LIBBY THE HAPPY LEMON
13 JUNE
The taxi driver takes me to a small bed and breakfast just outside Barnstaple. This is run by a man who thankfully appears to suffer from insomnia, but less thankfully, is a cantankerous old bastard with a permanent look of barely concealed disgust on his face that he’s probably been honing for decades.
Still, the shower is boiling hot, so we’ll take it as win on a night fraught with losses.
I won’t be smoking any marijuana again for a very long time, let me assure you of that. I feel absolutely terrible as I crawl into the tiny single bed that Captain Hospitality has provided me with for the princely sum of £130. My brain is fuzzy, my stomach feels like there’s a bowling ball in it and, despite the hot shower, my skin is cold and clammy as I pull the duvet up to my chin.
Drugs really are bad, it appears. It just took me well into my thirties to realise it.
It’s also taken me quite a while to properly understand what’s going on in my head these days. I may have had to avoid a decidedly unwanted threesome to do it, but my little cannabis-fuelled chat with Martin and his gang of perverts has at least provided me with some sense of direction for the first time in months.
I may have only a short time to live, and in that time I have to do something worthwhile.
Carpe diem, as someone in a toga once said.
I fall asleep trying to cling on to that idea and resolutely trying to forget the gentle caress of Bork’s meaty hand.
I’m not normally the kind of person who dreams a lot. I guess I’m just not that imaginative. But tonight? Oh boy, tonight is very different. If cannabis doesn’t agree with me when I’m awake, then it positively despises me when I’m asleep. I drop into the kind of surrealist nightmare that might keep me up at night for weeks to come.
It begins with me lying naked on a beanbag. Thankfully there’s no sign of Bork, but there is the spectre of Gloria Billingswade hanging over a forty-foot-high garden fence, looking down on me with the fires of hell boiling in her eyes.
‘DISGUSTING,’ she says, voice booming with demonic malice, as she points one gnarled and crooked finger at my penis – which is erect and now made of stone. Gloria’s hair, usually held in a haphazard bun, is now a writhing coil of snakes. Her eyes are jet black.
In my nightmares, I am guilty of a little cliché, I have to admit.
Suddenly, my mother is standing in front of me, blocking me from Demon Billingswade. She’s holding the guitar from Martin’s commune out in front her and is attempting to bat the enormous, gnarled hand away from my penis. Every time the guitar comes into contact with the knuckle, it makes a SQUEAK FLOOM noise.
‘Get away from my son!’ Mum shouts. ‘He has to get up for school soon and his father is dead!’
Hearing this news, I instantly burst into tears.
As I do, my stone penis snaps off. I pick it out of my lap to hold up to my mother, the tears still streaming down my face. ‘Fix it, Mum!’ I wail at her.
She looks back at me. ‘Don’t be silly, Nathan! It’s just a commentary on human sexuality . . . isn’t that right, Bork?’
Bork is now standing on my left, looking down. The entire lower half of his jaw is missing. He reaches down to take the stone penis out of my hands. I scream . . .
. . . and am suddenly on an enormous stage in front of an audience of children all dressed in Victorian clothing. I am thankfully not naked any more, but am dismayed to find I am dressed as Libby the Happy Lemon. Standing beside me is Sienna, wearing her red Prada dress and with her fist stuck entirely in her gob.
‘Sing that song!’ one of the Victorian children screams at me.
‘Which one?’ I shout back.
‘You know the one, Nathan!’ every child says in perfect, Wyndham-like unison. ‘The one we all love!’
For some reason, this fills me with absolute horror . . . but the show must go on. Even though playing their favourite song will probably result in my death, I have to do what the children tell me, don’t I?
I strum the strings on the guitar, making it scream like a butchered pig. This seems to please the children, as they all start to laugh uncontrollably.
. . . yes, this is fucking horrific, isn’t it?
The song that I’m playing is apparently ‘We Love to Wave Goodbye’. I start to open my mouth to sing the first verse, but am struck dumb with the realisation that I’ve forgotten the words.
‘I’ve forgotten the words!’ I cry out to my disconcerting audience.
‘Sing!’ they cry together. ‘Sing, Nathan!’
‘Mfnmfnmn!’ Sienna says, fist still jammed right in there.
‘I can’t! I can’t! My fingers don’t work!’
I hold up my hand and my fingers have now turned to stone. My hand starts to shake. One by one my fingers drop off. The children laugh so hard there’s a danger they might rupture their vocal chords.
Again, the scene abruptly changes with no warning. Now I’m in Mr Chakraborty’s office. He’s not there with me, though. Instead of seeing the good surgeon sat behind his desk, I instead get to look at Herman the Grumpy Potato. Not some jobbing actor dressed as Herman the Grumpy Potato, but Herman himself, if such a thing were possible.
