Perfect Timing Page 2

  “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone who isn’t a complete knob. One day. And you’ll make them very happy.”

  She assesses how best to tackle her lunch, measuring it from every conceivable angle, trial and error. Then in a breathtaking act of physicality I didn’t think possible, her jaw widens and the sandwich goes in.

  “I’m not the only one,” I add.

  Through a mouthful of half-masticated food, Julia tells me that who knows, I might meet someone at our next gig.

  “An ‘industry boyfriend’?” I reply with dripping disdain.

  “They won’t all be like Olly.”

  The mere mention of his name sends a shudder down my spine. Olly, the boyfriend who genuinely had me believing in the existence of “good men.” Until the texts and the lies and the ex, who he just couldn’t live without, but didn’t have the balls to tell me about until he was sure she’d take him back.

  I shake his existence away.

  “Nope. None of that, thank you,” I tell her, while pinching a crisp off her plate. “I’ve decided, after today’s disaster date, that all of my attention needs to be on the comedy if I’ve any chance of making it.”

  She senses the despondency and I know what she’s gearing up to do.

  “Jess,” she begins, leaning into it, “who’s going to be a huge success?”

  “I am.”

  “Sorry, I missed that. Who’s going to be a huge success?”

  “I am.”

  She puts down the sandwich and grabs me by the shoulder, her mouth thankfully now free of food.

  “Who. Is. Going. To. Be. A. Huge. Success?”

  “I am!”

  “One more time for the people in the cheap seats!”

  “I AM!” I scream it with all my heart.

  Our neighbors must love us.

  3

  Clean Teeth

  Tom

  Cliftonhall Yards, Edinburgh

  July 17, 2015

  “How’s Sarah?” asks Scott as I arrive at our rehearsal space.

  I’ve never got used to lying to my best friend. Keeping my fibs short and boring seems to do the trick to prevent any follow-up, but the act of deception itself stays with me long after the interaction has ended. I often think if I just fess up to the fact that I go to visit my grandad’s grave once a month, the secondary lie about a whole made-up person might not be so hard to reveal. On many levels I’ve convinced myself I’m failing a test of my masculinity with both of these acts. I think it’s going to be a long, long time before either is revealed.

  “Sarah,” I parrot. “Yeah, she’s good.”

  I’ve learned that keeping it vague is the best way to avoid tripping yourself up later. It also seems to be, or so I’ve gathered from my twenty-five years of observation, how other men effectively communicate about their significant others.

  Scott reveals, “Y’know we’ve been talking with a couple of people in Sheffield about a gig.”

  I swallow hard and grin to mask my fear.

  “That would be great!” I exclaim, possibly too ecstatically. I yawn, a real yawn, and Brandon yells out from behind his drum kit, “Tired from a weekend of rutting, are ya, Ken?”

  Calling me Ken, despite my name being Tom, stems from me being a big, soft southerner. I was in fact born in Scotland, in the house my parents live in now. But we moved south from the age of five to thirteen. Two awful ages to uproot your only child and change countries. When I first moved to Edinburgh, I thought everyone was calling me Ken because they’d finish every other sentence with “d’yae ken,” a phrase I would later learn could be best translated as “Do you understand?” I didn’t, of course.

  Secondary school was tough for this, until I met Scott. He was the first to take pity on me and help me get reacquainted with the Scottish tongue. We became friends when I walked into school wearing a Blur: Are Shite T-shirt I’d recently acquired from a Mogwai concert. Being a Mogwai superfan was the initial spark for our friendship, but when he also found out I could play anything from drums to keyboard he quickly recruited me into his band. And now as we all enter our mid-twenties, we’re pretty confident the time is right for our fortune and glory to be presented to us by the music industry.

  I genuinely feel like I could tell Scott anything, including the fact that I’ve been lying to him for the past twelve months. It’s the others in the band I worry about, Colin (bass), Brandon (drums), and Christian (vocals). As the band sets up, with Colin retuning, I look around to see Christian hasn’t arrived yet.

  Like a telepath Brandon says, “Prince Charmless ain’t here yet.”

