was sure they would get on because Russell liked ‘good music and good films’. At Russell’s insistence they had met up in a bar called Prague V. Rob hadn’t been there before, and he liked Russell immediately. He was cool without being too cool. At the end of the night Russell had said he’d enjoyed himself and would call Rob to arrange another night out soon. But when no call had come by the beginning of the following week Rob had had his doubts. Finally, at Ashley’s insistence, he had called Russell and left a message on his mobile. When a few more days had gone by with no word from him, Rob had contemplated leaving another message and had half dialled his number – Maybe he’s lost mine , he thought, or can’t retrieve his voicemail. Maybe . . . And that was when it had struck him: he’d been blown out and he hadn’t even realised it. Rob had done the I-promise-I’ll-call-you thing with women more times than he cared to remember, and now it had happened to him. Ashley had apologised on Russell’s behalf, but Rob had told her not to worry. ‘When you want to make friends with someone,’ he’d explained, ‘you’ve both got to get That Feeling. Because if you don’t there’s no point in trying to fake it.’
The following Saturday Rob had decided it was time he took control of his own destiny. Which was why he was now in Bar 38 with a cigarette and no lighter.
Desperado (part two)
To Rob’s left there was a group of ridiculously good-looking Spaniards: two guys and two girls. One girl had dreadlocks; the other’s nose was pierced. Although all four were smoking heavily, and therefore potential candidates for Rob’s experiment, they were also wearing sunglasses indoors which, to Rob’s mind, immediately disqualified them.
Behind the Spaniards he could see another table of smokers, this time a couple of student-looking guys talking animatedly. One had long hair tied back in a ponytail while the other wore a baseball cap and was cultivating his facial hair into something approaching a full-on beard. Rob strained to hear their conversation and having picked out words like ‘rehearsals’ and ‘auditions’ and ‘the director’ it became clear to him that they were actors. He shuddered as he recalled a conversation he had once had with an actor called Victor, whom he had met during a Christmas party a few years earlier. In the middle of a conversation about the difficulties of getting a black cab during the Christmas season Victor (for no good reason that Rob could see) had begun stripping off his clothes, until he was standing in the middle of the room wearing only his boxer shorts, fully aware that he had the attention of the room. In his best actorly voice he had announced to Rob and everyone else: ‘Sometimes I can’t help but express what I’m feeling inside.’ That night Rob vowed that as long as he had breath in his body he would never again make the mistake of opening a conversation with anyone in the theatrical fraternity. Although these two men looked nothing like Victor he couldn’t take the chance.
Finally, Rob’s gaze locked on to a man of roughly his own age, sitting alone. Today Rob was in jeans, a black sweatshirt and green camouflage All Stars baseball boots and the other man was dressed similarly. On the table in front of him was an iPod, a pint of lager and a packet of Silk Cut. He’d got a lit cigarette in one hand and was engrossed in a novel.
Rob checked him out covertly. He doesn’t seem overly bothered about sitting in a bar on his own thought Rob. He’s drinking a pint, which is always a good sign – although I don’t know of what. And if he’s got an iPod he must be into music, a bonus. All in all, he looks like my type of guy.
Rob took a deep breath and stood up. His chair legs screeched on the floor loudly enough to gain the attention of the Spanish group and the actors. Fortunately the guy with the book didn’t look up or Rob would have lost his
The following Saturday Rob had decided it was time he took control of his own destiny. Which was why he was now in Bar 38 with a cigarette and no lighter.
Desperado (part two)
To Rob’s left there was a group of ridiculously good-looking Spaniards: two guys and two girls. One girl had dreadlocks; the other’s nose was pierced. Although all four were smoking heavily, and therefore potential candidates for Rob’s experiment, they were also wearing sunglasses indoors which, to Rob’s mind, immediately disqualified them.
Behind the Spaniards he could see another table of smokers, this time a couple of student-looking guys talking animatedly. One had long hair tied back in a ponytail while the other wore a baseball cap and was cultivating his facial hair into something approaching a full-on beard. Rob strained to hear their conversation and having picked out words like ‘rehearsals’ and ‘auditions’ and ‘the director’ it became clear to him that they were actors. He shuddered as he recalled a conversation he had once had with an actor called Victor, whom he had met during a Christmas party a few years earlier. In the middle of a conversation about the difficulties of getting a black cab during the Christmas season Victor (for no good reason that Rob could see) had begun stripping off his clothes, until he was standing in the middle of the room wearing only his boxer shorts, fully aware that he had the attention of the room. In his best actorly voice he had announced to Rob and everyone else: ‘Sometimes I can’t help but express what I’m feeling inside.’ That night Rob vowed that as long as he had breath in his body he would never again make the mistake of opening a conversation with anyone in the theatrical fraternity. Although these two men looked nothing like Victor he couldn’t take the chance.
Finally, Rob’s gaze locked on to a man of roughly his own age, sitting alone. Today Rob was in jeans, a black sweatshirt and green camouflage All Stars baseball boots and the other man was dressed similarly. On the table in front of him was an iPod, a pint of lager and a packet of Silk Cut. He’d got a lit cigarette in one hand and was engrossed in a novel.
Rob checked him out covertly. He doesn’t seem overly bothered about sitting in a bar on his own thought Rob. He’s drinking a pint, which is always a good sign – although I don’t know of what. And if he’s got an iPod he must be into music, a bonus. All in all, he looks like my type of guy.
Rob took a deep breath and stood up. His chair legs screeched on the floor loudly enough to gain the attention of the Spanish group and the actors. Fortunately the guy with the book didn’t look up or Rob would have lost his
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