Listening Party
Two phone calls before and after the listening party for Up the Bracket
I ought to phone him before this here listening party, Carl thinks, and then he says it, out loud to Edie. ‘I ought to phone him before this ‘ere listening party’.
‘Oh yeah?’ Edie says. She’s pulling plates out of the cupboard, almost ready to serve dinner. She doesn’t need to ask who ‘him’ is. It’s always Peter.
‘I think I might do that now.’
‘Okay. I mean dinner’s nearly ready, though?’
‘No, yeah, I can see that. Sorry.’
She takes a breath, but says nothing. She nods. ‘I’ll keep yours warm.’
‘Thanks love.’ Carl bounds up the stairs. He considers sitting in the chair on the landing - it’s a pink velvet one, placed next to an old trunk Edie got at an auction house - but decides it’s not private enough. He opens the attic door and heads up to their bedroom up there. Here it’s always quiet. The room faces on to the garden and there’s almost no traffic noise. Plus it looks like a boutique hotel. The walls are grey, and the bed and bedding are grey, and there are pops of yellow and white. Carl throws himself on Edie’s side of the bed and leans back against the pillows. Why are they so much fluffier and soft than his? They smell of her, too. He crosses one ankle over the other knee and picks at a thread on one sock.
Okay, Peter. He scrolls to Peter’s number and presses to call him before he can think better of it.
The ring tone is unfamiliar and Carl looks at the phone, wondering if he’s pressed wrong or something. But, no, Peter’s in France, isn’t he. Sequestered with Katia at her family home. Best place for him, probably. Carl pulls at the thread, but it’s not very loose.
The phone rings a couple more times and then Peter’s soft voice comes on. ‘Carlos.’
‘Ello. Hello. Hi.’
‘Now this is a surprise.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and the rest. You busy?’
‘Not overly. Was enjoying a good red wine, but…’
‘Yeah, you’re in France, aren’t you?’ Carl rubs his nose, imagining Peter and Katia out in the garden of the house, sitting on white wrought iron furniture, a carafe of wine between them in the fading light. He’d love to be there right now, frankly.
‘I am indeed.’
‘Well, joyeux Pacques and all of that.’
Peter laughs. ‘Joyeux Pacques to you an’ all, Carlos. How’s it going?’
‘Well, you know. Lockdown. Easter feels no different to the last few weeks have felt, to be honest. The kids have been off for weeks now. Turns out homeschooling is absolutely impossible and boring.’
Peter huffs a laugh. ‘Who knew teachers were so vital to education, eh?’
‘Pay them all a million quid.’ Carl laughs. It’s less difficult than he thought it would be. It’s been a while since they spoke, and he’s never sure which Peter will answer the phone. This one, however, is quiet, sounding a little tired and maybe a little drunk. Soft, voice quiet, answers thoughtful. He’s one of Carl’s favourites. ‘How’s France?’
‘It’s very… French…’ Peter says.
Carl laughs. ‘Is it cold?’ he asks.
‘No it’s been nice, actually. We’ve been in the garden most of the day.’
Bingo, Carl thinks. ‘French bread, red wine, all of that?’
‘Yeah, something like.’
‘Do you miss living there?’
‘Nah, not really. Paris is lovely, obviously, but…’
‘You’re enjoying England.’
‘Currently, yeah. How is it?’
‘Warm. The boys were saying the paddling pool would be good, but that was a bit optimistic.’
Peter laughs. ‘So what’s it about, Carlos? To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Was just thinking, really, about the listening party. Just thought I’d check in.’
‘Bored, or something?’
‘Cheeky cunt. No I’m not bored.’
‘Blatant lie, Mr Barat. I’ve seen the hair. You’re very bored.’
‘Oh, right, yeah.’ Carl laughs, unprepared for that, unprepared for the flirty tone in Peter’s voice. ‘I keep forgetting and then I look in the mirror and give meself a shock.’
Peter laughs. ‘I’ve done that a few times. Did Edie do it?’
‘Course she did, you don’t think I could’ve got it this good myself, do you?’
‘Not even half, Carlos. It’s a fine art, hair bleaching.’
‘I like it, though.’
‘So do I,’ Peter says. ‘From the photo, anyway. ‘S very Andy Warhol.’
