Live Forever

It’s a first in our relationship. A milestone, looming over us imminently, ready to fall at any moment. Of course, I’m talking about meeting the parents. His shambolic alcoholic of a father and a stepmother wallowing in her own vanity as much as the seas of fake tan in which she smothers herself. Only men are supposed to be terrified at the prospect of meeting their other half’s parents, but I’m scared stiff as I trudge through the mounds of damp, black, disintegrated November leaves that litter his road. It’s nothing short of a miracle; a posh road in Manchester! Who’d have thought it?
It’s a world away from my deadbeat rows of semi-terraced houses, suffocated by meaningless scribbles of graffiti, and in amongst the weeds lay redundant remnants of smashed windows. No wonder you never see little children playing outside. Instead, it’s the very epitome of picturesque suburbia; fir trees act as nature’s fences to keep the owner’s privacy, and BMWs and Audis line the drives. Money is as free-flowing as water. You can’t help but be jealous.
I’m torn from my pondering by the sight of a solitary figure in the distance; while I’m wrapped up in the full hat, scarf and gloves set and some very thick tights, he’s casually standing around in a Pulp Fiction t-shirt and some worn jeans. As I get closer, I see that he is shivering, and I smile because he’s such a bloody idiot for not wearing a coat out. Silly boy! He better wear more when we see Toy Story this evening; I don’t want a freezing cold arm round my shoulders for two hours. He’d spontaneously called up last night to finalise details for today, and added in that his parents wanted to know if I’d like to come round for dinner. Talk about short notice.
“So, you ready to face the enemy?” is his opening gambit, after a cutesy, couple-y bear hug (and an accidental clash of heads in which he claims I’ve broken his nose, which is bright red from the cold).
“Yeah, why not. And this is what you call a humble abode? Cor, you should be ashamed of yourself! This is a bloody palace!” Despite the cold, I’m in a surprisingly chipper mood. Though I usually am when I’m around Dan.
“Mmm, not really. Not as big as my old house,” he mumbles in his embarrassed voice. The same voice that he uses when I sing in the street at him. “By the way, Linda’s made us a vegetable lasagne. Because she’s decided that being a veggie is healthy. And she’s set up The Lion King on video, so you’ll have to suffer through that with me...”
“Hey, I love The Lion King! Best 2D cartoon ever!”
“You can’t be serious... What about Fantasia? With the dancing brooms and shit?”
“Mmmmm, yeah, but you can’t argue with Hakuna Matata.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“Me neither.” There’s a brief interlude. He looks concerned and pulls a face, but I’m not sure if that’s because he disapproves of my (blatantly superior) taste in Disney films.
“So you’re ok with veggie lasagne?”
“I’d prefer a meat one...”
“Oo-err.”
“Shut it, you!”
“Meanie. I have a name, you know.”
“Dan Abnormal, not normal at all...”
“Don’t quote Blur at me!!”
“You live in a house, a very big house in the country...”
“Argh! One more note and you’re dumped!”
“Ok, fine, I’ll stop. Who else will buy me Yorkies, anyway?”
Our banter comes to a sudden standstill, as we’ve come to the end of the long, long driveway and we’re at his front door. It’s immaculately painted in henna red, accessorised with a slightly vulgar gold knocker. I imagine it’s the sort of thing that Linda would wear on a chain, given half a chance. He lets himself in, and I’m instantly strangled in a mass of pillowy, perfumy, peroxide woman.
“Alright, darling? You gotta be Lyla! Dan’s told us all about you! Ain’t that right, Dan?” The Essex twang is unmistakable; even a Northerner could distinguish it. Which, incidentally, I can. She doesn’t wait for a response from her despairing stepson. “Anyway, babes, you take your coat ‘n’ hat ‘n’ gloves ‘n’ scarf off an’ put ‘em on the hat-stand! An’ then you can go make yourself comf’t’able, alright? I’ve got a nice veggie lasagne for ya...” In spite of myself, I can’t help but warm to Linda; she’s so effervescent and motherly that you like her, despite the lingering reek of nicotine, which all the Chanel No 5 in the world can’t mask. Dan is rolling his eyes querulously as she babbles on about the nutritious value of aubergine, which she’s apparently used liberally in her veggie lasagne concoction. Not that she says that exactly; ‘liberally’ probably doesn’t feature so heavily in her vocabulary. But that’s the general gist of what she’s saying.
“That alright with you, babe? Dan ‘ere’s been bangin’ on about meat this and meat that, but veggie’s well more healthy, ain’t it? Anyway darlin’, I’ll be back to the kitchen now, jus’ to check how it’s going. Don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t, Dan!” And with a wholly inappropriate wink, she bustles off to the kitchen. Dan shakes his head and, once I’ve obediently put my coat ‘n’ hat ‘n’ gloves ‘n’ scarf on the hat stand, leads me up to his room. I’m ever-so-slightly wary. I haven’t been into a boy’s room, save for my brother’s, in... forever, I suppose.
It’s clean, which is a relief. No festering cups or plates are fostered in here (that I can see), and – with the exception of a huge Oasis poster – the walls are entirely minimalist in blue. Until he shuts the door, and I see a Fulham scarf pinned to it; I can’t help but laugh.
“What?” he asks tensely, worry lines on his face as abundant as those on the long-disused Etch-A-Sketch in the corner. Down by a guitar case, in fact.
“You support Fulham?!”
“Errr... you know who Fulham are? Wow, Brownie points. Is this the point where you tell me that you hate football and that I should be castrated?” He seems to have a bad case of my usual pessimism today.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I love football. But... Fulham?! What a joke...”
“Alright, who do you support, Little Miss Superiority Complex? Manchester United?” he snaps. I’ve clearly touched on a nerve, but at the mention of the Red Evils, I gag.
“God, no! I’m offended you have that low an opinion of me. And no, before you ask, it’s not Manchester City either. I’m a hardcore Chelsea fan... or I would be, if I could afford to a) live in London, and b) see their matches.”
“Ewww, Chelsea. You never win anything!”
“Hypocrite. We’ve won more FA Cups than you have!” I reply, insulted.
“Yeah, well... you...” Flailing for a cutting insult, he gives up. “...suck.”
“Well done, full marks on the originality scale...”
“I know, I know. Sure explains the A* in my English Language GCSE.” Oh God, I forgot that I’m technically going out with a genius. 9A*s and 2As puts him way ahead of my paltry collection of 2A*s. “So...”
And we stop talking, because we’re far too close together to be wasting our mouths on useless words. At which point Linda walks in, and starts squawking about how she doesn’t want to be a stepgrandmother.

