"Thing Can Only Get Better"

ONE
The spring of ’97 was a glorious time. I was nearing the end of my freshman year at university, and after the initial difficulties in settling in and making new friends, was really enjoying myself. I was living on campus which suited me ideally, as everything was close to hand and the atmosphere of cerebral activity and like-minded students were so congenial. There was also the General Election coming up, which was greatly exciting: I’d lived my whole life under a Tory government, and was so looking forward to Tony Blair being Prime Minister rather than that clown John Major, who everyone knew was a total joke. What was great about being a student was that you knew everyone supported Labour and were against war and poverty and things like that. Even some of the lecturers had posters up in their office windows saying “Tories out!” It was a great feeling, that everyone had the same idea and wanted the same thing: Tories out!

Because everyone on campus knew that Labour were right, that they stood for fairness and good things like a minimum wage and gay rights and would save the NHS and help students, I joined the campus Labour party. It was great to feel that we were doing something good for the country, and it was also a good place to meet people and make friends. It was there, for example, that I first met Trish. I had gone along to a meeting on a Wednesday evening about putting posters and banners for the election throughout the whole campus and the main streets in town. It seemed like a great idea, the society officers made us all really enthused about ‘getting the message out’, so a group of us volunteered to do our halls of residence and the Meston building. I hadn’t met Trish before, but it turned out we were in the same halls, and even more amazingly, she was just one floor above!

After the meeting we walked back to Logie Halls and got talking. It turned out we had a really similar music taste – the Stone Roses, REM, The Pixies, and Nirvana. I liked Trish right away; she looked so different from the other girls. Her hair was short and dyed; she had lots of earrings and wore Dr Martin boots: a bit like the character “Scarlet” in Four Weddings and a Funeral. She was forthright about being bisexual, saying that she told people right away to get it out in the open, so it was never a problem. I asked her if she preferred men or women or was fifty-fifty, and she said that she usually went for women, “but if George Clooney was to come along I wouldn’t turn him down,” which made me laugh. It was funny how she liked such a manly man.

Quickly we became friends. We would meet for a cappuccino (which she introduced me too) and a tuna mayo sandwich lunch, go to Tesco together when she wanted to go shopping, or I’d go round to her dorm (the tiny university cubicle!) to watch evening TV on a Friday night: Red Dwarf, The Fast Show, all those great programs we both liked, Trish especially. It was great being friends with someone who was so alternative and different, like me. I had always hated all the populist culture I’d grown up in, from The Sun to Take That, so Trish was an ideal friend for me. We also worked together for the forthcoming General Election, helping with the fundraising, leaflet distribution and putting up signs on the main streets in town. For example, example, there was an election debate between the candidates at the biggest university lecture theatre. Harriet, the chairperson of the Labour Soc, got in touch with us beforehand. She was a tall third-year student who looked impossibly glamorous to me. There was a photo of her meeting Helen Liddle in the student union.

“Hi, Trish, Paul!” she beamed at us. “I’ve got a naughty little idea for you both. Think you can handle it?” she asked slyly.

It sounded intriguing; I was already up for it. “What’s your idea?” Trish asked.

“Well, during the debate, we want to show that students here are against the Tories and want to get them out, yeah?”

“Of course!” I agreed.

“So we someone people to heckle the Tory candidate, James Strathburn. You know, disagree with them, shout out things like ‘No privatisation!’ When they lie, catch them out. It’s how Neil Kinnock got noticed, heckling. You game?”

Trish and I looked briefly at each, devilment in our eyes. “Yeah, I’m in,” Trish said.

“Me too,” I said. “We can stick it right to them, eh Trish?”

“Excellent stuff,” Harriet said. “I knew I could rely on you both. Right,” she sighed, eyes turning upwards, “I have to run off and do this the election night disco. You two coming?”

We agreed of course, and bade Harriet farewell. “Mwah-hah-hah!” I said. “Machiavellian plots afoot.”

Trish snorted. “Come on, Paul. It’s the most basic political move possible. It’s the equivalent of giving all your supporters placards with your slogans on them so it looks good on TV.”

“Well maybe,” I said. “All in a good cause, though.”