This nightmare version of Herman is awful. His brown skin is dirty and cracked, with thick black hairs sprouting from various places. His eyes are tiny little black holes of nastiness and his mouth is a slit running right across his potato body about a third of the way down from the top. When he opens this mouth, I can see the white flesh inside, pulsating.
‘Hello, Nathan,’ Herman says in a clipped, upper-class accent. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m dying,’ I reply.
Herman contrives to look surprised. His little piggy eyes widen. I’m afraid if I look into them for too long I might see infinity staring back at me. ‘Oh? And why are you dying, Nathan?’
‘Because you’re killing me,’ I say in an accusing voice.
Now Herman tries an innocent expression on for size. It isn’t convincing. ‘Me? I’m not doing anything, Nathan! I’m just a grumpy potato!’
‘Bullshit! You’re an allegorical representation of the brain tumour I’ve got in my head!’
Herman looks angry. He knows I’ve got him bang to rights on that one. ‘Oh yes? And what are you going to do about it?’ he sneers.
I stand up. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ I screech, and try to climb over the table. I look back, however, to see that I’m being held back by Bork and Sienna, who have hold of my feet.
Herman laughs. ‘There’s nothing you can do to kill me! I’m inside you, Nathan! I’m aaaaaaaaalways going to be there!’
I slump back into the chair, defeated. He’s right. There’s nothing I can do.
Then I see my mother come to stand at my side. ‘He can do something, you stupid potato,’ she tells Herman. ‘He can keep living.’
Herman laughs again. ‘No! He’ll die! He’ll die and I’ll win!’
‘No, you won’t,’ another voice says from my other side. I turn to see Alison standing there. She’s now wearing the Libby costume. I (of course) am naked once more. She looks down at me. ‘Isn’t that right, Nathan? We can’t let horrible old Herman win, can we? We can’t let him tell us what to do. We have to stop him!’
I shake my head. ‘But I don’t know how to, Libby. I just don’t.’
She leans down. ‘It’s easy, Nathan. You just have to do something worthwhile. Nasty old Herman goes away if you do that!’
‘But what?’ I implore. ‘What, Libby?’
She abruptly stands up straight again. ‘I don’t know, Nathan. But you’d better do it soon, before you miss your chance.’
‘I did miss my chance with you, though, Alison!’ I wail. ‘I didn’t call you!’
Alison shakes her head. ‘Well, that was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?’
I nod. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘But I’m still here, Nathan,’ Alison whispers. ‘So come and find me. Don’t miss your chance.’
I feel Mum’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t miss, Nathan. It’s not too late. And remember to keep playing until you can’t play any more!’
One more scene change.
Now I’m at home, standing at my open bifold patio doors and looking out into the expertly manicured garden. Herman is running towards me. His mouth is wide open in a snarl of rage and I can see that he now has teeth. Each one of them is made of a sharpened plectrum.
As he rushes headlong at me, no doubt to chew me up inside that awful mouth, I look down to find that I’m holding yet another guitar. This one is the black custom Les Paul I use in the studio – the absolute best guitar ever made and one I love as if it were my firstborn.
‘Fuck you, Herman,’ I say in a low voice. ‘I’ll start playing . . . Let’s see if you know the words.’ I strum downwards with the kind of ferocity that Pete Townshend would have been proud of, windmilling my arm around for all I’m worth.
A strident electric chord rings out loud and true across the garden, and Herman explodes into a million gooey, half-baked pieces.
I instantly wake in my tiny single bed with a scream. My heart is racing and my skin is soaked with cold sweat.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I exclaim.
The door to the room opens. Standing there is Captain Hospitality. ‘Not quite,’ he says with disgust. ‘But if you want breakfast, you’ve only got ten minutes to get downstairs.’
‘Okay!’ I blurt out. I should be highly offended at this gross intrusion of my privacy, but I’m too terrified to notice.
The Captain leaves again, slamming the door as he goes. I take a long, ragged breath in the silence of the small bedroom. That was easily the worst dream I’ve ever had – partly because it was terrifying and partly because it was so grossly laced with heavy-handed symbolism that the whole thing almost descended into parody.
If I’m forced to confront my own personal demons in a nightmarish hellscape of my own devising, I’d prefer it be done with a little more nuance.
I take another hot shower straight away – breakfast will just have to wait until I’m on the train headed back east. I can’t go through the rest of the day covered in my own night sweat.
As I pull on my Adidas trainers, I start to go back over some of the elements of the nightmare, even as they start to fade. My subconscious was quite clearly working overtime, so I guess I’d better pay it some attention. The one thing I can remember with great clarity is Alison’s face, as well as her telling me to do something worthwhile and not to miss my chance. I’m pretty sure I know what I was trying to tell myself with that little exchange, but I’m not sure if it’s advice I should act on or not.
