JOSIE
It’s a long time since I’ve eaten a Love Heart. I’d forgotten how many different phrases there are on the sweets. TRUE LOVE. HUG ME. YOU’RE FAB. BE MINE. And the colours! If you’d put a gun to my head, I’d never have been able to list them. But I know them all now, as one entire (pink) wall of our room is covered in polystyrene Love Hearts the size of extra-large dinner plates.
As soon as the woman leaves us, Shane bursts out laughing. I look at him, hand clamped over my mouth, hysteria rising in my chest. KISS ME. I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE HOT. We simmer down and then start up again. Like the time we saw our maths teacher – Mr Groocock with the sandy wig – roaring past the bus station in full leathers on a Harley. We’d clutched each other then, our eyes streaming. Shane had had to cling to a lamp post for support.
‘They’re definitely committed to the theme,’ he manages now, gazing around at the matching curtains and duvet cover – also patterned with Love Hearts – and at baskets of the ubiquitous sweets set on the wicker bedside tables.
In an attempt to wrestle myself together, I’m trying to think about non-funny things. That Dairylea slice in the art book! My impending financial woes and another night in my disgusting pyjamas! At least the bed is of a generous size – far bigger than the van’s mattress – and the bathroom is plainly lined in white brick tiles, perhaps for retina-soothing purposes.
‘Can we actually stay here, d’you think?’ Shane asks.
‘I guess so. But it’s making me queasy. Will you hold my hair back if I’m sick?’
‘I’d be happy to,’ he deadpans. ‘I mean, I’ve done it before.’
I smile, filled with a rush of warmth for him – a sugar rush, possibly – and perch on a spindly lilac chair at the table by the window. Now Shane is studying the outsized Love Hearts wall as if expecting the slogans to magically rearrange themselves and spell out the meaning of life. ‘So, what are we going to do now?’ I ask.
He strokes his chin and smiles. ‘We haven’t done our photo yet, so I guess we’d better do that?’
‘God, yes. The Black Bull, isn’t it? Shall we head out and find it?’
He nods, looking keen to get out. ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘I’m guessing it’ll be more appealing than the bar here.’
‘You mean you don’t fancy a sherbet cocktail?’ I grin. ‘No, me neither. Let’s go.’
Perhaps that night, back in 1988, had ended up an especially boozy one. Because when we arrive at the huddled little pub on an otherwise deserted street, we have no recollection of having played here at all. Still, we take our Polaroid, dutifully – old hands at this now – with his arm around my shoulders, my face pressed next to his. Then we step inside and order drinks, plus a selection of bar snacks entitled ‘Picky Bits’ on the laminated menu.
When the small, indistinguishable brown nuggets materialise, our hunger seems to have dwindled. In the corner, a fruit machine beeps and flashes and a loud group of young men are holding court around the biggest table.
I look at Shane, wondering now if booking a room was the right thing to do. I’m certainly conscious of it awaiting us: that enormous bed, overpopulated with cushions and pillows, and that huge puffy duvet emblazoned with KISS ME motifs. A room we have booked and paid for and are therefore committed to. Whereas Doris’s flat mattress is just there.
I drink my wine, and Shane sips his beer, without either of us saying much. The walls are almost entirely covered with framed photos of what’s presumably the local football team – the classic line-up of lads on the pitch – plus yellowing newspaper clippings celebrating their successes. Enthusiastic football talk fills the room. Pontefract Collieries – ‘The Colls’ – are having a moment, it seems. The bald, portly man behind the bar is enthusiastically trashing a recent performance by another northern team.
I catch Shane’s eye. ‘So, our last night tomorrow,’ I remark.
‘Yeah.’ His expression is unreadable.
‘Then home! We’ve almost done it.’
‘Yeah.’ That’s it: just yeah. He wipes a touch of froth from his upper lip, and we slip back into silence. Of course he’s fully aware of our itinerary. I don’t know why I’m spelling it out to him.
‘I’m quite proud, actually,’ I go on. ‘At the Kapoors’ place, I never imagined we’d actually do this, did you?’
‘God, no,’ he admits. You want to go home now, I decide, even though Elaine is there. You’ve made the best of it but you’ve had enough. He does agree to another drink, which I insist on getting up to buy, if only to be able to chat to the barman – I assume he’s the proprietor here – instead of sitting there with my thoughts swirling. He’d rather be at home with Elaine’s stinky fat fumes than here with me!
In contrast, the bald man seems fascinated by our reason for being here. ‘Amazing. So you were a proper band? With a record deal?’
‘Not exactly.’ I smile.
‘You got close though?’
‘Kind of close… ish,’ I concede.
He chuckles. ‘So it’s Huddersfield next?’
‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘The bright lights await us.’
‘Like the Rolling Stones!’
