Work Text:
—
From: Amy-Jo, sent 19:05
coming to pub?? xx
To: Amy-Jo, sent 19:07
nah, alreadt pissed, stuck 2 sofa
From: Amy-Jo, sent 19:12
cmon petes dropping by !!! xx
To: Amy-Jo, sent 19:13
buy me a drjnk then well talk
From: Amy-Jo, sent 19:16
be at arms in 30 xx
—
Carla was only fifteen minutes late, and so apparently naïvely assumed she would be excused from all jibes directed at her fragile state. That's not even fashionably late, or even a subtle snub, as Carla was prone to do when she relents to a homely night-out. She'd started drinking around four and had spent the last few hours gently falling in and out of intoxication on her sofa, a flask fused to her hand. However, she'd taken a cold shower upon deciding it'd probably be beneficial to get out of her draughty, rotting flat, and was not firmly rooted in joyless sobriety.
Unfortunately, the same shower had also taken half an hour to spit out enough water for Carla to even attempt to wash her calamitous hair, and so she was now standing in the middle of Amy-Jo's mates in a hoodie and leather jacket with no bra on, bare-legged with sopping hair and smudged make up. It was a miracle she'd even managed to find matching shoes in the rush: possibly the highlight of her week so far.
Amy-Jo cheered as Carla came into her line of vision in the middle of the Railway Arms - bare-legged and bra-less, chiefly - breaking away from what looked like a thrilling conversation with a grey-looking boy, rising to pat Carla on the cheek with glee, casting her ever-judgey opinions into the air.
"Blimey, Carl, you even managed shoes this time! It's so great to see you!" Carla battered away Amy-Jo's attempt at a Doherty Bone-Crushing Hug™ - sarcastic and simultaneously sincere - raking her hand through damp hair and pushing Amy-Jo's sad pout to one side. It was no secret Amy-Jo enjoyed being the put-together and generally civilised friend, Carla's complete inability to speak clearly, dress coherently or remain dry the few perks of their sad friendship.
Subsequently, she didn't feel at all guilty when she flicked Amy-Jo on the ear and proclaimed, rather loudly, that - "You owe me a drink, you piece of shit."
Carla could feel a least half a dozen eyes on her as she scowled, tugging nervously nervously at the hem of her and attempting to glare Amy-Jo into submission. Amy-Jo wandered off to the bar with a smug smile and a flick of her hair at her failure, leaving Carla to shout after her.
"Gin and tonic! Don't skimp, Doherty!"
She spun quickly around, laughing, as Amy-Jo swore at her from behind the bartender - the one last week she admitted to fancying, which was embarrassing considering the sideburns and flannel - only to catch someone on the shoulder. Carla scrabbled at the empty air, watching in horror as a tray of drinks fell in slow-motion to the floor - empty glasses bouncing off the carpet but a couple of pints sloshing their way onto the skirting. She felt beer slop onto her knees, her socks becoming uncomfortably sticky and the stranger's navy trouser legs soaked black, creating the beginnings of a puddle where they had frozen.
"Fuck, fuck," she exclaimed, with feeling, "'m sorry—"
"—what the fuck is wrong with you - thanks a fucking lot, mate—"
She dragged her eyes away from the puddle of booze, head snapping up at the sound of the stranger's curses, ready to defend herself. She was thrown, however, upon being greeted by a sight entirely displaced: certainly, the battered suit and once polished shoes weren't the norm for a Tuesday night at the Railway Arms, which had seen Carla with vomit down her clothes more times than was probably acceptable.
It was the eyes, Carla surmised absent-mindedly, that were distressing - the doe-eyes, wide with upset, the smudged eyeliner. Looking like she'd ripped him a new one rather than spilt a couple of drinks. She felt sloppy - she felt, frankly, bra-less and the cause of great grief.
She winced as those eyes landed on her, and seemed to dull - her face, it seemed, was more upsetting than the drinks.
