Brian storing porn on the ‘clean’ phone has made me reassess him. Is he a genius? In saving some questionable content, Leanne would think she’d caught him at the dodgy stuff he was up to, and as it’s boring, straight one-man-one-woman porn where the women kind of look like her, it could almost be viewed as romantic.
Brian is giving the woman behind the bar a bit of chat. She’s maybe ten years older than him, not unattractive but definitely not a stunner, and Brian is talking to her as if she were the most charming creature he’s ever encountered. ‘Is he always like this?’ I ask, motioning my head in the general direction of the bar.
Gavin doesn’t need to break their gaze at the beer mat they’re ripping at the corners to know who I’m referring to. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ They begin splitting the cardboard down the middle but don’t commit to separating it fully.
‘You OK?’ My glass of wine is on the bar and I can tell even from this distance it’s going to be warm and unpleasant to drink.
Gavin takes so long to respond I suspect they’ve decided to ignore me. They complete the divorce of one side of the beer mat from the other. ‘Had the pleasure of dealing with our absolute worst landlord at the end of the day. That was the phone call you were pretending you couldn’t hear.’
‘What was his beef?’
‘Some of his tenants moved out. Left the place spotless, but the black bin was full because it wasn’t the week for that collection. He wanted us to take a hundred pounds off of their deposit to compensate him for wheeling the bin out and back in.’
I mean, really. I was never more right when I told you landlords were bastards, was I?
‘I told him it wouldn’t be allowed under the deposit protection scheme and he was screaming at me that I was “stealing bread out of his children’s mouths”. I know for a fact he doesn’t have any children. Prick.’
As the hard ‘ck’ drops from Gavin’s lips, Brian deposits a huge can of cider in front of them.
‘Are my ears burning?’ Brian squats onto the stout stool me and Gavin have left for him.
‘Not you, Willie McAllister.’
‘Oh yeah, he’s a proper cunt. Do you remember that time he went mental at me after I gave him that valuation onFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer?’
Where before my attention was waning, now I’m interested. Brian looks at Gavin, expecting them to confirm what he’s said. Instead they crack open their can. ‘Did he?’
‘You don’t remember? The day after filming he came in and threatened to pull all his properties, said I’d publicly shamed him because I estimated his house’s value at actual market value.’
Gavin pours their drink into a glass. ‘In my defence, he’s come into the office raging multiple times. It’s hard to keep up.’
Willie being horrible gives me a wee boost; his abhorrent actions are energising me more than this shitty wine. Forcing a sip of it down, I realise this is hate. It’s fuelling me in a way no other emotion ever has.
‘Shit,’ Brian says, checking the clock above the bar. ‘Is that the time?’ A silly question when the clock is confirming that is indeed the time. He chugs his pint and I retrieve his phone from my bag, slapping it into his outstretched hand. ‘You agreed to pick up milk on your way home.’
‘You’re a superstar,’ he says, before shouting to the barmaid, ‘See you soon, sweetheart.’
The swing doors into the bar rock backwards and forwards in ever-decreasing motion until the only sign Brian was ever here is his empty glass and the lingering whiff of his aftershave.
‘I’m surprised it took him that long to mention he was on the telly,’ Gavin declares and then drinks from their glass until it is empty. The celebration of my employment has been deemed worthy of less than half an hour of everyone’s time, which seems accurate, until Gavin asks, ‘Want another?’
Not really. Getting back into the ways of office life has exhausted me; I’m scunnered.
‘I’ll put it on my company card.’
Still, in this tough economic climate, saving a fiver on a glass of wine I don’t want is enough to convince me to stay. ‘I’ll have the same again. And a glass of tap water, too, please.’
Unlike Brian, Gavin does not indulge in any small talk with the barmaid. They return promptly with a whole bottle of the white wine, some bags of crisps and my water. The bottle of wine is a greater commitment in time and alcohol than I was planning on giving this event. Gavin fills our glasses as I pick our conversation back up. ‘So Brian’s on telly a lot?’
‘I mean, not a lot in real terms. He’s been onFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerthree, maybe four times? The way he talks about it you’d think he was the main presenter guy.’
‘Malcolm. You mean Malcolm.’ I slosh the wine around my glass. Aeration is supposed to be good for wine, isn’t it? Maybe that’s what’ll elevate the vinegar in my glass into something palatable. ‘I saw Brian on an episode the other day, actually. It was the one of my flat.’ My swishing is too vigorous; I splash a drop of wine onto my hand. It dribbles down to my wrist.
Gavin tops up their glass. ‘Yeah, there was that one and one in Airdrie. Maybe one in Blantyre? He shagged one of the producers so he gets called if they’re up in this general direction. I think he thought the producer might be able to wangle him a media career. He tried to create a catchphrase for himself. Each time he was on he’d give his valuation and say something like, “After the renovations I can confidently say this flat has become a perfect property solution.”’
That phrase is familiar to me. ‘He uses it to caption his Instagram posts as well.’
‘So you’ve been researching Brian?’