The meeting itself was loads of fun. The lecture theatre was stowed with students, some election bigwigs and the candidates
themselves on stage, with Peter one of the senior politics lecturers adjudicating the debate. It was great, everyone was able to have a go at James Strathburn for student grants being so low and for the loans which made education so expensive. We heckled him when he spoke, shouting out things like, “Scrap student loans!”, “Free education!”, “No Tory sleaze!” and “Tories out!” which got him riled. In his horribly plumy tones he peered over a pair of half-moon glasses towards where we were sitting, and said, “I’m so glad that many students today are motivated and active in political events. Might I encourage them to find a more suitable medium to fully express themselves?” To be fair, everyone had a laugh at that.

When the Labour candidate David Jenkins spoke, the Tory students had evidently had the same idea as Harriet because they started shouting out things like “Save the UK!” and “You can’t trust Labour!” But fortunately they were by far in the minority and were shouted down by us on the Labour side or hissed at when they tried their tricks. David Jenkins (he was a local guy, former head of the university student union coincidently) spoke well and said lots of good things about wanting to save the NHS, stop the privatisation of pensions (which had been in the papers; the Tories were secretly planning to do it after the election, if they somehow managed to win) and most of all o make sure that Tories were never able to charge for education or privatize the NHS as they would like to. He got a huge round of applause. Afterwards Harriet stood up and thanked the candidates for coming and speaking to us, which was good of her. I tried to catch her eye, thinking I could thank her for organising the whole thing, but she was talking to Strathburn.

I was spending so much time with Trish that I even went to the gay club with her - the LGBT it was called – Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender. I didn’t see any transgender people there though. She told me they usually had a meeting in a room in the union, then went for a drink at one of the campus bars, where it seemed like half of them bagged off with each other. Trish and I went along later on, just to the bar, not the actual meeting, and once I’d got introduced and made it clear that I was 100% straight, I got on well with the people there. It was really quite fascinating talking with a lesbian couple; I’d never seen that before. It was rather less comfortable talking with the gay men, especially as there seemed to be several older men attending who couldn’t quite conceal their voracious desires, the desperation in their eyes shining through. But maybe it was just me that had this effect on them! I usually sat with Trish and her lesbian friends, as it was so interesting for me to observe them: Gina with her girly figure and pixie smile, Sharon with her hangdog expression and hair tied back diffidently, Tracy with her short hair and butch figure. It was all so interesting for me; I could ask questions that I could never get answered anywhere else. One time I asked when it was they realised that they were lesbian, as Trish had told me that she had realised when she was on a school trip and fell in love with one of the young female teachers.

“I don’t remember an actual day when it all clicked,” Gina said. “It was just step by step by step, you know? I just found I liked women more and more and men less and less.”

“Oh really?” I said. “So what things did you fancy about women?”

The others sitting at the table chuckled. Trish said, “What do you fancy about women? It’s different for everyone.”

“I’m probably traditional in my tastes,” I chuckled. “You know… legs, bum, eh…” I trailed off, embarrassed.

“Typical bloke!” Tracy said, almost snorting in her half of lager, as the others laughed with her.

“Ah come on,” I said, holding my hands up. “I can’t help it! It’s just a guy thing.”

“Not all guys!” Gina said, nodding over at the table with most of the gay men gathered round. “Why don’t you ask them what they like about men?”

My face reddened and I kept quiet this time. Yet I didn’t want to join the table of gays; I didn’t feel safe sitting there without Trish. The gay guys were friendly, but I couldn’t just sit and talk with them: I worried that someone might see me sitting there with them and assume I was gay, or what if I got friendly with some guy, and he got the hots for me? What if one of them tried to follow me into the toilet? I’d seen This Life – I knew that some gays liked to do it in toilets (“cottaging”). So I just stayed where I was, and listened to the chat, as it ebbed away.

TWO
Trish and I often went out for a drink to the student union. She could be a really vivacious person and had a lot of acquaintances, whereas I really only knew the people in my hall and some of my classmates. It was so funny, we’d sit one of the tables opposite the bar and Trish would wave over people she recognised, as though she were the Queen or something! But somehow she never seemed to be with another girl, a lesbian girl I mean. She got on alright with Sharon and Tracy and the others at the LGBT, but somehow they never seemed to work out for her. I think she had a few one-night stands, but nothing serious ever came of them. It was a shame really, because she deserved to have someone love her. Sometimes when we were along she would be downcast and deeply blue, which made me really see the real Trish, but when we went out she normally brightened up and could make other people laugh easily. She had this infectious laugh and could be so sparky, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

But one afternoon I heard an urgent knock on the door. I opened it and was surprised to see Trish there; it was usually me who called for her, as I lived in the floor above.