"You're Carl?" The boy - because even dolled up in the suit, this kid was a boy, doe-eyed and pouting - asked, frowning. He was gazing at her and - Jesus, who did he think he was - looking rather disappointed. Suddenly, she was no longer feeling too sorry for the drinks, or their sodden shoes. She straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes and scowled.
He persisted. "Amy-Jo never mentioned you were a—"
She cut him off abruptly, knowing something insulting was destined to end that sentence. For all Carla would snap at Amy-Jo, she was in a perfectly alright mood.
"Carl, yep, that's me."
The boy's eyes narrowed again, and Carla felt her hackles raising, wondering whether he was already judging her or simply sizing her up for a fight. People seemed awfully inclined to want to beat her up these days. She could be scrappy when she wanted though, small and compact, and considering the boy's slight figure, dandy suit, fucking eyeliner, Carla reckoned she could win this one.
His eyes briefly flickered over her shoulder, however, and softened, dropping the tray onto the table and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Though he still looked as though she were the biggest disappointment since the Nineties began, she felt less like he was going to try and deck her. He just looked sad.
It'd be a lie to say she'd never known a boy so attached to his beer, but she hoped she wasn't that disappointing.
His eyes flicked back to hers, and he titled his head. "I'm Peter, Amy-Jo's brother? I had assumed she told you I was coming."
And there was the she-devil herself to punctuate his snap, rounding on them with two glasses of fucking red wine and a grin. Peter took a step back and Carla scowled again as it hit her: she had come because of Peter, however embarrassing that admission was, had wanted to meet Amy-Jo's prodigal brother. She hadn't expected him to be an arsehole - she should have, but lord knows she never learns.
"Pete! When did you get here?" Amy-Jo shoved both glasses into Carla's hands as she smothered Peter in one of those Doherty Hugs™ Carla tried to avoid, being already a bit desperate for them, before stepping back and glancing around. She laughed delightedly. "And you've already made a mess!"
Peter took the opportunity to glower at Carla as the sour-faced barman came stomping over to clean up it up, soaking rag in hand.
Amy-Jo carried on, oblivious. "I see you've met Carl. Carla," she slung her arm around Carla's shoulder, "this is Peter - Pete, this is Carl."
She looked at them expectantly, but Carla just hunched her shoulders and cradled the glasses of wine, feeling awfully uneasy under Peter's scowl. Peter started tugging at Amy-Jo's other arm and pulled her away, whispering too quietly for Carla to parse but fervently, sneaking side-glances at Carla every now and then as she downed the glasses in quick succession. She shouldn't have taken that shower - she'd rather be drunk now, with the way Amy-Jo's surprised laughter was dissolving into frowns.
She'd had all sorts of hopes for Peter, from Amy-Jo's stories - a kindred spirit, maybe, the person she had come to university to find. It seemed, however, she was not living up to his own expectations.
Her content Tuesday-night vibes were kind of being crushed right now, but, whatever. More eyes were on her now, holding those two empty glasses, standing apart from a conversation that had now escalated into an audible argument Carla was tactically ignoring, and again - bra-less. God, what was she even wearing? She scowled, hair dripping onto her jacket, scuffing her soaked shoes on the damp carpet and pointedly not talking to anyone. The grey-looking boy was glaring at her from a booth, probably offended by her sheer miserableness.
It was not like she had put a lot of stock into Peter, or been excited to meet him. Not at all.
Amy-Jo pulled away from the argument beside Carla, shooting her a sugary-smile and Peter an unrecognisable expression. Making Carla feel terribly small in the presence of two stupid towering Dohertys, Amy-Jo draped her arm around Carla's shoulders once more and grabbed her jacket from the table, making a show of checking her phone. Even from this angle, Carla could see it was turned off.
"Ah, well, Pete. It seems like me and Carl here have been summoned, and Johnny gets right shirty if we ignore him." Carla sighed, resigned to whatever talking-to she was going to get on the way to crashing Johnny's. With the fight drained out of her, she let Amy-Jo drag her gracelessly to the front doors, sliding the empties across the bar on the way. Peter followed them half-way across the room.
