Lover
by Michael Keenaghan
Rob Lawson smiled at the barmaid and took his drink to a corner table. He lived local and used this place often, an understated gastro-pub that attracted the kind of young, vibrant professionals only to be expected in an area that over the last few years had shaken off its grit and regenerated nicely. Not too long ago, you’d need to be pretty brave walking into this place. But there you go. Another success story in London’s changing landscape – a change Rob, working in the property business, considered himself very much a part of. It was all about creative thinking, good marketing and good investment. Backed up of course by a nice healthy economy, that at the moment was going from strength to strength.
It was a pleasant day, most of the customers out in the beer garden, but after a heavy night Rob appreciated the quiet shade of the bar, music lightly tinkling; nice easy pace. He spread out the Saturday newspaper and scanned the headlines. Tony Blair rumoured to be standing down before the year was out; two soldiers killed in Iraq; and a Birmingham honour killing involving a man who hacked his promising law-student daughter to death and buried the body in the back garden. Maybe he’d pass on that. He had a quick look over the Finance and Property then set the paper aside. Concentrated on his Guinness. Despite painkillers and a hearty breakfast his hangover still lingered; a dull throb behind the eyes that riled him. Coming home after a night out and instead of hitting the sack, drinking himself to sleep in front of the screen. Unnecessary.
Last night he’d been on a date. Not with somebody from one of the dating networks he used but with a girl he’d chatted up in a club the week before. The girl was just his type, and he’d entertained high hopes, thinking it could be the start of something. After all, that’s what he was looking for; the bachelor’s life not all it’s cracked up to be. But his hopes seemed silly now. He took her to an Italian place on Upper Street, and afterwards they’d headed on to a noisy bar, even snogging in the corner like a couple of teenagers; but it was obvious it was nothing long-term. They ended up back at hers for a while, then he cabbed it home. She’d been a nice girl but just a one night stand. Different people I suppose.
He watched a young couple walk to the bar. English boy, Japanese girl. Media. Fashion perhaps. The kind of prospective tenants he’d pinpoint to the trendier parts of Hackney, Stoke Newington, Dalston; the new build near Shoreditch Park perhaps. The choice was endless. Though of course he’d have to consider their needs. But it was all quite predictable. Somewhere with a little edge, a little token decay but enough of their own types about not to disenchant them. The property itself functional of course (though these types tended to shy away from ex-council lets), local amenities not really an issue, but good transport links into town essential. In a nutshell really.
They could hardly take their hands off each other. The boy smoothing her hair; girl gazing into his eyes like nothing else mattered. He thought of Adele. They’d been together for three years. The next step would have been engagement. Rob had planned to do it properly. Go on holiday and pop the question in the perfect setting. The Caribbean. The Seychelles maybe. But the fairytale never happened. Adele cheated on him. Just the once, she’d insisted, but so what, that was it, over. Still. You move on.
He looked at his paper. Speculation on Blair planning to step down and hand the reins to Gordon Brown, and fast. Rob considered this. If true, it seemed a shame in a way. End of an era. Blair had overseen a great economy, big housing boom, and though of course the man had his flaws, when you’re talking about wealth gains not much else matters. Rob had made good money throughout the Blair years and almost superstitiously regarded all talk of his stand-down as a bad sign. Ominous. As if his resignation would somehow signal a collapse, topple the temple, grind all the good fortune to a halt. But it was nonsense really. Things were stronger than ever. Gordon Brown would keep the ball rolling - of course he would. Blair had had a good run and the Tories still weren’t getting a look in - were falling apart by the look of things. Eight years ago (in ‘97) people had had it with the traditional Tories. They wanted a new brand of Toryism, new faces, new ideas, and with New Labour that’s essentially what they got. With Blair there was action. Dynamism. Things happened. Investment, growth, prosperity. London rising from the dust, reinventing itself as a global centre to rival anywhere in the world.
Over the past three years Rob’s flat had increased in value by a whopping forty five per cent. Now that was impressive. Directly opposite they’d torn down a Sixties council-housing eyesore to start work on a luxury residential complex with penthouses up for a cool £1.5 million each. Enhancing the area’s desirability thus rocketing local prices. Things couldn’t be better. Rob had had the foresight and bought in to the area at just the right time.. Development everywhere. He was sitting on a goldmine.
He drained his glass and headed to the toilet. He sat inside a cubicle, got comfortable. The area was going up and up and Rob was proud to be a part of it - another London neighbourhood forging ahead, becoming a better, more liveable place. It wasn’t all about money. Not atall. There was almost an altruistic aspect about it: helping to tear down the grime and decay that had been a blight since the war. Getting things done. Doing good.
