“Hi!” she says beaming happily.
“Hi” I reply.
We sit at the table.
“That one mine? URGH beer!” she cries after picking a pint glass up and taking a sip.
“No” I grumble downing my drink and taking the glass out of Ellen’s hand and begin on that.
“What’s wrong?”
I concentrate on absorbing as much of the drink in one gulp as I can, which is no mean feat when you account for the pint glass to mouth size ratio and subsequently it looks like I’ve wet myself again.
“I can tell something’s wrong.”
“Fed up of living at home.”
“Well a drinking competition isn’t going to help matters,” I point out, nodding towards his pint before attempting a small smile, “At least not if you’re the only one playing! I’ll be right back ok?” With that I give him a small kiss on the head and escape to the bar.
No matter what we’ve done this summer, no matter how many fun things we’ve thought up to de-stress, it always comes back down to this. I feel my unusually good mood take a small jolt. It’s difficult to think of something new to say. After three years of the ultimate freedom, hundreds of miles away from my parents and surrounded by friends, fun and the cheapest pubs known to man – returning to my fourteen year old routine at home is far from fun. It wasn’t great the first time round, and now I’m maintaining a long distance relationship to boot. As I put my pint down and slide onto the extremely saggy sofa next to Angus, I place my head on his shoulder. “So what’s happened this time?”
“I mean what do they think they’re doing. There I am being as unobtrusive as I can,” Ellen eyes the rather beautiful collection of empty glasses, “This is here not at home,” I declare defensively, “Anyway there I am minding my own business and then it’s a lecture. ‘Apply for jobs, London’s too expensive, get a job at home!’” I take a breather then continue, “As if I’m doing anything but apply for jobs and if London’s so expensive how come seven million people can afford to live there, that’s quite an achievement.”
“Don’t get a job at home otherwise we won’t be able to move in together,” Ellen says a worried look passing over her face as she drags her fringe out of her hazel eyes.
“I’m not. If I get a job at home I’ll never leave. I’ll join the legions of dull-eyed ambitionless graduates who take up a job for a year to find their feet, then are still there scrubbing a sticky pub floor with back ache and a baby three years later,” I finish glass number four in one fluid motion, “And I think the dog’s out to get me.”
I can’t help but burst out laughing at this last comment. This isn’t received well and I swiftly clear my throat and put on a straight face. As if the dog’s out to get him. When I’d finally gotten round to staying at his house and meeting Wacky, all I’d gotten was cold looks and a clear message of ‘keep your hands off my friend’. Bloody attention seeker.
“Back ache and a baby in three years?" I say, deciding he may not be in the mood to discuss his green-eyed dog. "Just where do you think this relationship is going? I’m not squeezing one out for a decade you freak.”
“You know what I mean…” is the miserable response. Apparently this is not the time for my hilarious comments.
“Why so much negativity? I’ve lived in London all my life – plenty of people live there on minimum wage, and we’ll be sharing all our bills too. At least you’re getting interviews, we’re doing better now than when we were looking at moving to Manchester. As far as I can see you’re doing everything you can. You apply to loads of jobs, you help around the house, and you’re generally much less argumentative than me. The other week I had a full blown screaming match with my mum over printer ink! Although I hasten to add that I was in the right.”
“You’re always in the right,” I confirm and Ellen nods with absolute self-belief, righteousness orbiting her head like a halo. “As soon as I get a job I’m going to be over the moon. I’m going jump really really high and… and…” Ellen frowns, “And shout lots of happy things,” I finish the fifth pint and try to balance it on top of the others until Ellen nods knowingly at the barmaid who removes my magnificent collection and gives me a lollypop.
“Will these happy things involve me?” Ellen asks as we make our way to the bar for the next batch of liquid gold and a mixed grill sharer.
“Yes” I announce, probably to Ellen maybe to the world, “And beer.”
“Of course,” Ellen is being quite understanding and I am feeling much better. The world has taken on an amber glow and everything feels more settled and right. The raucous local is sleeping soundly head firmly on the bar snoring like a baby, and I have an urge to give my compatriot drinker a cuddle. Ellen stops me because he’s drooling.
“The thing is. They tell you parents will be like this when you’re job hunting and you think, no, my parents will be more sympathetic, but they were right.”
“Who? Your parents or them?” Ellen asks confused.
“Them.”
“Who are them?”
“Don’t know,” I reply taking alternate sips out of two pints, “How are you finding it anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I muster, “I’m seeing you pretty much every week now you have interviews, which is better than at the beginning of summer when we didn’t know how long we might be apart. So that’s helping.”
“Another reason London was a better idea!” Angus spits out bitterly, although I suspect it’s aimed at another person who is not present.
“Yes… Well anyway. That’s good, but when you’re not there it’s pretty tense. My parents either act like dictators or children – my dad tried to assassinate me with a banana ‘gun’ on Monday! You’re dead lucky not to be an only child it’s just evil, real torture. When you’re not on Skype I’m subject to mind-numbing loneliness and bitterness towards my parents for not only denying me the right to siblings but also for being so negative about my job hunt. It’s so messed up that at sixteen we were supposed to know what we wanted to do. My A-Level choices have shaped my whole life and now I’m trying to break into one of the most competitive industries I can think of.”
Angus nods sympathetically, or so I think until I notice that he’s drunkenly agreeing with the blackboard opposite that declares pound-a-pint nights truly are the best way to start your weekend. It dawns on me that perhaps he’s past the point of such serious conversation, but before I can move on to a more light-hearted topic Ronan Keating starts blasting from his pocket.
“It’s the company that interviewed me the other day,” he says, looking at the screen of his phone with more scrutiny that is usually necessary.
“Well act sober!” I say as kindly as possible.
“Hello..?”
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