Back then he had a boyfriend, Joe or Jack or whatever the fuck his name was, and I’ve spent the last few years mentally swapping myself out with Joe-Jack and wanking to the thought of “us.” A few weeks ago, Lionel and the guy standing between me and happiness split up, and though there’s not a fart’s chance in hell we’ll ever end up together, I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.
Okay, fine, I’m not. I’m the most pessimistic fucker on the planet. I even call myself a realist, that’s how pessimistic I am, but something tells me not to give up hope with Lionel. He was my first real crush. Maybe he could be my first true love.
I am determined, however, that he won’t be my first man fuck. No.
No way am I going in blind on this one and messing it up like I mess everything else up. That’s why I need a . . . dummy to practise on beforehand. Someone who means nothing to me, and never will. Someone I can use, gain knowledge and technique from, and then discard, so that when I eventually get to sword fight with Lionel, I’ll blow his mind with all my shit hot skills, he’ll fall madly in love with me, and I’ll finally win at life.
This is where my new “fan” comes into play. He may very well turn out to be my practice dummy.
He’s sitting opposite the makeshift stage with three other people on a sort of ad hoc judging panel. They each have a chalkboard and a chalk pen and have been writing out scores for every karaoke singer as though they’re assessing the Olympic gymnastics final.
After a few songs, one of the older guys started penning joke messages on his scoreboard, like“Blink twice if you need help,”and the younger guy—the dummy, and the lad I’d been forewarned about by Pi—definitely started flirting with me. There’s no mistaking that’s flirtation. He’s holding up his chalkboard which, in ludicrously loopy lettering, reads,“Who’s the gorgeous ginger?”
His previous messages have read,“Want my number?”Followed by a string of numbers.
“What time’s your break?”
“Call me.”
“I can host.”
And“Do you . . .”with an arrow pointing upwards?
And he’s cute. Like really, really cute. Tall and lean, with flowing black curly hair, and stylish all-black clothes. He looks like somebody put Timothee Chalamet on a stretching rack and then sent him to art school in France. I don’t think his smile could light up a room, but I reckon his cheeky smirk could start a few fires.
And I definitely need to stop referring to him as “Dummy” in my head.
My song ends, and a few people clap. Most are too deep into their own conversations to notice. I look over at the self-proclaimed judges’ table. The only woman there holds up a number ten, as does the older white guy with the moustache. My thirsty little praise-kink heart laps it up and tucks those scores away in my positivity memory bank. The other older guy is holding up a sign that says,“You tried your best, and that’s what matters.”Dummy’s final board simply reads,“I heart trade.”
I’m not sure what that means, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off me, and I am getting stupidly high off the attention.
I head to the bar. It’s only a very short bar, about four stools wide, and Mathias Jones is perched on the furthest stool to the right, next to the corridor to the bathrooms. I wiggle my way to the front, as far away from Gadget as I can get. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not slotting into the empty space beside him. He probably knows I don’t like him much.
“What you having?” says the barmaid. A blonde woman around my age stands with her elbow resting on a beer tap. She’s wearing a Bath women’s rugby top, and she has the same nose, same round face shape, and same kind crinkled eyes as Owen Bosley. This must be one of the famous daughters.
It’s my first time approaching the bar, so I take a step backwards and scan the taps. None of the brands are familiar.
“Uh . . .” I’m panicking a little as I try to decipher what each drink is. All the signage bears rugby puns, and crude illustrations of rugby players in semi-compromising positions.
I choose the safest bet, the lager. “Two pints of Old Boy’s Tackle, please.” Since I owe Pi more than a few rounds at this point.
She doesn’t ask for my ID. Instead, she pours from the tap between us. “You’re Abs, right? Harry Ellis?”
I nod. “You must be Daisy . . . or Molly?”
“Right the first time.” She plants a full pint in front of me and goes to work on the second. “Can I be real with you for a minute?” She’s shouting now. Eggo has commandeered the mic and is belting out the opening lyrics to “Shotgun.” People seem viscerally affected by his performance. They’re wincing and hunching their shoulders, and either Eggo doesn’t see them, or he doesn’t care.
“Sure,” I shout back.
Daisy finishes pulling the second pint and places it next to the first. She leans through the gap between two taps. “There’s no polite way to word this, so I’m just gonna say it as it is.” She flicks her gaze over my shoulder.
I follow it to Dummy sitting amongst the “judges” and holding up a sign that says,“Bring back Ginge.”
“He’s into you.”
I nod again, not really sure where she’s going with this.
“I don’t usually make a habit of cockblocking my best friend . . . ”Oh,okay, I see where this is going. “But you should know that he will fuck you and then delete you from existence. So if you’re not looking for a one-night stand, if you’re looking for something with more . . . meaning, you won’t find it with Lan.”
