner in the whole of our year until she was ten. It was amazing. I’ve never seen a girl go so fast. I’ve often wondered whether she ever made it to the Olympics or anything like that. You’re not that Kate, are you?’
‘’Fraid not, Mr Spaceman,’ said Kate.
‘Spaceman?’ I repeated.
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘No, you don’t, do you?’ I thought of making one up purely for my own amusement, but somehow the honesty and the purity of her voice shamed me into not being so pathetic. ‘Names are irrelevant. They’re just labels. I mean, how can you tell what a child should be called before they’ve even had a chance to do anything?’
I was well aware of how pompous it sounded, because I’d thought exactly the same thing when I heard Simon say it to a girl at a party. The reason I was employing its use now was that I desperately wanted to ape the fantastic results he’d got using it.
‘Don’t you like your name?’ asked Kate.
‘It’s all right,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘But it’s not the name I would have chosen.’
She laughed, which wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been looking for. I asked her what she found amusing and she said something about boys being all the same and then asked me what name I would’ve chosen, which proved unfortunate as I couldn’t remember which name Simon had used.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I said nervously. I jammed the phone up against my ear with my shoulder, leaving my hands free to frantically tear the letter I’d written to the bank into little pieces.
‘I think I’d call you James,’ she said playfully.
I was intrigued. James? I listed all of the cool Jameses I could think of: James Bond (shaken but not stirred cool), James Brown (‘soul power’ cool) and James Hunt (daredevil motor racing cool) – in spite of my list and the fact that the odds were a million to one against, I couldn’t help feeling she had a different James in mind. James Baker, to be exact, a small lad in the year below me in junior school who perpetually had scabs around the edge of his lips.
‘Why James?’ I asked defensively.
‘I don’t know,’ she said whimsically. ‘You just sound like a James. But if names are irrelevant why did you ask me what mine was?’
‘Because I wanted to know how wrong your parents were.’
‘And how wrong were they?’ asked Kate guardedly.
‘Only quite wrong,’ I answered. ‘Not far off the mark, I suppose. Three out of ten for effort.’
The rude streak that dwelled within me had risen to the surface. I’d like to pretend that my obnoxiousness was part of my seduction technique but it wasn’t. It was sheer blatant crapness. My mouth always ran away with itself, intoxicated by the power it wielded. It happened any time I came face to face with genuine niceness, as if scientifically testing the limitations of my chosen subject’s pleasant nature – to see how far was too far.
‘Are you trying to be offensive?’ she asked, more stunned than hurt.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said, apologising profusely. ‘Forgive me, I’m stupid. It’s just . . . it’s just that I’m just having a bit of a rough time at the moment.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Kate, genuinely concerned.
I tried to stop myself but couldn’t.
‘It’s my girlfriend,’ I said. ‘She dumped me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I
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