“Paul! I just had to come and tell you!” she said, pale face all flushed and smiling.

“What what what?” I asked.

“I’ve met this really nice girl! We met at the union last night, she’s a fresher as well.” She came in and took a chair.

“In this halls? Does she go to the LGBT?” I asked, switching on the kettle.

“No, she’s in Pollock halls. She hasn’t been to the LGBT, but Sharon’s in her flat and encouraged her to come along. She’s just a bit nervous, that’s all.”

“Oh wow!” I said. “That sounds excellent. So tell me about her – what does she look like, what’s she studying?”

“She’s called Helen and she’s studying psychology and philosophy, and she’s about my height and build, though she’s got dark hair and eyes, and she dresses really well – she’s totally got her own style, second-hand clothes and stuff - and she’s really alternative, into all these weird things, half of them I hadn’t even heard of! You know, like Goethe and Sartre and RPG kind of stuff.”

“Whoa, she sounds… different,” I said. “Right up your street!”

“Yeah, she does, doesn’t she?” Trish beamed. “I was so amazed. I never thought I’d meet anyone like me.” The kettle boiled and clicked off. I made two cups of milky coffee, and handed one to Trish.

“So what you going to do? Did you make a date with her?” I teased.

“We’re going to go to the cinema this evening, there’s an Ingmar Bergman season on just now.”

“Excellent,” I said. It was so typical of Trish to go and see something like that, something so intellectual and cool. “And then…?”

Trish giggled charmingly. “And then whatever happens, happens. As you should well know!”

I did know. I’d managed to have a few encounters during Fresher’s Week, but they were nothing serious. I was still looking for the right girl, just as Trish had been. It had been one of the things we had bonded over, as neither of us ever seemed to have any luck! I felt glad for her. But a mild pall of anxiety still washed over me – what would I do, if she had a girlfriend? Who would I call for in the morning and spend time with in the evenings? I tried to put that out of my mind and concentrate on Trish’s happiness.

“Yeah, I know,” I smiled. “It all sounds good, though. I hope it works out for both of you.”

“I damn well hope so!” Trish said. “It’s about bloody time I had a girlfriend!”

It was about a week before I met Helen. I got reports back of their progress together, and it all seemed to be going swimmingly. Trish certainly seemed a lot brighter; she would generally be up and about when I called on her in the morning, rather than depressed and lethargic in her room. She arranged that we meet in her room on Friday evening, and watch all alternative comedy stuff we liked.
I called round about 8pm as usual. Trish let me in, and there indeed was Helen sitting on the upper half of the bed, looking a little shy. (I guessed she knew that Trish and I were such good friends and was worried in case I didn’t like her.) But to my surprise, there was a guy there too, sitting on the one chair. He was tall, evidently a few years older, looking like a final-year or even post-grad student – he had a longish beard, glasses, and long hair too. Not in a heavy metal style, but in a geeky bookish way.

“Hi Paul,” Trish said, ushering me in – I didn’t where I’d sit. She sat on the lower half of the bed, leaning against the breeze-block wall. “This is Helen, you know, she’s in Pollock hall, and her friend Philip.”

“Hey guys,” I said. “How’s it going?” I sat awkwardly on the bottom corner of the bed.

“Not too bad, actually,” Philip replied. “Helen was telling me that someone else was into Iain M. Banks.” Trish was quite a fan. “You into him much?”

“Er, not really, sorry,” I said.

“Oh well,” Philip said to Helen, who gave a wan smile back. “I hoped we might have another few recruits for the RPG club. I’m the president, actually, we’re always looking for new people.”
We sat and watched Red Dwarf together, Philip offering the odd comment (mostly about the physics of it – apparently Star Trek was much more realistic in its futuristic technologies), Helen staying practically silent, Trish talking a little to Helen, and me talking to Trish. It was all rather strange, as though Helen and Trish barely knew each other. I couldn’t work out why Philip was there, either. After the show was done, Philip stood up.

“Well. I guess I’d better be going. Er, do you want a lift back to your halls?” he asked Helen. Pollock Halls was on the other side of campus, close by the gates, whereas ours was right inside.

“Um…” Helen thought. “I’ll just stay here and watch The Fast Show. Is that alright?” she turned to ask Trish.

Trish shrugged casual assent. “Yeah, no problem.”

“Alright then,” Philip said. “It was nice meeting you both.”

“Bye,” we all said.