His mobile sounded. It was James from the office letting him know that the Shoreditch deal had gone to plan. Good boy. Great work. They chatted for a minute, and when he clicked off he felt a surge of pride. He had a team to be proud of and it felt good. More than good. Felt fucking brilliant.
He read some of the graffiti on the door in front of him. Smiled at a few of the sex jokes. He turned to the wall. Somebody had scrawled: NIGGAZ - WE GONNA FUCK DIS CUNTRY BLACK. How did that find its way there? Certainly not a customer. The erroneous spelling for a start. Rob laughed. Then he gave it some thought (even if it was penned by a barely-literate racist moron). A future black Britain? No, I don’t think so. Mixed-race may have been the current fastest growing demographic, but you also had to look at migration. It was flooding in from everywhere, and not just Africa or the Caribbean. Look at the influx from the new EU states. Look at France, Turkey, Brazil, Russia… Phenomenal. Social diversity was deeming racism as we know it obsolete. A thing of the past. Not applicable anymore. Sentimentality concerning roots and race played no part in the grand scheme of the new world economy atall. Look at Northern Ireland. Years of conflict nullified by the realities of a progressive global society. The world might have been getting smaller, but it was also spreading out, opening up. There was no place for localized, small-minded, culturally-unadjusted thinking anymore. The world looking forward. Optimistic. Maybe certain issues with Islam could take a bit of time, but again, that was more of a working-class problem than a professional one. No worries in the long run. None atall. Money solves everything. Bring capital into the equation and problems disappear. Look at London. Change all the way. Gentrification upping its pace all the time. There were still problem areas, but gradually the cliche of the black inner-city ghetto would become a thing of the past. Working-class blacks and Asians were heading out of the Capital the same way working-class whites had. London took no prisoners. You worked hard, embraced the new economy; if not you got out, no matter what colour you were. Choice was yours. Take Mike in the Hackney office. Came over from Ghana at ten, brought up by a single mother in Wood Green. Now he averaged 80K, drove a Merc and voted Tory. He knew what he was doing. The revolution was monetary. Had nothing to do with colour.
The Capital was cleaning up its act. The desirability of inner-city living booming. People wanted in. As close to work, close to the action as possible. Inner London an attractive proposal. Developments up and spreading like never before. Sleek residential, office and leisure space designed primarily for a new international professional class. Become a part of it or step aside. Simple as. Rob thought of the school-leaver that had been taken on in the Dalston office. Born in London, supposedly good grades, yet Rob couldn’t understand a word the guy said. Spoke in a stupid accent and moved his arms about like he was still in the playground showing off to his mates. Now that’s a case of not even knowing the basics. Five days and he was out. Rob told him to go back to school. Learn. Not that it would do much good. London Comprehensive-leavers were a joke. A fucking embarrassment. No wonder half the EU were over. They were welcome. The sooner Prescott built on the flood plain the better. The Thames Gateway was a great idea. Top marks to New Labour for that little ploy. Professionals wouldn’t touch the place with a barge pole. A ghetto in the making, believe me. Rob took one last look at the graffiti and laughed. He flushed up and opened the door. Looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. He saw miles and miles of cheaply constructed penitentiary-style housing blocks lining the industrial Estuary; crime, drugs, disorder; all the flotsam, the city’s castaways, contained in one sprawling out-of-town hellhole. And who knows, one rainy day the Thames bursting its banks and sweeping the lot to sea. He smiled. What other government would get away with plans to mass-build on a fucking flood plain? Genius.
He went to the bar and was served by the new barmaid. She was a pretty girl.. His hangover had almost vanished. He knew a pint or two would do the trick. Always did. He ordered a Guinness and whisky chaser, told her to take one for herself. Thanks, she said, very kind of you. Rob took his wallet out. Much obliged. He asked her where she was from, but then he put his hand up - No, let me guess. He took his time. Mmm… let me see now. Not Latvia by any chance?
That’s right, she smiled, Well done, handing him his whisky. Rob congratulated himself, downed the Scotch in one. He was becoming quite a dab hand at the old Euro migrant guess-where game, and with an EU presence burgeoning it was a talent he held in high regard (…though, come to think of it, admittedly he could have overheard her mention it earlier. He wasn’t sure. Still, didn’t matter anyway. Good communication was imperative. Clicking with people a must).