From my inside jacket pocket I pull out a rather battered and frayed napkin with a faded phone number written on it. For some reason, I just couldn’t throw it away after that night at the Roundabout Theatre – and now I’m extremely glad I didn’t.
I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and punch Alison’s number into it.
My finger hovers over the ‘Dial’ button.
It continues to hover for a few moments.
Cramp sets in at around the forty-second mark.
The door to the bedroom bangs open again, revealing my congenial host, who contrives to look even more annoyed at me than the last time we crossed paths. ‘Nearly checking-out time!’ he snaps, pointing down the hallway.
Yes, mate. I know it is. That’s the bloody problem . . .
I save Alison’s number in my phone and stuff it and the napkin back into my pocket. I then rise from the bed that I am eternally glad I will never be sleeping in again, provide the Captain with the best approximation of a smile I can muster and walk past him down the hallway, trying my level best to forget about the fleshy texture of Herman’s mouth coming to gobble me up.
I manage a little sleep on the train journey home, which is just as well, as we’re a good half an hour delayed, so the trip takes well over three hours. There aren’t many better ways to pass the time in a train carriage than having a much-needed doze. Luckily, my brief sleep is devoid of further nightmares. I guess my subconscious has decided that the waking world holds enough terrors – what with all the signal delays and leaves on the track – and has decided to give me a break while I’m napping.
I get back home in the afternoon and set about the important business of doing bugger all for the rest of the day. This includes a little light cleaning, a little light masturbation and a little light drinking. In that order.
By the time I’ve eaten a Domino’s pizza and had a very deep and relaxing bath, it’s early evening and I’m plonked down in front of the TV for a bit of Netflix.
I’m halfway through an episode of House of Cards when my eyes flick over to my mobile phone on the coffee table. I have successfully managed to avoid thinking about Alison’s phone number for the best part of the day, but now my mind has rather inevitably wandered back to the issue. Not even Frank Underwood’s latest machinations can prevent me from sitting up straight and gathering the phone off the table for another round of thumb hovering.
The horrible dream I suffered through resurfaces in my mind. Again I remember Alison telling me not to miss my chance and my mother telling me to play until I can’t play any more.
I’m sat there in something of a daze, thinking about all of this, when the phone starts to ring.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I scream, my heart skipping a few beats.
It’s Eliza. Eliza’s calling me.
. . . which, other than the near heart attack, is very probably a good thing. I could do with some advice.
‘Elsie,’ I say, replying to the call. ‘Good timing. I need a chat.’
‘Oh. Oh good,’ she responds, a bit taken aback. ‘I haven’t heard from you in ages, so kind of figured the last thing you wanted to do was chat.’
I wince as I hear the obvious hurt in her voice. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I’ve . . . I’ve not been in a good place recently.’
‘Okay. I understand, Nate.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘But please don’t shut me out. I want to be there for you, but I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me.’
‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. I’ve felt totally lost recently and have just wanted to shut everything out. Things have changed in my head a bit now, though. I’ll be better from now on, I promise.’
‘Has something happened, then?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
I then go on to explain what happened at the commune, including the minor revelation I had and my dash into the night following Celeste and Bork’s attempted seduction.
‘Oh God, Nate!’ Eliza screams with laughter. It’s a nice sound to hear. ‘That’s awful!’
‘Pretty much,’ I reply ruefully.
It takes her a few moments to get herself under control, but when she does, she asks the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: ‘So, what are you going to do now you’ve had this realisation?’
‘Still not sure . . . about doing something worthwhile, anyway. But that’s not really what I need your advice about . . .’
‘Oh? And what is?’
I then tell Eliza about my dream – leaving out most of the gory details and concentrating on Alison’s part in it.
‘So, what do you think?’ I ask her when I’m done.
Eliza is quiet for a moment. ‘Hmmm. You obviously like her. And who can blame you? She was fabulous with Callum.’ Another brief pause. ‘I say go for it. Carpe diem, and all that.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ I reply, with a smile on my face. My cousin and I have always been on a similar wavelength.
‘But if you do go out with her, you have to be up front about your tumour, Nate. You have to let her know about it,’ Eliza tells me in a firm voice.
‘I will, I will,’ I reply. ‘That’s even if I get that far.’
‘Good. Trust me, you don’t want to keep big secrets like that from someone – even someone you only just met. Secrets kill relationships, Nate. Never forget that.’
Which reminds me . . .
‘How are things with you and Bryan?’
‘Terrible. He’s not paying up for Callum’s care again, the rancid little shit.’
I swallow hard. ‘I wish you’d let me help you out, Elsie. Please let me give you some money to h—’
‘No, Nate!’ she snaps. ‘I don’t want your money! Callum is Bryan’s responsibility, and he’ll bloody well do his duty as his father!’