***

“This is...” I scramble around in the thesaurus of my mind for a word which isn’t a synonym of ‘disgusting’. “...really different! Kudos.”
Dan starts shaking with laughter. I shoot him evils and kick him under the table, which – embarrassingly – he turns into an illicit game of footsie. If looks could kill, he’d be right there next to Mum in the cemetery.
“Since when have you ever said ‘kudos’?” he giggles. Linda and his dad look at him in astonishment; evidently, his capacity to giggle has only recently been awakened. Quite possibly by my existence.
“So, when’d you two get together?” grins Dan’s dad, Paul. There’s been no sign of the hopeless inebriate that Dan described to me; just a friendly, if slightly dog-eared, geezer who was probably a bit of a playa in his day. I much prefer Paul and Linda (yes, really!) to my grumpy git of a parental unit, even if Dan hasn’t got any siblings to forge a bond with. He doesn’t know how good he has it.
“About three months ago,” Dan answers, suddenly reserved again, staring down at the mush of limp pasta, Ragú and aubergines in front of him. Only Linda has finished her portion; not being the greatest pasta fan, I’d politely scoffed about half of it before realising that it was pretty dreadful as far as home cooking went. I was grateful that, despite his cantankerous tendencies, my dad could at least knock up a decent roast dinner on demand... Luckily, Dan had forewarned me of Linda’s culinary ineptness, and I’d been able to pre-fuel myself up with some Pot Noodle that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Colin before he’d gone back to Newcastle. At least the aubergine was relatively healthy, I suppose.
“Three months?! But babe, you ain’t said anythin’ to us ‘til just this month!” Linda is appalled by his discretion. I’m silently amused; my dad still has no idea. He assumes that Stella’s just being particularly clingy at the moment.
“Linda, sweetheart, could you get us another Tiddlywink of Sauvignon Blanc? My Hackney Marsh is looking a bit empty,” he winked at her. I think I’ve missed something; they can’t be speaking English.
“Tiddlywink – drink, Hackney Marsh – glass. Is that right, Dad?” Dan translates for me. It must be a London thing; but as I’m thinking this, the penny drops.
“Oh! It’s Cockney rhyming slang!” I exclaimed, having had my epiphany. Everyone turns and looks at me with mirthful expressions. It’s a division between North and South, a gaping canyon in understanding. My Manc upbringing has left me red-faced for, possibly, the first time in my life.
Ring ring! Ring ring! I’m saved by the phone.