They chatted. She’d been over for five months and loved it. Was working at two jobs, weekends at the pub, during the week at a shop, living in cramped conditions, but was planning to stay, without a doubt - It’s so exciting and there’s so much work. Rob played dumb and asked her what employment prospects were like in Latvia and she laughed, shook her head. Where I come from there are no employment prospects.
She walked over to serve somebody. Rob liked her. Her honesty. Naivete, in a way. It was endearing, cheered him up.
He leant against the bar looking at her as she poured a pint, asking the punter if he was having a nice day. Nice profile. Breasts pushing against her top. She was wasting her time. Should get a job in sales, property even. Neutralize the accent, learn the ropes. Personality could get you anywhere. Just a simple smile; a bit of optimism. It honestly could. He could even help her out himself. Get her started somewhere. Even on his firm. He could do with a ray of light around the office. He could sack someone. What qualifications did you need to make coffee, press a few buttons?
She came over and again they talked. He asked her if she had any long-term plans and she told him she’d like to go to college to study art and sculpture. She did it in her spare time and wanted some day to concentrate on it seriously, but at the moment needed to work, to send money home so it wasn’t possible.
Rob was disappointed in her. She had a bright pleasant way about her that could probably get her places, certainly out of menial work anyway, but with those kind of ideas, forget it. Art was fine for trust-funders slumming it for a year or two, not for people coming over supporting the new economy. Made no sense.
She was talking about a film she’d seen last night, a friend who worked at the cinema sneaking her in through the back door… But Rob almost felt like giving her some advice. Telling her she was wasting her potential. Telling her if she wanted to make something of herself then the place to be was Property. This is London. Get in there. Even at a low level, you can’t go wrong. Right time right place. Good economy, good interest rates, and an annual growth rate of 4% set to push the Capital by 2020 to the forth largest economy in the world. Now that was fucking exciting…
Rob mentioned his job. Told her what he did - taking out his wallet and ordering another drink. Wow, she smiled, I bet you make alot of money. And he said he did. He made a hell of a lot of money. But mind you, he worked for it, worked hard, so there you go. She was impressed. Said that’s what she liked about this country, how there was money to be made and you didn’t have to be poor, well - smiling - not if you didn’t want to be. Rob nodding his head (now that’s more like it). Soon she was leaning in, talking about something else, how she wanted to move to a bigger flat, had a friend with a lovely place in Seven Sisters, spacious, with a garden too; Rob nodding along, smelling her perfume, feeling her warmth as she leant in over the bar, figuring he’d maybe cracked it, that if he just said the word… Though maybe not. Who knows. Sometimes it was hard to tell. She went over to serve someone, pints up on the counter, service with a smile; and then her mobile sounded. He watched her walk to the far end of the bar, phone at ear, having a muted argument, words flowing fast, harsh foreign tongue. A boyfriend, definitely. She slipped out back for privacy; things heated now. Maybe he’d got her wrong. Maybe she wasn’t so passive after all.
Again she came over, all smiles. But the spell had broken slightly. She looked different now. Not so innocent maybe… who knows. But anyway, what was Rob thinking? A fucking barmaid for God’s sake. And too young for a start. Definitely. Last night’s alcohol fucking up his thinking. Rob hadn’t come in here to chat up teenagers. When she again went to take an order he waved and made his getaway, settled back at the table.
The sun had gone in and people were coming in from the beer garden. Rob watched the first signs of rain tapping on the windows. He thought of last night. His date. Another one night stand. It was a shame really. There’d been potential there definitely. At the meal she’d been shy initially but after a drink or two was away. Couldn’t stop in fact. Talking about work mainly.. Her job with a media firm in Clerkenwell. Filling him in on her office gossip; impersonating her boss, her workmates, people he’d never met. But he liked it. Found her entertaining. Found himself going along and joking about a few of his own colleagues too, the two of them laughing along and going through two bottles of wine. After the restaurant it was raining and they ran along Upper Street hand in hand, ducking into a noisy bar. Her hair was all flat, make-up running and she’d got the giggles. They found a seat in a dark corner, and with all the music blaring were leaning in close to talk and were soon kissing, and quite honestly it seemed perfect. He liked her. Good looks, good personality, single - what more do you want?