‘Charming,’ Carl says.
‘I mean that in a good way,’ Peter protests. ‘Send me a better picture, will you?’
‘Your wish is my command…’ Carl says, hearing the flirty tone in his own voice, and not caring that it’s there at all.
After the album finishes, Carl takes the needle off the vinyl but before he takes the record off the player he sends Peter a message on WhatsApp. It says “dickhead”. But he doesn’t really mean it, so he adds a kiss at the end.
Almost immediately a reply comes, saying “wanker x”. The kiss is reciprocated, at least. The app says “Peter is typing…” for ages, but no reply comes. And then “What have I done now?”
Carl picks up the phone again and rings through to Peter like he did on Sunday. He picks up his cigarettes and lighter and heads outside. It’s much warmer than it should be for mid-April. The back steps have been warmed by the sun. Carl sits down, listening to the unfamiliar ringtone.
It rings for far longer than it should. Peter is, Carl is sure, just biding his time. Making Carl wait. Carl mentally rolls his eyes but stays patient, waiting for a few seconds later when Peter’s voice says, ‘Ello again’.
‘You didn’t really do anything,’ Carl says. ‘It was nice to remember, though, eh?’
‘It was.’
Carl hears the hiss of a lighter and flicks his own. ‘I don’t remember some of it.’
‘Me either, Jiggles.’
‘A lifetime ago.’
‘Withered brain cells.’
‘For both of us.’
‘For both of us,’ Peter agrees.
‘Thanks though, eh?’ Carl lights the cigarette. He’s flush with nostalgia now, thinking about that chaotic, ramshackle time - a time when everything seemed within their grasp, when the world seemed at their feet, ready for the taking. When it seemed theirs. Instead, it picked them up and spat them out and now - here they are. But he’s grateful. A little sad, a little war weary, but grateful. And he was much more of a gobshite back then than he would have ever admitted. He might keep that to himself, though.
‘Any time,’ Peter says after a pause. ‘You just tell me when.’
Carl wishes he could believe that but he can’t, quite. Still, they stay on the line quietly for a few minutes more, each smoking a cigarette and thinking about a crazy time nearly two decades ago.
I ought to phone him before this here listening party, Carl thinks, and then he says it, out loud to Edie. ‘I ought to phone him before this ‘ere listening party’.
‘Oh yeah?’ Edie says. She’s pulling plates out of the cupboard, almost ready to serve dinner. She doesn’t need to ask who ‘him’ is. It’s always Peter.
‘I think I might do that now.’
‘Okay. I mean dinner’s nearly ready, though?’
‘No, yeah, I can see that. Sorry.’
She takes a breath, but says nothing. She nods. ‘I’ll keep yours warm.’
‘Thanks love.’ Carl bounds up the stairs. He considers sitting in the chair on the landing - it’s a pink velvet one, placed next to an old trunk Edie got at an auction house - but decides it’s not private enough. He opens the attic door and heads up to their bedroom up there. Here it’s always quiet. The room faces on to the garden and there’s almost no traffic noise. Plus it looks like a boutique hotel. The walls are grey, and the bed and bedding are grey, and there are pops of yellow and white. Carl throws himself on Edie’s side of the bed and leans back against the pillows. Why are they so much fluffier and soft than his? They smell of her, too. He crosses one ankle over the other knee and picks at a thread on one sock.
Okay, Peter. He scrolls to Peter’s number and presses to call him before he can think better of it.
The ring tone is unfamiliar and Carl looks at the phone, wondering if he’s pressed wrong or something. But, no, Peter’s in France, isn’t he. Sequestered with Katia at her family home. Best place for him, probably. Carl pulls at the thread, but it’s not very loose.
The phone rings a couple more times and then Peter’s soft voice comes on. ‘Carlos.’
‘Ello. Hello. Hi.’
‘Now this is a surprise.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and the rest. You busy?’
‘Not overly. Was enjoying a good red wine, but…’
‘Yeah, you’re in France, aren’t you?’ Carl rubs his nose, imagining Peter and Katia out in the garden of the house, sitting on white wrought iron furniture, a carafe of wine between them in the fading light. He’d love to be there right now, frankly.
‘I am indeed.’
‘Well, joyeux Pacques and all of that.’
