Her Name was Lola
Part 2By Steve Finbow
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Two days later he returned to the pub, took his table and started reading William Trevor’s Reading Turgenev. Two pages in and he went blind, her hands covered his eyes, they were soft and smelt of tobacco and soap, he luxuriated in them, took them in his, she placed them on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Hi. Want to join me?’
‘OK,’ he said.
‘I’m in the corner... with a friend.’
‘Mmm, actually, I want to get a bit of this read,’ he said.
‘I’ve told her all about you.’
‘OK,’ he said.
Emily, her friend, also from New York, was dressed in hippyish clothing, she had large breasts he noticed, and her skin was like Cornish ice cream and dusted with chocolate freckles, she had a slight lisp. He liked her instantly. This shocked him. In the space of three days he had met and liked two people – he connected with them – that was the word he thought of – connected. It was American, modern. He hadn’t met anyone he’d liked in a long time. He spent most days alone writing or reading. He preferred it this way. Most friendships were bullshit; you met, talked, and then drifted apart. Love was worse, love was only visible through mists of sentiment and time-anchored emotions, it never evolved, he found, it withered and died. They talked about acting and about New York again, he bought them a bottle of red wine and he got quite drunk and Emily left and he stayed and talked to Lola and he liked her and they arranged to meet the following Monday to go for a drink and then a curry and then maybe another drink and he said goodbye to her and put her in a taxi not knowing, he realised, where she lived.
He hated texting. He distrusted it. If he texted at all, he maintained grammar and spelling. He had received texts from his friends he could not decipher and texted back an interrogative ‘?’. Even his mother used text short forms How R U? R U OK? He was pleasantly surprised that Lola also used long-form texts and through this medium, they arranged to meet in The Spread Eagle – The Spread – in Camden Town at 7pm. She had rehearsals that day. He got to the pub thirty minutes early – as always when meeting people – in order to have a pint and read. He’d moved on to My Home in Umbria and was enjoying the tense psychosexuality, the reserved and tight brilliance of Trevor’s prose. The pub was busy but he found a stool by the door and a ledge upon which to rest his arm while reading. Two men in suits, about his age, were standing in front of him, determined to occupy as much space as possible. He tutted loudly and brought his left knee up to act as a barrier between him and these men. One was German or Dutch and spoke in a loud baritone voice, his hair was grey and thinning and he wore stainless-steel round-rimmed glasses; his friend was well-built and drank two pints of London Pride to every one of his friend’s lager. Having secured his space, he continued to read. After ten minutes, he heard his mobile beep. The message read, ‘Rehearsal dragging. Should be there in 30. Sorry. xoxo.’ He smiled. He drank some more. Twenty minutes later, his mobile beeped. He read, ‘Will I ever get out of here? 20. Promise. xoxo.’ He bought another pint and looked at his watch: 7:45. He drank and read. When his mobile beeped for the third time, he was starting to get annoyed. ‘So sorry. 15.’ ‘Fuck it,’ he thought and bought another drink. He didn’t need this. He hated waiting for people. He couldn’t concentrate and he’d read the same ten pages three times. He felt slightly drunk and decided that once he’d finished this pint, if she hadn’t arrived, he would leave. It was no big deal. Really. Just as he was down to the last inch of lager, she arrived. She hadn’t dressed up. That was good. Nor had he. He enjoyed her comfortableness, her instant ease. He stood to greet her and she kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘My director just went on and on.’
‘It’s OK. I have a book and a pint – I’m quite happy waiting.’ He lied. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Mmm. Please.’
‘Large?’
She raised her eyebrow and he turned and walked to the bar.
The Indian restaurant – Tawa – was only a few yards along Parkway. Once out in the air he felt quite drunk and tired and hoped he wouldn’t have to keep the conversation going. He had been coming to this restaurant, or the site of this restaurant, for a number of years; it had had several name changes – Star of India, South India Restaurant, Tandoori Nights. The waiter showed them to a table toward the back. She insisted on drinking red wine even though he tried to persuade her beer was better with curry, and he ordered a Lal Toofan which was served in an outlandish glass depicting, at the bottom, a troop of camels shrouded with yellow and orange sand twisting up the glass to become red flames. The waiter brought poppadoms and pickles. She ordered chicken tikka masala and he ordered chicken tikka. She had saffron rice and he had a side salad. He was diabetic and unsure as to what the food contained but ordered so as not to appear too careful or conservative. Before the meal arrived, he went to the toilets to inject his insulin. He hadn’t yet told her about the diabetes. He wasn’t sure why.
When he returned, the food was on hot plates on the table and they both took their time eating. The conversation was stilted and he wondered if this wasn’t the fault of the intimacy of the restaurant – there was only one other couple there and they were seated at the front – or maybe it was just that word – couple – that dissuaded him from revealing anything more than he had on their previous meetings. She said she was tired and apologised for being quiet. He took a few secretive looks at his watch. It was now approaching 10pm and he was becoming irritable. He asked for the bill, paid, left a tip, and they left. She took his arm and for some reason the gesture made him feel old, as if he were a beloved uncle or godfather.
‘Shall I walk you home?’
‘I’m not sure how to get there from here,’ she said.
‘You must have some idea,’ he said.
‘Shall we go to the Princess for another drink?’
‘The P.O.W.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what we call it – The P.O.W. Prisoner of war – because of all the old men. P.O.W. Princess of Wales.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘OK,’ he said.
After fifteen minutes, her mobile rang, trilled, tweeted.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘In the Princess. With Steve. Yeah. Ten minutes. Bye.’
‘Who was that?’ He didn’t want to ask.
‘My flatmate.’
Ten minutes passed and he had swallowed his beer in two gulps and was at the bar buying another when a tall, thin, ginger-haired man entered the pub, crossed to the table, kissed Lola on the mouth.
‘This is Fred,’ Lola said.
‘Hi,’ Fred said.
‘Hi. Want a drink?’
‘Half a Foster’s.’
‘They don’t do Foster’s.’
‘Whatever, then.’
He returned with his pint, a large glass of red, and half a lager, and noticed that Fred had taken his seat next to Lola. A regular, prone to Tourette-like outbursts, had taken one of the stools and so he was forced to sit on a stool lodged uncomfortably near the window – the table was heavy and he’d embarrassed himself on a number of occasions trying to shift it. Luckily, the Monday night jazz band had finished for the evening but the pub was noisy and he could barely make out what Lola and Fred were saying. They didn’t touch. That was good, he thought.
‘Lola tells me you’re a writer.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you write?’
He hated this question. Even if he was interested in answering this chinless public schoolboy, he knew the response would be, ‘Oh. Have you read The Da Vinci Code?’
‘Oh, this and that.’
‘Have you read The Da Vinci Code?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You should. I don’t read books but I’ve read that twice.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘Where did you go for a curry?’
‘Tawa – Parkway.’
‘You should have gone to Brick Lane. Best curries in London.’
‘You’re from London?’
‘No. Just outside Portsmouth.’
‘And how long have you been here?’ He didn’t want to ask.
‘Six months. You?’
‘I’m from London. Don’t tell me where the best curries in London are.’
‘Sorry?’
Lola continued to roll a cigarette.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an estate agent.’
‘I’m going,’ he said.
‘Oh, OK.’ Lola said. ‘I’ll call you. Thanks. It was a good time.’
No, it wasn’t, he thought.
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Click here for Steve Finbow's bio and a list of works published.
© 2005 Me Three