They got a taxi back to her place. A flat off Hornsey Road not far from the site of the new Arsenal stadium due to open next year. The streets were ragged around this patch and the actual flat was nothing special either. Typical upper-floor two-bed conversion in a three-level terrace boasting a poky little kitchen and bathroom with typical cut-price landlord furnishings and a lot of cut-corners elsewhere. But what did it matter - Rob didn’t care, it was Friday night for God’s sake. They staggered into the hallway laughing, then he pulled her close, kissing her, feeling her body pushing against his. After a minute she laughed and said her head was spinning slightly, she was going to make some coffee, but go in, sit down, if you want something stronger there’s the cabinet, help yourself. Rob poured himself a large Scotch as she pottered about in the kitchen. Nothing like it to get you fired up.
He sat on the couch, drinking in the flat’s features. Pitiful really. Rob would have been embarrassed trying to shift a property like this. A lightswitch fitted behind a door? Now that was just ludicrous. Rob called out and asked about her landlord - what’s he like? Oh just some foreign guy, she said. I’ve only met him once. I got it through a letting agency. Oh right, Rob said. That figures, he thought. Cowboys. Rob could have given her some tips but didn’t want to push the subject. Wanted to forget about work right now anyway. She called out to say she was just finishing off a bit of washing her messy flatmate had left, but make yourself comfortable, won’t be long, switch on the telly if you like.
Will do. He poured another shot and settled in, sat watching a music channel, sound down low, two rappers standing in front of a Lexus, pulling poses, the usual scantily-clad models prancing around them. The tune faded. Next up the groove was more frenetic, a posse strutting through a ghetto, gold chains, snarling teeth. Rob remembered an article he’d read somewhere. All the MTV gangsta rappers privately-educated suburbanites. Stage-schoolers from the US’s black middle classes. Tupac, Biggie, 50 Cent, the lot. Actors. Fakes. Rob thought about it. The article could have all been a load of bullshit. Probably not though. Reality means nothing. People don’t want reality.. They want lies, myths, dreams they can believe in. It’s the same in any industry. Like the rich brats seeking boho-chic in rundown pieces of shit like Bow, Poplar, fucking Plaistow, West Ham. Buying into a dream, a lifestyle, a fantasy, Rob the man doing the voice-over, operating the smoke and mirrors, talking out of his fucking arse. 50 Cent strutting about on the screen, pictures of the guy plastered all over London, caricature of a million violent robberies, drug-store hold-ups.
Rob had read that the guy was into Machiavelli and supported Dubya. Maybe he did have more brains than he let on. Well, a self-made multimillionaire? Of course he fucking had. Still… who gave a shit anyway. Rob flicked the remote. Settled on Girls Aloud. Much better. Chuckling into his whisky.
The girl swayed in from the kitchen, giggling, clutching a glass of wine. Then suddenly she stopped. She put her hand to her stomach. Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick. She hurried off. He could hear her vomiting in the bathroom. He shook his head; laughed… things were getting a bit silly. He poured himself more Scotch; spilt some on the carpet - whoops. She’d have to take the bottle away because now he was getting seriously bladdered. A few minutes later she walked back in. God, I had too much wine, she said, flopping down on the sofa. He moved closer, told her not to worry, massaging her shoulders; trying to ease in, get a little fire going again.
I don’t usually drink this much, she slurred, but I suppose I just went a bit mad tonight. That doesn’t matter, he said, moving her hair and kissing her on the neck, Happens to us all, you’ll be alright, undoing one of the buttons of her shirt… But a minute later she moved back and said, Shit, I think I’m going to vomit again, and ran off to the toilet… Jesus… things really getting a little farcical now… But, hey, Rob didn’t mind. Not really. After all it could be worse, could be chronic diarrhoea. Imagine that, the both of them fighting for the pot after a dodgy curry, wouldn’t be much action then. He laughed. Sat back….shook his head…I don’t know. Settled into a Christina Aguilera video. Watched the singer grind it out, writhing her body, teasing sex. Begging for it… Bitch.
The girl walked back into the room. Rob sat up. Hey, come here, how are you feeling now, are you okay? She’d changed into a t-shirt and casual skirt. Nothing special but certainly beat the boring fucking office attire she’d worn having come straight from work. More leg for a start… She was holding the bottle. You’ve certainly polished off alot of that - hey, she slurred, you’re not an alcoholic, are you? He raised his glass and laughed. Well, not quite. He moved over, patted the couch but she put her hand up, said she had to make herself some hot milk, soothe her stomach, and off she went. Jesus Christ, could she ever sit down? In fact it was looking a little worrying now. If things didn’t soon start happening they never would. He sat back. The dancing slags on the TV just winding him up.
