‘Right. And that’s nowt to do with Phoebe Cates over there?’
Since watchingGremlinslast year, Kate refers to anyone with dark hair as Phoebe Cates. I meet Kate’s eyes and she shakes her head. ‘Well, I’ll be here when she blows you off.’
I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. ‘See you later.’
‘I’ll get you a pint in!’ Kate’s words follow me as I quicken my steps through the smell of smoke, spilt pints and perfume.
Outside, the cool air hits me. The road is quiet. The sounds inside the club are muted except for the low pulse of the bass line. The street lights are on, and she’s there. Spotlit. Waiting.
OK, genius. What now?
‘Do you have the time?’ Her voice is confident. There’s a lilt of a different accent, a bit Noddy Holder, but softer. I step forwards.
‘Yeah, it’s…’ I check my watch. ‘Just gone half twelve.’
‘Shit.’ She looks up and down the street. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know if there’s another bus soon? I need to get back…’
‘Not tonight.’
She shakes her head, presses her lips together. ‘I’m Alice.’ She puts out her hand and shakes mine. Firm grip, cool, smooth hand.
‘Michael.’
I watch her take a deep breath then exhale. ‘Do you have, I mean, is there a phone close by?’
I gesture down the road with my head. ‘There’s a phone box, not far. I’ll walk you, if you want?’
She quirks a red-glossed smile.
‘I’m going that way anyway…’ I trail off.
‘Yeah. Why not. You seem decent enough.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I’m decent?’
She assesses me; the corner of her mouth lifts.
‘You smell like washing powder.’
I snort. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yep.’
We begin walking, her high heels clipping along the path.
‘So serial killers don’t wash their clothes?’
‘Oh, they do, but they don’t usually have sharp creases in their jeans.’
I don’t mention I had a row with Mam about this before I left. No matter how many times I tell her I can do my own washing, she goes steaming in with her can of starch and her iron.
‘So, what do you do, Michael?’
I pull at my ear. ‘I’m a… painter.’
‘What, like an artist?’
‘Something like that.’ We continue walking down the high street, past Woolworths and the bookies. The corner shop is closed; the bright yellow Benson & Hedges banner wrapped around the front is dull at this time of night. Alice’s bright-blue dress and confidence feel at odds with my hometown.
