later, happier years: at Christmas and birthdays and on holidays. Honest to God. It was like being punched.
He snatched glimpses of her during breaks in the conversation. He followed her progress to the lavatory.
He resolved to follow her to the bar and stood, too abruptly, shaking the table. Not unkindly, he was told: fucking watch it, that was a full pint. And he was called a twat. But he didn’t hear. He clapped his hands and said: ‘Right.’
The bar was four deep and he had Bambi legs. It took some time to push in alongside her.
He said: ‘Can I get this one for you?’
She turned and considered him through narrowed eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said: “I’ll buy the next one.”’
‘No thank you.’
She turned away. He didn’t move.
She clicked her tongue against her pallet, turned again. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes.’
( Chemistry , she would say, later. Pure pheromones. Two dogs in the street. )
‘With?’
‘Your name.’
She laughed. Her eyes crinkled. She told him.
‘And your phone number.’
‘I have a boyfriend.’
‘One day you might not.’
‘Well. If that day comes, you’ll have to ask me again.’
‘If that day comes I might.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
‘I won’t. What are you studying?’
‘Law.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Why?’
‘So we’ll have something to talk about.’
He excused himself, bid her goodnight and walked away. It was the bravest thing he had ever done.
It was necessary to force his friends (swearing quietly through gritted teeth: Lads, just fuck off out of it. Please. Fucking hell .) through the pub doors. He exited only after shoving the last of them into the cold night. They went to a disco and, unlikely as he knew it to be, he kept an eye on the door all night, in case she walked in.
He suggested with great frequency that they drink in student pubs. His mates didn’t mind. They professed to hate students, but didn’t tire of student parties where they might be offered a joint by some undergraduate terrified of their petulant class antagonism.
Will was able to bump into Kate twice, sometimes three times a week. She wasn’t lying about the boyfriend. His name was Sam. He looked like Bryan Ferry’s rebellious younger brother and had what Will imagined to be the bearing of a radical poet.
Will found some classmates of Kate who, in exchange for a couple of pints of Tetley with a whiskey chaser, were happy to acquaint him with her timetable. They outlined campus geography for him and he waited for her after class one crisp morning in February. She saw him there, paused long enough to disengage from her companions, then hugged books to her breast and walked on.
He jogged a step or two in her wake, stopped. Called out to her.
She stopped, without turning.
He said: ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Are you still going out with him?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘ Still ?’
‘Still.’
‘Shame.’
Now she turned.
‘Why a shame ?’
‘You’re too good for him.’
She laughed.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I said. You’re too good for him.’
‘But you’d like me to go out with you instead?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’m not too good for you?’
He thrust his shaking hands in the tight denim pockets and set his weight on one leg.
‘Oh, you’re too good for me ,’he said. ‘You’re far too good for me. That’s the point. Why would I go to all this effort if you weren’t too good for me?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Very smooth.’
‘I’m not being smooth. Look at me. Do I look smooth?’
He took his hands from his pockets.
‘See. I’m shaking.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Not that cold. And my mouth is dry.’
‘You’re probably hungover.’
‘That too.’
She put her head to one side and regarded him from an oblique angle. By spring they were together.
Kate fell pregnant early the next year, 1980. They argued and separated. Several weeks later, Will turned up at her door bearing
He snatched glimpses of her during breaks in the conversation. He followed her progress to the lavatory.
He resolved to follow her to the bar and stood, too abruptly, shaking the table. Not unkindly, he was told: fucking watch it, that was a full pint. And he was called a twat. But he didn’t hear. He clapped his hands and said: ‘Right.’
The bar was four deep and he had Bambi legs. It took some time to push in alongside her.
He said: ‘Can I get this one for you?’
She turned and considered him through narrowed eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said: “I’ll buy the next one.”’
‘No thank you.’
She turned away. He didn’t move.
She clicked her tongue against her pallet, turned again. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes.’
( Chemistry , she would say, later. Pure pheromones. Two dogs in the street. )
‘With?’
‘Your name.’
She laughed. Her eyes crinkled. She told him.
‘And your phone number.’
‘I have a boyfriend.’
‘One day you might not.’
‘Well. If that day comes, you’ll have to ask me again.’
‘If that day comes I might.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
‘I won’t. What are you studying?’
‘Law.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Why?’
‘So we’ll have something to talk about.’
He excused himself, bid her goodnight and walked away. It was the bravest thing he had ever done.
It was necessary to force his friends (swearing quietly through gritted teeth: Lads, just fuck off out of it. Please. Fucking hell .) through the pub doors. He exited only after shoving the last of them into the cold night. They went to a disco and, unlikely as he knew it to be, he kept an eye on the door all night, in case she walked in.
He suggested with great frequency that they drink in student pubs. His mates didn’t mind. They professed to hate students, but didn’t tire of student parties where they might be offered a joint by some undergraduate terrified of their petulant class antagonism.
Will was able to bump into Kate twice, sometimes three times a week. She wasn’t lying about the boyfriend. His name was Sam. He looked like Bryan Ferry’s rebellious younger brother and had what Will imagined to be the bearing of a radical poet.
Will found some classmates of Kate who, in exchange for a couple of pints of Tetley with a whiskey chaser, were happy to acquaint him with her timetable. They outlined campus geography for him and he waited for her after class one crisp morning in February. She saw him there, paused long enough to disengage from her companions, then hugged books to her breast and walked on.
He jogged a step or two in her wake, stopped. Called out to her.
She stopped, without turning.
He said: ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Are you still going out with him?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘ Still ?’
‘Still.’
‘Shame.’
Now she turned.
‘Why a shame ?’
‘You’re too good for him.’
She laughed.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I said. You’re too good for him.’
‘But you’d like me to go out with you instead?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’m not too good for you?’
He thrust his shaking hands in the tight denim pockets and set his weight on one leg.
‘Oh, you’re too good for me ,’he said. ‘You’re far too good for me. That’s the point. Why would I go to all this effort if you weren’t too good for me?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Very smooth.’
‘I’m not being smooth. Look at me. Do I look smooth?’
He took his hands from his pockets.
‘See. I’m shaking.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Not that cold. And my mouth is dry.’
‘You’re probably hungover.’
‘That too.’
She put her head to one side and regarded him from an oblique angle. By spring they were together.
Kate fell pregnant early the next year, 1980. They argued and separated. Several weeks later, Will turned up at her door bearing
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