Chapter One: The Strangers
Manchester - Present Day
It's funny how when you're younger, break-ups always seem so much worse than they actually are.
Now that I am older, I may not necessary be wise per say, but still wiser than I was at the tender age of seventeen, I look back on my first failed relationship and thank my lucky stars that my ex broke my heart. Because not only did I come to realise that I wasn't as deeply in love with him as I thought I was, but I'm also eternally grateful to him for having cheated on me like he did. Because if he hadn't, I would never have taken that fateful trip down to London, and I would never have had the time of my life.
London - 1992
"So, how long do you think you'll be staying for Sam?"
I heave an over exasperated sigh, knowing it won't be audible due to the surrounding racket of the marketplace. The continuous drone of chattering strangers, coupled with the bolshy voices of market traders trying to press their wares on the crowd, is loud enough to wake the dead.
Above, the sound of a plane heading in to land at Heathrow, or possibly Gatwick or wherever - I mean, take your pick, London certainly isn't short on airports- added to the noise, and somewhere in the not-so-distant distance, a train could be heard rumbling by.
"Not long." I reply simply, and wholeheartedly mean it. I have no intention of hanging around where I'm not particularly wanted.
"Right, okay." Jane, my stepmother responds rather pointlessly. And maybe I'm being paranoid or has she brightened now? Maybe it's just my imagination but she cracks the first smile since we've left the flat.
Now don't get me wrong, Jane is a nice enough woman. She makes my dad happy, which is all that matters. And it's not for me to question my father's sanity.
But we've never really hit it off, for whatever reason. It's nothing to do with teenage angst, or me being jealous of her commanding my father's attention and all that jazz - I never have, nor never will be a 'daddy's girl' so to say.
We've just never really gelled. Like oil and water, the two just don't mix. And it's as simple as that really.
So when my dad practically begged me to come and stay with him and his new wife in South London - at my mothers behest - I agreed under duress, in order to appease my parents.
Following a particularly heinous break up with my boyfriend, my mood was low and I can only surmise that my mother was afraid I'd give my waste-of-space, cheating ex yet another chance (he'd already had one too many than he deserved) and I presumed she thought that I'd be safe from his manipulative clutches at the opposite end of the country.
So clutching my newly purchased suitcase, I'd been put on a train, feeling like some sort of refugee, and was now doing my best to settle into the tiny spare room of my dad's Southwark flat.
Now aside from having to adjust to sharing a place with Jane, there are other issues. The first, more obvious yet trivial one being that I'm a Northerner in the South. And whilst this might not seem like a big deal, let me tell you that the majority of Londoners consider anywhere beyond Watford to be the 'North'.
Being quite sensitive and shy by nature, down here I've come to realise I may as well be from another country...or even planet.
It's not that I'm saying Londoners are unfriendly, but well...I'm starting to miss the little things one usually takes for granted. Such as chatting to people in the corner shop. Polite chit-chat such as commenting on the weather is pretty much considered Northern etiquette. Here if you attempt to start a conversation with a stranger people look at you as if you're mad.
Same applies when asking for chips and gravy in any London chippy. It's cheesy chips all the way - what kind of savage wants gravy with their chips? Well, a Northern one apparently. And God forbid don't mistake a saveloy for a sausage. Which leads me on to my accent...the minute I open my mouth anywhere I feel like a complete foreigner.
Hailing from a small town near Manchester, I consider myself to have quite a neutral accent (so my drama teacher used to tell me) so I don't sound particularly Manc. However I may as well be walking around saying "by eck!" judging by some of the looks I've had when buying my cigarettes.
Anyway, I digress...the other problem I've had to deal with is my dad's response to my health condition. I'm what's known as a type1 diabetic, which roughly means my pancreas doesn't produce insulin which is required to sustain the level of sugar in the bloodstream. I inject myself with two shots of insulin a day, and I need to monitor my diet so as not to have too much sugar or too little carbs.
I've lived with the condition since the age of eight, but as my dad has never really been around, he not only doesn't understand what it entails but also fusses over me to the point of driving me mad.