‘Okay, okay!’ I should never have said that. Eliza is not the type to take charity from anyone – never has been. If I’m bad at asking for emotional support, then she’s terrible at asking for it financially. ‘I’m sorry, Elsie. I won’t ask again.’
‘Good. You’ve got enough on your mind anyway, cuz. I can handle my problems just fine.’ She pauses again. I can hear her taking a deep breath. ‘Now, why don’t you put the phone down on me and give Alison a call?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Elsie.’
‘Good luck, Nate. Let me know how it goes.’
I tell her I will and end the call, my left hand shaking a little. Whether it’s from the tumour or just nerves I have no idea.
I stare at the phone for a moment longer, thinking back on both the nightmare and the conversation I’ve just had with my cousin.
Fuck it.
I don’t know how many chords I have left in me, so let’s play this one and hope it isn’t a bum note.
I press ‘Dial’, and my heart rate rockets again as the phone starts to ring.
‘Hello?’ Alison says. I almost drop the phone. I wasn’t actually expecting her to answer that quickly. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I was expecting her to answer at all. ‘Hello?’ she repeats when I don’t respond immediately.
‘Hi! Hi, Alison! It’s me. It’s Nathan.’
‘Oh, hello.’ Well, the flat tone of her voice is extremely encouraging. When you call a girl out of the blue, the first thing you want to hear is a combination of defensive indifference and mild irritation.
‘Er . . . how are you?’ I continue, now convinced this was a terrible and stupid idea.
‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Er . . . yeah. Not too bad. Not too bad at all.’
I pause.
I continue to pause.
‘What can I do for you, Nathan?’ Alison says, obviously not a big fan of being on the receiving end of such an epic hiatus in conversation.
‘Well . . . er . . . I just wondered if you still fancied getting that drink sometime?’
‘You want to do that?’ The indifference is gone, replaced by a fair amount of disbelief. The irritation is still clear and present, though.
‘Yes! Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I just figured that because I hadn’t heard from you, and that it’s been weeks, you probably weren’t interested.’
‘Oh! I’m so sorry, Alison. I’ve been’ – a moping, antisocial arsehole? – ‘really busy with work. I just haven’t had the time to do anything socially, and I didn’t want to arrange something with you and then cancel it.’
‘Oh . . . all right. I understand.’ I wince a little to myself as I hear the change of tone in her voice to one that’s much warmer. I don’t like telling lies like this, even if they are white ones, but there’s no way I’m broaching the subject of my health before I’ve even had the chance to buy the woman a glass of wine, despite what Eliza says. ‘I guess we could still get together, then. When are you free?’ Alison asks.
‘Any time! I’m pretty much free any time!’ I blurt like a sixteen-year-old. ‘You just tell me when you’d like to meet up and I’ll be there with knobs on!’
Smooth, Nathan. Real smooth.
Happily, this makes her chuckle. ‘Okay. Well, how about Sunday evening?’
‘Fine with me! We could go to—’ I stop myself. I’m about to offer to take her to the poshest watering hole I know, the Elysium Bar. But that’s Sienna’s favourite hang-out, too, and I hardly think bumping into her will help my date with Allie go smoothly. ‘. . . I mean, where would you like to go?’ I say.
‘Do you know a pub called the Shining Star? It’s in the centre of town.’
‘I do.’
‘Great. I can get there for about 7 p.m., if that’s good with you?’
‘Yeah! That’s fine.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’
‘Fantastic! I’m really looking forward to it!’ I’m sounding far, far too enthusiastic here, but I can’t help myself. This is the first bit of good news I’ve had in what feels like a couple of decades, so I’m making the most of it.
We exchange goodbyes and I put the phone back on to the coffee table with a trembling hand.
Well, that’s that, then. I have committed to seeing Alison on an actual, real date.
I should be disgusted with myself, given that I’m consigning her to a meeting with one of the walking dead, but all I feel instead is nervous excitement.
It probably won’t actually lead to anything – and even if it did, then I’d make sure it didn’t go too far. I would be very honest with Alison about my health, just like Eliza told me to be.
Honest to God.
The Shining Star is a lot bigger than I remember. I haven’t been here in a few years, but I was sure it was smaller than this.
My memory must have been playing tricks on me, however, as the bar extends right down one wall and the seating area is so vast it must cost a fortune in commercial rental. It’s also bloody cold in here. They must have the air con ramped right up. The place is surprisingly empty for a Sunday night in midsummer. From where I’m sat in a booth along the opposite wall to the bar, I can see only about half a dozen people arranged haphazardly around the pub. The couple sat closest to me is enjoying an evening meal. I have to look away from their plates, as they’re both tucking into gigantic, fluffy jacket potatoes.