Peter laughs. ‘Joyeux Pacques to you an’ all, Carlos. How’s it going?’
‘Well, you know. Lockdown. Easter feels no different to the last few weeks have felt, to be honest. The kids have been off for weeks now. Turns out homeschooling is absolutely impossible and boring.’
Peter huffs a laugh. ‘Who knew teachers were so vital to education, eh?’
‘Pay them all a million quid.’ Carl laughs. It’s less difficult than he thought it would be. It’s been a while since they spoke, and he’s never sure which Peter will answer the phone. This one, however, is quiet, sounding a little tired and maybe a little drunk. Soft, voice quiet, answers thoughtful. He’s one of Carl’s favourites. ‘How’s France?’
‘It’s very… French…’ Peter says.
Carl laughs. ‘Is it cold?’ he asks.
‘No it’s been nice, actually. We’ve been in the garden most of the day.’
Bingo, Carl thinks. ‘French bread, red wine, all of that?’
‘Yeah, something like.’
‘Do you miss living there?’
‘Nah, not really. Paris is lovely, obviously, but…’
‘You’re enjoying England.’
‘Currently, yeah. How is it?’
‘Warm. The boys were saying the paddling pool would be good, but that was a bit optimistic.’
Peter laughs. ‘So what’s it about, Carlos? To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Was just thinking, really, about the listening party. Just thought I’d check in.’
‘Bored, or something?’
‘Cheeky cunt. No I’m not bored.’
‘Blatant lie, Mr Barat. I’ve seen the hair. You’re very bored.’
‘Oh, right, yeah.’ Carl laughs, unprepared for that, unprepared for the flirty tone in Peter’s voice. ‘I keep forgetting and then I look in the mirror and give meself a shock.’
Peter laughs. ‘I’ve done that a few times. Did Edie do it?’
‘Course she did, you don’t think I could’ve got it this good myself, do you?’
‘Not even half, Carlos. It’s a fine art, hair bleaching.’
‘I like it, though.’
‘So do I,’ Peter says. ‘From the photo, anyway. ‘S very Andy Warhol.’
‘Charming,’ Carl says.
‘I mean that in a good way,’ Peter protests. ‘Send me a better picture, will you?’
‘Your wish is my command…’ Carl says, hearing the flirty tone in his own voice, and not caring that it’s there at all.
After the album finishes, Carl takes the needle off the vinyl but before he takes the record off the player he sends Peter a message on WhatsApp. It says “dickhead”. But he doesn’t really mean it, so he adds a kiss at the end.
Almost immediately a reply comes, saying “wanker x”. The kiss is reciprocated, at least. The app says “Peter is typing…” for ages, but no reply comes. And then “What have I done now?”
Carl picks up the phone again and rings through to Peter like he did on Sunday. He picks up his cigarettes and lighter and heads outside. It’s much warmer than it should be for mid-April. The back steps have been warmed by the sun. Carl sits down, listening to the unfamiliar ringtone.
It rings for far longer than it should. Peter is, Carl is sure, just biding his time. Making Carl wait. Carl mentally rolls his eyes but stays patient, waiting for a few seconds later when Peter’s voice says, ‘Ello again’.
‘You didn’t really do anything,’ Carl says. ‘It was nice to remember, though, eh?’
‘It was.’
Carl hears the hiss of a lighter and flicks his own. ‘I don’t remember some of it.’
‘Me either, Jiggles.’
‘A lifetime ago.’
‘Withered brain cells.’
‘For both of us.’
‘For both of us,’ Peter agrees.
‘Thanks though, eh?’ Carl lights the cigarette. He’s flush with nostalgia now, thinking about that chaotic, ramshackle time - a time when everything seemed within their grasp, when the world seemed at their feet, ready for the taking. When it seemed theirs. Instead, it picked them up and spat them out and now - here they are. But he’s grateful. A little sad, a little war weary, but grateful. And he was much more of a gobshite back then than he would have ever admitted. He might keep that to himself, though.
‘Any time,’ Peter says after a pause. ‘You just tell me when.’
Carl wishes he could believe that but he can’t, quite. Still, they stay on the line quietly for a few minutes more, each smoking a cigarette and thinking about a crazy time nearly two decades ago.