What the hell. He’d get the fires going. He drained his glass and followed her in, held her from behind as she pottered at the counter. He started kissing her neck. Hey… she said, enjoying him smooch her as she stirred the sugar in. He kissed her ear. That tickles, she laughed. She smelt of toothpaste, strong perfume, had maybe tried to disguise the vomit, but Rob didn’t care. She smelt nice. He was touching her hips, her breasts. God, she was so fucking sexy…
Ouch, that hurts, she suddenly said. He stopped. Maybe he’d been biting her ear, he wasn’t sure - I’m sorry… That’s okay, she laughed. And he started again, working on her neck and her ear and holding her tight, the girl taking sips from her milk, which in a way irritated him, but still, and he was running his hands over her, cupping her breasts and then pressing his hand down to her crotch listening to her giggle slightly, and God, he wanted her so bad, could take her right here, right now… But then she was lightly taking his hands off, urging him to wait for her in the room for a minute, I’ll just finish my drink, go on, won’t be long… But come on, what was this? She was just messing him around now, trying to delay him forever. Don’t worry about the drink, he said, still holding her and moving her hair and kissing the side of her neck. But she insisted: Honestly, just give me a minute, go on…
Fuck the drink, Rob snapped, swiping the cup aside. A little overboard but come on, why kill it, she was loving this as much as he was, moving her body and sighing like that, he’d been waiting long enough. He carried on, pushing himself against her, one hand wrapped around her breasts, the other hitching up her skirt and going beneath the knickers, the girl trying to push him away, playing hard to get – What are you doing, get off me - What was it with women, these games, never wanting things to run smooth… They were struggling now…No… Get off me… but in a way he was loving it, the play, the passion, felt like laughing out loud, some women just wanting it rough, fucking asking for it, and he had her by the neck and was pushing her face down over the counter, pinning her there, fumbling with his flies and working in… no…no - Shut up you bitch - slamming her face down onto the worktop - sick of all this fucking around, why else did she bring him back to her flat, the girl not protesting anymore just taking it, that’s right, head down, much better, now we’re talking, Friday night and he didn’t give a fucking shit, why would he, saw himself all week grafting away, out there in the fast lane, selling, renting, pitching the Capital, the epicentre of the world, best for business, investment, human resources, housing, office space, shops, restaurants, bars, best value best quality for the highest fucking price and if you can’t afford it get the fuck out, Rob pounding on, listening to nobody, all the talk of too much spending, lending, interest rates ready to rocket, pure conjecture, what the fuck did they know, yet talk like that scared Rob to death, an economic grim reaper lurking in the shadows, ready to step out and laugh in his face, but it was all bullshit, scaremongers stirring up bollocks, predicting anarchy, apocalypse, the whole world ready to go bang, fucking bullshit, Rob riding away, pissed and loving it, body pulsing with food and alcohol and sex, all the abundance of the Western world, looking over and catching his reflection in the window, and for a moment he wondered just where the hell he was and what he was doing, towerblocks, streetlights in the night, the outlines of a sweaty-faced bastard staring hungrily back at him, mouth open slightly, teeth clenched, demented, a snarling spectre over the city, police sirens blazing, another nutcase on the loose, turning to the cracked tiles, white artificial light, a head of human hair swimming in spilt milk, everything clicking into place, Rob shagging the arse off some girl he hardly knew, and of course, what else, that’s what happens, the dating ritual, mating ritual, you meet someone and the next thing you’re back at their flat, you’re both pissed, happens all the time, and the girl was sighing or crying, loving it, hating it, who gives a fuck, and he remembered a receptionist he’d had once, how he’d asked her to stay behind and help him with something, playing the sleazy boss but he couldn’t resist, couldn’t help it, new girl prancing round all week in a tight skirt, big fucking arse distracting him, putting him off his work, his stride, Rob trying to enlighten her in the mores and ways of property marketing, but not a chance, not a brain cell to be had, just a smile that beamed when he mentioned a wage rise which God made him want to fuck her even more cause that’s all she was good for, all people like that were ever good for, every night for two weeks straight going at her over the desk, but he tired of her lack of professionalism, looking at him during work hours like that, bringing over his coffee and whispering dirty talk in his ear, no etiquette, bad work ethic, didn’t have a fucking clue, just one big arse one pair of tits and she made him fucking sick, a walking vessel for his spunk, his frustration, I thought I told you already about coming in late, taking the fucking piss, letting her go and the bitch trying to pull him up on a tribunal, trying to make a cunt of him, but to no avail, false references, not a ground to stand on, just another useless bitch another Adele trying to walk all over him, but getting nowhere, not a chance, and that’s what matters, being on top, at the top of your game, foresight, inspiration, entrepreneurial skill, invincible, taking on the whole fucking world and loving it, feeling the climax take him, wash through him, wash it all away, every bastard, every cunt, every bitch and fucking whore, thrashing it out until it was over… and then he was still, pulling out, leaning onto her, basking in the afterglow, endorphins dissipating fast, a little bit of the dream chipped away each time, one of those sad things, back to earth, back to reality, the grind of daily life, people, problems, competition, competitors everywhere, keeping your eyes open, on the ball every second of the day, even while you’re sleeping, usurpers out there, making plans, day and night, tapping away on keypads, doing the maths, planning your downfall..
