His 'n' Hers Read Online Free Page B

Marten’s boots, a home-made CND T-shirt (made the week before utilising a cheap market-stall T-shirt, a black marker pen and very basic artistic skills), a charity-shop men’s suit jacket and a flat cap. I think I look fantastic. The outfit is finished off with my Walkman, which, thanks to the tape playing in it (a Billy Bragg album), gives me the perfect soundtrack to feel that I’m in possession of the requisite amount of left-wing political idealism.
    ‘Morning, Jim boy,’ says a voice from behind me, in the middle of ‘The Milkman of Human Kindness’.
    I turn to see a tall, sombre-looking lad, whom I recognise as being one of the many people I’d told my A-level results to the previous evening by way of making conversation. For the life of me I can’t remember his name and it obviously shows.
    ‘The name’s Nick,’ he says, reading my nonplussed features. ‘Nick Constantinedes.’
    ‘Nick, of course I remember,’ I lie. ‘How are you, mate?’
    ‘Good,’ he replies, and then looks puzzled. ‘Are you going to a fancy-dress party?’
    I laugh because it’s the only reaction I can think of to maintain my cool. I can see that he doesn’t mean anything by it. Ordinary people not ‘getting’ it, I reason, is all part of being a fashion visionary. ‘This is the way I dress,’ I explain.
    ‘Oh,’ he replies, and then, realising his mistake, adds sheepishly, ‘I like your boots. Where did you get them from?’
    ‘Afflecks Palace in Manchester.’
    He nods. ‘Cool.’
    ‘Cheers.’
    ‘Did you enjoy last night?’ he asks. ‘I saw you talking to a very pretty girl.’
    ‘Did she look like a Goth?’
    ‘No. She was wearing a Smiths T-shirt.’
    ‘Ah, that one.’ I shrug. ‘She wasn’t my type. Too normal-looking.’
    He nods as if he understands what I’m talking about, and as we walk along we talk about the next official get-together on the Freshers’ Week party-planner. Outside the Barber Institute we come to a halt.
    ‘The engineering department’s this way,’ he says, pointing up the hill.
    ‘The School of Economics is this way,’ I say, pointing towards the clock tower.
    He gives me a cheerful wave. ‘See you around, then.’
    ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘See you around.’
    He walks about ten feet away and then I shout, ‘I don’t suppose you play an instrument, do you?’
    ‘The bass guitar,’ he replies. ‘I was in a band back in Sussex but we weren’t very good.’
    ‘Excellent,’ I reply. ‘Fancy being in a band again?’
    He thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, why not?’
    Wednesday, 18 October 1989
    2 p.m.
    I’m standing inside Revolution, a second-hand record shop in the city centre watching the boy I really liked from the freshers’ disco flick through a plastic box of records on the floor. I’m only here because Jane wants to buy tickets to see some band I’ve never heard of, but I seem to have struck lucky.
    ‘Is he looking?’ I ask Jane.
    ‘We’re not going to go through all that again,’ she says firmly. ‘Just go and talk to him.’
    ‘You’re right,’ I say to Jane. ‘I will go and talk to him.’ I pause, then add, ‘And if you see any dodgy-looking boys in weird clothes keep them away from me.’
    I walk over to the boy, who is wearing the same leather jacket and jeans as when I’d first seen him. He still looks gorgeous. I pretend to search for a record but secretly watch over his shoulder as he systematically rummages through every single box of old records in the shop. When he picks up a twelve-inch single of the Boney M hit ‘Brown Girl In The Ring’ and puts it on a small pile of records next to him I finally see a conversation-opener.
    ‘You can’t buy that,’ I say, pointing to the record on the floor. ‘It’s terrible.’
    From his stooped position he looks up at me. ‘You’re the girl from Freshers’ Night,’ he says, and straightens up.
    I can’t believe he’s remembered me. ‘My name’s Alison Smith,’ I tell him. ‘I’m