50 Reasons to Say Goodbye Read Free Page B

bottoms are hiding the split seats, but at five p.m. empty, the place looks dreadful.
    Nick tells me about his trip to New York, tells me misty eyed of twenty bars, all ten times bigger than this place, all decorated in post-industrial, minimalist chic; all of them stuffed with beautiful gym bunnies with huge white teeth.
    â€œStill something empty about the whole thing though,” he says.
    â€œEmpty?”
    â€œSomething sterile, like everyone’s smiling, looking like they’re having fun.”
    â€œSounds OK to me,” I say with a shrug.
    â€œYeah.” Nick shakes his head from side to side, thinking about it. “But somehow,” he continues, “it seems as though they’re just
looking
like they’re having fun, instead of actually
having
any fun. Does that make any sense at all?”
    I nod. “I suppose so; still got to be better than this though.” I gesture around the room.
    Only one other person is in the bar, sat at the far end of the lounge. He looks our age, twenty to twenty-five years old; he’s tall, very thin, blond. He has the most horizontal eyebrows I have ever seen – they make himlook very serious. He’s writing postcards.
    Nick sees me looking at him and glances over his shoulder. He leans in conspiratorially. The music, a dreadful instrumental version of the Carpenters’ greatest hits, is thankfully turned down low. “Do you like him?”
    I shrug. “No, not really my type.”
    Nick glances again. “Why not?”
    â€œDon’t know,” I reply. “Maybe it’s the fact that I like them short and dark, and he’s tall and blond.”
    Nick nods.
    â€œMaybe it’s because he’s filling in postcards.”
    Nick frowns.
    â€œSo he’s a tourist.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œA heartbreaker.”
    Nick smiles and nods.
    â€œOr maybe it’s just because he looks about as skinny and serious and dorky as anyone I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œOK, OK!” Nick waves at me to stop. He pulls a cigarette from his packet of Marlboro, offers me one.
    â€œOnly trying to help,” he says lighting up both of our cigarettes.
    I glance over at the guy again. He’s chewing his biro, looking into the middle distance. He smiles at me, flashing big white teeth.
    Nick looks over his shoulder again; the guy looks back at his postcard.
    â€œSo actually it’s
you
that likes him,” I tease.
    Nick shrugs. “Well yes actually,” he replies. “But I’ve got, well you know, the B problem.”
    I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out. “The B problem?” I ask.
    â€œBoyfriend.”
    I laugh. “It’s not supposed to be a problem Nick. It’s supposed to be The Solution.”
    Nick glances at the man again; he looks up from hispostcard and nods a half
hello
to him.
    Nick gets up. “Sorry, I can’t help myself,” he says to me, crossing the bar.
    I can hear their voices, Nick’s, and an American accent, but not the words. I flick through a free magazine and when I glance over Nick beckons to me.
    The man smiles broadly and shakes my hand. “Dirk,” he says. His accent is indeed American. His voice is broad and deep, rich and smooth.
    â€œNice voice,”
I think.
    He shakes my hand. His hands are huge and slim – the image of his body – and his grasp is firm. Nick chats to him maniacally, as though he’s running out of time.
    â€œOf course …”
I realise,
“He is! Darren will be here soon.”
    I watch them talk. I feel unusually calm, reflective. I am thinking about myself, here, now, and the effect of his presence on me. I am surprised at the instant attraction I feel, despite all I have said about him not being
my type
.
    It seems to be entirely because of his voice, because I like the slow deliberate way he constructs his phrases, because I like the vibrations the sound waves seem to make in my