"You can head back to mine if you want, get settled, but don't wait up!" Amy-Jo turned to throw a set of keys at Peter, who frowned behind them, eyes snagging on Carla's. She titled her chin and sneered, painfully aware of his seeming repulsion and Amy-Jo's put-upon enthusiasm. He nodded back at her awkwardly, and Carla opened her mouth to snap at him, but Amy-Jo pushed her through the doors and into the street without a backward glance. The cold air was a shock to Carla's system, having worked herself into a state.
"For fuck's sake, what is wrong with you two?" Amy-Jo cried, steadying Carla on the pavement, trying to shove on her jacket. Carla opened her mouth indignantly, but Amy-Jo cut her off. "My two favourite people in the same room? I thought you'd get along like a house on fire!"
Carla could feel an embarrassed flush rise on her cheeks. Amy-Jo side-eyed her.
"You know what? It doesn't matter." She blew out a breath. "All that matters is getting shit-faced in the next hour and keeping you and Pete apart." She spun on her heel, the street lamp illuminating her grin. "We're going to Johnny's."
Carla bared her teeth at her and Amy-Jo laughed, delighted.
"What is wrong with me? What is wrong with your fucking brother!" Carla tried to zip up her jacket, irate, prising the Benson and Hedges from the inside pocket and shaking it morosely. One lone cigarette fell out and she turned her back on the wind to light it. She breathed out smoke and trailed behind Amy-Jo, sighing. "I thought you said he was a poet, not an arsehole."
Amy-Jo's eyes crinkled. "Aren't they the same thing?"
—
There was a note stuck to the fridge, in Amy-Jo's loopy, rushed, almost-illegible handwriting:
I'm off to bus lecture don't fucking fuck with the milk if you dare shitty rerun towers
This roughly translated to: I've gone to my business lecture, replace the fucking milk you drink - you don't even drink tea or coffee you idiot - and if you're still watching Fawlty Towers on my sofa by the time I get back I'll pour it over your head.
Carla will admit to not being completely intimidated by Amy-Jo's threats. The girl was the bane of Carla's current existence, the root of her hangover - and everyone knew the consequences of pouring tequila down someone else's throat, cackling and leering along the way. After running away from the Railway Arms last night, Amy-Jo was no saint.
So that's why Carla felt guiltless about lying upside-down on Amy-Jo's sofa, drinking her milk straight from the bottle and using her TV to watch Fawlty Towers reruns, noodling around on her guitar - those were definitely the opening chords to Lola, weren't they? E - I met her in a club down in old Soho where they - A, D - drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola - oh shit there was a change there - E then A? A then E?
Well, the guitar was Carla's, but it was safer at Amy-Jo's than her own cramped, treacherous flat, so she'd had to temporarily relinquish custody. It would never be her finest hour in these moments, lying in her underwear with someone else's sick in her hair, but these were all perfectly natural occurrences and there was no one around to see them.
Except, apparently - Peter.
Carla yelped in shock as a pair of knobbly knees and mismatched socks replaced Manuel's face in her line of vision, causing her to slide off the sofa and bang the guitar against the floorboards. "Fucking hell!"
Shoving sick-encrusted hair out of her face, Carla righted herself and glared up at Peter from her pile on the floor. Fuck - fuck, well, fuck, ain't it? She'd forgotten he was staying here. No, fuck it - she hadn't known he was staying here in the first place, though the logical part of her mind was asking - where else would he be staying? what else would he do with Amy-Jo's keys? The part of her mind was buried under the edges of a headache, red eyes and clammy hands.
Peter cracked a wry grin, dressing gown swirling around him like a storm, before he blanched and carefully averted his eyes. Carla started again, suddenly very conscious of her previously entirely natural half-nude state. She scrunched up her nose, snapping a bra-strap and watching Peter flinch. She grinned, shoulder stinging.
"Mornin'."
Peter's eyes flicked back to her again, skipping quickly across her shoulders.
