‘Lonely?’ frowned Alex. ‘I never really looked at it that way.’
On stage, the band thundered to a halt amid cheers and whistles.
‘Listen, d’you fancy going for a pint at the Briton’s Protection?’ asked the blond boy. ‘They’ve got a decent jukebox and maybe a lock-in if we’re lucky.’
Alex hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Why not?
The boy was called Jez and he was in his third year at Manchester Polytechnic studying graphics, although he was originally from Blackpool. Within minutes of settling into a cracked red-vinyl booth in the pub, Jez was boasting that his older brother Graham had been in a ‘big’ New Romantic band called Bichon Frise who had been slated to support Duran Duran before Graham had got tonsillitis and had to pull out. Alex suppressed a smile; to Jez, his brother’s war stories of touring were full of glamour and adventure, but they didn’t begin to touch Alex’s experiences of paradise islands, ski chalets and private jets. But then that isn’t real life, he reminded himself. This is.
‘So what d’ya play?’ asked Jez finally.
‘Guitar, bass, piano mainly,’ said Alex nonchalantly, sipping his drink.
Jez laughed. ‘Mainly? What are you? A fucking musical genius?’
Remembering the all-or-nothing attitude of the singer earlier that night, Alex just shrugged. ‘It has been said.’
Jez nodded. ‘Fancy a jam with us lot?’ He nodded towards the door as two more lads swaggered in, both wearing worn suede jackets like his. ‘These pair are in my band, Year Zero. Alex, meet Pete and Gavin. Alex here is a musical genius,’ he said with a smirk.
‘Excellent,’ said Pete, pushing his ginger hair out of his eyes. ‘When are you joining us?’
‘Am I getting sacked and I don’t know about it?’ asked Gavin.
‘Not you, spastic. Greg. We’re hardly going to fire you when you’ve got a car, are we?’
‘Hang on, Greg’s leaving the band?’
Jez looked weary and superior. ‘I’m going to ask him to reconsider his career choices.’ He turned to Alex. ‘Greg never shows up for rehearsal. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either in or you’re out.’
Pete fixed Alex with a stare. ‘You interested?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, but inside he was doing cartwheels. Here was a bunch of cool-looking Manchester-based indie kids who were asking him to join their band. Yes, they could be useless, but they certainly seemed committed, which was half the battle – and they had a car, too!
Alex ordered another snakebite, and as they talked about music, twelve-inches they had bought recently, brilliant gigs they’d been to, swapping secrets about musical discoveries, trying to outdo one another, he felt a little piece of him come back to life. Yes, this is where I want to be, he thought. Right here.
‘Come on,’ said Jez, slapping the table.‘Let’s have another round.’
Alex looked at his watch with alarm. The last train to Macclesfield left in ten minutes; if he sprinted, he might just make it.
‘I’d better get off,’ he said, getting up.
‘Lightweight,’ jeered Gavin.
‘Got to get back to Macc,’ said Alex.
‘Come back to ours,’ said Jez. ‘You can always crash on the sofa. We can’t let you leave the city before you’ve sampled Gav’s home brew.’
Alex shrugged. What did he have to get back for really?
They continued chatting and arguing about music as they caught the night bus back to the band’s student house, a huge orange semi-detached Victorian villa in Fallowfield, a standard student let with swirly carpet and mismatched sagging furniture. He noticed a dark open doorway leading off the living room.
‘What’s going on there?’ he asked. Someone had stuck dozens of cardboard egg boxes on the back of the door.
‘Soundproofing, mate,’ said Pete. ‘The birds in the flat upstairs keep phoning our landlord. One more strike and we’re out.’
Gav smiled. ‘Which isn’t going to happen since Jez banged one of the girls.’
Jez shrugged modestly. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’