wells street

The pub was dark and smoky. The queue at the bar was endless and it was really hard to make my way through the crowd. It was hot and I couldn’t wait to get outside with my drink – my friends had bagged a table and saved a seat for me.

I’d been the last one to finish that day; I hadn’t minded – I was teaching a really nice Kuwaiti – his English was fairly fluent so we could occasionally veer away from the page we were meant to be on and have a real conversation. The only thing was, he had to take breaks to pray, so it meant our day ended slightly later.

It was funny how the tourists never got off the main road there – they’d shuffle along in a slow-moving people-train from Tottenham Court Road all the way to Marble Arch. If they’d bothered to turn right at any point before Oxford Circus they’d have found a whole new world. Not any more interesting, but different at least and certainly less crowded. It’s still pretty much like that now, but the difference was even more marked then.

The people who crammed into the pubs in the early evening were mostly from the unglamorous side of the fashion industry, which was centred in those backstreets – all the blank windowed wholesale only shops. Occasionally you’d see sample models, their faces still caked in makeup, crouching on the pavement, drink in hand, tearfully sharing their crises with each other. I think there were quite a few music publishers too, and not much else, except the school where I worked.

Teaching at Berlitz was a doss – I think they even let Princess Anne do it once. You went for an interview, and so long as you had a degree, looked and sounded moderately sane, and knew where to start with the cutlery at a restaurant, bingo – you were on their training course.

The pink had already faded from my hair so it was only two shades of blonde – very fake and slightly less fake. The parts that had been shaved had grown back a little, and so long as I didn’t wear too much hair gel, I could cover them up with the longer bits. I was glad I hadn’t gone for the tropical fish look, like some of my friends; it would have meant a longer wait, or a radical rethink.

I had a suit and some stilettos I couldn’t walk in. All I had to do was take off a few earrings and I thought I looked pretty normal.

Most of the others who started training with me were doing the same thing - marking time; getting a skill that would let us travel without the disadvantage of having to clean campsites, host chalet parties, or be nice to children.

You had to work six months in England and then you could be off to wherever you wanted to go. I was planning to join some friends in West Germany who were still at university. You could be a student there forever – you could intersperse your studies with other interesting things and everyone took advantage of it – most of them eked out their student years for nearly a decade that way.

Reinhardt was halfway through his thesis on soap operas and their sociological impact on the German psyche. He was living in an alternative commune in Bielefeld with his girlfriend Marta and some other people, and doing things we couldn’t really discuss on the telephone. Both of those ideas sounded interesting to me, so that was my plan. I had another couple of months in London and then I’d be off. I was looking forward to not wearing the suit. It wasn’t very comfortable.

Someone touched my arm. I turned round – in the crush it was hard to see who it was.

“Hey”

It was a face, slightly puzzled, scanning mine. Then the puzzlement vanished and he broke into a wide grin

“It IS you! Wow!”

He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him at first, and then I could, and I suddenly felt cold.

“Hi.”

“What a surprise! God it’s been years.”

“Yes, it has hasn’t it.”

Keep smiling. How the fuck did he recognise me? What was I last time we met? Fifteen -sixteen maximum – a whole world away – one I really didn’t want to go back to. I’d almost forgotten up until then; all that angry stuff, the confused mixture of bad drugs in ludicrous quantities – I had no idea what I was doing at that point in my life – alcohol, and mindless sex – lots of mindless sex, quite often with him.

All of it was a clumsy attempt to blot out how bad I felt. It never did of course, but I didn’t know what else to do – there wasn’t anyone to show me how. There was no one at school, nothing at home except rows and people telling me I’d screwed up, over and over and over – each time I got better at the blank expression. It was quite hard to work everything out on my own when I was that age.

I didn’t want to be reminded of it. Vodka and lime – why? What was I thinking of? - And barbiturates and speed, the evenings at that pub, deciding which parties to gatecrash, the nights round the table at the squat, or on the floor rolling joints – six rizlas – wow that’s a great smoke ring. Looking at the ceiling with the silk draped across it so it looked like the roof of a tent, endless Yes albums playing on the stereo – god they were boring.

I’d even managed to forget the nice people from that time – there were some. The lovely old hippy at the squat who’d said I had sparkly eyes. He’d shown me how to make myself sick when he thought I’d overdone it, stroking my head and encouraging me; he was so kind. That girl – how could I have forgotten almost everything about her? Blanked it out I suppose, along with everything else, like a job lot in an auction.

We’d been such friends. I suddenly remembered how we’d kept in touch long after I’d stopped going up there – when she was in the sixth form and I was in the middle of London. I remembered her writing about her interview at Cambridge, when the admissions tutor had told her she could have no more than five men in her room at one time – it had been very funny.

Maybe he had changed too. I knew I had, why not him? It wasn’t his fault – it wasn’t anyone’s fault – just something I didn’t want to remember.

“Wow”

He stood looking at me. He hadn’t changed at all. It was so obvious.

“You look really great’

“Thanks. “

I tried to keep smiling. He didn’t look really great. He looked tired and he had lines around his eyes.

“What are you doing now?

“Teaching. Bond Street. You?”

“Oh I’m around the corner –publishing rights. Been there since school actually. You look really amazing.”

I made a bet with myself that he still lived in the same place.

“Are you still where you were?”

“Yes – yes – same old thing you know…wow I can’t get over seeing you again”

“Look – I’m sorry – I have to rush. I’m meeting friends.”

“Oh of course! Here…’

He took a pen out of his pocket, scribbled his number down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.

‘We must keep in touch – meet up for a drink – give me yours – tear it in half ..”

I did as he asked, took the paper, tore it, wrote a number down, handed it over, and put my half in my pocket.

I was already edging my way out of the crowd as we said our goodbyes. I was desperate to be out of earshot before he said wow again.

I forgot all about my friends, walked straight past them, and turned left onto Oxford Street. As soon as I got to the nearest rubbish bin, I threw away the piece of paper, and wished you could do the same with memories. Then I felt a little better, and began to walk to the tube station.