"Sorry. Thought you and Amy'd gone to Johnny's, y'know?" He paused. "Wasn't expecting a disaster on my sofa." His easy amusement settled into snideness, and Carla promptly remembered the night before, prior to the binging, scowling too. The undercurrent of inexplicable disappointment, his argument with Amy-Jo. His dulled eyes.
A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the TV and she pulled herself up, snatching the guitar and straightening her shoulders. Peter blushed scarlet at the move, but Carla didn't really funny this time.
"Look, alright, what's your problem?" It couldn't possibly be that she spilt a couple of pints - he didn't even look old enough to have bought them. It couldn't actually be her face, though she was beginning to think it might be.
It was officially Too Early for this, and she was definitely Too Hungover, but the tequila had only exposed her disappointment to prying eyes. If Peter was going to be a wanker about whatever it was, she might as well get it out of the way before she had to go home and get ready for her own pointless lectures. She had an audition tonight, she had shit to do.
"Nothing's my problem! What's your problem?" Pete snapped back, clutching his tea to his chest like a child.
Carla's problem was simple: Carla's problem was that Pete was dissatisfied by her existence, a feeling she usually had to earn through hard work and dedication. She was pissed off because all she had done was turn with wet hair and a smile, caused a small accident and let some petty dreams fly out the window. Really, those were everyday occurrences. She was not going to tell him that though, because she was pissed off.
She threw the guitar on the sofa, ignoring his eyes tracking the trajectory, crossed her arms and glowered, as she did best. Amy-Jo always said she had the face for glowering. The headache that had been simmering flared up violently.
"Could you just fuck off for a bit if you're going to be lairy?" She kicked the cushions on the floor as Peter worked himself into a state, cheeks flushing and face closing off.
"Me fuck off? You don't even fucking live here!" He stormed off into the kitchenette, throwing a sour look behind him. Carla shrugged to the room, that weary feeling creeping up on her, ignoring his rattling around to pick her clothes off the floor. She wasn't going to force an argument with the kid if he wasn't going to explain why he persisted in forcing his misery upon her. Basil Fawlty pottered about on-screen, and Carla though about the amount of cigarettes she wouldn't be able to afford, resigned.
—
To: Amy-Jo, sent 10:48
when the fuck does pete go home
From: Amy-Jo, sent 11:19
in a couple of days, just GET ON i'll be back in 10 xx
To: Amy-Jo, sent 11:20
already out. can u drop my guitar off l8r
—
Missed Calls
Amy-Jo, called 17:21
Amy-Jo, called 17:22
Amy-Jo, called 17:25
"—the fuck do you want!" There was a crash in the background, muffled cursing and a high-pitched noise. Amy-Jo winced.
"Carl, calm down alright, I've got a favour to ask."
The high-pitched noise didn't seem to be abating.
"'m already five minutes late for that fucking audition, a bit drunk and my shower's packed it in, d'you think 'm taking favours right now?"
"Look, I know, I know. Where's the audition?" Pete was hovering in front of her as another string of curses came down the line, eyes wide and looking rather hopeless. Amy-Jo had no pity for him - or Carla, for that matter. She'd probably skipped her lectures, gone to the pub and lost track of time at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson's.
"Somewhere in Westminster, what, you offerin' to drive—"
"—Westminster, great!" Pete jumped. "My way then. Look, have a shower here and you can make it in ten, I just need you to—"
"—oh no you fucking don't, don't say it Amy, don't—"
"—look after Pete for a couple of hours?"
Amy-Jo prided herself on good ideas, but this was obviously not one of them. Pete was still looking pissed off, but she wasn't going to fucking leave him here for her landlord to discover on his weekly snoops - she didn't need to give him a final reason to evict her. Equally, however, she'd been waiting on this date since time fucking began, and if she didn't get down to the café fucking ASAP she could say goodbye to her chances. The cursing got louder.
"Fuck off! No way, that stupid kid's worse than you, Amy, put him on a fucking leash and take him wherever you're goin'!"
Pete was starting to look a little stormy, but a glance at the clock told Amy-Jo that she had no time to humour either of her wards.