“Bye,” he said, as he left and closed the door.

Immediately Trish turned to Helen and gave a great big smile. Helen in turn gave a sigh of relief. “I thought he’d never go!” she laughed.

“Ah well, he is now!” Trish said. She moved her way up the bed, nudging Helen who moved so they could lie together and cuddle. I gladly moved over onto the chair. “Philip doesn’t know yet, you see, Paul.”

A light went on. “Oh I see…” I nodded wisely.

“We’ve been good friends, you know, with the RPG stuff,” Helen said. “But I haven’t told everyone there yet, so he doesn’t know.”
“It’s funny and it’s fun,” Trish added. “It’s nice having this naughty little secret! So don’t go telling everyone, please, Paul!”

“Of course I won’t tell anyone!” I said, shocked at the imputation. “Safe with me.”

“Good,” Helen said.

THREE
Time went on. The General Election was closing in, and I was delighted to see Labour’s massive lead being maintained, despite all the wise heads who said that it was bound to get closer. I read The Independent every weekday; I thought it wisest to try to get as unbiased a report about the election as possible, but I also read the Sunday Times. Harriet organised all the Labour students to go about the town, putting up signs for David Jenkins – well, most of the students; there were always a few shirkers – on the streetlights and lamp-posts, and stickers and posters anywhere we saw a flat surface. It was great fun, all in a good cause. Trish didn’t have so much time to do this now that she was spending a lot of time with Helen, so it was good that it was gave me something to do. They didn’t go to the LGBT but spent a lot of time seeing each other, in each other’s rooms, going for coffee and so on. Helen wasn’t much of a drinker so the drunken nights Trish and I had spent in the student union became part of a fondly remembered past.
We usually met up to do things on the weekend. Helen and Philip were also friends with another fresher called Scott, so the five of us would go shopping, or go the arts centre to watch an arty film or play. Scott was studying Information Management Studies (“Librarianship”, he said self-deprecatingly), but he was a big fiction reader so he and I got on fairly well. He was also an avid RPGer, which is how he had met Helen and Philip. (I was still never tempted to take part, however: it seemed ludicrous to dress up and pretend to be an Elf, or something you blatantly weren’t.) Scott was a little tubby, with thick glasses; he usually wore a brown leather jacket, blue jeans and white trainers. He was painfully polite. He obviously didn’t “know”.

One night soon after, I called round for Trish. Helen and Scott were there too: Helen on the bed with Trish (though they weren’t cuddling up, they were sat at either end) with Scott on the one chair. He chivalrously offered it up to me, but I declined and sat at the corner of the bed, right by the desk. We watched a video – Trish had taped Maurice off the TV. I had never seen it before, but it turned out to be some gay film, with Hugh bloody Grant, of all people. I wondered if it was some kind of joke on Scott, but he seemed happy enough to sit and watch it.

When the film ended, Scott stretched and yawned. “My, that was… some film.”

“Like it much?” Trish asked.

“Hmm” he mused, “I’m not sure about like. I can appreciate it, the acting was good and it looked wonderful. I can be objective about it. But it doesn’t appeal to me, actually.”

“Did you like it, Helen?” I asked straight-faced.

She shrugged. “It was okay. Not the best film in the world. But it’s interesting to know about how people like that lived. It must have been terrible to be gay back then.”

“True,” Scott agreed. “No, it must have been dreadful. Thankfully things are a bit more civilised these days.”

“Totally,” I said. “But there’s still not full equality, is there. Bloody Tories and Clause 28!” Which lead off on a talk on how bad the Tories were, which everyone agreed on, even Scott. (He was a liberal Tory, but said Major had been a dreadful PM; he was going to vote Lib Dem. His home was near Bath).

Scott stood up. “Are you coming, Helen?” he asked. “I’m going to go back now.”

“I’ll go back later,” Helen said. “The Late Show is on now.”

“Are you sure?” Scott asked. “It’s really dark now. I’d ah… I’d feel better if I could walk you home.”

“I’m sure I’ll be alright,” Helen answered drily.

“Well… if you’re sure,” Scott said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Paul can walk her back if she needs someone,” Trish joked.

Scott looked nervous at that prospect, but simply offered his farewells and departed. “Okay, then, everyone, bye.”

Helen moved up the bed to join Trish, and they cuddled. “You’d better change over to BBC2 if you’re wanting to watch The Late Show,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

Helen burst out laughing. “I was only kidding! I don’t even know if it’s on today.”

