over, grabs the duvet and pulls it away with a laugh, exposing Spike’s naked form. ‘Hey!’ he cries in protest.
‘Oh, don’t be shy, baby.’ Then, just as things are looking hopeful again, she fixes him with a steady gaze. ‘So, does Lou have any idea about us, d’you reckon?’
‘Um, no, I don’t think so …’
She tuts loudly. ‘Ah, so you keep telling me it’s all over between you two, that you’re just flatmates really, blah-di-blah, yet you still act as if you’re terrified about her finding out.’
‘I’d just rather pick the right time,’ he says, feeling hurt.
‘Oh, I’m not saying you should tell her,’ Astrid adds brusquely. ‘That’s up to you. It’s your life, Spike, but I hope you’re not kidding me, yourself or Lou by pretending your relationship’s dead in the water when your girlfriend obviously doesn’t think it is.’
‘Actually,’ Spike mumbles, ‘I probably will say something soon. Maybe it’s for the best …’
‘She might be pleased,’ Astrid says with a shrug. ‘Maybe she’s been trying to pluck up the courage to tell you .’
‘To tell me what?’ he asks, aghast.
‘That she wants to break up. Face it, Spike – the only reason why you’re round here four times a week is because you’re both in such a rut, which is hardly surprising, is it, after how many years together?’
‘Um, about thirteen,’ Spike says dully.
‘Hey.’ Astrid’s face softens. ‘I’m just being realistic, honey. I mean, you were both so young – well, she was young when you first got together …’
Spike nods, marvelling at how Astrid manages to drop in casual references to his age. She, like Lou, is younger than him; in fact at twenty-nine, she’s even younger than Lou. Is it his fault, though, if he attracts younger girls? What’s he supposed to do – go out hunting for forty-eight-year-old women?
Spike clambers out of Astrid’s bed, gathers up the clothes he threw off in haste and reluctantly puts them on.
‘You make me sound like a real shit,’ he huffs.
‘I didn’t mean that, babe. You’re not shitty to me. You’re quite lovely, in fact. Apart from that time when you didn’t tell me Lou was going to show up at that gig …’
‘What, the Christmas one? I had no idea! She said she was going to her work party.’
‘Yeah,’ Astrid says sternly, ‘and she snuck off early so she could see you play, devoted girlfriend that she is.’
Spike’s face droops. ‘Yeah. Well, I’m sorry. That must’ve been uncomfortable for you.’
Astrid smiles, takes hold of his shoulders and kisses him firmly on the mouth. ‘I’ve had better nights, but never mind. Now move it, you. I need to get ready.’
‘Okay, okay …’ He follows her downstairs to the front door which she opens with a flourish, mouthing bye-bye, apparently not caring that anyone could walk by and see her clad only in a chemise .
‘Bye,’ he says, stepping out onto her path. He knows he’s sulking, and he turns to give her a big smile, but Astrid has already shut her front door.
Spike doesn’t feel guilty, he decides as he leaves her street of tidy redbrick terraces. It’s not thirteen years he and Lou have been together, he realises now, but sixteen . God, that makes him feel old. Spike is two years off fifty, a fact he rarely dwells on, but which now causes a flutter of panic in his chest.
He met Lou at the end of her foundation year at art school: a beautiful, fresh-faced doll of a girl who’d gone on to study jewellery, scooping prizes galore, while he’d scraped a living with the odd short-lived job – van driver, kitchen porter, postman – whilst trying to revive his music career. At twenty-one, Spike had had a hit with a plaintive, acoustic love song based on the Black Beauty TV theme tune, imaginatively entitled ‘My Beauty’ which had, for one summer, been the slow-dance song of choice. He’d moved from Glasgow to London, hoping to follow it up with another release
‘Oh, don’t be shy, baby.’ Then, just as things are looking hopeful again, she fixes him with a steady gaze. ‘So, does Lou have any idea about us, d’you reckon?’
‘Um, no, I don’t think so …’
She tuts loudly. ‘Ah, so you keep telling me it’s all over between you two, that you’re just flatmates really, blah-di-blah, yet you still act as if you’re terrified about her finding out.’
‘I’d just rather pick the right time,’ he says, feeling hurt.
‘Oh, I’m not saying you should tell her,’ Astrid adds brusquely. ‘That’s up to you. It’s your life, Spike, but I hope you’re not kidding me, yourself or Lou by pretending your relationship’s dead in the water when your girlfriend obviously doesn’t think it is.’
‘Actually,’ Spike mumbles, ‘I probably will say something soon. Maybe it’s for the best …’
‘She might be pleased,’ Astrid says with a shrug. ‘Maybe she’s been trying to pluck up the courage to tell you .’
‘To tell me what?’ he asks, aghast.
‘That she wants to break up. Face it, Spike – the only reason why you’re round here four times a week is because you’re both in such a rut, which is hardly surprising, is it, after how many years together?’
‘Um, about thirteen,’ Spike says dully.
‘Hey.’ Astrid’s face softens. ‘I’m just being realistic, honey. I mean, you were both so young – well, she was young when you first got together …’
Spike nods, marvelling at how Astrid manages to drop in casual references to his age. She, like Lou, is younger than him; in fact at twenty-nine, she’s even younger than Lou. Is it his fault, though, if he attracts younger girls? What’s he supposed to do – go out hunting for forty-eight-year-old women?
Spike clambers out of Astrid’s bed, gathers up the clothes he threw off in haste and reluctantly puts them on.
‘You make me sound like a real shit,’ he huffs.
‘I didn’t mean that, babe. You’re not shitty to me. You’re quite lovely, in fact. Apart from that time when you didn’t tell me Lou was going to show up at that gig …’
‘What, the Christmas one? I had no idea! She said she was going to her work party.’
‘Yeah,’ Astrid says sternly, ‘and she snuck off early so she could see you play, devoted girlfriend that she is.’
Spike’s face droops. ‘Yeah. Well, I’m sorry. That must’ve been uncomfortable for you.’
Astrid smiles, takes hold of his shoulders and kisses him firmly on the mouth. ‘I’ve had better nights, but never mind. Now move it, you. I need to get ready.’
‘Okay, okay …’ He follows her downstairs to the front door which she opens with a flourish, mouthing bye-bye, apparently not caring that anyone could walk by and see her clad only in a chemise .
‘Bye,’ he says, stepping out onto her path. He knows he’s sulking, and he turns to give her a big smile, but Astrid has already shut her front door.
Spike doesn’t feel guilty, he decides as he leaves her street of tidy redbrick terraces. It’s not thirteen years he and Lou have been together, he realises now, but sixteen . God, that makes him feel old. Spike is two years off fifty, a fact he rarely dwells on, but which now causes a flutter of panic in his chest.
He met Lou at the end of her foundation year at art school: a beautiful, fresh-faced doll of a girl who’d gone on to study jewellery, scooping prizes galore, while he’d scraped a living with the odd short-lived job – van driver, kitchen porter, postman – whilst trying to revive his music career. At twenty-one, Spike had had a hit with a plaintive, acoustic love song based on the Black Beauty TV theme tune, imaginatively entitled ‘My Beauty’ which had, for one summer, been the slow-dance song of choice. He’d moved from Glasgow to London, hoping to follow it up with another release
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