"Carl, Carla, love, shut the fuck up. I'll sub you for your rent this month, you can use that stupid flowery shampoo in my shower and if Pete comes back in one piece, I'll have a nice chat with I'm him about respect or rock and roll, whatever it is in your goddamn bonnet." There was a satisfying pause, and the high-pitched noise finally stopped.
"My, who's a bit desperate to get laid?" Carla let out a short laugh and promptly hung up, leaving Amy-Jo to glare down at her phone.
Amy-Jo threw the phone down on the table, turning towards her brother with her hands on her hips, cutting off his "fucking hell, I'm not a kid anymore—"
"Okay, Peter, listen up." He huffed and crossed his arms. For all his brilliance, Amy-Jo had a feeling he'd left his maturity at home, tucked somewhere behind a CD insert. "I don't care if I've let you down by failing to mention that Carl was in possession of tits and a vagina—"
"—you know it's not that, she's just like the rest of them—" Amy-Jo threw her hands up.
"I don't care if she wasn't Percy Shelley incarnate yesterday, she gets in a bad way, alright?" She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and slipped on her shoes as Pete pitched himself onto the sofa and tried to look convincingly moody. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, but it would have to do. "Everything I told you was true. You didn't need to be such a wanker about it all."
She wrenched the door open with a sigh, and in the mirror she could see Pete relenting behind her, tucking his arms around his knees and pouting. Her shoulders sagged.
"Just be nice, okay? The only reason she came out last night was to meet you." Amy-Jo shut the door on Pete's wide eyes and took off down the hallway, staunchly ignoring the sense of foreboding that had nestled itself in her mind yesterday evening.
(Well - the sense of foreboding that had nestled itself in her mind the first time she mentioned Carla offhandedly last Christmas, Pete desperate for some other conversation than Aunt Cheryl's new boyfriend. Carla had been her first new friend and arguably the most exciting thing that had happened to her.
The way his eyes had widened and his teeth gleamed when she talked about Carla - Carla and her guitar, her silly melodies, Carla and her filthy grin, Carla and Lou Reed - well, that should probably have been the first thing to tip her off.
Looking back, she should have probably referred to Carla as something other than my mate Carl, should have probably guessed what would happen.)
—
Carla turned up five minutes later with a baseball cap shoved over a mess of oily curly and a scowl on her face, but looking the most put-together Pete had seen so far - she might even be wearing socially acceptable clothing, he thought, peering at her over the sofa, but he daren't go any closer for fear of her glower. Unfortunately, she had a good face for a glower. Pete couldn't remember if he'd seen her smile yet, and found himself scowling in return without registering it.
"Alright, Petey-boy, I don't have time for a shower now, but I am down on rent this month, so you're comin' with me and you're gonna keep mum whilst I try not to embarrass myself." What Pete assumed was Carl's tough front dropped for a moment, her knuckles white over clutched keys. The earlier phone call had made her seem frantic, her voice fraught over the line, but here she seemed still and docile, incapable of last night's brand of white-hot distaste. Not the same girl who had geared up for a fist fight in her underwear that morning.
He eyed her carefully, thrown off.
She was, at the very least, disconcerting: her moods seemed to swing like a pendulum, change inevitable and constant. She was not what he'd been hoping for, when he arrived yesterday, bright-eyed. Frankly, he hadn't wanted any kind of Percy Shelley figure, as Amy had accused - he'd just wanted someone who had the capacity to dream. Someone with the rhythm imprinted on their soul. Fuck it all, someone who could at least understand his ramblings. He was bored of being isolated from this bizarre decade.
Carla sent him an irritated look, moving no further into the flat, and he dragged himself away from his notions.
In seeking absolute truth we aim at the unattainable and must be content with broken portions. What a load of wank.
He stood up in one motion, nabbing Amy-Jo's phone from the table and deigning not to pursue any kind of argument as Carla spun around around and stomped down the hall, the moment gone. He trailed behind, locking the door and nursing his shattered dreams, all of it - it, Carl, those silly melodies - paling as Carla wrestled a single, battered cigarette from somewhere inside her jacket and barked at him to hurry up.
