Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
Because we need each other...
So, Gaz just cancelled on me for the Blur gig – his girlfriend’s just thrown her wedding ring down the back of the washing machine during a fight with him and wants it back, and it’s going to take him hours to retrieve it – and I’ve just spent twenty minutes trying to persuade one of my other nearby friends to join me instead, but it’s all a bit last minute for them and besides, most of them have forgotten about Britpop anyway, except for Wonderwall. Which means I’m riding solo at a gig of a band that brings back many, many memories. The first girl I ever truly loved... and, to date, the penultimate one. And the other one, well, she eloped with my best friend from uni four years ago, and now they’re married with kids in Canada. So much for them working late on groundbreaking scientific research for the few months before that happened...
But that’s all in the past now, and I’m living my life again. Long gone are the days when I followed Linda’s advice and tried to meet prospective other halves in Camden pubs (though it turned out that Linda just wanted me to get Amy Winehouse’s autograph) and at clubs (which never worked because I’m as good at dancing as the people in the audition stages of Britain’s Got Talent – i.e. I’m crap). Going out on the pull is all a bit depressing when you’re thirty (time flies when you’re getting old), and besides, I don’t want to be involved in one of those honey traps where an underage girl dressed like a hooker hits on you and then has you done for sexual harassment. That happened to Deano the other day. So I just go to record shops and buy vinyl copies of old Pulp albums to cheer myself up – I’m one of the few guys I know who understands the Sex And The City theory of retail therapy (don’t judge me – Chloe loved Sex And The City, to the extent where she wanted our first child to be called Carrie. Hers and Alex’s first child wasn’t called Carrie, though, incidentally) – or occasionally go to art galleries to make myself feel intelligent. When I’m not doing that, I stay with Mum to make sure she’s ok, and we watch Doctor Who together. Sheltered life? Me?
It’s not the coolest thing to live with your parent still at this age, but a) I can’t afford my own flat – not in London, anyway – because being a meteorologist isn’t exactly the best-paid job in the world, and b) she’s still reeling after her boyfriend of two years, Carlos, turned out to be a conman. It was like an episode of some crappy police drama for a few months, but eventually they caught him and he was locked up. She’s getting better, though. Although she says she’d be much better if she had grandchildren (as if).
So I find myself dawdling down to Leicester Square Station because hell, it’s been a while since I used the Piccadilly line. And shit, the tunnel’s rumbling beneath me and I’m so OCD about catching the first train I see that I run down shitloads of stairs – oh, and drop my sodding wallet in the process. Having made a prat of myself, I reverse my steps, pick up the offending leather-bound object and begin to-
“DAN!”
I look up, bemused, to see this really rather attractive brunette in a Blur t-shirt shouting my name.
“LYLA!”
Who else?
***
Fucking trains! The doors have shut and she’s hurtling off towards Hyde Park, because where else would she be going? I’d half-forgotten that she was a real person, because when I was seventeen she was pretty much this goddess who I worshipped, and then I was a massive dick and did something appalling and that was it, finito. And of course when I listen to Blur I remember her, but it was so long ago that I always remember our twelve months as though it was a dream, complete with golden tinge. But she’s real and yeah, I admit it, I’ve got goosebumps. So, slightly deprived of oxygen from both my salute to the past and also from being underground, I mount the stairs once more (to my lungs’ shock) and find myself hurtling through London, sprinting to Hyde Park Station. We’ve got to be in sync to some degree, because she’s standing there, waiting for me, a sweaty, lumbering wreck.
There’s no truck with the past now, it seems; she hugs me tightly and even looks pleased to see me.
“Dan Rigby, you bastard. Twelve bloody years! How are you?” She’s half-shouting over the caw of ticket touts trying to offer up spare Blur tickets. Like I haven’t already got one.
“I’m pretty decent, and yourself? Wow, you look... well, pretty much the same.” I’m still slightly lost for words. This is Lyla, for Christ’s sake!