***

Dan can’t stop apologising.
“I’m so sorry about them. They’re so embarrassing. I mean, who even uses Cockney rhyming slang these days, anyway?” He seems to have picked up on my shameful lack of Southern awareness.
“...Your dad?” I finish, fully aware that it sounds like a prelude to an innuendo-laden conversation. We’re in his room again, engaging in an awkward pillow talk on his bed; awkward because, for all his riches, he’s got a flimsy IKEA flat-pack single bed which creaks like hell. So, no need to worry about him taking advantage of me. The bed would break before he had my shirt off.
“Mmm. So what was this whole thing about Stella and her pen pal?” he asks, thankfully changing subject. I’d completely forgotten to relate the story.
“Well, he randomly turned up on Stella’s doorstep last night, complete with a signed Take That CD as a present for her.”
“Ooh, Take That. Are you jealous that I’m not that romantic?”
“Shut up, you’re interrupting my flow.”
“I bet I am.”
“Oi.”
“Continue then.”
“Gladly.” I pause for dramatic effect. “So, her parents went beserk, and Stella got all hysterical...”
“Because they went beserk?”
“No! Do you want to know why she was upset?”
“Yes, I’m hanging on with bated breath. This is better than an episode of Casualty.”
“You watch Casualty?”
“No! Why would I degrade myself like that? But Linda does, and Dad watches it with her. So I occasionally see clips of it. It’s shite.”
“Damn straight. Anyway, the reason was... she wasn’t expecting him to be so hot!”
“What?!”
“Precisely. As soon as she saw how hot he was, she locked herself in the kitchen with the phone, and wouldn’t come out until I came over. Apparently, him being incredibly attractive meant that he’d probably had loads of girlfriends and admirers, and she was just another trophy in his cabinet, so to speak.”
“Err, right. And was she?”
“Nope. He’s hopelessly devoted to her, and he’s staying the week. His parents have gone mad. He sang flipping Wonderwall to her!!”
“I will never be that cheesy. Hand on heart. I bet you loved that little detail, anyway.”
“Mmm. Speaking of which...” I take a huge intake of breath, and slaughter my own reputation single-handedly. “I listened to the Definitely Maybe CD that Stella lent me.”
“Oh really? Let me guess, you hated it as soon as the opening chords to Rock ‘n’ Roll Star came on, and consigned it to a flaming bonfire?”
“No, actually. I liked Live Forever.”
“Gasp! That took a lot of balls to admit, I’m sure. Any opinions on any of the other songs? What about Slide Away?”
“...That was bloody wonderful. And Digsy’s Dinner has basically summed up today.”
“What a life it would be, if you could come to mine for tea...” He laughs. “We even had lasagne! ...Still, don’t go expecting me to convert to Blur. It’s not gonna happen.”
“It will do. Because you love me and all-“ Shit! I didn’t mean to say that. Oh God, what have I done? I’ve just made the most presumptuous comment of all time. I wait, fervently hoping that the ground will swallow me up whole, and toss me into its raging inferno of a digestive system.
“Do I, now?” He smiles knowingly. I want to bang my head against the wall, as the beads of sweat form on my forehead, knowing what I have to say.
“Well, I... I... I... kind of... hope so,” I stammer incoherently, “because, I, umm, kind of, well, sort of, err... love you?”
He laughs, and in an annoyingly nonchalant voice says, “Yeah, I pretty much love you too. Even though you like Blur.”
A faux-wrestling match begins. He wins, kisses me, and all the crap in the world transforms into rainbows and unicorns for a few idle hours. Somebody shoot me. I’m crazy in love.