  My fellow bandmates are all good people, but for some reason, known only to men who have been friends since their teens, we communicate almost exclusively in insults and put-downs. Prince Charmless was a name given to our lead singer behind his back about five years ago, and it just stuck.

  As the de facto leader of the band, I should have put a stop to it. But I’m sure they call me worse when I’m not around. It’s one of those “things men do,” which I’m pretty sure we all secretly wish we didn’t. Just as I’m about to get antsy with his tardiness—to exhibit a little leadership and professionalism—Christian saunters in fifteen minutes late for practice.

  God, he’s gorgeous, I think as he walks through the door. I say this in a completely heterosexual way. He has the flowing locks of Jennifer Aniston circa 2000 and the jawline of her former husband Mr. Pitt. Whereas I, at best, look like the guy that would play Brad’s best friend in a shit romantic comedy.

  I’m a biggish guy and that biggishness has nothing to do with protein shakes or lifting weights. My excess baggage is down to a love of battered sausage and real ale, and an evolutionary aversion to treadmills. I try to wear it well. Expensive haircut and beard neatly shorn. But I know I’m no one’s idea of a perfect specimen. It’s reason number one—on a list of a few hundred—why, until we’re successful, I’ll never be the guy to go up to a woman like the one in that café and say the three little words: “Fancy a drink?”

  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” Christian announces with perfect diction. Whatever the equivalent of the Queen’s English is in Scottish, Christian speaks it.

  “I thought practice starts at four,” Colin says, as if Christian hadn’t just apologized.

  Scott and I, always the Switzerland, step in and play mediators.

  “It’s OK,” I say.

  “Let’s just get cracking, shall we?” Scott adds.

  Christian takes his long black coat off and tosses it onto the beat-up orange sofa that sits at a right angle to our stage setup. At the front is his mic, to his left my keyboard; Scott is level with me and Colin, with Brandon at the back. It’s a big old room and the acoustics in it are gorgeous. It’s a little way out of the city and we’re all often late for one reason or another. Today, though, Christian’s lack of punctuality is enough to kick-start hostilities. Hostilities that have way more to do with hidden jealousy concerning his looks (and popularity) than poor timekeeping.

  “We’ve got a couple of gigs coming up,” Colin nags again. “Make sure you’re not late for them.”

  Scott and I share a look, as if to ask each other, What do we do? Sometimes band dynamics need to hit a crescendo, but these little jibes could bubble for days. Something bigger is brewing.

  “I don’t think I’m the first to be late to rehearsal,” Christian counters. “And I have apologized.”

  There’s tension in the air as Christian steps up to the mic. Colin petulantly flips him a V-sign. Scott and I ignore it, as though he’s a child acting out.

  “Right. Number four,” Scott announces before counting us in.

  After less than a minute of play, you can tell we’re all off today. Brandon’s too quick. Christian’s mumbling the lyrics and the rest of us are finding little synergy. I let
it play out for a couple of songs but it starts to get painful to listen to. After a few more stops and starts from the beginning, I hammer my fist down on the low notes and everyone looks at me like I’ve let off a stink bomb.

  “Time out,” I announce.

  There’re a few shakes of the head and grumbles (and I’m pretty sure I hear Brandon mutter something about that being my catchphrase), but they all set down their tools and file over to the corner of the room where a small table and four chairs are set up for this very eventuality.

  They all sit, and I stand.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  I’m met with a collective shrug and a few kicked heels. It’s like they’re all ten years younger and the headmaster has caught them smoking behind the bike shed.

  “Come on, guys.”

  “You were off too,” Brandon argues. “What’s your excuse?”

  The way that everyone is looking at me makes me think this is a Them vs. Me thing. I look to Scott for support, but he’s still pretty baffled.

  “I’m not having a go,” I say to try to temper the situation. “It’s just something clearly isn’t working. I want to know what it is so we can fix it and move on.”

  Christian looks at Brandon conspiratorially. Brandon nods and Christian stands.

  “I’m still not entirely happy about the decision not to audition for the Fringe Showcase.”