I blushed red. “Ah. Of course.”

“Poor Scott really wanted to walk you home, didn’t he?” grinned Trish.

“Oh god!” Helen groaned. “He’s always wanting to walk me home, or to make sure I’m alright. He comes round for me every day! It’s like he has no life, apart form me.” We all laughed at poor simple Scott.

“Why don’t you tell him to leave you alone, then?” I asked.

“I feel sorry him, really,” Helen said. “I feel like he’s only got me and this whole RPG thing. Oh, that and his books and writing too, I suppose.”

“Oh, he writes as well?” Trish asked.

“Oh, and how!” Helen said. “He’s writing some kind of space opera, a whole group of novels going across stars and galaxies and everything. He’s writing the third one now, I think.”

“Wow, that’s some going,” I said.

“He won’t ever show it to anyone though,” she chuckled. “He writes and writes but never shows anyone.”

“You should try to persuade him,” Trish said. “It might be good, if he spends that long doing it. Plus it’d keep him out of your hair.”

“Mmm,” Helen mused. “But if it wasn’t any good, he’d feel crushed. I don’t think he could take the rejection. He’s very sensitive really.”

Sometimes I’d call round for Trish, especially in the mornings, and she’d tell me how it was all going with Helen. I was always keen to hear about it; I rather prided myself on being a good listener. (There wasn’t much going on with me, anyways).

“Hey, how you doing?” I asked one morning. She was sitting in bed and watching This Morning, drinking from a pot of tea. She was wearing old-school striped pyjamas which looked very cute on her.

“Mmm, alright,” she said dozily. I took a chair. “What you got today?”
“Lecture at one, then a seminar at four. I should go to the library today as well, I’ve got an essay for next week. What you got?”

“I’ve only got one lecture, but I’m not going to go,” she said. “I’m meeting up with Helen at one. We’re going shopping in town, she wants to go to Virgin Megastore.”

“Oh okay,” I said. I’d hoped that Trish would come to Tesco with me. “Things still going well there, then?”

“Yeah,” she said, supping her tea. “The only problem is that Philip and Scott are always hanging around. I don’t know what she sees in them. They’re always there.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah, I mean, half the time when I go round to her flat, Scott’s there,” she said. “Or if they go to the RPG nights out and stuff, Scott always insists on walking her back to the halls at the end of the night.”

“He’s very, um… chivalrous,” I said.

“Chivalrous? He’s completely obsessed with her. Head over heels.”

“You think?” I asked.

“Oh, completely,” Trish said. “That’s why he’s always wanting to check she’s okay and always calling round for her. He’s determined he’s going to win her over; at least, that’s what Helen says.”

“Not much chance, though, eh?” I grinned. Trish smirked. “What about Philip?” I asked.

“He’s the same,” she said. “But he’s got a car and stuff, so… if she’s wanting to go shopping, he’ll offer her a lift, so she can come back instead of having to take the bus. Stuff like that.”

“Wow, she’s totally got her own little fanclub,” I said.

“Yeah,” Trish smiled. “But they do kind of get in the way.”

“Well, maybe one day they’ll get the hint,” I said. “I really do think that Helen should at least tell them, then they might understand.”

Trish looked sceptical. “Nah, she doesn’t want to tell them,” she said. “She’s not wanting everyone to know yet. I’m the first girlfriend she’s ever had, the first girl she’s even been with. It’s not easy coming to terms with it all, you know.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “Can’t be easy. So you, uh, been together much?”

“You mean have we had much sex?” Trish retorted. “Not enough, dear. She’s still new to it all…” she trailed off. “I think she’ll be fine though.”

“I still don’t, um, really know what you, ah, do in bed…” I mumbled.

“Fingers and tongues, Paul. Calm your imagination.”

“Ah, right,” I said. “Okay.”

Afterwards, though, we all spent a lot of time together, Helen, Trish, Philip, myself and Scott. We visited Glasgow and Edinburgh at the weekends, we went to the zoo, we went food-shopping together (Philip’s car proving most useful), we went to the student union (always the bar, never the disco, as Philip and Helen outright refused, although Trish and I both liked to bop about). We even went for a picnic one time. And while I didn’t really have anything in common with Philip or Scott, or Helen even, it was nice to be part of a group doing things together.

It was even sort of comical – everyone knew that poor Scott was in love with Trish, but he hid it well and never made any amorous signals. And I was happy seeing Trish being happy; that was contentment enough for me.