Anyway, how am I dressed?
Looking okay, do you think?
The black FCUK jeans have come out of the wardrobe for the first time in a year, and I don’t even recall buying this Ben Sherman shirt. Still, the light blue goes quite well with the black, and it’s definitely more appropriate apparel for a first date than the leather jacket/T-shirt combo I usually roll in. Okay, I’m not sure if the brown Adidas trainers were such a good idea. They do clash a bit, but my grey ones are still encrusted with West Country commune mud, and for a man with a healthy bank balance, I am surprisingly bereft of decent footwear.
I fiddle with the collar of my shirt a little as I wait for Alison to arrive. I probably should have just stood outside – that’s what I’d normally do, but for some reason I thought it a better idea to come in and take a seat. I must be more nervous than I thought.
The nerves really start to jangle when I see Alison come through the pub door. She’s a little hard to miss, given that she’s wearing a bright-yellow jumper. This seems like an odd choice of clothing for a few reasons. Firstly, it’s quite a warm evening outside. She must be roasting. Second, it’s not particularly flattering, as it’s quite billowy and large. Third – and this is the most important reason – it makes her look like Libby the Happy Lemon. I don’t know about you, but if my day job was to prance around in a bright-yellow fancy dress costume, then I’d be avoiding any street clothes that look similar like the bloody plague.
Maybe Alison only took the part of Libby because of the yellow suit. Maybe she is just a big fan of the colour yellow and can’t get enough of it. This doesn’t bode well for me if we did start seeing each other. Yellow generally tends to set off a headache if I have to look at it too long.
I wave. She sees me and comes over.
‘Hello,’ Alison says with a smile as she sits down on the other side of the large booth. Almost instantly, a blond-haired waiter appears at the table, making me jump. I guess he must have been hovering just outside my field of vision, waiting to take my order all this time. Still, you can’t fault the level of service, I suppose.
‘What can I get you both?’ he says, before Alison has had chance to get her bum on the seat. ‘The special today is jacket potato . . . in a red wine jus.’
‘Er . . . we just want drinks, actually,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s and Coke.’
‘And I’ll have a limoncello,’ Alison adds.
‘One Jack Daniel’s and Coke and one limoncello,’ the tall, blond waiter repeats. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to both look at the menu, though? The jacket potatoes are very good!’
‘No,’ I say in an irritated voice. ‘Just the drinks, please.’
The waiter smiles and disappears, leaving me alone with my date.
‘So, how are you?’ I ask her.
‘I’ve put on weight,’ she replies.
‘Pardon?’ I say, slightly shocked. This is a bit personal, isn’t it? I was expecting to enter into a little small talk while we wait for our drinks, not a discussion about weight gain.
‘I said, I’ve put on weight,’ Alison repeats. ‘Look.’ She then lifts up her yellow jumper to show me her belly. Or rather, she shows me the pale-yellow T-shirt she’s got on underneath the jumper. And indeed, Alison is correct – she does appear to have put on weight. Quite a lot, in fact. The yellow jumper was hiding it, but there’s now a decided paunch to her stomach that I don’t remember being there before. Her face is a lot more round as well.
Quite why she felt the need to broach the topic with me within ten seconds of meeting I don’t know.
‘And how are you?’ she asks me, pulling the jumper back down again. ‘Still having issues with your hands?’
‘What?’
‘You said your hands were shaking while you were playing the songs onstage the other night.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes! Don’t you remember?’
No. No, I bloody don’t remember. I don’t remember Alison being so blunt, either. It’s like I’m having a conversation with a mate I’ve known for years, not a woman I’ve met once before in my entire life.
This is actually quite unpleasant. I should have ignored Eliza’s advice and not made that bloody phone call.
‘Here are your drinks!’
I let out a cry of surprise. That waiter can move like a fucking ninja. He puts my JD and Coke in front of me and what looks like a pint of limoncello in front of Alison.
‘Mmmmm. My favourite!’ she exclaims. Alison then picks up the pint glass and starts glugging the limoncello down.
‘She loves lemons!’ the waiter shouts with delight.
The couple eating jacket potatoes look around at us. ‘And we love jacket potatoes!’ they cry in unison, stabbing their forks into the pulpy white potato flesh sat on their plates.
Alison drains the entire pint glass and wipes her mouth. ‘Lemons make me happy!’ she says, and smiles. All her teeth are sharpened plectrums.
So, when did you work out this was a dream?
Was it the yellow jumper? Or maybe the jacket potatoes?
I think I probably realised deep down when the waiter just appeared out of thin air, though you know what it’s like when you’re having a nightmare – it sometimes takes a while to cotton on.
