Page 45 of The Notecard
‘Your dad’s birthday.’
‘Thanks for the notecard.’
‘Sure.’
Say something. Do something. I’m getting horrible flashbacks to being sixteen again. I’m standing in the playground and there is Hannah Stapleton. I’m in love with her. I know that I need to talk to her. I need to ask her out before summer starts because I won’t see her again until sixth form. I’ve been obsessed with her all year. About the time she asked to borrow a pen. About the time she smiled at me on the playground. About the time we talked in the library. About mufti day when she wore that skirt with the leggings and the tight t-shirt. I love her. I need to talk to her. But I can’t. My legs won’t move. I’m frozen in fear. She walks away, laughing, talking with friends. I won’t see her again until after summer. My moment with Hannah is gone. My moment with Meg is still here. But it’s slipping through my fingers. Be brave, Nick. The thing that matters the most, has always mattered more than anything in history, is love. Meg starts to walk out. I can do this. Michael did it with Mum. People do it all the time. It’s a romantic comedy. She’s at the door. She turns and smiles at me one last time. I still don’t know what to do with my hands.
‘Wait.’
The word just comes out of my mouth. It falls out. Wait. She stops and turns. She looks at me expectantly. My big moment. I don’t know what I’m going to say next. There’s a sudden knock at the door that makes me jump. Someone is knocking loudly and impatiently at my door.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
I open the door and stood there is Mum.
‘How could you, Nick?’ says Mum.
She’s upset.
‘What?’
‘Lie to Michael like that. Tell him I had a boyfriend for no other reason than…’
Mum sees Meg standing behind me and stops.
‘I should go,’ says Meg.
Meg smiles uncomfortably, and then she goes back across the hall. Moment gone.
‘You’d better come in,’ I say to Mum. ‘Let me explain.’
Mum comes in. Meg is gone. Just like that. Moments. Timing.
Part Four: June
Meg
‘Whatever happened to moth balls?’ says Hugh. ‘I just don’t understand. My grandmother swore by them. I remember going to her house in Stow-on-the-Wold as a child and it was one giant moth ball. What happened to those little guys? Why don’t we need them anymore? Why aren’t IKEA selling Swedish moth balls by the truckload? Did all the moths get together and decide they were done with clothes? Chaps, best idea ever, let’s stop messing with the humans and do something else instead. Maybe we can piss off horses or something.’
Keri and I laugh. He’s in the middle of our living room practising a few of his bits for tonight. He’s performing at a comedy club.
‘I have something called varicocele. It’s varicose veins in the testicle. I know, sexy. It can reduce sperm production, shrink your testicles, and make it seem as though you have the testicles of an old man. I’m twenty-nine. Not yet thirty, and I have the testes of an eighty-year-old. Get in the queue, ladies. I probably won’t get you pregnant, I have microscopic balls, and something that sounds like a type of artisan pasta growing inside of me.’
This one makes me laugh even more and Keri is looking at Hugh proudly.
‘What do you think?’ says Hugh.
‘Hilarious,’ I say.
‘Do the other one for Meg,’ says Keri. ‘Madame Tussauds.’
‘Oh, right, yes. I’m still working on this one so it’s a bit raw,’ says Hugh, before he takes a moment to compose himself and get in character. He’s different on stage. When Hugh’s doing his stand-up, he’s a slightly more heightened version of himself. He plays up the posh. ‘I don’t understand Madame Tussauds. I don’t get it. People love it. They come from all over the world to see it, don’t they? But imagine a world in which it didn’t exist. It never happened. Madame Tussaud opened up a small cafe instead serving her famous Tussaud toasted sandwiches.
You’re at the pub one night with a friend. I’ll call him Fincent. Now at this point you’re probably thinking to yourself; You’ve embarrassed yourself there, Hugh. Fincent is not a real name. He clearly meant to say Vincent. Well, you’re wrong. I went to school with a boy called Fincent. Fincent Delaney Marsh. Interesting side story. Fincent recently transitioned into a woman. And she’s still going by Fincent. So you’re at the pub and Fincent says, I have this great idea. A real money maker. What if we create wax-work figures of famous people? They’ll look exactly the same. Same height and everything. We put them in a gigantic room and charge people money to come and look at them. Like a sort of fucked up human zoo. You’d think Fincent was mental, wouldn’t you? Something is wrong with Fincent. Fincent and his house of waxy horrors. You’d be ringing the mental health hotline post-haste. I tell you what you wouldn’t be doing. You wouldn’t be renting an enormous space near Baker Street tube station and paying exorbitant fees to advertise on the underground.’
Keri and I laugh again.
‘That’s it. I want to save the rest for later,’ says Hugh.