FOUR
As it was coming to the end of the semester, the question of accommodation for next year was rearing its ugly head. Trish and I decided to put in together for campus accommodation, but we were turned down, as the university gave preference to first- and final-year students. So we had to venture out into the big bad world to find somewhere to live. Helen had decided to share a flat with Scott, so she had that sorted, but I didn’t have a clue where Trish and I would live. Everything seemed so insanely expensive, and I didn’t look forward to paying electricity, gas and TV licence bills, which weren’t a problem in halls.

Trish and I looked around the various flats offered in the local newspaper. As she was a late riser I usually bought the paper, looked over the promising ads, and then called round for her to show her what looked likely. Then we had to queue for a payphone – it was all a big nuisance. We were both planning to stay in our respective parental homes during the summer, too, so it was even harder to find a flat because most landlords were looking for someone to move in in June, when their old tenants would leave. So we looked at many tatty and unusual flats. One advert offered cheap rent, but said “Must like cats”. Several we looked at said “Ideal for students”, but this meant it was just a one-bedroom flat with the lounge converted to another bedroom. Cheap, yeah; ideal, no.
Time was pressing on, and I was getting increasingly anxious about finding a place. I would get the paper and call up any likely ads myself, to save time. Then one day I arranged to view a citycentre flat which ticked all the boxes – two bedrooms, a lounge, cheap-ish – that afternoon, at 4pm. I went round for Trish, but she wasn’t in. I saw her neighbours in the kitchen and asked where she was. “She’s gone to the zoo with Helen,” I was told.

There wasn’t anything I could do, so I sat and waited in my room. And I waited. I knocked on Trish’s door numerous times; I walked over to Pollock and tried Helen’s door too, but no joy. I didn’t want to view that flat myself – if I accepted it on our behalves it’d probably turn out to be wrong. I didn’t know what to ask for – Trish normally did most of the talking and questioning for us.

The time for an appointment came and went. I tried phoning the landlord, but got no answer. Eventually I got him, but he told me, “Sorry mate. Gone already. You just missed it.” Trish eventually came knocking on my door, unusually, at 9ish.

“You been looking for me?” she asked.

I could hardly believe her. “Um, yeah..!” I said. “I’d a flat arranged to view today.”

“What was it like?”

“I didn’t go” I said. “I didn’t want to go without you, we’re supposed to decide together, you know.”

“You should have gone yourself, you daft twat!” she laughed. “You don’t need me with you all the time.”

“Yeah, but…We’re supposed to be looking together,” I emphasised. “It’s not something we should decide on our own. And, you know, I’m trying to do all the work on it.”

“Oh, that’s it?” she said. “I’m sorry then, I was just spending time with my girlfriend.”

I bit my tongue. There wasn’t any point in arguing. Otherwise it’d get our living together off to a terrible start.

Next Saturday all five of us arranged to go out. There was a ceilidh on the sports union which sounded a lot of fun. Although Trish, Helen and I were Scottish, Philip and Scott were English and had never been to a proper ceilidh before. They seemed game enough for it, though.

We arrived at 8pm and took our table. We were sitting having a few drinks as it filled up – it seemed the dance itself didn’t start until about 9pm. I was having a pint of lager, and talking about Star Wars with Scott – it was about the only thing we had in common, as I wasn’t into sci-fi and he wasn’t much into music. I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t see how good Oasis was – surely the best rock band ever. “They’re just rip-offs,” he said. Helen was drinking a vodka and lemonade and talking about The Full Monty with Trish and Philip, both drinking Coke. She loved the film and had seen it twice at the cinema; Trish loathed it, and Philip was gawking.

The conversation palled somewhat, as the hall filled up. Somehow the atmosphere in our table became fraught. I tried looking at Trish and smiling, but she was trying to engage Helen’s eye, and somehow failing. All talk ebbed away. Scott and I tried our best to be polite and keep the conversation going, at least between ourselves if no-one else, but any attempts we made to engage Trish or Helen met a grudging smile or shrug – nothing more. Even Philip, normally a fountain of talk seemed to notice it, and he fell quiet. I kept looking at Helen to see what was up, but she wasn’t taking me on at all.
At last Helen stood up. “I’ve forgotten my purse. Sorry, I’d better go back and get it.”

