‘I am indeed. I get the Say Cheese subscription box.’
‘Oh really? I’ve heard that’s a good one. Have you ever had a Blue Vinny? It’s made quite near here. They used to drag mouldy horse harnesses through the milk to encourage the mould to grow.’
He’s quite geeky and intense, but in a good way.
‘Seriously?’ I say.
‘Nowadays the blue is created by adding penicillin. You could say they had to “rein it in”…’
I’m confused, then realise he’s making a pun. A cheese pun. Glory be.
Now he’s waiting for me to react. His face is smiling, expectant, genuine.
‘Ha! Very good,’ I say. ‘And also, kind of gross. I would like to try it though… I have a penchant for the pungent ones.’ For a second, I forget to hold my chin up and do the happy meerkat thing.
‘Me too.’ Gabe nods approvingly. ‘There’s a deli in Devizes that sells it, maybe we could head over there one day, if you’re not busy. Get some crackers to go with it. I like the charcoal ones, do you?’
‘I do, except…’ Oh god, I was going to say, ‘they make your poo go black’. I really don’t get out enough.
‘Except…?’
‘Except… they can make a cheeseboard look…’
Look what? COME ON, think of something.
‘Macabre.’
Because that’s not weird at all.
Gabe does a sort of half-smile, which could also possibly include a hint of concern. Then, clearly keen to move on, he pulls out his phone to google the deli. But he shows it to me too quickly, and we both watch the last search (how much hair is normal at fifty-one?) sit on the screen for an excruciating minute until the pub wi-fi decides to slowly bring up the deli website.
It’s awkward. But there’s a certain solidarity in it. We catch each other’s eyes and smile, and out of the corner of my eye I can see Josie looking over and smiling too.
Moments like this always remind me of one person: Kofi. It seems a long time ago to me now, but at the same time like I saw him yesterday. He was the best of times, and indeed the worst of times. He was how I hoped it would all turn out, and the worst-case scenario.
We met when I was working atTime Outin the late Nineties as a junior editorial assistant, which meant inputting events into the relatively new website. I was living in Holborn, in a flat share with a girl called Miranda, who waitressed and playedQuakeon her PC most of the time – and a guy called, well, Guy, who playedDungeons and Dragons, mercifully mainly at the homes of his friends. On Sunday mornings he would make a huge fry-up, which he ate sitting on the toilet, reading the paper. He’s dead now, I heard.
I was drinking a Red Stripe on a sofa one night at the Velvet Rooms when Kofi sat down next to me. He was a friend of a friend of a DJ I vaguely knew through another friend. I’d like tothink I remembered what Carl Cox was playing at that moment, but to be honest, I don’t remember the names of any of the songs from that era. Instead, I always say, ‘the one that goes ’. Either that or I unsuccessfully try to imitate the bass by going ‘DOOF DOOF DOOF’. Nandy always finds this hilarious.
Kofi offered me a Marlboro Light, and lit one for himself, blowing a perfect smoke ring. I was high as a kite and loved everyone in the room, but this man entranced me.
‘I was watching you dancing… I’m Kofi,’ he said.
‘I’m Erica. What does Kofi mean?’
‘Born on a Friday.’ He blew another smoke ring and licked his lips to reveal the paler interior of his mouth.
‘It’s Friday today,’ I said.
Later, we went back to my flat and had sex for what seemed like days. Kofi would go out to the shop for supplies every so often, and we would swap the Nightmares on Wax CD for the Rae & Christian one. Sometimes I would wander into the kitchen in Kofi’s t-shirt and make cups of tea using Miranda’s milk, which we would drink in bed. Outside, who knew what was happening, who cared. Who cared about anything? Sleep, other people… We had each other, and our bodies seemed to fit together so perfectly.
Kofi was the first big love affair of my life. There had been a few others, but not like this. Things moved quickly. We hardly spent a night apart and it wasn’t long before paying two rents didn’t make sense. I moved into his flat in Camden and our lives intertwined. The flat, which Kofi shared with his friend Pete (who worked at the same homeless charity as Kofi, just off Charing Cross Road), had shiny black walls and a roof terrace. There were DJ decks in the living room and a constant stream of visitors, talking, drinking, dancing (there was a worn-out patchin the corner that served as the dancefloor). Kofi was the life and soul and I was quite happy to bask in his glow. He had one eye on me, even when he was DJing – he’d look over, mouthing ‘you okay?’. He made me feel wanted, an emotion that had previously been in short supply.
After the millennium, Pete moved out, and we didn’t replace him. I was earning more now that I was working atBeautique, and Kofi had been promoted to support worker, dropping ‘assistant’ from his job title. Kofi got the landlord’s permission to paint the black walls of the flat yellow and sand the floors; I think he wanted to make it look more homely. The dancefloor disappeared, and he bought some of those giant round paper lampshades from the new Swedish furniture warehouse that had opened in Bristol, not too far from my parents’ house. They’d met Kofi once, at a carvery lunch. Simon was there too. It didn’t go well: Kofi and I had smoked a joint on the way and arrived watery-eyed, giggling, hungry as hell. Mother and Father Pells exchanged glances. But we didn’t care; we were in this together. It was so good to feel like someone was on my side. Until, of course, he wasn’t.