What were dreams for when heroes had become sour prima-donnas?
—
The next time Carla looks at him is when they finally reach Westminster, curled up in plastic chairs outside what Pete assumed to be the audition rooms, sending irate glares to any overly friendly fellow actors. She was putting red lipstick marks on the end of her cigarette and gazing at the side of his face as if she was angry she was even doing so. He ignored her, scribbling frantically in his diary.
there's something against us it's not time it's not time so goodbye
goodbye goodbye
goodbye
(moz is so rarely wrong & i can feel some elses heaviness on my face so
goodbye?? or do i pretend & (((nothing gold can stay))) not say a
"How old are you anyway, then?" Pete snapped his head up and dropped his biro, laughing incredulously after a pause. Carla frowned, as if her question had been particularly sincere or profound, and turned her head away. Pete sighed, closing his diary and bringing his feet up onto the cramped chair, eyed Carla's cigarette until she turned back around, caught his eye and grinned. She was in limbo again, that content place between pendulum swings.
(No one had the right to have a grin that honest.)
They'd spent a good five minutes standing in line for Carla's cigarettes after they'd gotten off the tube - in silence, no less - enough time that Carla had dropped significantly down the auditions list. Subsequently, Pete didn't feel particularly bad about accepting a cigarette when Carla proffered the pack on the end of her grin. He fumbled around in his coat pockets for a lighter, but was caught by surprise when Carla nudged hers towards him. It was red and plastic. It was the equivalent of the hand of god, reaching out to shake his hand.
"I turned eighteen last month," he finally declared, before quickly lighting the cigarette hanging in his mouth. Carla nodded slowly, considering.
They sat in silence for another couple of beats, before Pete blew out a cloud of smoke. The student across from them - the one who'd earlier tried to strike up conversation with Carla, if "are you my lines? 'Cause I'll never forget you!" constituted as conversation - came to life.
"Excuse me, mate, would you take that outside?" Irate, he flapped his hands in the air, trying to dispel Pete's smoke.
A grin broke out on Pete's face, involuntarily, and next to him, something extraordinary happened: Carla barked out a laugh, turned to Pete and slapped his arm. Delighted, Pete sucked in another long breath, and, leaning forward in his squeaky chair, blew out another cloud of smoke, watching it curl around the student's outrage.
It only got better - Carla started giggling. Brazen, angry, disdainful Carla - giggling. Pete could feel his face stretch in two with a beam, fuelled by the student's shock and Carla's glee. The bloke stood up in indignation, a streak of fury painted along his cheeks, but Pete didn't feel particularly cowed, peering up at him with a smirk, before stretching his legs out into the corridor.
There was a moment when it looked like the man was going to drag Pete out of his chair and try to rough him up, but a call from the end of the hallway quelled the rising dukes. He shot Carla a disgusted look and muttered under his breath.
Pete heard bitch.
Whipping his head right, Pete was greeted by Carla's amused gaze, her eyes hard but her smile easy, and he felt something click into place. Somewhere between the corners of her red smile, the huff of anger as their stranger stormed off and the burning top of his cigarette, something he'd given up on returned to tickle him.
Their shared silence was broken, however, as a woman with a tried frown adorning her face called out from the end of the corridor - "Carla," she appeared to squint down at a sheet of paper, "Bart? Barât? Barat?"
Carla stood abruptly, knocking her chair back, and quickly stubbed out her cigarette on the arm. She glanced at Pete briefly, something tugging at the corner of her mouth, before she strode down the corridor and disappeared from sight.
Pete gazed after her for a few moments, before taking one last drag of his own cigarette and stubbing it out. He contemplated his diary for a minute, but shoved it back into his coat pocket, papers and ticket stubs crinkling, fishing out Amy-Jo's phone instead. He ran a ragged fingernail along cracks in the case while it turned on, but paused as the screen alit, hesitant to open the inbox.