Trish started to get up. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, no, it’s alright!” Helen said, gesturing. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, alright,” Trish said, deflating. “Don’t be long!” she smiled.
Philip stood up then. “Want me to come along?” he asked, awkwardly.

Helen sighed. “Oh, alright then.” She looked hassled, like a mother having to take care of recalcitrant children, as the two of them walked off.

I looked at Trish. “What?!” she shouted.

I held up my hands in a peace-making gesture. “Nothing...” She turned away to look at the stage, where musicians were setting up their gear. “You alright?” I asked, concerned.

“Will you please stop enquiring after my well-being every bloody moment?” she snarled. “I’m not your dog!”

I was dumbstruck. I had no idea where all this had come from. I supped my beer and, my face red, my insides scalded, gazed awkwardly around the room. Scott said, “I’m, eh, going to the bar, do you two want anything?”

“Yeah, a vodka and lemonade,” Trish said.

“Pint of Tennants for me,” I said, wiggling my empty glass. I’d bought the first round and had been waiting for someone else to get them in.
Scott strolled off to the bar, adjusting his floppy hair. I thought I’d be able to find out what was upsetting Trish, now we had some privacy, but she stood up.

“I’m going to go and get Helen,” she said.

“Oh, she said she wouldn’t be long.”

“I know that,” she enunciated. “But she’ll want rescuing from Philip. You know how she can’t stand him hanging around her all the time.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Well… don’t be too long. Scott and I can’t dance with each other!”

“No, won’t be long,” she said, picking up her bag.

I sat for a few minutes feeling like Billy No-Mates at the otherwise empty table. Newcomers walked past, aggressively giving me the eye and wanting me to leave, but saw that I wasn’t the only one sitting there. Scott’s wax jacket was still on the back of his seat, fortunately.

He came back with the three drinks. “Where did Trish go? Toilet?”
“No, she went off to fetch Helen and Philip,” I said. “It’s not far to Pollock though, is it. They won’t be long.”

Scott and I sat awkwardly in each other’s company, and talked. We talked about Red Dwarf and The Times and Whose Line Is It Anyway? and Withnail and I and The Holy Grail and Star Wars and The Rolling Stones and Oasis and Marillion and Peter Gabriel. Not once did we mention Helen or Trish or Philip, although we looked expectantly over each other’s shoulder at every entrance or passer-by. At 9pm, when the band went on stage, we had been sitting there for over three-quarters of an hour. There was no sign of the other three.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Yes, okay,” Scott said, rising.

We walked back, continuing to chat. Both of us absolutely refused to mention our abject humiliation.

FIVE
May 1st drew ever closer. The excitement was palpable. Harriet was obsessed with getting as much banners and signs up as possible, in the town as well as on campus, so I spent ages with posters, sellotape, tacks and glue. I put them up on all the departmental noticeboards, in the doorways and stairwells of all the Halls, throughout the Union, in the refectory and cafeteria, on lamp-posts and bollards, and on just about any flat surface I could find. There was plenty of competing Tory ones, and some SWP ones saying “Don’t; Trust Blair!” so we had to compete to get the message out. Helen managed to wangle her way onto the committee organising a fundraising disco on April 30th; she was in charge of getting as many first years there as possible, so she handed me a big pile of leaflets and I went round Logie Hall shoving flyers in every doorframe.

I cast my vote early, but the night itself was magnificent. I’d suggested to Trish that we stay up all night watching the results coming in, but she had a tradition of just watching it herself, which was fair enough, so I just stayed in my room watching it. The whole paraphernalia of the election – David Dimbleby like a benevolent paternalistic headmaster, Peter Snow wiry and excitable like a wizened nerd showing off new toys, the reporters at the counts taking place in high school gyms and town halls the country over, the wise heads like Bob Worcester and Shirley Williams passing comment – was exciting. Even better was the Swingometer, Peter Snow’s graphic representations of the utter demolition of the Tories: blue section after blue section crumbling; a virtual House of Commons overflowing, stuffed with the righteous victorious Labour MPs.
From the off the results were coming in the right way. Sleazy Tory MP and Tory MP fell. Cabinet Minister after Cabinet Minster was thrown out. And not only Labour winning in a big way, but wherever they couldn’t offer a good challenge, the Lib Dems were showing very strongly. It was euphoric, electric! Seeing that sleazy fat toad David Mellor, he of the Chelsea football strip, getting a ferocious chant of “OUT! OUT! OUT!” was wonderful, while the amazing delight of seeing that fascist Michael Portillo being lobbed out by (openly gay) Stephen Twigg was unforgettable. Malcolm Rifkind, Ian Lang, Edwina Currie, Norman Lamont, , the vile Neil Hamilton, Michael Forsyth – as every one of those plummy-voiced gits fell upon their sword, jubilation and eager exultation roared through the counting halls, into the BBC microphones and out of the TVs and radios across the nation. Everything felt like it was going right, at long last. The whole country seemed to be going together, as one, in the right direction. That spirit, that unity… it was wonderful. The euphoria from the Labour party celebrations, and everyone (even Prescott, Mandelson and Kinnock) dancing along to “Things Can Only Get Better” was ecstatic, and utterly inspiring! Labour would save the NHS, they’d prevent any fees for universities, they’d do devolution, and they weren’t war-mongering bloodthirsty bastards like the Tories. Peter Snow’s swingometer went round ever further, his animation rising in proportion to the national swing (a record), while Dimbley tried to stay cool and unflappable chairing the discussions. But obviously this was a night of historic proportions, where Britain would at last be freed to fulfil its talent and potential.

