Ugly Puggly 98

‘You look nice,’ Dave told Molly.

He wanted to take us out to dinner, but I’d said it was stupid and we could just eat in.

I found myself glancing at Molly as we finished our meal. She’d dialled up the brightness with some kind of red lip gloss and done something with her eye, and she wore a strapless dress, but she looked just the same. Acted just the same. In a hurry. She’d whipped the dinner plates away to the sink and stuck raspberry ice-cream on the table before we could swallow.

‘Aye, that was nice,’ I stretched my legs under the table. ‘We’ll need tae dae it again, wae proper chips and proper fish.’

Molly made something fancy. Fish with broccoli. Ugly Puggly would have known what kind of fish it was. I preferred mine to be battered and to have no bones and to come shaped like fingers you could break off as you watched telly.

She chuckled. ‘That’s too bad. It’s meant tae be special. A goin away meal.’

‘Aye, I’ve been hinkin about that.’

Dave hadn’t ate much either and he pushed his ice cream away. ‘I know, it’s absolutely mental. To hink the morrow we’ll be in England. And then the next day, France! ’

He was wearing a brilliant white baseball cap with a red logo and it was difficult to gauge if he was being straight, because he had to tilt his head, when he was speaking, before I could see the side of his eyes. ‘Bonjour,’ he giggled. ‘President Macron.’    

I rubbed at my knees, leg tapping, and getting restless. ‘Aye, it’s a big responsibility.’ I really wanted a drink. Wee Jim had said it was a non-thinking disease. A quick fix for all ills.  But it seemed to be doing a good job of thinking for me. I didn’t know if I’d make tomorrow.

I feigned listening as Dave went through the list. All the details again of the places we were meant to hit, with all his community of whatever they called themselves Tik Tokkers who thought he was great. Some kind of roadshow, which I just couldn’t fathom or face. It reminded me too much of Radio 1 and the inanity of the Hairy Cornflake taking shite through his beard. I didn’t even have a beard to hide behind, and it was too late to grow a proper one. And if I taped one on, I’d look like a pirate version of an UnHairy Pervert.   

Molly played along, sipped her can of Coke and asked him some daft questions.

Dave took his hat off and placed it on the table. ‘The offers were too good tae miss,’ he squealed.  

I sighed. ‘Ugly Puggly wouldnae like that,’ I reminded him. ‘Yer beginin tae sound like a fuckin Tory.’

Dave remained tight-lipped. ‘People questioning me and my sexuality. Threatening tae rape and kill me. Saying they’ve got my address and they’re gonnae hurt me.’ He shut his eyes as if he was going to cry. Molly passed him a bit of kitchen roll to blow his nose.

He blew his nose. ‘But it’s just who I’m ur. It’s absurd that people hiding in forums on their laptops can make me feel fake or a fraud. I dae struggle. But you know whit, for every message I receive like that, I get tens o thousands or mair tellin me whit an inspiration I um. Lot’s ur fae young people, who like that I’m passionate can show my feelings, because they’re no allowed tae. Whit kind of fucked up world it that?’

Tears filled his eyes. I got up to go to the toilet, putting my hand on the back of the chair to steady myself. ‘Reminds me o the story of the happy drunk.’

His long feminine eyelashes blinked away the tears. ‘The happy drunk, whit’s that?’

‘Yeh mean, who’s that?’

Molly leaned back in her chair and swigged at her Coke. ‘No that story again.’

‘George Best.’  

I let the playboy ponder that when I went to the toilet. I dried my hands on my denims. I was in a hurry to get back.

Molly and Dave were sitting on the couch like a young married couple. She was holding his hand and he was doing all the talking. I hated to split them up. I rubbed my hand together as I sat down in the chair facing them. ‘George Best, eh?’

The playboy’s hand drifted towards his head to adjust his cap, but he left it on the table. ‘Oh, aye, who’s that?’

‘He wiz a hairdresser,’ I told him. ‘That was why he was called Best.’

Molly turned sharply towards me smirking. I thought she was going to give it away. I carried on. ‘Yev probably heard of the Best perm. Old dears loved im. Young wans wanted to be im. He’d o his own hair products. Loaded he wiz.’

The playboy sat still and bit his lip. ‘I’ve heard o that other guy fae the sixties, but I cannae remember his name.’

‘Sassoon?’ Molly answered.

Dave was slow to agree. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well, anyway, they both went tae hairdressin college the gither.’ I carried on before Molly offered any more help. ‘First-class honours they got. But Best wiz the best. He went tae work in Los Angeles. The city of angels.’ I pointed at Molly. ‘And that’s where it happened.’

Dave fell for it, ‘Whit happened?’

‘Cutting hair, goin tae nightclubs, living it up. There’s different versions of the same story.’ I had the playboy hooked. ‘He’s in this hotel, a thousand dollars a night, and he sends for room service. And the guy comes tae the room. And he’s got the most expensive bottle of wine on a tray. Best opens the door in a pair of underpants. Miss World’s lyin on the bed semi-naked.’ I mimicked big tits, hands like claws over my chest, forgetting that didn’t interest the playboy.

I embellished the story. ‘And he’d another couple of Miss World’s under the bed for later. And this wee guy—he wiz fae Scotland, brings in the tray and puts it down beside a suitcase stashed with a million dollars spillin oo it. And he said tae him, “Where did it aw go wrang, Georgie?”’

Molly offered a dutiful hiccup of a laugh.

Dave’s lips were drawn over his teeth somewhere between a grimace or a wan smile. ‘Whit does it mean?’  

I tried to explain. ‘The Happy drunk that’s whit a guy in a meeting said we aw ur, or were chasing. We aw ur tryin tae recapture oor youth. And the wee guy, the bottle carrier, he’s the Unhappy drunk, knockin at the door. Askin tae get intae the party.’

‘Got it,’ said Dave in an upbeat voice, which suggested he didn’t.