Well - he wasn't meaning to snoop, but honestly, he didn't think Amy-Jo was sending or receiving any texts of colossal interest. The last ten messages were from Carla, after all. His eyes snagged on one as he scrolled through, and his contented mood plummeted.
From: Carl, sent 10:48
when the fuck does Pete go home
He grimaced, but any real damage was salvaged by the time-stamp. His irritation had left as quickly as Carla had that morning, left with a cold cup of tea and the worst of the Fawlty Towers reruns to point out his mistakes.
He scrolled up, one by one, to the most recent message.
From: Carl, sent 11:20
already out. can u drop my guitar off l8r
From: Carl, sent 13:38
u lazy fuck that guitar is my significant other
From: Carl, sent 13:39
fuq i'll pick it up 2nit
The next one was perplexing, and Pete stole a glance to the end of the corridor, frowning.
From: Carl, sent 16:01
yuo know i was excited abut last nigt
From: Carl, sent 16:05
not tht ur not gr8
There were more, of course - a couple after Amy-Jo's call, a couple sent probably sometime during their journey here, as if Carla hadn't seen Pete pocket Amy-Jo's phone. Pete didn't want to read them though, a veritable tombola of thoughts all vying for his attention, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket and stared instead at his folded hands.
Pete was always good at amusing himself: or perhaps amusing wasn't the right word. Pete was always, as his mum kept nagging him, lost in thought - it was very easy to latch onto a notion and surface ten minutes later having zoned out of a conversation, with an affronted companion but a great idea. Pete was tethered to the earth by nothing but interesting people.
Aggressively refusing to think about Carla, and the word she was submerged in, however, only led him to think aggressive non-thoughts about Carla. Not thinking about Carla, of course, led him to think about Carl - or rather, who he had imagined Carl was two days ago.
Carl: a poet, possibly, but definitely a musician.
Carl: whose soul the rhythm had branded.
Carl: a man after his heart, whether he knew it or not.
Pete scrunched up his eyes, heart jumping painfully at the thought, and shook away the images, forcing himself to consider Amy-Jo's advice. Just be nice, okay? Carla wasn't nice in the slightest - Carla looked like she was permanently torn between wanting to rough him up and wanting to cower from sunlight. Carla wasn't nice, but Pete usually was.
There was the sound of a scuff from the end of the corridor, and Pete peered down, taken aback by the emptiness. How many students had trudged past him whilst he'd been deep in thought? A kindly looking old man was squinting at him, bemused.
"Ain't you been called yet, lad?" He called down, and Pete stood up quickly, that ingrained response to authority kicking in. "Or are you just waiting' for someone?" Pete was about to confirm him, but was stopped in his tracks by that sudden notion.
That notion - a jumble of bitterness and disenchantment disguised as a girl - probably wouldn't turn into his great idea, but fuck it. He'd come to London to find himself, among others.
"I was just waiting to be called—"
"—alright then, come on! It's nearly seven and some of us wanna go home, son." Pete grinned fleetingly, and ambled down the corridor, following the man as he pushed through the double doors into a crowded room.
—
Half an hour later, a sheet of paper was pinned to the wall and a flock of student descended.
TWELFTH NIGHT PRINCIPAL CALLBACKS
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO AUDITIONED, GOOD JOB! THE FOLLOWING PEOPLE ARE CALLED BACK:
GIRLS -
SINEAD TURNER
ERIN YOUNG
JENNA BUKOWSKI
EVA ZHANG
CAROLINE ZHANG
BOYS -
ROSCOE WALKER-JONES
PETER DOHERTY
SAMUEL WALTON
AARAV GUPTA
MARCOS LUCAS
JOEY DELGADO
PATRICK BOYD
EVERYONE CALLED BACK SHOULD BE AT THE BOARDWALK DANCE STUDIOS (AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS) AT 11AM, MARCH 31ST - BE ON TIME!! PLEASE BRING...
