Goodnight Steve McQueen Read Free Page A

eyes off her. She was wearing a tight track suit top with Adidas stripes, a suede miniskirt that showed off her tanned legs, and a pair of ten-hole Doctor Marten boots that looked way too big for her feet. She wore her hair short in those days, cropped like a boy’s. She looked like Mia Farrow. Only with tits.
    “Go on, mate, I reckon you’re on. She was watching you the whole time you were packing away the amps.”
    I didn’t need telling twice.
    “Can I buy you a drink?” I say, wondering if I still look sweaty from the gig.
    She stares at me for a long second, checking me out up close, making up her mind. “Yeah, go on, then,” she says. “Why not? I’ll have a pint of Caffrey’s.”
    We ended up talking for the rest of the night. Or rather she talked and I listened. I was happy just to listen. Happy that she thought I was someone worth talking to. When I ask Alison about it now, though, she just says, “Yeah, I thought you were OK, but you must have been really nervous or something because you wouldn’t shut up.”
    “Did you enjoy the band?”
    “Not much really. The singer was pretty awful.”
    “I was in the support band. We’re called Yossarian.”
    “After the character in Catch 22?”
    “Exactly. Did you see us?”
    “No. I must have got here too late. We went for a curry first.”
    This was good. A curry-eating, pint-swilling goddess who’d even managed to miss the worst gig Yossarian had ever done. What am I saying? Every gig was the worst gig Yossarian had ever done. We were awful. My Bloody Valentine meets Nirvana meets The Smiths. Or was that The Smurfs?
    “What music do you like?” (Nice one, McQueen, what a skilled conversationalist you truly are.)
    “Oh, I dunno, Blur, I suppose, and Radiohead. I quite like Frank Sinatra, and Wham! when I’m pissed. Oh, and I used to like Spandau Ballet. I was in love with Gary Kemp when I was little.”
    I remember feeling irrationally jealous of Gary Kemp at this point.
    “So what do you do in the band?”
    “I’m the guitarist. I play lead vintage Stratocaster, 1968 limited edition with classic sunburst finish.”
    “Hmmmm.” She mulls this over for a while and then she says, “You know what’s always confused me?”
    “What?”
    “Well, why is it that some guitars are so much bigger than the other ones? I mean why do some of them only have four strings?”
    Thank God Vince wasn’t listening to this. He’d have had a blue fit.
    To be honest, I wasn’t that bothered by Alison’s lack of musical knowledge. I’m not exactly an expert myself, not like Vince he’s a walking encyclopedia. He knows everything there is to know, especially about Dylan. Dylan, Costello and Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Vince is obsessed with Dexy’s Midnight Runners.
    “So, what made you want to be a musician?” said Alison after I’d taken her through the rudiments of the bass guitar.
    “I didn’t really. I wanted to be a racing driver, or a karate champion, or a film star, or…”
    She laughs. Her blue eyes crinkle at the edges and a crooked smile lights up her whole face. She tells me later that she thought I was unusual. She’d never met anyone who’d said they wanted to be a film star before. Not out loud.
    “So what happened?”
    “Well, we weren’t rich enough for racing cars and I could never keep up with the karate and…”
    The acting?”
    I shake my head. “Oh, you know, couldn’t act for toffee. It’s a bit crap really, you know when you find out you’re no good at the one thing you always wanted to be…”
    Alison smiles at me like she knows exactly what I mean.
    “So what happens now? Where will I live? Who’ll pay the rent?”
    “I’ll still pay the rent.”
    “But you won’t be living here. You’ll be shacked up with Donkey-schlong in Bruges.”
    “What did you say… ? Look, I will still be living here. I’ll be home every other weekend.”
    “You said every weekend, now it’s every other weekend… you see the way