Read Online I Think I Love You by Allison Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allison Pearson
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happy. And if you say, Hey, go away, I will. But I think, better still, I’d better stay around and love you. Do you think I have a case? Let me ask you to your face.
Do you think you love me?
I THINK I LOVE YOU.
4
T wenty to six, and Bill was staring at his second pint. They had only arrived at the pub, he and Pete, seven minutes ago, but already he had ordered and consumed a large, smeared glass of the usual. He didn’t know what the usual was; his own usual was whisky when he could afford it, or Guinness when he could not, or even, on a spring evening, with sunglasses on and no male acquaintances within ten miles, a gin and tonic. But now, in the Cat & Fiddle, not wanting to appear different, or to be mistaken for posh, he had listened to what Pete had asked for and carefully followed his lead. And the usual, it turned out, was most unusual: a pale, brackish draught of what appeared to be canal water, topped with a drift of industrial scum. He had forced it down, then more of the same to take away the taste. Each man was paying for his own; Pete had not paid for Bill’s, and Bill, slipping easily into the habit of meanness, had returned the lack of favor. He had, however, bought a packet of crisps, which sat between them, and into which Pete was now freely plunging his fist. He seemed worked up about something.
“I mean, it’s bollocks. Just complete and utter bollocks.”
He paused for effect. Bill, whose mind had been elsewhere, wondered if he was meant to lend support. “Well, it’s certainly—” he began.
“Right. Total. And the worst thing is, they don’t even know they’re doing it.” His fingers rustled among the crisps. “D’you think it’s a girl thing?”
“Well, it might—”
“Has to be. I mean, the way they take one tiny detail and go completely mental over it. Like it’s life or bleedin’ death. You wouldn’t get a bloke doing that, would you?” Pete pulled his fingers out and licked off the salt. He had been to the Gents when they first entered the pub—too quick a visit, Bill reckoned, to have spent time washing his hands.
“Oh, no, no,” said Bill, who had resolved to agree with everything his new colleagues said. As a strategy for fitting in it was imperfect, but it would do until he came up with a better one. They paused to drink in unison. Pete offered Bill one of Bill’s own crisps, which he declined. There were hardly any left.
“You’re right,” Pete continued, as if he and Bill were in the midst of a constructive discussion. “It is just girls. They get the record home and play it like a million times, and then their dad comes in to tell them to turn it down, and when he slams the bedroom door the needle jumps, so that there’s this bloody great scratch across, I dunno, ‘Can It Be Forever’ or whatever—”
“ ‘Could It.’ ”
“Could it what?”
“ ‘Could It Be Forever.’ That’s the name of the song, actually.” Bill was on safe ground. For a fraction of a second, he was appalled to discover in himself a sliver of pride: the righteous pride of a man who knows his special subject and is not afraid to correct anyone who doesn’t. In great haste he drained his glass, almost to the lees.
“Sod off,” said Pete, without rancor, or not much. “Anyways, for about a fortnight they go totally spare, like somebody died, and they hate their parents and won’t eat. And then, this is the mad bit, they sit around with their girlfriends, who are just like them but worse, and they egg each other on, so they get their rockers in a twist—”
“Knickers.”
“Pardon?”
“Knickers,” said Bill. “You get your knickers in a twist, you go off your rocker. They’re different things.” As he spoke, he could hear his voice growing smaller and starting to die. Pete must have heard it, too, because he leaned a bit closer and said: “It’s true, then.”
“What’s true?” Bill smiled, trying to keep things light. He helped himself to a
Do you think you love me?
I THINK I LOVE YOU.
4
T wenty to six, and Bill was staring at his second pint. They had only arrived at the pub, he and Pete, seven minutes ago, but already he had ordered and consumed a large, smeared glass of the usual. He didn’t know what the usual was; his own usual was whisky when he could afford it, or Guinness when he could not, or even, on a spring evening, with sunglasses on and no male acquaintances within ten miles, a gin and tonic. But now, in the Cat & Fiddle, not wanting to appear different, or to be mistaken for posh, he had listened to what Pete had asked for and carefully followed his lead. And the usual, it turned out, was most unusual: a pale, brackish draught of what appeared to be canal water, topped with a drift of industrial scum. He had forced it down, then more of the same to take away the taste. Each man was paying for his own; Pete had not paid for Bill’s, and Bill, slipping easily into the habit of meanness, had returned the lack of favor. He had, however, bought a packet of crisps, which sat between them, and into which Pete was now freely plunging his fist. He seemed worked up about something.
“I mean, it’s bollocks. Just complete and utter bollocks.”
He paused for effect. Bill, whose mind had been elsewhere, wondered if he was meant to lend support. “Well, it’s certainly—” he began.
“Right. Total. And the worst thing is, they don’t even know they’re doing it.” His fingers rustled among the crisps. “D’you think it’s a girl thing?”
“Well, it might—”
“Has to be. I mean, the way they take one tiny detail and go completely mental over it. Like it’s life or bleedin’ death. You wouldn’t get a bloke doing that, would you?” Pete pulled his fingers out and licked off the salt. He had been to the Gents when they first entered the pub—too quick a visit, Bill reckoned, to have spent time washing his hands.
“Oh, no, no,” said Bill, who had resolved to agree with everything his new colleagues said. As a strategy for fitting in it was imperfect, but it would do until he came up with a better one. They paused to drink in unison. Pete offered Bill one of Bill’s own crisps, which he declined. There were hardly any left.
“You’re right,” Pete continued, as if he and Bill were in the midst of a constructive discussion. “It is just girls. They get the record home and play it like a million times, and then their dad comes in to tell them to turn it down, and when he slams the bedroom door the needle jumps, so that there’s this bloody great scratch across, I dunno, ‘Can It Be Forever’ or whatever—”
“ ‘Could It.’ ”
“Could it what?”
“ ‘Could It Be Forever.’ That’s the name of the song, actually.” Bill was on safe ground. For a fraction of a second, he was appalled to discover in himself a sliver of pride: the righteous pride of a man who knows his special subject and is not afraid to correct anyone who doesn’t. In great haste he drained his glass, almost to the lees.
“Sod off,” said Pete, without rancor, or not much. “Anyways, for about a fortnight they go totally spare, like somebody died, and they hate their parents and won’t eat. And then, this is the mad bit, they sit around with their girlfriends, who are just like them but worse, and they egg each other on, so they get their rockers in a twist—”
“Knickers.”
“Pardon?”
“Knickers,” said Bill. “You get your knickers in a twist, you go off your rocker. They’re different things.” As he spoke, he could hear his voice growing smaller and starting to die. Pete must have heard it, too, because he leaned a bit closer and said: “It’s true, then.”
“What’s true?” Bill smiled, trying to keep things light. He helped himself to a
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