‘Cheers.’ He drinks, winces.
The teacher opens his phone again, checks the long text bubble he sent ten minutes ago. Too long? There is still no answer. He sighs, makes a note on the paper in front of him in red pen. He reads the note back, crosses it out. He can’t stay focused. The talk at the next table is low and stilted, punctuated by long looks and tentative questions. Not the euphoria one would expect after good news.
‘Did you keep it?’ the girl is saying. ‘The picture?’
The guy’s face betrays nothing. ‘Should I have?’
‘I’m not sure I got you right,’ she continues, talking fast. ‘You and your eyebrows. Your headphones. Your—’
‘Clara,’ he says.
Clara stops. ‘Yes?’
‘I kept it.’
Warmth spreads across her cheeks. She suppresses a smile. ‘I know I got Jasper right,’ she says. ‘All scribbles.’
At the mention of its name, the dog beneath their table rouses. The girl contorts her body to pet him, scratching his ruff as he leans against her bare leg. The guy watches her, elbows on the table, bearded chin rested upon clasped hands.
‘Can I say something?’ he says.
‘Please do.’
‘When you said you saw my billboard, I acted embarrassed, because I felt like that’s what I was supposed to do.’ He pauses to drain his drink. ‘But I don’t want to be embarrassed. That’s not me. I’m grateful, really.’ He looks down into his empty glass. ‘The guys from the band understand that. They don’t take the piss too much, because they get it. I never had money growing up. None of us did.’ He rubs his lower lip with the back of one tattooed thumb. ‘When I got that first paycheque, I didn’t want to touch it. I was terrified someone had made a mistake, that they’d take it away.’ His hand strays to the headphones around his neck. ‘So, all I bought was these. And now I never take them off.’
He looks up at her. Her brow is furrowed. He rubs one of his arms, suddenly seeming self-conscious.
‘I don’t usually talk this much,’ he says. ‘I guess, what I mean is, this is a big opportunity for me,’ he says. ‘So, thank you.’
She’s finished her drink, too. Before she can respond, he’s heading off to grab two more. Only when he’s gone does she break into a smile, one which is once again hidden away by the time he sits back down. He places the drinks on the table, but holds hers back.
‘Seb…’
‘I shared,’ he says. ‘Your turn.’
He pushes the glass towards her. His hand lingers, callused palm outstretched. She seems to know what he wants. She reaches into her bag, hands him a plain black sketchbook. He takes it, handles it with care. For a while they sit in a silence which seems impossibly loud, Seb flicking through the pages and studying each drawing while Clara squirms in her seat. The teacher heads to the bar himself, orders another pint, a portion of chips. When he returns to the table, Seb has reached the end of the sketchbook. He closes it, holds it on his lap. Then he looks up at Clara, something new in his eyes.
‘You’re really talented,’ he says.
His voice is so sincere that Clara seems disarmed, unable to respond. The music drifting over from the radio behind the bar is tinny and distorted.
‘What was your band called?’ Clara asks, changing the subject.
‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He slides the book back across the table. Their hands touch, then move quickly apart. ‘Tell me something about you,’ he says.
‘Like what?’
‘Anything,’ he says. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘I’m a classic middle child.’ Clara shrugs. ‘Younger brother, older sister.’
‘Sounds crowded.’
‘It can be.’
‘And your parents?’
Something in her voice changes. ‘Not much to report.’