But never. That wouldn’t happen. Rob wouldn’t let it. Take a tip from the Americans, number one, second best won’t do, Europe getting more Americanized and America getting more Europeanized, and that article in the Financial Times had stayed with him, struck a chord, because it was true, the whole world smoothing out, embracing, becoming one, but that was a subject for another day, another time, Rob suddenly wondering what the girl was doing, sliding to the floor, curling up, shaking and crying, skirt still hitched up which didn’t seem right, knickers torn out of shape from where he’d pulled at them, the anti-climax coming on strong, too strong, Rob wishing he’d maybe just cabbed it home after the bar, the restaurant, maybe not met her atall, because what was the point, standing there watching her cry, having some kind of breakdown, choking on tears like a child. This wasn’t the girl he’d been with earlier. This was a fucking stranger.
He felt like telling her to get up, WE HAD SEX OKAY, WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL, GET OVER IT. But instead he crouched down and touched her shoulder, asked if she was okay, are you alright, what else could he do, it was all fucked-up now, too much drink, too much of a mess, and he lightly shook her, asked her again but she sharply turned to him: YOU BASTARD, DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!!! And he pulled back, didn’t know what to do, again moving forward and watching his hand touch her shoulder, mouth uttering useless words, but she pushed him away, GET OUT! DON’T COME NEAR ME!!! GET OUT!!!!!
He stood up. He was swaying on his feet. Felt all spent. What the hell had gone wrong? They’d had sex. Gone to her flat to have sex. But her face and hair were wet, covered in milk, blood on her lips and a slight bruise beneath her eye (though it could have just been make-up), and again she was screaming and he stood there shocked, punch-drunk, her screams filling the room, filling his head. Too much. There was nothing to say. The situation impossible. He turned and walked out of the kitchen. Collected his jacket. Left. Could hardly think straight until he’d flagged down a cab and was safely on his way home. What a nightmare.
Things just hadn’t worked out. Crossed wires. Different wavelengths. Sometimes things just go wrong. You think you’re together on something but you’re not. Not atall. Never were. It happens though. Happens all the time. You think your future wife is in love with you when really she’s not giving a toss. You think a sale will be plain sailing when suddenly there’s a MURDER sign outside the front door, the local estate kids out playing Crips and Bloods again, and suddenly the interested buyer’s on the phone talking about crime figures and the family-friendly-area bullshit you spieled him and you’re thinking on your feet fast, sinking into a hole…
But still, it’s one of those things. You take the good with the bad. Sometimes you ride it out, sometimes you don’t. But all in all, she was a nice girl and it was a shame. Really was. Could have been something special. Could have been sitting with her right now. There’d been potential there, definitely. Forget the drunken crap in the flat, what about earlier? He liked the girl, that was the thing, actually liked her and they’d got on…
Yet all she could do was scream and yell at him to get out, get the hell away from me like he was the fucking devil. God. She certainly hadn’t been lying about having too much to drink. Jesus. A girl like that shouldn’t touch the stuff.
But there you go. Another day. Dust yourself off and carry on. All you can do is learn, I suppose. No other way. Rob looked over at the barmaid, and on cue she looked over, smiled and waved. Rob smiled and did the same. What was her name again? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he hadn’t asked. He watched her serve somebody. Impressive. Good workers the Euros. Not scared to graft. Carry on like that and they’d be up there with the best of them…
Maybe he’d go over and talk to her again. He needed a refill anyway. Who knows, maybe he’d push the boat out after all - ask her what time she was clocking off. No harm. No harm atall. So what if she was just a barmaid and checkout girl. Rob was no snob. And she liked him, it was obvious. Get in there. Ask her out. Tonight. And if she says yes then this time, of course, it certainly will be just a one night stand. But after last night, maybe that was just what Rob needed. No big expectations. Just a little light fun for a change.