The waiter – who is of course now our best friend Bork – shoves a silver platter under my nose. On it is Herman the Grumpy Potato, lying on a bed of lettuce. He’s giving me the finger.
‘Eat him, Nathan!’ Alison demands. She is now a bloated monstrosity. It’s like someone has come along with a bicycle pump and inflated her to five times her normal size. Alison has become Libby the Happy Lemon right in front of my eyes. ‘Eat Herman up like a good little boy!’ she snarls.
I look back down at Herman, who has plunged both hands into his chest and is starting to pull in opposite directions. I can see his skin starting to rip. Steam begins to pump out from his flesh in a massive plume that heads straight towards my face . . .
‘Aaaarggh!’ I scream as I wake in my lounge. The TV is still on Netflix and the credits to House of Cards are playing to the darkened room, sending flickering white light up the walls. ‘Fuck about!’ I exclaim, sitting bolt upright. My mouth feels as dry as the Sahara and my head is pounding.
It takes me a few moments to wake up properly. Even then I stagger a little as I go out into the kitchen to open the medical drawer and grab some prescription drugs.
As I stand by the sink, glugging water, I keep a firm grip on the countertop, just in case my legs go out from under me.
What the hell has caused this? Is it still the cannabis in my system? Or is it something more insidious? Is this a new symptom of the tumour’s progress?
I’ve certainly never suffered from nightmares like this before, so I guess it might be.
Within five minutes, I’ve returned to some semblance of normality. Physically, at least. Mercifully, the worst aspects of the nightmare are already fading and I’m just left with an odd sense of disconnection.
I’m also feeling partly relieved.
Why?
Well, that felt like a first date going badly wrong, even before all the weird stuff started to happen, so I’m quite glad that none of it was real. I don’t know how Sunday night is actually going to pan out, but it won’t happen in a gigantic, cold, empty pub and it won’t involve a woman in a disgusting yellow jumper and a magic waiter.
I slope off to bed, the headache thankfully getting less painful with every step. As I pass my wardrobe, I open it slowly. On one hanger is a blue Ben Sherman shirt. I will not be wearing it Sunday evening, you can bet your life on that. I’m also going to make sure I stand outside and wait for Alison to arrive – and woe betide any tall, blond waiters who may be working that evening.
Of course, there aren’t any actual waiters at the Shining Star, given that it’s a pub.
It’s also tiny. Comfortingly tiny.
I pop my head in quickly when I arrive, just to see if Alison had got there before me. She hasn’t, but it gives me a chance to see that the dream version of the pub bears little to no relation to its real-world equivalent.
There are no booths, no dining tables and definitely no jacket potatoes on the menu. It is, however, achingly trendy. There’s artwork on the walls from some of the more talented artists in the local area. There are more wine bottles used for display purposes than to actually hold alcohol, and the overuse of chrome and steel in the pub’s decoration is quite eye-watering – especially when it’s juxtaposed with old, varnished oak beams and equally varnished wooden furniture. Somebody more pretentious than me would probably say it’s a fascinating exercise in incongruous textualisation. I just think it looks like someone’s dropped a scrapheap on an antiques shop and given it a polish.
Despite the rough sleep I’ve had, I feel quite good about myself today. It’s probably the nervous energy about tonight, but I’ve been full of vim and vigour all day.
Instead of that blue shirt, I’ve elected to go with a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans. I have an urge to keep things simple tonight.
When Alison arrives, she is resolutely not wearing a bright-yellow jumper. Neither has she piled on about three stone in weight. In fact, she looks gorgeous. She’s a pretty girl anyway, but when your last memories of her are either plastered with sweat or in the confines of a nightmare, then the comparison just makes her seem all the more beautiful. She is also wearing blue jeans and a black top. I hope nobody thinks we’re brother and sister.
‘Hello,’ she says as she walks up to me.
‘Hi, Alison.’ I give her an awkward kiss on the cheek.
‘Please, call me Allie . . . and thanks for waiting for me out here. I’ve had a thing about walking into pubs on my own ever since I saw An American Werewolf in London.’
I get the reference as I love that movie. Things have got off to a great start.
We both go into the Shining Star and order drinks at the bar, swapping small talk while the barman serves us. I have a small moment when I spot a bottle of limoncello behind the optics, but breathe a sigh of relief when Allie orders a glass of Chardonnay.
We find a table and sit down. While the pub is not as empty as its dream version, it’s also not heaving, so we’re able to hold a decent conversation with each other. Allie obviously knows how to pick a pub for a first date.
I think I’m coming across quite relaxed and casual, but that’s clearly not the case, as about half an hour into the evening, Allie says, ‘Are you okay, Nathan? You seem a bit on edge.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. You keep glancing around as if something’s about to leap out at you.’
