Harv materialises behind us, clutching another fresh crop of sambuca shots. He sinks one himself and then thumps another down in front of me. ‘I didn’t get you one,’ he tells Daphne, ‘because I don’t know who you are.’ He sticks his hand out. ‘Let’s remedy that right now. I’m Harvey.’
‘Daphne,’ she laughs, shaking his hand.
‘OK. Daphne. Now that we’re old mates, I’ll go and get you a shot.’
She’s still shaking his hand and laughing. ‘No, no, honestly, I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘You sure? Final answer? All right. Nice to meet you, anyway. This is the longest handshake ever.’ He breaks off and slumps down into a free seat at the other end of the table.
I really can’t face this latest shot. I’m feeling extremely light-headed as it is, and I suspect that inexplicably travelling into the past is a bit like operating heavy machinery: you probably shouldn’t be pissed when you do it.
‘Do you want this?’ I whisper, nudging the sticky glass towards Daff. ‘Because I definitely don’t.’
She grimaces and slides it back. ‘Ugh. No way. Can’t stand sambuca. It was the first drink I ever got sick on. Bad memories.’
‘That’s so true,’ I say. ‘The first drink you get sick on will always be undrinkable. Mine was peach schnapps. Still can’t go anywhere near it.’
She laughs, wrinkling her nose. ‘Peach schnapps. You must have been a classy kid.’
‘Oh yeah, big time. We were about fourteen, I think, down the park one Friday night, and Ross Kennett turned up with a bottle of it that he’d nicked out of his mum’s cabinet.’
‘Classic Kennett,’ she says.
‘Exactly. Textbook Kennett. I think I only had three shots, but even now, just the smell of it makes me feel sick. I must’ve thrown up underneath that slide for about fifteen minutes straight.’
‘Well, that’s a lovely image, Not-Naked Ben. I’ll keep it with me always.’ She takes a sip of her pint. ‘So, hey, you never answered my question before – is acting actually what you want to do?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ I say. ‘I just did this for a bit of a laugh, really.’
When she asked me this question first time round, I vaguely recall launching into a long, boring spiel about how what I really wanted to be was a writer. I think I trotted out the standard monologue I’d memorised for when trying to impress attractive girls, which was full of painfully crowbarred references to Franz Kafka.
This time, though, I decide against trying to conjure up some non-existent self-belief, and ask her a question instead.
‘What about you?’ I say. ‘Do you want to get into theatre stuff?’
She shrugs. ‘Well, I was only helping out tonight as a favour, really. But yeah, I do enjoy it. I don’t know, though … I’m definitely not an actor, and I don’t think I’d be much of a writer or director, either.’
‘Gun-handler?’ I suggest. ‘Last-minute script-finder?’
She laughs. ‘Yeah, exactly. Or maybe … I don’t know. Maybe producer? I like the idea of being someone who helps to make good stuff happen, you know?’
I nod, and the difference between us at this age suddenly seems staggeringly clear. I was a pretentious knobhead, full of unrealistic dreams and unfounded confidence; Daff was modest, humble and obviously bound for success.
She shoots me another one of her wide, bright, amazing smiles – the kind I see so rarely in 2020. I don’t know if this is the exact same discussion we had first time round – probably not – but the general feeling I’m getting is the same. That fluttering excitement at the knowledge that I’d definitely met someone special – someone I’d still be thinking about long after this conversation finished. But also, a strange sense of ease and comfort – like I’d known this person for years, and conversation just flowed effortlessly between us.
She says something else, which I don’t quite catch, because as I glance over at the bar, I see a face I recognise.
A scraggly rust-coloured beard above a tie covered with cartoon reindeer. Two twinkling blue eyes that meet mine as he shoots me a wink …
I launch up from my chair, nearly spilling every drink on the table.
‘Are you OK?’ Daphne laughs.
I’m craning my neck to see through the mass of people surrounding the bar. But he’s not there. I must have imagined it. After all, I’ve just come back fifteen years: why would he look exactly the same and be wearing the exact same tie?
I must be losing it.
‘Sorry. Just thought I saw someone I knew.’ I slump back down, but Daphne’s attention is focused on the other end of the table. Marek is now aggressively drunk and sounding off so loudly that everyone is forced to turn and listen.
‘I’m honestly glad that people walked out,’ he shouts. ‘The truth is, you can’t produce a truly great work of art that is also commercially successful. It cannot be done. The two things are fundamentally incompatible.’
Everyone around him nods in solemn agreement, and I suddenly remember exactly how this bit goes.
Daphne puts down her glass, clears her throat and then asks him, quite earnestly: ‘Do you think that’s definitely true?’ Fifteen heads turn to look at her.
Marek is used to holding court without any interruptions whatsoever, so he’s now staring at Daphne like she’s just poured her pint over him.
‘Er, yeah,’ he snaps. ‘I do.’
‘Oh, OK then. Fair enough.’ She nods and says nothing more. Marek clearly feels the need to reassert himself, though. ‘You don’t think it’s true, then, I’m guessing?’ he says.
‘Well, no.’ She shrugs, apologetically. ‘I think there are lots of good writers who are also commercially successful.’
‘Go on, then,’ Marek smirks. ‘Would you care to enlighten us with some examples?’ Daff opens her mouth to speak, but he shouts over her before she can get a word out: ‘Because, to be honest, I’m not sure I’d even want to be commercially successful anyway.’ She tries again, but Marek is way too loud for her. ‘Anything of any real artistic merit has always been scorned or ignored by the masses,’ he proclaims. ‘Like, look at the Dada movement, right …’ – and at this point, I stop listening and focus on watching Daphne.
She doesn’t seem particularly cross at being interrupted; she just sits there looking at Marek with one eyebrow raised, and it hits me again that I haven’t seen this playful, feisty spark in her in years. If we hadn’t got together – got married – maybe she’d still have it.
‘But isn’t that the ultimate dream?’ she says, when Marek finally breaks off for a swig of snakebite. ‘To make something really good that also resonates with lots of people?’
Marek slaps his glass down. ‘Not achievable, I’m afraid, because most people are idiots. I mean, seriously: can you name one decent writer – in any genre – who’s also commercially successful?’
Daff takes a deep breath and starts counting them off on her fingers. ‘Nora Ephron, Stephen King, Sue Townsend, Armando Iannucci …’ She puffs her cheeks out. ‘That’s four, for a start.’
There’s a beat of embarrassed silence while we all watch Marek consider arguing that these good and successful writers are not good and successful. In the end, he gives up and reaches for a Big Lebowski quote: ‘Well, that’s just like … your opinion, man,’ he drawls.
Daphne holds up a fifth finger. ‘Ah, yeah, and the Coen