Page 17 of Main Characters
‘Fine,’ says the young man, pushing his hair out of his face. ‘Fine.’
The sound of bicycle bells and, beyond that, car horns. Other than that, silence.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.
The young man makes a face. The young woman throws up her arms.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she says.
‘I thought you were going first!’
‘You’re terrible at this.’
The man shakes his head, then pulls the cigarette from behind his ear. He lights it with a metal lighter from his jeans pocket.
Nine, eight, seven.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘You go.’
She picks up her script, smooths out the crumpled page. The jogger wants to lean closer, to get a look at the words. He doesn’t have to.
‘How could you?’ the young woman begins, though her tone doesn’t match the sentiment. She’s enjoying herself too much. ‘I thought I told you never to step through this door again.’
The young man narrows his eyes, blows out a cloud of smoke.
Three, two, one.
He begins.
the guy marking papers
Bzzzz.The guy on the next table looks down at his phone, which is vibrating on the sticky wooden tabletop. The girl sitting opposite him is chewing her short nails. The guy picks up.
‘Hello?’
It’s late afternoon, and the couple are sitting in an old music pub near Covent Garden, lyrics etched on the ceiling and records stuck to the walls. The guy stands up, takes a few steps away. His conversation is inaudible. The girl’s rings tap nervously against her glass. Whatever the call is about, it’s far more interesting than a pile of geography homework, and the teacher at the next table can feel their anxiety. He thought he’d take his students’ mock exams out for a pint, but it hasn’t made him any less tetchy. He’s waiting for a call, too.
‘Thank you,’ says the guy. He hangs up, lowers the phone, returns to his seat. His face betrays nothing.
‘So?’ she says.
He ekes it out. Then, the hint of a smile. ‘I got it.’
She shrieks, breaks into a grin. ‘I knew it,’ she says. ‘I mean, I literally knew it.’
‘You knew?’
‘I work for the producer,’ she says. ‘Of course I knew.’
She decrees that a celebration is in order, turns her eyes to the laminated menu. ‘You work at a bar,’ she says. ‘What’s a good champagne?’
‘Not that kind of bar.’
‘Buzzkill.’
Since they got here, the guy has stuck exclusively to Guinness. The girl suggests a compromise, a combination. Opposites attract. She heads to the bar and returns to the table with two flutes of black velvet, the dark stout mingling with the light bubbles in the glass.
‘Cheers,’ she says.
