and she was never shy to admit how much she wanted to visit home, something I perhaps tend to forget. It makes me dislike pieces of myself more and more. I can’t be sure what Lisa’s reasons are for not coming back sooner, but I’ve always presumed it’s a mixture of being there for Emma and trying to start a family of her own. Plus Lisa isn’t good at going back. If only I could follow in her footsteps, just a bit, like.
‘You can’t just take her away from her home,’ I say, quietly.
‘What’s she got here?’ Lisa asks.
Emma squeezes me, slipping her hand into mine.
‘She’s got me,’ I say.
Then Lisa takes my other hand.
‘But, what have you got here?’ she asks, the bluntness in her voice now softened.
Nothing, I think.
And that’s just what I say. Nothing.
It’s not ideal to go out drinking the night before an early shift.
And with no money.
But when Griffo says he’s paying, he always pays. I don’t like taking the piss though, and won’t be staying out long. After the family meeting of the decade, I just need a stiff pint. And maybe a shot of JD.
Lisa and Paul drop me off at the Pacific Arms on the way to some big Victorian house in south Liverpool they’ve rented on Airbnb, sharing with Emma and her brood. Paul expresses his love of the decor and despite it having five bedrooms, calls it ‘quaint’. Lisa doesn’t speak much during the journey apart from asking the odd question about my job and my flat (‘Still there?’ applying to both). She makes a remark about how I shouldn’t be renting, it’s such a waste. I hear her complain to Paul about the weather, saying something about how she doesn’t miss ‘this’.
‘Don’t they have rain in Florida?’ I shout from the back seat.
‘Shut up, Jim.’
‘Sorry, it’s just I’m sure I read somewhere that Walt Disney invented big heavy rain clouds to appear once a day so it pisses down and makes everywhere look green and lush. Is that not true?’
‘Just shut up, Jim.’
Griffo’s got a pint waiting for me. I almost cry with happiness.
Snowy leads us all in a ‘cheers’ and gives a short speech about something and nothing. He’s wearing the latest Everton shirt and his trackie bottoms, his usual attire for mid-week drinking unless we go into town. Griffo keeps his smart coat on, long and bulky, which I always like to believe has pockets filled with wheels and deals. In school, he used to keep Refresher bars in his blazer and sell them for 7p. He insisted he was making a profit and we had no reason not to believe him, as much as Mikey tried to prove him wrong. And now, with his loose tie patterned with Pooh Bear and honey pots, Mikey’s still in his teacher’s uniform, glasses resting on his nose. I remove my fleece and tie it around my waist.
‘Aaaannnnd!’ Snowy goes on. ‘Drum roll, please!’
We tap our hands on the table we’re sat at, our spot, in the corner next to the quizzie. Tonight we’ve got our pick of tables, it being a Monday. The place is dead except for a few old regulars at the bar, sipping a bitter, reading the paper, watching the footy news. Snowy blows a pretend trumpet with his fists and gives one final bang on the table, prompting us to stop and listen.
‘Now’s the time for us all to open our ears – and our hearts – to hear our very own Jimbo’s story about … Zara.’ Snowy waves his hand above his head, painting an imaginary rainbow, and repeats Zara’s name as if she’s some sort of moon goddess.
How does he know her name?
Oh.
Shit.
Helen.
What else has Helen told Snowy? I hope his intentions to propose haven’t been ruined by …
No. No, no, no. She would never. I know Helen inside out and she’d never tell Snowy about us, or about what could’ve been us. Of that I’m sure. Snowy’s elbowing me over and over to the point where I want to wallop him.
‘Jimbo,’ Mikey says. ‘Spill. I need a bit of juice. Not only did I have to do detentions after school today but Tori’s giving me grief about me not wanting to go to her ma’s for Chrimbo. It’s November. Who talks about Chrimbo in November? Who? I’ll tell you who. Crazy bitches. That’s who. And now I’ve got to commit to listening to her and her ma slag off the Queen and