Read Online Perfect Skin by Nick Earls - Free Book Online Page B

himself to the non-lapping section of the pool and crouches low in the water, bobbing up and down as the bow waves of swimmers come his way, and looking like something that could scare salmon.
    A few laps later I go over.
    Don’t want to overdo it,
he says.
Not the first time.
    That was really hard on my arms. Did you find that?
    No. I found it hard everywhere.
    How about an iceblock?
    We get out and sit on the concrete steps of the stand, eating iceblocks and watching Nigel swim on.
    Do you think he gets bored doing that?
George says.
    Who knows? I think he gets bored with lots of things.
    None of us really gets Nigel. He’s good at what he does at work and he’s nice enough, but he can be intense about things when you least expect it. It’s no surprise that he laps the pool the way he does. He’s got a homemade vegetarian curry that he often brings in for lunch and reheats in the microwave. It always smells great, and someone once pointed that out to him. As a casual remark, a passing minor-league compliment, but Nigel came straight back at them with,
The key to it all’s not skimping on ingredients. If it says galangal, you get galangal. You don’t make it easy for yourself and use ginger.
As though he’d be annoyed if we even thought about it.
    When do you have to pick up Lily?
George says.
    Not for a while. I allowed an hour for this. Kind of hard to believe now.
    Yeah, good one. How long does it take to eat an iceblock?
    Yeah. That date stuff earlier . . . What you’re suggesting is the beginning of middle-age. You realise that, don’t you?
    I
 
didn’t tell you half of it. I didn’t mention the dinner-at-her-place option. The twee nibbly things from the deli
du jour
or the good glory-box crockery or the ice bucket. I didn’t say candles, and I didn’t say Celine, Kenny G, Easy Listening format.
    What?
    I didn’t say Sinatra.
    Sinatra? You are fucking joking with this. Tell me now that you’re joking. It’s like, if my father didn’t exist and my mother went on a date, that might be what she was up for.
    Your mother thinks Sinatra’s a tosser. Always preferred Bing. But, really, if I went for your mother, I’d be going with something more like Simon and Garfunkel.
    George, I don’t like the way that sounds as though you’ve thought it through.
    He sings the opening lines of ‘Sounds of Silence’.
Or maybe even some Elvis,
he says.
You know, one of those love-ballad albums.
    George, these are bad jokes. You are being evil to my mind. There could be no Elvis. Not on dates. With my mother or anyone.
    Your dog is called Elvis.
    As a joke. He’s got the brain of a whippet and even he can recognise it’s ironic. Please, don’t make the whole thing sound so horribly historic.
    So, millennium man, tell me about date mechanicsthen. How would it work for you? Should that kind of thing be on the cards.
    Okay, I haven’t thought about this, so it’ll be a bit rudimentary. What I’m thinking is that I should capitalise on what I’ve learned, but it’s still got to be fun. It’s got to have some sense of the contemporary. And nothing hinting that my best years are behind me, or anything. Because they’d really better not be. So, I’m sorry, there’s not only no Easy Listening, but there’s no Classic Hits format. This is the eighties hair issue. If I was back at someone’s place, okay, and they put on, like, Dead or Alive, and even thought about reminiscing, I’d know there was no chance.
    Or Nik Kershaw, or Paul Young.
    Oh, Jesus, there’d be
No Parlez
of any kind. Out the door.
    Or Haircut 100.
    Shit, Porge. I wouldn’t have fucked anyone who played Haircut 100 in the eighties. That’s never going to change.
    Good call. I probably would have, though. Okay, Kaja Googoo. Limahl. Culture Club. Hayzee Fantayzee.
    Porge, I’m not feeling well. Quit it with the