“I’m doing alright. And yeah, except for the wrinkles. Laughter lines, I wish.” As she talks she gesticulates, and as she gesticulates...
“Oh, fuck, you’re engaged!” Well, it may have been a good old decade since we last spoke/kissed/loved each other, but my heart’s still kind of stopped and my face has fallen, and she gives the ring a weird look. Like she’s embarrassed or something. She squirms slightly and fumbles around for words.
“Umm... yeah, technically. But it’s pretty much over. I’m fed up with him and I’ve been trying to break it nicely to him for the last six months... but he won’t listen. He’s a bit, you know, desperate for kids. I can’t think of anything worse than miniature versions of me. Plus, why would I bring them up in such a shit musical climate? I mean, fucking JLS and sodding... sodding... Rihanna, and effing bloody N Dubz. Eurgh. So no, I’m not getting married. I’m going back onto the long motorway of singledom. Et tu, Brute?”
Call me stupid – I know that we’ve probably changed. We’re probably never going to see each other again after this touching reunion, and even if we do then it’ll probably just be as friends. And besides, would it be slightly awkward catching up on the past? But despite all this – despite all the years we’ve had to get over each other – this one little speech is making me fall in love with her all over again. Swearing may not be big or clever but it’s the passion and venom with which she destroys modern music that makes me feel all light-headed, along with the little Latin quote to be quirky, and the wrinkling of the nose, the Manc accent which hasn’t faded and eye-rolling when she discusses her soon-not-to-be fiancé (poor bloke, my arse). I’m such a softie.
“Errr... oh, uh, yeah, I’m a massive stud. Two proper relationships in twelve years. Yeah, I know, FML. A love of Britpop isn’t as much of a babe magnet as it used to be...” She smirks.
“Ha, I’ve never been called a babe before. Off to see Blur?”
“Yep... Stop smiling like that!”
“I knew you’d convert one day. That’s a personal victory. On your lonesome?”
“Yeah, long story involving my friend’s psychopathic girlfriend...”
“That’s always the case in these situations. Well, I’m a free agent too. Wanna come with?”
Seamless banter and off to see one half of the bands involved in the Battle of Britpop? It’s like being back in 1996. Except for Lyla’s engagement ring... which she tugs off, flicks into her bag, and then uses the ringless hand to grip mine with as we amble towards Hyde Park together, at last.
But that’s all in the past now, and I’m living my life again. Long gone are the days when I followed Linda’s advice and tried to meet prospective other halves in Camden pubs (though it turned out that Linda just wanted me to get Amy Winehouse’s autograph) and at clubs (which never worked because I’m as good at dancing as the people in the audition stages of Britain’s Got Talent – i.e. I’m crap). Going out on the pull is all a bit depressing when you’re thirty (time flies when you’re getting old), and besides, I don’t want to be involved in one of those honey traps where an underage girl dressed like a hooker hits on you and then has you done for sexual harassment. That happened to Deano the other day. So I just go to record shops and buy vinyl copies of old Pulp albums to cheer myself up – I’m one of the few guys I know who understands the Sex And The City theory of retail therapy (don’t judge me – Chloe loved Sex And The City, to the extent where she wanted our first child to be called Carrie. Hers and Alex’s first child wasn’t called Carrie, though, incidentally) – or occasionally go to art galleries to make myself feel intelligent. When I’m not doing that, I stay with Mum to make sure she’s ok, and we watch Doctor Who together. Sheltered life? Me?
It’s not the coolest thing to live with your parent still at this age, but a) I can’t afford my own flat – not in London, anyway – because being a meteorologist isn’t exactly the best-paid job in the world, and b) she’s still reeling after her boyfriend of two years, Carlos, turned out to be a conman. It was like an episode of some crappy police drama for a few months, but eventually they caught him and he was locked up. She’s getting better, though. Although she says she’d be much better if she had grandchildren (as if).
