Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

My god, the man walking through
the door is gorgeous. Dark haired
and rugged, he reminds me of a
young Mr Rochester, though better
looking and less weathered. Quite
frankly I wouldn’t care if he had two
mad women caged in his attic. If
this is my date, my mother has
surpassed herself.
“He is good looking!” Emma
offers these words and straightens
her skirt. I can tell I have
competition.
I look expectantly in my mother’s
direction to see whether she is
leading this hunk towards me. My
dream man has walked straight past
her and she is talking to someone
else. Even through the smog of
cigarette smoke I know he is young,
very young. My mother is tottering
towards a table and he is kissing her
on the cheek, his arm is draped
about her shoulder and she is
staring up at him, he is looking
down on her with a loving gaze.
“Do we know him?”
Emma looks puzzled. I think for
a minute, and realise that I do. He
went to my school; he is the much
younger brother of one of our
friends.
“It’s Gary Granger…”
Emma looks shocked
“It can’t be, he’s only 17.”
I look for my mother and she is
still under the spell of the toy boy.
So much for ‘working in a school’.
He is still at school! I feel the urge
to drag my Mrs Robinson of a
mother away from her latest beau.
Yet, I also want to wait and see
what happens. After all, he was
supposed to be my date for the
evening, not hers. What is she
playing at?
“They are getting very cosy over
there, don’t they make a lovely
couple?”
Emma is laughing and looking
over at them. I can’t stand it any
longer. I decide that enough is
enough.
“She is old enough to be your
mother!”
I stare at him, waiting for an
answer.
“So... is she old enough to be
your mother too?”
His response is feeble and
patronising and reinforces my hate
for the youth of today.
“She is my mother, and if you
don’t hop it, I’m going to tell your
brother that you have been out
underage drinking.”
After the last comment I realise
that I am too much of a teacher for
my own good. He is looking up at
me with a defiant gaze in his eye.
“You do that.”
As the schoolboy and I eyeball
each other, my mother is slinking
lower and lower in her seat. Gary
isn’t giving an inch and my mother’s
bowed head proves that perhaps I
should just leave them to it.
“Fine,” I murmur defiantly, shrug
my shoulders and head back to find
Emma. She isn’t where I left her. In
fact she isn’t anywhere to be seen. I
scan the seating area, the dance
floor and finally the bar. Out of the
corner of my eye I see her, taking a
drink from Mr Rochester. The
Judas, she knew I liked him. Not
just any drink, it looks like a bloody
expensive cocktail to boot. He is
either trying to impress, or wanting
to see her knickers. What do I do
now? Go and join my mother and
the infant or stand by Emma and
watch my ideal man throw his best
moves her way. I decide that neither
option is a good one, and go to buy
myself a large drink.
The bar is relatively quiet; only a
few pervy old men with last night’s
gravy on their polo shirted beer
46
undergraduate fiction
bellies are leeching by the bar. I feel
a little disappointed that not one of
them sees fit to buy me a drink. I
give the fat bald headed one the eye;
he looks in the opposite direction.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I take my double vodka from the
spotty barman and down it in one.
“Fancy another?”
I look in the path of the voice.
This must be a joke. I’m desperate
but not that desperate. The man
could easily be Borat’s face- and
body double.
“No, I’m alright. Thanks
anyway,” I offer him as kindly as I
can.
“Guess where I’m from then?”
The guy is leaning eagerly
towards me.
“I don’t know, Kazakhstan?”
He looks perplexed and replies,”
No, Cornwall.”
I nod and smile and back away
from this very strange man. I don’t
even look for my mother or Emma
as I hail a cab and leave.
The flat is cold and empty as I
return miserable and deflated. I sit
in the dim light and try and eat the
greasy chicken kebab I have just
brought from the grotty eatery on
the corner of my road. Bits of lettuce
and blobs of mayonnaise are falling
on my dress. I wish I had the selfcontrol
not to buy rubbish food after
a dreadful night, but I don’t.
Two: Room to Move
My mother is still dating the toy
boy. I have been counting; it
has been precisely 3 months and 5
days. I pray to God that it is merely
a platonic relationship. My brother
finds the whole scenario strangely
amusing and has even joked that we
start calling him ‘dad’. This is not
funny and won’t be happening.
Emma has just broken up with Mr
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
A Lesson Learned
Laura Brown