front of him and wondered why he had told Ashley he was at the cinema when she was sure to ask him about the film. He shook his head and looked down at the items on the table in front of him: an iPod (a happy-moving-in gift from Ashley, which gave him the illusion of not being alone), a pen and notebook (for noting down design ideas he was working on for clUNKEE mUNKEE) and a packet of cigarettes. Anyone who knew Rob well would have spotted which was the odd one out: he had given up smoking in his mid-twenties, yet a gold packet of B&H lay beside his Guinness.
Rob took a deep breath, tore off the Cellophane wrapper, screwed it into a ball, tore into the silver paper and plucked out a cigarette. He put it to his lips and bravely scanned the bar. This is it, he thought, my way in. A cigarette and nothing to light it with.
A slight interlude
Four months had now elapsed since the move to Manchester and Rob had still to make a friend. The day after the party in March, Rob had told Ashley, much to her surprise, that he was so desperate to make new friends in Manchester that he was prepared to accept the help from her that he’d previously declined – namely, to ask her female friends if they knew anyone who might fancy going for a drink with him. To this end, a week later Rob had met up with Peter Nicholls, the brother of Ashley’s work friend, Lucy. He was thirty-nine and had been an army engineer since his early twenties but had recently left to work in his dad’s haulage firm in Bolton. Ashley thought that because Peter had once seen the Rolling Stones at Wembley and Rob had their Greatest Hits in his CD collection they would have ‘loads to talk about’.
When Peter had called Rob to arrange the date, however, they hadn’t talked about the Rolling Stones. They’d talked about squash and Peter had insisted they play a game rather than go to the pub. Rob hadn’t played squash since university but was willing to give it a go and the two men had played four consecutive games, all of which Peter had won without conceding a point. The humiliation didn’t end there: in the bar of the sports hall Peter had sunk two pints of Fosters in the time it had taken Rob to get half-way through a single pint of Guinness. And at the end of the night – having continued at that pace all evening – Peter had been so drunk that Rob had had to bundle him into the back of a minicab and pay the driver an extra ten pounds to deliver him direct to his front door.
At the beginning of May Rob had gone for a drink with Stuart Farley, a Salford-based probation officer. Ashley had been getting her hair cut and telling Sian, her stylist, about Rob’s predicament when Sian had told her that Stuart, her former lodger, had found it difficult to make friends too. At Stuart’s suggestion they had met up at the Wellington Arms in the city centre. Stuart had been nice enough and the conversation was relatively okay until Stuart confessed he was a real-ale enthusiast. This wasn’t Rob’s thing but in an attempt to be more open-minded he had persuaded Stuart to tell him more about it and wished immediately that he hadn’t. Out of a battered satchel Stuart had pulled out a black notebook in which he had listed every pub he had been to in the last ten years. Beside each one’s name were a number of elaborate symbols representing ‘essential categories’, covering comfort, bar staff’s knowledge of ale, the décor and service. Rob hadn’t had the heart to tell Stuart that he only drank Carlsberg and Guinness. At the end of the evening Stuart had told him that he had enjoyed himself immensely and suggested they meet up again because the Black Horse in Salford was having a Special Beers of the World festival. A few days later Stuart had called and left a message on Rob’s mobile but Rob hadn’t called him back.
A week later Rob had met up with Russell, a twenty-seven-year-old junior doctor who was new to Manchester. Ashley had told Rob that she
Rob took a deep breath, tore off the Cellophane wrapper, screwed it into a ball, tore into the silver paper and plucked out a cigarette. He put it to his lips and bravely scanned the bar. This is it, he thought, my way in. A cigarette and nothing to light it with.
A slight interlude
Four months had now elapsed since the move to Manchester and Rob had still to make a friend. The day after the party in March, Rob had told Ashley, much to her surprise, that he was so desperate to make new friends in Manchester that he was prepared to accept the help from her that he’d previously declined – namely, to ask her female friends if they knew anyone who might fancy going for a drink with him. To this end, a week later Rob had met up with Peter Nicholls, the brother of Ashley’s work friend, Lucy. He was thirty-nine and had been an army engineer since his early twenties but had recently left to work in his dad’s haulage firm in Bolton. Ashley thought that because Peter had once seen the Rolling Stones at Wembley and Rob had their Greatest Hits in his CD collection they would have ‘loads to talk about’.
When Peter had called Rob to arrange the date, however, they hadn’t talked about the Rolling Stones. They’d talked about squash and Peter had insisted they play a game rather than go to the pub. Rob hadn’t played squash since university but was willing to give it a go and the two men had played four consecutive games, all of which Peter had won without conceding a point. The humiliation didn’t end there: in the bar of the sports hall Peter had sunk two pints of Fosters in the time it had taken Rob to get half-way through a single pint of Guinness. And at the end of the night – having continued at that pace all evening – Peter had been so drunk that Rob had had to bundle him into the back of a minicab and pay the driver an extra ten pounds to deliver him direct to his front door.
At the beginning of May Rob had gone for a drink with Stuart Farley, a Salford-based probation officer. Ashley had been getting her hair cut and telling Sian, her stylist, about Rob’s predicament when Sian had told her that Stuart, her former lodger, had found it difficult to make friends too. At Stuart’s suggestion they had met up at the Wellington Arms in the city centre. Stuart had been nice enough and the conversation was relatively okay until Stuart confessed he was a real-ale enthusiast. This wasn’t Rob’s thing but in an attempt to be more open-minded he had persuaded Stuart to tell him more about it and wished immediately that he hadn’t. Out of a battered satchel Stuart had pulled out a black notebook in which he had listed every pub he had been to in the last ten years. Beside each one’s name were a number of elaborate symbols representing ‘essential categories’, covering comfort, bar staff’s knowledge of ale, the décor and service. Rob hadn’t had the heart to tell Stuart that he only drank Carlsberg and Guinness. At the end of the evening Stuart had told him that he had enjoyed himself immensely and suggested they meet up again because the Black Horse in Salford was having a Special Beers of the World festival. A few days later Stuart had called and left a message on Rob’s mobile but Rob hadn’t called him back.
A week later Rob had met up with Russell, a twenty-seven-year-old junior doctor who was new to Manchester. Ashley had told Rob that she
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