So I find myself dawdling down to Leicester Square Station because hell, it’s been a while since I used the Piccadilly line. And shit, the tunnel’s rumbling beneath me and I’m so OCD about catching the first train I see that I run down shitloads of stairs – oh, and drop my sodding wallet in the process. Having made a prat of myself, I reverse my steps, pick up the offending leather-bound object and begin to-
“DAN!”
I look up, bemused, to see this really rather attractive brunette in a Blur t-shirt shouting my name.
“LYLA!”
Who else?
***
Fucking trains! The doors have shut and she’s hurtling off towards Hyde Park, because where else would she be going? I’d half-forgotten that she was a real person, because when I was seventeen she was pretty much this goddess who I worshipped, and then I was a massive dick and did something appalling and that was it, finito. And of course when I listen to Blur I remember her, but it was so long ago that I always remember our twelve months as though it was a dream, complete with golden tinge. But she’s real and yeah, I admit it, I’ve got goosebumps. So, slightly deprived of oxygen from both my salute to the past and also from being underground, I mount the stairs once more (to my lungs’ shock) and find myself hurtling through London, sprinting to Hyde Park Station. We’ve got to be in sync to some degree, because she’s standing there, waiting for me, a sweaty, lumbering wreck.
There’s no truck with the past now, it seems; she hugs me tightly and even looks pleased to see me.
“Dan Rigby, you bastard. Twelve bloody years! How are you?” She’s half-shouting over the caw of ticket touts trying to offer up spare Blur tickets. Like I haven’t already got one.
“I’m pretty decent, and yourself? Wow, you look... well, pretty much the same.” I’m still slightly lost for words. This is Lyla, for Christ’s sake!
“I’m doing alright. And yeah, except for the wrinkles. Laughter lines, I wish.” As she talks she gesticulates, and as she gesticulates...
“Oh, fuck, you’re engaged!” Well, it may have been a good old decade since we last spoke/kissed/loved each other, but my heart’s still kind of stopped and my face has fallen, and she gives the ring a weird look. Like she’s embarrassed or something. She squirms slightly and fumbles around for words.
“Umm... yeah, technically. But it’s pretty much over. I’m fed up with him and I’ve been trying to break it nicely to him for the last six months... but he won’t listen. He’s a bit, you know, desperate for kids. I can’t think of anything worse than miniature versions of me. Plus, why would I bring them up in such a shit musical climate? I mean, fucking JLS and sodding... sodding... Rihanna, and effing bloody N Dubz. Eurgh. So no, I’m not getting married. I’m going back onto the long motorway of singledom. Et tu, Brute?”
Call me stupid – I know that we’ve probably changed. We’re probably never going to see each other again after this touching reunion, and even if we do then it’ll probably just be as friends. And besides, would it be slightly awkward catching up on the past? But despite all this – despite all the years we’ve had to get over each other – this one little speech is making me fall in love with her all over again. Swearing may not be big or clever but it’s the passion and venom with which she destroys modern music that makes me feel all light-headed, along with the little Latin quote to be quirky, and the wrinkling of the nose, the Manc accent which hasn’t faded and eye-rolling when she discusses her soon-not-to-be fiancé (poor bloke, my arse). I’m such a softie.
“Errr... oh, uh, yeah, I’m a massive stud. Two proper relationships in twelve years. Yeah, I know, FML. A love of Britpop isn’t as much of a babe magnet as it used to be...” She smirks.
“Ha, I’ve never been called a babe before. Off to see Blur?”
“Yep... Stop smiling like that!”
“I knew you’d convert one day. That’s a personal victory. On your lonesome?”
“Yeah, long story involving my friend’s psychopathic girlfriend...”
“That’s always the case in these situations. Well, I’m a free agent too. Wanna come with?”
Seamless banter and off to see one half of the bands involved in the Battle of Britpop? It’s like being back in 1996. Except for Lyla’s engagement ring... which she tugs off, flicks into her bag, and then uses the ringless hand to grip mine with as we amble towards Hyde Park together, at last.
♠ ♠ ♠
<3 penultimate chapter... sorry ;__;