She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

brewery from another pub across town. I kept quiet. There were so many variables that simply weren’t in my favour to do something as rash as speaking to him. For a start, it would have been too obvious. And, therefore, embarrassing. And, consequently, awkward for both of us. And then, painful for any of us to come back to a pub which had been our regular hang-out for years. Ultimately, I would be creating a ‘situation’. The girls knew this was how I would be thinking, so after two drinks they stopped badgering me. The following Thursday, we arranged to meet at our usual time … but when I turned up (five minutes late), they weren’t there.

      I saw him though. His back was to me as he changed an optic on a bottle of vodka. I knew it was him as I had stared at every part of his anatomy so hard the previous week, I could have given Crimewatch an exact E-fit of the nape of his neck. I was about to spin round and leave when a text pinged through from Suze:

       If you walk out you’re officially a TWAT. FYI Maddie is with me, so don’t think about calling her.

      I approached the bar, purple heat rash prickling.

      ME: Erm … hi.

       HIM: (Turning round.) Hey.

      It was a generic I-don’t-recognise-you “hey”.

       ME: I’m Tanya. I was in last week. You were talking to my friends, Suze and Maddie. We’re here every Thursday, but they haven’t turned up yet s—

       HIM: Oh, right, yeah. How’s it going?

       ME: Great, in fact. You?

      HIM: Yeah … good.

      ME: That’s, erm … good. Really … great.

      Move over Dorothy Parker.

       HIM: That’s all decided then. I’m good and so are you. No, you’re—in fact—great. What do you want?

      He smirked. Negatively? Positively?

      ME: Oh, God, erm … nothing really. I got here early, so thought I would say hello, since I was in here. Waiting. For Suze and Madd—

       HIM: I meant, what do you want to drink?

       ME: Right. Of course. Prosecco?

      I HATE PROSECCO!

       HIM: Coming up. So, tell me, Trisha …

       ME: Tanya.

       HIM: Sorry … Tanya. What do you do?

       ME: I’m a content writer for corporate websites.

       HIM: Ah, cool.

      ME: It’s not. But I have a crazy boss who is obsessed with Star Wars. It’s really funny, he does impersonations of Yoda.

      Yeah, he’s a lunatic. Because not even the vaguest sci-fi fan does that, do they?

       HIM: Sounds it. Hey, maybe you could do a new website for my band? Pretty please!

       ME: Band?

      NOT what I wanted to hear.

       HIM: Yeah, I’m a singer. The band is pretty successful, but I like to work behind a bar still. Keeps me grounded. I’m just hoping that I get to enjoy this sort of freedom for as long as possible before things sky rocket and we l—

      ME: (Interrupting to tie up the conversation.) Well, that sounds like you’re keeping it, erm … real. The fans must appreciate that.

      I physically recoiled at my use of muso speak.

       HIM: I’m sure they would if I had any.

       ME: What?

      HIM: I was winding you up! The band … it’s a hobby. We play covers at weddings … not original material on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury.

      ME: OH! (Warming to him again.) So, erm … what kind of traffic do you get on your current website?

      HIM: Traffic? (Rubbing his chin.) Well, metaphorically speaking … you know if you take a left at the roundabout before Lidl, and then go right past the old recreation ground and take that spindly lane which snakes round the back of the church up towards the farm which is basically only used by the occasional agricultural vehicle? That’s pretty much the type of traff—

      ME: Yep, I do. Actually, my parents use that lane too … they live just off it.

      HIM: Poor them. That’s where Howard Dinsdale lives, isn’t it? In that mock-Tudor monstrosity. His company bought the youth club I went to as a kid and turned it into luxury flats. He’s an arsehole …

       ME: Try having him as a father.

      HIM: Ha! Nice attempt at getting me back. Now you’re winding me up. (Peering at me.) Oh. Shit. Oh, shit.

      I smiled at him. He smiled too. At that moment, my stomach didn’t simply flip. It did a full-on exquisitely executed Olympic-level triple flickflack into a double backwards somersault with a twist. One which had been perfected by a dedicated Russian gymnast who had spent her entire childhood in a Moscow training camp, but who knew if she nailed a flawless routine she could move to the United States once the Games were over and be free to watch Miley Cyrus pop videos. And visit the Dash store. And eat Ben and Jerry’s.

      I disappeared to the toilets and shut myself in a cubicle to call Suze. I told her everything Greg had said. Everything I had said. She informed me that she and Maddie were on their way, and ordered me to go back out to the bar and talk to him until their arrival. I left the cubicle. At the same time, another girl vacated the other cubicle and we both went to the sinks to wash our hands. As she rinsed hers, she stared at me. She was an Eva Mendez-esque exotic beauty with sloping features and olive skin. There was not a dab of make-up on her face—not even a very light mineral veil or BB cream. (I know my subtle cosmetic camouflage, they are the only products I use.) But she didn’t smile back, and left the lavatory without drying her hands. When I returned to the bar, she was sitting on a stool, chatting to Greg. He waved at me.

      HIM: Hey, Tanya, this is Sadie. (He passes Sadie a pint of beer.) Sadie, meet Tanya … one of the regulars here.

      Sadie raised her glass and gave me a look. This look told me that she’d heard every word I’d said in the toilet. It also told me everything about her relationship with Greg. But moreover, my relationship with myself. She knew I wasn’t going to compete with her, as I was the type of girl who avoided competition. The sort who lived within the remit of her capability but didn’t push herself further than that. She was right. My approach to life since my late teens had become: get through it. Full stop. Not, live it! Certainly not ‘to the full’ or ‘to the max’ or with the pressurising pre-cursor, of ‘you only have one, so …’. And that is what I had been doing, getting through it. No highs. No lows. Anything to avoid … feeling.

      ‘Do you think I should call myself something else, babe?’ Greg asks, as we pull out of The Croft’s car park and head home.

      He is driving. I had a silly spate of fainting a while ago, so I don’t feel fully comfortable behind a wheel. Besides, I like watching Greg drive. It says a great deal about how sexy he is that he is still sexy when zipping about in my Ford Ka.

      ‘Eh? Why on earth would you do that?’

      ‘My name is so lame.’

      ‘How can a name be lame?’

      ‘When you’re called Greg. There can’t be many more inappropriate monikers for the front man of a band. Just say we make it—and I am obviously being stupidly optimistic here, as our most recent demo is probably being used as a coffee mug coaster