Oh dear. Is that what I’ve been doing? I have to confess that I’m having a hard time shaking the memory of the pop-up waiter and the rest of last night’s nightmare. I probably have been looking around a lot, subconsciously reliving the dream in my head. The question now is, do I tell Allie about it? Or do I make something up?
‘Sorry. This will sound really silly, but I had the worst dream last night about this pub,’ I tell her, electing for the truth. I then go on to describe some aspects of the dream – missing out her weight gain and any mention of Herman the Grumpy Potato.
Allie smiles. ‘You should have said something! We could have gone somewhere else.’ In theatrical fashion, she puts both her hands over mine and looks me square in the eye. ‘Don’t worry, Nathan! I’ll protect you from the evil blond waiter!’
I give her a wry smile. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘I had a nightmare when I was a kid that I’ve never been able to shake,’ Allie says. ‘It was when I was about eight years old. I used to dream about these little hairy balls of fur with eyes that I called the Pibble Nibbles.’
‘The Pibble Nibbles?’ I say with huge amusement.
Allie’s face flames red. ‘Yes. The Pibble Nibbles. You may laugh, but I tell you, things like that are terrifying to a small child. I used to dream that they came out from underneath my bed and suffocated me.’
‘Blimey. That’s dark.’
Allie takes a sip of her Chardonnay. ‘Yep. See what I mean? Since then, I’ve always had an aversion to having anything small, round and hairy on my face.’
She had to say that just as I was taking a swig of beer, didn’t she? I manage not to cover her with spray, but it’s a close-run thing.
Rather than look embarrassed at the innuendo she’s just come out with, Allie throws her head back and laughs.
I wipe my mouth. ‘You timed that on purpose,’ I say, grinning despite myself.
‘Yep!’ Allie says triumphantly.
‘And the Pibble Nibbles?’
‘Oh, they were real,’ she says with a shudder. ‘My mum had to come in and comfort me in the middle of the night way too many times.’
‘Oh, that sucks,’ I say, with heartfelt pity.
While the conversation topic hasn’t been a pleasant one, I do think the discussion about nightmares has broken the first-date ice quite well. It always takes a while to move past the polite chit-chat and on to something a bit more meaningful. I don’t think you really know whether you’re getting on well with someone until you start talking about personal things. If a date ends and all you’ve done is chat about the weather and your last MOT, then chances are you’re on to a bit of a loser.
But if you’re both laughing your heads off about stupid nightmares and testicle gags only half an hour in, then things are probably going quite well.
In fact, they continue to go well for another hour or so, and I learn quite a lot about Allie in that time. She’s been a struggling actress for the past seven years since she left drama school and is still waiting for that elusive big break to come along. Until then, jobs like playing Libby the Happy Lemon have kept her going financially. Her contract runs for another few months, but the amount of show runs she’s getting is patchy, so she’s auditioning for other roles in the meantime as well. It all sounds like a lot of hard, stressful work that takes a huge amount of dedication to stick with.
In some ways, Allie reminds me of myself before The Foodies took off. I’m a musician and she’s an actress, but there are many parallels to our careers that give me a good insight into the way she thinks. She sounds like she has the same enthusiasm for treading the boards that I had – and still have – for music. If I can make a success of myself, then I’m one hundred per cent positive she can, too.
Other things I learn about her include that she also enjoys an evening in front of Netflix, thinks politics is a necessary evil, once got caught streaking down Old Brompton Road and has never been in a serious, long-term relationship before.
I’ve had more decent conversation in one evening with Allie than I had with Sienna throughout our entire relationship.
It’s definitely been nice to hear all about somebody else’s life for once, instead of constantly worrying about my own. Allie is a very expressive person – all smiles, big hand gestures and wide eyes when she talks. It’s incredibly hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm for life. By the time she’s finished, I’m grinning from ear to ear.
In the back of my mind, Eliza’s words about being straight with Allie over my diagnosis are trying to make themselves heard, but I’m doing a very good job of ignoring them. I’m having a fantastic time right now, and mentioning the tumour would no doubt ruin things. It’s just lucky I have an alcoholic drink in front of me to drown out the small feeling of guilt I’m having over that decision. There will hopefully be plenty of other occasions for me to get around to confessing my little secret, but tonight is not that time.
The two of us make our way through a few more beers and glasses of wine before Allie says she has to leave. ‘Sorry. I’d really like to stay a little longer, but I’ve got an audition up in the city tomorrow afternoon and have to get a good night’s sleep.’
I wave a hand. ‘No, no. Don’t worry. I could probably do with calling it a day as well. I want to spend a little time in the studio tomorrow working on a new song.’
‘For The Foodies?’ Allie says with a grin.
I roll my eyes. ‘No. My days of Foodies songwriting are thankfully behind me. I’m trying something a bit different.’
