The Music Machine. part 1

I pressed the rewind button on the videocassette recorder one more time. I was putting off writing an essay on Moliere and besides; it was quite interesting to be able to watch the same thing over and over again - better than Tartuffe anyway. While I waited for the whirring noise to stop, I looked around the room. It was so nice to be there on my own for a change; I loved the silence of it.

With Olivier at home, there was always the constant noise of loud phone calls, interspersed with disapproving looks in my direction. I always seemed to be doing something wrong these days. I sighed; it was all very different to how it had been when I’d first moved in. I shuddered when I remembered how he’d asked me to marry him once and how I’d been so drunk I’d almost said yes; I was very very glad I hadn’t.

Now that I came to think of it, the whole relationship was definitely going downhill, and it was pretty clear that Olivier thought so too. The only thing was, I didn’t know how to put an end to it. We were in that awkward part, where both people know it’s time to walk away, but neither of them can work out how to do it. I wished Joel and T. were there so I could see if they could come up with any ideas; it had been so long since we’d last spoken.

I hadn’t seen Joe for months; we bumped into Marnie and David quite often – they went to many of the same parties we did and so on, but Joel never seemed to be with them. It was almost as if he was avoiding me and I couldn’t work out why. I'd even gone into T’s shop one afternoon to ask outright if anything was wrong with him, and T had said not really, although Joel had broken his arm. When I’d asked how, T had said it was from punching his big red phone out of frustration.

Well, I didn’t know what he had to be frustrated about. If he’d been stuck like me in this dreadful place then he would have had a real reason to be pissed off. I missed him, and T– quite a lot actually, and I said so as I was leaving, but T. didn’t reply – he just looked at me sadly, and gave a little half-wave as I closed the door.

I stared up at the high ceiling with its elaborate Victorian cornice, all spray painted white, then I turned towards the french windows that led onto the little roof that also belonged to the flat. Even in winter it was lovely to open the doors and stand for a while, looking out over the dirty greyness of Camden Town.

The whirring noise stopped – good, it had finished rewinding. I lit another cigarette, and was just about to settle down to watch the film again, when I noticed the digital clock on the video player, blinking away, and I saw it was nearly time for Olivier to come back. He’d asked me to go out and buy things for the dinner party and I’d been putting it off. I sighed – I’d have to skip the film – if he came back and found I’d forgotten again, he’d get really upset and then there’d be another argument. God I was fed up with them.

I stretched, and then reached for my cowboy boots – not the lovely old battered ones anymore; these were the stiff new expensive ones Olivier had brought back from New York. They pinched and gave me blisters – Olivier had said to wear them all the time so as to break them in and then they’d be ok, but that was definitely not true; I’d been wearing them for what seemed like forever and they still weren’t getting any more comfortable.

I picked my bag up reluctantly, and let myself out, walking as slowly as I could down the hill, mentally rehearsing all the things I was supposed to buy – cheese – four different kinds – pate, bread, Fucking Camden Cheese and Wine. I always felt so uncomfortable when I had to go in there. Honestly, who would really care if the camembert wasn’t at exactly the right stage of ripeness? They ate far too much anyway; It all seemed like such a pointless bother.

After the dinner, we were all going on to the Music Machine for some kind of awards thing. I tried to remember who was coming tonight; Olivier’s friends were nice for the most part but we had absolutely nothing in common. I never could think of anything to say to them, and though they tried, it was obvious the feeling was mutual. They were so boring; for a start everything was minutely planned – we never ever did stuff on the spur of the moment.

A gig for instance wasn’t just a fun thing to go to – it was logistics, and record sales, and PR, and you never stood in the auditorium, you stood backstage, looking cynical and weary of life. After the gig you did coke with a twenty-dollar bill in the dressing room, but you never giggled in a corner, or laughed out loud, and you had to air kiss, you couldn’t hug properly – that was wrong, like so much else. You certainly weren’t ever supposed to be excited about anything.

When I finally reached the shop, I stood for a minute with my hand on the door. I was definitely going to have to do something to put an end to all this – I’d have another think on the way back up. I took a deep breath, and pushed the handle, wincing at the loud ringing of the bell as I walked in, dreading the look on the shop assistant’s face when he saw it was me again.