It's sweet of him, and yes if my blood sugar goes too high or too low it can be dangerous - but I can handle it. Well, I seem to have done alright so far. Given I'm still alive and haven't fallen into any coma's as yet.
So it is this rather irksome (to say the least) condition of mine which leads to Jane and I ending up in the next pub we come across.
My hands have started to tremble and I'm feeling pretty lightheaded - both tell tale signs that I'm in need of something to eat, or at the very least a sugary drink. After having traipsed around Borough market all afternoon, it's hardly surprising. Being as physical activity causes my sugar levels to drop.
We step inside and I'm hit with a wave of warmth and smell of alcohol which is strangely familiar and comforting. The sound of the hustle and bustle outside gives way to the sound of a jukebox playing in the corner, and the low hum of the handful of customers talking amongst themselves.
It is a long room, with a pool table at one end, and a small stage tucked into the corner at the other, with several tables and chairs dotted around.
"Do you want to grab some lunch?" Jane asks as we approach the bar, and the landlord overhears and swoops in before I can answer.
"Sorry ladies. Finished serving now, it's gone half past two." He informs us, with an apologetic smile.
"That's okay, I'll just have a large coke and maybe a bag of crisps." I say, depositing myself on a barstool before I totter over.
Jane nods, handing me a five pound note and for a moment I wonder if she's forgotten that I'm seventeen and not twelve. But before heading off to the ladies toilet, she asks me to order her a 'small wine'
Having overheard, the landlord turns to me and asks, "Red or white?"
"Umm.." I am totally stumped. Ashamed to admit that I have no idea. He's looking at me expectantly and I'm aware of other people hanging around the bar, and suddenly feel like a silly little girl.
"I'm..not...sure." I manage feebly.
"Does she like sweet wine or dry?" He adds helpfully. Except this isn't helpful. I'm at a loss. He may as well have asked me her favourite colour.
"I'll wait til she comes back and ask her. What can I get you treacle?"
"Oh, just a large coke please. No ice. Thanks." I mutter, and quickly do a scan of the surrounding area to see if anyone is sniggering at my awkwardness.
I find that no one seems to have noticed, and couldn't care less if I had grown another head whilst sitting here. But what I do notice is the figure sat at the opposite end of the bar.
At first glance I assume it to be a man, but then I do a double-take. They have longish brown hair, pushed back behind their pierced ears.
Is it a woman?
I can't tell. Not that it matters either way, but they're so impossibly pretty I decide it can't be a man. But...there's a certain chiseled look to the jaw, and the eyes seem too deep-set to be female. Their nose is long, and has a slight kink in it, betraying signs of it possibly having been broken at some point. If it wasn't for this minor imperfection, the face would've been almost too perfect.
Even though the flaw is barely noticeable, I somehow notice, which makes me realise then that I've been staring too hard and for too long.
Fortunately for me they are throughly absorbed in their newspaper, which is spread out on the bar in front of them, next to a half drunk pint of lager.
The landlord places my own drink in front of me, which I hastily gulp down. Thoughts returning to my current situation, I find my mind beginning to wander back to Mark...even though I promised myself I wouldn't think about him today.
Just then, a door at the side of the stage bangs open, and a larger than life, slightly scruffy looking young man bounds in. Shattering my thoughts.
"Give us a pint will ya Kev?" He demands rather than asks, but his tone is jovial enough.
Call me nosy, but I watch with keen interest as he makes a beeline towards the genderless figure.
"Not a bad soundcheck that mate."
"Hm" Gender-neutral responds noncommittally, not bothering to look up from the paper. And I find myself thinking what a little ray of sunshine this person is. Or isn't, as it were.
"Of course I am talking about ours, not yours!" Chortles the smiley one, who then does none other than look across right at me, and catches me gawping.
I turn away quickly, and pretend to suddenly find my fingernails fascinating. I can feel my face heat up, and will it to go away, cursing the way I blush so easily.
But before I know what is happening, Mister Jovial is at my side. I have no idea how he got there, it seems as if I blinked and missed it. Perhaps he can teleport like a mutant.