  My blood boils at the fact that this argument has risen again. Only a week after I was sure we’d decapitated it with a clear vote against this being our way into the Edinburgh Festival.

  “We’ve done this. The decision was made. This band isn’t going on a sodding talent show.”

  “As two fifths of the band, don’t we get a say?” argues Brandon.

  Colin is the next to speak, with a pretty lazy put-down that Christian and Brandon should “get a room.” It’s a comment that riles Scott, and before long the five of us are making more noise with our mouths than we had minutes earlier with amps and an undampened drum kit.

  “LOOK!” I yell above the din. Silence descends. “We had this vote. I get it. Two of you want the exposure. Three of us don’t. That’s it. All right?” If I thought the look Brandon gave Christian was conspiratorial, the one they share with Scott is like something from the Illuminati playbook.

  “Scott?” I ask with the quiver of a man who knows he’s about to be stabbed in the back by his best friend.

  Scott asks the others to give us a minute and they step outside for a smoke. Once they’re gone, we trade the arguments and counter-arguments we had before. This time the counter-arguments are all mine, whereas before he’d played a pretty neutral position until it came to the crunch and he decided to side with me and Colin.

  “I just can’t believe you want to sell out.”

  “It’s not bloody X Factor, mate. It could be good for us.”

  “It’s a popularity contest, Scott!”

  “And?! It’s a local contest. In our city. We are actually quite popular around here.”

  “Christian is popular. I don’t know what we are.” My words cause Scott to drop his head and I try to come up with something that might pick him up, yet also get him back onside. “Just believe in the band. It’s a waiting game sometimes. The timing is off at the moment…”

  He sighs heavily and looks me square in the eye.

  “Mate, you just came up with three different ways of saying let’s do nothing. I’m saying let’s do something.” After a decade of friendship, I know when Scott has made up his mind about something. And on this, he’s sure.

  “I don’t want to side against you, Tom.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and searches for a sign that this isn’t going to be something we won’t recover from. “It’ll be OK.” His tone of voice is comforting enough, but my stomach still lurches at the prospect. I offer a petulant see-if-I-care shrug.

  As a little olive branch, I joke, “I just can’t believe we gave everyone equal voting rights.”

  Scott smiles at me as we make our way back over to the rug to find the others fiddling with their equipment.

  “OK,” Scott proclaims. “I propose a new vote on whether we play the Fringe Showcase.” I feel nauseous as soon as the vote is made final and very much not in my favor. As if to add another coat of shite to proceedings, the door to the warehouse opens and in walks Christian’s newest girlfriend, Gretel.

  “I thought this was a no-partners zone,” Brandon says grouchily. Gretel waves hello to us all, and the nausea I felt at the band’s decision moments earlier gets turned up to eleven by her presence. I know it has nothing to do with her personally. She’s actually really quite lovely. Smart and funny. She brushes past me and the smell of her perfume causes my breathing to suddenly become shallow.

  “Sorry for crashing rehearsal,” Gretel says, before pulling a set of keys out of her leather jacket pocket. “You might need these if you’re to get home tonight.”

  We all back off as she hands the keys to Christian. They embrace and he kisses her on the lips. I realize I’m staring directly at them both as they make out, while everyone else is being normal and looking away. As they separate, Gretel looks right at me. She smiles uncomfortably and says her goodbyes.

  But it’s too late. Something has been tripped inside me. I shuffle nervously and tell myself to count my breathing in and out. Dry my hands. Get rid of the signs and the symptoms might follow suit. I scrunch my feet up in my shoes as my heart beats like a bass drum in my chest. I know this action doesn’t help, but muscle memory causes me to try regardless. Scott sees me shuffling from foot to foot and asks if I’m OK. If he hadn’t asked, I might have got through this.

  “Just need a little fresh air, that’s all.”

  I mercifully make it outside and round the corner of the building. I find a quiet spot to get the weight off my feet. I wait for the dizziness to subside. Is this all because of the presence of Christian’s girlfriend? Or is it the talent show decision going against me? The frightened part of me easily convinces myself it’s the former. The part that says I’m not good enough for anyone else.

