Smudge gurns through a mouthful of cereal. ‘It sounds like youlovedher.’
Seb blows out a cloud of smoke. ‘How old are you?’
Some things never change. Looking around this room, it’s like they’re all still fifteen, lounging about in Nimesh’s garage back in Leicester, talking about girls. Everything had been better, back then, when the band was still starting out, when Ryan had taken the mic, when Nimesh had turned his sensitive acoustic sensibilities to lead guitar, when Seb’s fury had found its perfect outlet in the drums. Smudge on the bass, because they didn’t trust him anywhere else. For a while, they were regulars at the Shed and the Attik, not to mention countless small and sticky pub venues with crowds that didn’t materialise and toilets that didn’t flush. They’d graced one of the minor stages at one of the first Summer Sundaes, and played second support for Kasabian on what was still the greatest night of Ryan’s life. How did it all fall apart? Here in London, they haven’t landed a gig in the last three months, and Nimesh hasn’t made it to a jam session in twice as long. When Smudge comes down from Leicester, he doesn’t even bring his bass any more.
‘If we’re not going to talk about the band,’ Ryan says, ‘let’s at least take it from the top.’
Like an automaton, Seb immediately clicks his drumsticks into action, one-two-three-four, and they’re taking it from the top. But something is missing, and it isn’t just Smudge’s bass. Nimesh breaks off and tells Ryan he’s done a great job rewriting the song, but it isn’t hard to detect the pity in his voice. They all know that the main riff is a cheap rework of ‘Reptilia’ by the Strokes. Ryan shakes his head, puts pen to a crumpled piece of paper and jots down a half-melody. He scribbles it out, scratches at the patch of skin on his arm that he’s always worrying into arash. He knows their hearts aren’t in it any more. Nimesh and Seb have already continued where they left off.
‘How long has it been?’ Nimesh leans against the radiator, hands deep in the pockets of his skeleton-print hoodie, a thoughtful frown on his thin face.
‘It was in the summer,’ Seb says, twirling a drumstick absentmindedly. ‘Now it’s…’
They all look out at the rain.
‘Not summer,’ Ryan says.
Ryan should have known that London was a bad idea. But his hand had been forced by Nimesh, who’d long been ducking out of practice to go lambing, or dairy farming, or making stop-ins at stables where the farmers would look at him like he’d arrived from another planet. He’d always turn up to gigs late or leave early, saying he needed to study. Then he’d secured his place at the most prestigious vet school in London, already convincing himself that when his new, all-white classmates asked him where he wasreallyfrom, they were enquiring about his East Midlands accent. Ryan tried to paper over the cracks, taking on lead guitar as well as vocals. But the death knell rang at one of those rare latter gigs that was actually well attended, a double-header at the Charlotte whose audience just so happened to feature a scout from down south. Ryan thought the older bloke approaching them might be a mythical A&R man. When, instead, he’d asked Seb about modelling, Smudge had laughed so hard he gave himself a stitch. Ryan wasn’t laughing. He knew already that Seb would move to London, and that he’d really be doing it to keep Nimesh company.
Ryan couldn’t play the drums as well. So, he’d followed suit. Sold himself out to a job in the Civil Service, if only to afford the rent on this flat. Camden should have been a new world, a place where you get the latest issue ofNMEa day earlier than anywhere else in the country. But it soon became clear that he’d missed the end of an era, that their kind of music was dying in the age of MP3s. As much as Ryan had pleaded with promoters, designed flyers for free, plugged away at their Myspace page, the hype they’d felt in Leicester wasn’t there. To this day, they’d still only ever booked sympathy slots at the one place out east where Seb works behind the bar.
‘Something must have happened,’ Nimesh says to Seb.
‘Well…’ says Seb. He taps some ash into an empty beer can on the windowsill. ‘We did karaoke.’ He pauses. ‘And then we went outside.’
‘And then…?’
Seb sighs. ‘And then I tried to kiss her.’
‘Well, well, well,’ says Smudge. ‘And she ran away?’
Seb thinks about it. ‘More like, backed away.’
‘Sounds awkward as fuck.’
‘And then—’ Seb stops himself again.
Nimesh tilts his head. ‘Then what?’
‘Tell us,’ Smudge says. He thumps the back of the sofa. ‘Tell us!’
‘She lassoed me the moon.’
Smudge collapses into fits of laughter. Jasper’s sleepy head appears above the back of the other side of the sofa, where he’d been dozing.
‘You’re going to have to elaborate on that,’ Nimesh says, trying his best to keep a straight face.
‘After the kiss, or the non-kiss, it was obviously really awkward,’ Seb says. ‘And I’m like, shit, I’ve misread this, I am such a twat. And she doesn’t even want to look at me; she’s, like, scuffing her boots on the pavement.’ His eyes look misty. ‘Then she looks up, and the moon is massive that night, and she just…’ He winces. ‘She pretends to lasso it for me.’
‘Isn’t that fromBruce Almighty?’ says Smudge, wiping an eye.
‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ says Seb, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘It sure is,’ says Nimesh. ‘And it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Exactly!’ Seb says, throwing his arms wide. ‘And then she never called me back!’
‘That’s less romantic.’