"Ello darlin', not seen you in here before." He points out, and I'm forced to look at him, despite still feeling flustered. "Can I get you another drink?"
"Um, no thanks."
"Aw, come on. What'cha drinking, vodka and coke?" He persists and flashes a dazzling, yet slightly crooked smile that I find utterly endearing. In spite of his somewhat overbearing manner.
"No, just coke. But I'm fine honestly." I manage a weak smile in return.
"Just coke?" He narrows his blue eyes at me suspiciously, as though he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "How old are you love?"
I hesitate briefly, feeling the prickle of heat rise up my neck. "Eighteen." I lie, and I know for a fact that I don't sound convincing.
Without intending to, my eyes momentarily wander passed the handsome stranger, and come to rest on his androgynous associate. I'm surprised to see him looking up now, apparently watching us curiously. They give me a slow, deliberate look, letting me know that they're aware that I just lied about my age.
My blush deepens, and the the hint of a smile plays upon their lips, still firmly in place even as they return their attentions to the paper in front of them.
"Well then, why aren't you having a proper drink? Ere, I'll get ya' one." My new companion is saying now, and to my relief, is none the wiser to my fibbing.
"I'm diabetic, alcohol affects my blood sugar so I don't really drink." I find myself explaining as a means to excusing my reluctance to accept his gracious offer.
"Sounds bloody awful. That must be so boring. Surely one drink can't hurt though."
"She said no, Damon." A voice, distinctly male, pipes up from the end of the bar and we both follow the sound. Gender-neutral appears to be a man after all, and he's sitting up straight now, folding his newspaper - which I note is a copy of the Melody Maker.
"Yeah I heard thanks, mate. Unlike yours, my hearing is perfectly adequate." The handsome stranger - aka Damon - exclaims irritably, and shoots him a disgruntled look which he purposely ignores.
"Your hearing might be, but your understanding is clearly lacking." The man I had formerly thought to be a woman fires back, before standing.
He's tall, and slender, the sleeves on the baggy, over-sized he's wearing hang down to his elbows.
Damon's already turned away and I notice is looking at me again. His eyes scanning my face, I feel quite giddy as a result of this man paying me such close attention. He's incredibly good looking, with long eyelashes and the cutest upturned nose.
"Are you coming to our gig tonight?" He drawls, in his prominent cockney accent. "It'll be a good show."
"Are you in a band?" I ask, my voice sounding more eager than I would have liked. But I'm a massive live music fan and a sucker for boys with guitars.
He beams widely at me, his smile seems to cut through the afternoon gloom, lighting up the entire room. "Yeah, you should come check us out."
I'm about to reply when for the briefest of moments I'm distracted by the pretty man, who has since meandered closer and is now standing adjacent to Damon. He makes a strange, barely audible sound, like a cross between a snort and a sigh.
I look at him quizzically, his eyes are affixed on Damon, who sensing his presence suddenly rolls his eyes.
"Brett's band are playing too. But they aren't as good as we are." He remarks almost dismissively.
Brett...Damon...do all men around here have names like this? Perhaps I've led a sheltered upbringing, only ever having met boys with what I naively and perhaps ignorantly consider to be 'normal' less unusual, glamorous names.
Still, this is London after all. Boho, beatnik central. Filled with chic, über cool creative individuals, and I suddenly feel so out of place, like Dorothy having awoken in Kansas.
The man named Brett doesn't respond, merely saunters away to the nearby pool table where he joins the two men who are currently mid-game.
"So, d'ya fancy it?" Damon presses, and without further hesitation I find myself agreeing happily.
By the time Jane finally reappears after having taken an impossibly long time, my new friend has bid me goodbye and vanished backstage - only after my having promised to come back later that night, in order to watch his band perform.
I finish my coke, and once seeing that I haven't been able to order her a wine after all, Jane decides she's not fussed about a drink and suggests heading home.
As we step out onto the pavement, I feel decidedly excited and nervous in equal measures. Wondering what the night ahead may bring.
All I have to do now is find something suitable to wear, and somehow manage to convince my dad to let me out by myself.
Ugh.