I stayed up until about 6am, late enough to see Tony Blair greet the cheering, thronging masses, saying, “A new dawn has broken, has it not?” I went to sleep exhausted but delighted. The world had turned over a new leaf and become a better place. I just knew it.

I called for Trish in the afternoon. I skipped the lecture (like everyone else would, I thought) and went round to her room about 2pm.When I knocked on the door, she called “Who is it..?” in a watery, quivery voice I’d never her use before.

“Paul..!”

I could hear her sigh from the other side of the door. “Oh, come in, then.”

I went in. She was still in bed, curtains closed, Quincy on TV. Used hankies were all over the floor. Her eyelashes were luscious with tears.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” I said, kneeling down by the bed and softening my voice in sympathy.

She blew her nose. “Helen... We’ve split up.”

“Oh!” I emoted. “What happened?”

“She’s been fucking Philip, that’s what’s been happening!”

“Oh Jesus!” I said. “How did you find out?”

“She told me. She said she didn’t want to feel like she was living a lie any more…” and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
I sat on the bed next to her. What a ridiculous mess! And how could Helen and Philip have done that? We’d spent so much time together – Helen even often indicating that she was tired of Philip’s attentions. What a deceitful cow! I put an arm on Trish’s shoulder, and she buried her head in my chest. “There,” I said, patting her back. “You don’t need someone like that! She’s not worth it. She obviously doesn’t know what she wants, she’s just a silly little girl!” Trish kept on sobbing, her head slipping downwards towards my crotch, as I tried to comfort her. She wailed that no-one ever loved her, that every girl she found left her, that she was useless and horrible and ugly. I protested, saying that I loved her, anyway, and would always be her friend, which seemed to make her feel a little better.

But then a reptilian suggestion warmed my viscera and animated my groin. Trish looked so oddly vulnerable in her pyjamas, the top buttons undone. I stroked her hair, then her cheek.

She sat up, and spooled off a wad of toilet roll, clearing her eyes then snuffling her nose. “Don’t,” she said. I still had my arm around her.

“Oh, why not?” I said. “We’re practically going out as it is…” I moved my hand lower, towards her breasts. “It’d just be like… I just want to comfort you, that’s all.”

Trish looked away, into space. Then she grimaced and said, “Nice time to make a move.” She pulled away from me.

Oh fuck. I could see my life crumbling in front me. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I said. “Let’s just forget it, I was just a bit emotional and feeling sorry for you.”

“Feeling sorry for me?” she said. “You’ve some bloody cheek, you have. Following me around all the time then you pull a move like that!”

“Follow you around?!” I said. She made it sound like I was some kind of puppy. “I thought we were bloody friends!”

“I thought so as well,” she said. “But you obviously had other ideas!”
“Aw, Trish, for christ’s sake, I didn’t mean anything by it…”

She stared straight ahead at the TV.

“Aw for fuck’s sake Trish, c’mon! Let’s not throw away everything because of one mistake!”

The TV remained her sole interest. I had already been cast out. “FINE!” I shouted, storming out and slamming the door.

I stumbled my way up to my room, blinking back tears. I couldn’t believe it. After everything I had done for her, after all the time I had spent trying to help her, after practically subjugating myself for her… it was always what she wanted, what she wanted to do, how she felt. She’d now thrown me aside. I’d just been another floating voter.