‘A while,’ she says. ‘Uni. Two unis, actually.’ Something flickers over her face, but she banishes it quickly. ‘So I can tell you all the places that are far too tragic to go to for a night out.’
As the night rolls on, as a third round turns into a fourth, their conversation takes on a different timbre. Disbelief, as if the pair of them can’t believe how easy it is to talk and keep talking. That they’ve never met before, and that they’re lucky enough to have met now. The sun is setting outside, and a karaoke host has started setting up in the corner. A drunkenbusinessman takes the first song and the woman at the next table is grateful for something to watch, something to make her seem like she’s here for a reason. It’s begun to dawn on her that her date isn’t coming after all, but she won’t bear the indignity of leaving, so she will stay and she will drink and she will close her eyes and she will listen. Next to her, Clara is becoming even more animated, talking loudly, gesticulating so wildly with her ring-strewn fingers that it’s a wonder she doesn’t knock over their drinks. And while ‘animated’ is not a word you’d use to describe Seb, a transformation has taken place in him, too: a shift in his posture, an unknotting of those broad shoulders.
Clara talks and talks, saying she quite likes being tragic, actually. That she chose this pub because she loves the old places in this city. That she’s prone to wandering around like a tourist, neck craning to peer at every blue plaque, sketchbook filled with the most obvious, everyday things. Big Ben as seen from the river. Carnaby Street when the Christmas lights are up. Trafalgar Square on an unbroken blue day. She talks about the concept of cringe, says if it’s cringe to find awe in the obvious things, then one should wear their cringe like a badge of pride. That she knows she’s a hypocrite for saying that, when she cares far too much what people think. She talks about how she probably talks too much.
The woman at the next table is lost in her words, barely aware that she’s nodding along. Seb is, too. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her.
‘Can I tell you something?’ he says.
Clara looks suspicious. ‘You can.’
‘You know those open-top bus tours?’ he says. ‘The ones that take you around to see all the sights?’
‘I do.’
‘Every time I see one, I want to hop on and do it,’ Seb says. ‘On my own.’
A beat. Then Clara starts laughing. Seb grimaces, but only for show. He’s happy to have amused her. He holds up his broad hands, makes a face of surrender.
‘Why on your own?’ she says.
‘Fewer distractions,’ Seb says. ‘Less chitter-chatter.’
‘Did you just say chitter-chatter?’
‘I did.’
She’s shuddering with laughter now, struggling to breathe.
‘What?’ he says. ‘I’m serious.’
She manages to collect herself, then snorts into her drink. She struggles to find the straw with her tongue, affects a comically low voice. ‘You’re very serious.’
He chews his lip. ‘Well, you’re very…’ He looks around the table, as if he might find the right word floating in the foamy residue of a half-empty pint. ‘Silly.’
She shakes her head. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘I was struggling to think of the opposite of serious.’
It continues like this. They’re giggling, because they’re young, and the way that they giggle makes them seem even younger than they are. They look like they’re desperate to touch each other, as if they’re holding back for fear of static shock. Arms graze arms, fingers brush and pull back. Legs meet under the table, linger a while. Clara points to the karaoke singers. She speaks in a conspiratorial voice, her face close to his.
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ she says.
‘You think you know me, don’t you?’
‘I think I’ve got you sussed out.’
It’s an unspoken dare, then, or just the kind of silly thing one does when one is young and giddy and wants an excuse to be close to someone else, to make bad decisions with them. While Seb returns to the bar for yet more drinks, Clara slips off for a word with the karaoke host. By the time he’s returned, she’s back at the table. A moment of sobriety. She might have lost her nerve.
‘Look, I should say—’ she begins, stopping suddenly. ‘I have a—’ she says. ‘I had a—’ She can’t find the words. ‘I’m kind of between—’
The woman can sense that she isn’t going to say ‘jobs’, but she seems to be struggling to find the right word for what she does want to say. Instead, she lets the sentence fizzle out, stares hopelessly across at him.
‘Don’t worry,’ Seb says.
His simplicity seems to confound her.
‘Don’t worry?’ Clara repeats.