What I’m not telling her is that I’ll probably strum a few chords on the guitar before my mind wanders off to worry about my tumour and I’ll get nothing else done that day. That’s the way my ‘recording sessions’ have gone in recent weeks.
Outside, the weather has cooled off considerably – so much so that I would offer Allie my coat, if I’d actually worn one. ‘Do you want to share a taxi?’ I ask her.
‘Yeah, okay.’
I look up the street. There’s no sign of a taxi rank, as the whole area was pedestrianised a few years ago, so we begin to walk past the shops towards the nearest one. I feel a bit sick as we go past Primark, but it passes quickly. I very much doubt Allie will want to hit me over the head with a squeaky foam bat any time soon.
The walk to the taxi rank takes longer that I was expecting, which is no bad thing, as it means I get to spend a little extra time with a woman I will most definitely be asking out on a second date. By the time we reach the empty taxi rank, we’re having a very light-hearted chat about Libby the Happy Lemon. ‘I could kill you, you know,’ she says, trying not to laugh. ‘That suit is the most uncomfortable, hot and ugly thing I’ve ever had to wear!’
‘Sorry! It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘Well, next time, if you could invent a children’s character that exclusively wears Chanel and Prada that would be lovely.’
I think for a moment. ‘Deidre the Designer Doughnut?’
‘Perfect!’
Allie collapses into three-glasses-of-Chardonnay giggles.
‘Well, you might not like playing Libby, but you do a bloody good job of it,’ I tell her. ‘What you did with Callum after that show was incredible. I’ve never seen the kid happier.’
Allie smiles, her eyes a little glassy. ‘Thank you, Nathan. That’s a lovely thing to say.’ Her hand lightly touches my arm. ‘It means a lot to hear that from you – the guy who created The Foodies.’
I don’t know how to respond to that. What exactly does she mean? She’s the one who was good with Callum, not me!
My eyes then go wide as a taxi turns up at the rank. Would you believe it’s bright yellow?
‘Look!’ I say, pointing. ‘Libby’s come to get us!’
Allie sees the taxi and laughs even harder. She then steps forward off the kerb and opens the taxi door.
From it spill thousands of small, black, furry balls, each with its own set of googly eyes, and tiny, pipe-cleaner-thin arms and legs. ‘Look, Nathan! It’s the Pibble Nibbles!’ Allie shouts with delight. She goes off into another gale of maniacal laughter.
The Pibble Nibbles start to climb up Allie’s body, towards her head.
‘No! No! Leave her alone!’ I shout as they congregate on her face, some of them entering her wide-open mouth.
‘Oh, they don’t mean any harm!’ cries Herman the Grumpy Potato from where he’s sat in the back of the taxi. ‘They just want to have fun! Just like me, Nathan! Just like me!’
Herman snarls, jumps out of the taxi and heads straight towards me with that dreadful mouth opening wide. As he closes in on me I can see Allie now completely covered with Pibble Nibbles. Her laughter has turned to choking.
I throw my arms up as Herman reaches me, staring into those black eyes as they focus on me with laser-like intensity . . .
‘Aaarrrgghh! Bastard!’ I bellow into my pitch-black bedroom, sitting bolt upright as I do.
I slam my hands down on the duvet in frustration. ‘Fuck you, Herman! Fuck you, you stupid potato!’
It takes a second for my head to clear enough to get a handle on what’s just happened, trying to separate what’s real from what’s not.
The date with Alison did happen and we did have a lovely time. But we did not have to walk all the way to the taxi rank – it was right outside the pub. She doesn’t live anywhere near me, so we didn’t share a taxi, either. And she sure as hell didn’t climb into one that was bright yellow – or containing a psychopathic potato, for that matter.
I did ask her if she’d like to see me again, though . . . and she said yes.
I cling on to that happy fact as I clamber slowly out of bed and make my way into the bathroom for a much-needed piss. The vision of the Pibble Nibbles suffocating my date will stay with me for a few days, I know that. Why did she have to tell me that bloody story?
I climb back into bed almost fearfully. This can’t go on. It really can’t. These vivid nightmares are going to be the death of me if I’m not careful.
Tomorrow, I’m going to arrange a visit to Mr Chakraborty to see if this type of thing is a symptom of my condition or not. I may also ask for some sleeping pills while I’m at it.
On my next date with Allie, I’m going to make sure that I don’t bring this latest dream up with her. Nothing is more likely to kill a burgeoning romance than continued conversations about things like the Pibble Nibbles or Herman the Dream Demon Potato.
. . . unless we were both goths. Then I suppose it would be fine.
I eventually fall asleep, resolving to get up in the morning and write a thrash metal song about killer jacket potatoes. I’m going to call it ‘Raining Spuds’.
I’m sure it’ll be a massive hit.