  * * *

  —

  My first-ever panic attack was in the dental hygiene aisle of the Broughton Road Tesco. And that had nothing to do with the opposite sex. I was nineteen. I’d just come back from a heavy week of truth, beauty, and freedom at the Glastonbury music festival when the toothpaste attacked.

  I was actually seeing someone at the time. My second girlfriend, who, just to be clear, was an actual real person. Beth, the only substantial relationship I’ve ever had, had texted asking if we were meeting later. We were due to see each other that evening for the first time in a fortnight. I wanted to make myself as presentable as possible and thought it best to start with getting rid of the bum-mouth I’d developed over a week of dirty campsite living.

  It was the choice that undid me. There were—and I swear to everything holy I’m not exaggerating here—forty-seven different types of toothpaste in front of me that day.

  These were the options:

  Colgate—Total Original

  Colgate—Total Active Fresh

  Colgate—Total Advanced Deep Clean

  Colgate—Total Clean Breath

  Colgate—Total Whitening

  Colgate—Advanced White

  Colgate—Sensitive Sensifoam

  Colgate—Sensitive Pro-Relief

  Colgate—Cavity Protection

  Colgate—Maximum Cavity Protection

  Colgate—Max White

  Colgate—MaxFresh

  Colgate—Deep Clean Whitening

  Colgate—Triple Action

  Colgate—Max White Expert Complete

  Colgate—Charcoal + White

  And that’s just one brand. Then there’s…

 
Oral-B—Complete

  Oral-B—Pro-Expert

  Oral-B—Pro-Expert Healthy White

  Oral-B—Pro-Expert Strong Teeth

  Oral-B—Pro-Expert Sensitive and Gentle Whitening

  Oral-B 3D White—Perfection

  Oral-B 3D White—Enamel Care

  Oral-B 3D White—Whitening Sensitive

  Oral-B 3D White—Arctic Fresh

  Oral-B Gum & Enamel Repair

  Arm & Hammer Advance White Extreme

  Arm & Hammer Charcoal White

  Arm & Hammer Sensitive Pro Repair

  Sensodyne—Rapid Relief

  Sensodyne—Rapid Relief Extra Fresh

  Sensodyne—Rapid Relief Whitening

  Sensodyne—Deep Clean Gel

  Sensodyne—Repair and Protect

  Sensodyne—Repair and Protect Extra Fresh

  Sensodyne—Repair and Protect Whitening

  Sensodyne—Daily Care Original

  Sensodyne—Daily Care Extra Fresh

  Sensodyne—Daily Care Whitening

  Sensodyne Pronamel—Daily Protection

  Sensodyne Pronamel—Extra Fresh

  Sensodyne Pronamel—Gentle Whitening

  Macleans—Fresh Mint

  Macleans—Whitening

  Aquafresh—Triple Protection

  Aquafresh—Active White

  And finally, there’s number forty-seven: Tesco Essentials Toothpaste.

  I’d been living in a field with limited access to running water for the past five days. I just wanted clean teeth. If I were normal, if my brain functioned the right way, I’d have focused on one aspect, like the prices, realized I had £13.12 left in my bank account, and picked the store brand because it was only fifty pence. But I didn’t. I just stared at them, reading each one in turn, my eyes flicking between two at a time, my brain firing questions I didn’t understand, questions I didn’t have the answer to, even if I had understood them.

  The strip neon lights buzzed miles above me in this cathedral of things. My hands started to get clammy, my legs weak. And then I noticed my heart. The heart that’s always there, doing its job just fine in the background. But, my God, once you notice it…When you think about the damage your heart could do if it wanted to. And right then, as Aisle 4 and Aisle 5 seemed to close in against each other, my heart very much felt like it wanted to hurt me. It was crying to be let out. I fell and hit the highly polished linoleum of the supermarket floor, taking some store-brand mouthwash with me. I came around, a few minutes later, to a crowd of unfamiliar faces and one name badge that said Debbie—Here to Help. My shoulder and ego were both bruised but I was on my feet and out before too much damage was done. All because I couldn’t decide between MaxFresh and Gentle Whitening.