The edges of the paper were curling on the noticeboard, pencil names already smudged by sticky fingers. Carla pushed through the huddle of student to scan the page, heart dropping at Caroline Zhang. Disappointment was already clenching its fist around her gut, and she grimaced, felt her eyes water. It was stupid, she knew it was, she knew she wasn't a fucking Shakespearean actor, she never would be. She tugged her jacket tight around her, feeling her lip wobble in front of the crowd of grinning students, and, undoubtedly, the "are you my lines?" guy.
Resigned to another night of drinking and lamenting upon another failed endeavour, Carla dropped her shoulders. What a waste of time.
She almost didn't bother looking at the rest of the names, but as she went to extract herself, something caught her eye: Roscoe Walker-Jones. Peter Doherty. She froze. She did a double-take. The lump in her throat dissolved as her heart started hammering painfully.
Carla whirled around so fast she dislodged a hugging couple, eyes searching frantically for Peter fucking Doherty. Pushing through the throng, she peered around back-slaps and fist-bumps before finally spotting the renegade at the end of the hallway, chatting idly with that grumpy old bastard who'd called her acting "wooden" and her lines "lifeless" and "frankly, love, incomprehensible". She could sense that familiar feeling beginning to burn in her veins: frustration mutating into outrage, hope crumbling at petty betrayal.
She'd shared her fucking cigarettes! That was the universal sign of friendship! She'd thought she'd been wrong this morning, last night, when he turned and beamed at her as that stupid bloke had stalked off into the distance. She'd briefly imagine the possibility that Amy-Jo hadn't lied to her.
Would it be so hard, she thought, to get what she wanted, just once?
Peter was still smiling and shaking hands with the smarmy bastard, and she let out an irritated noise, somewhere from the back of her throat. She tore down the corridor and watched in satisfaction as Peter's vapid doe-eyes broke from the director's gaze and found her. She bared her teeth and watched his smile melt into a frown and then - a smirk.
She wanted to tear his head off.
Carla could leave. She could run past, out the door. She could salvage some dignity, maybe. She would be abandoning Peter alone in the middle of London just before nightfall, but she didn't particularly care.
She wouldn't though: she owed Amy-Jo a lot, and in many ways. Reaching the pair, she grabbed the back of Peter's coat viciously, and sent the director an ugly smile.
"We best be off, ain't we Peter? This place is a bit lifeless." She could feel Peter tensing beneath her fingers, pulling his coat and his shirt taut, saw the director rolling his eyes as she tried to reign in any visible emotion. She could hear what he was thinking, loud as you like -
can't handle rejection they're all the same probably on the rag hormonal bint
- but she ignored his smug smile. Peter's smirk seemed stuck in place.
"Apologies for my friend, Mr Rodgers, I hope I'll see you next—"
Hauling Peter through the door, Carla knew she could wipe that smirk away. Nasal laughter followed them out.
—
They stumbled out into the road, and Carla's life was like a broken record: it was certainly around this time last night that she was facing off with Amy-Jo outside the pub, braving her frowns and grins under the orange bask of the street lamps.
There was no fondness here though: she was practically vibrating with frustration, and she knew this was probably the culmination of months and months of rejection and dead-end endeavours, that Peter hadn't really done anything all that bad. She needed a release, though, an exit. Some escape from the pressure that had caused her ears to pop.
She shoved Peter away from her, before wheeling back to him. She stepped back up onto the pavement so she could be eye-level with him, leaning in and raising her fists uselessly.
"What the fuck do you think you were doing?' She knew she was shouting, distantly, and a couple across the street were shooting them nervous glances, but Carla didn't care. She honestly wanted an answer.
"What the fuck were you doing?" The silence persisted as sirens rang out in the distance. It wasn't until they faded that Peter deigned to answer, stepping up to the pavement and crowding Carla in, forcing her to tilt her head back to see his cruel smile.
"I was acting, Carl, couldn't you tell? Branching out, networking, whatever you want to call it. The director was just praising my interpretation of the script. I have to say though, Mr Rodgers had a lot more interesting things to say about your acting, your Olivia - well, not what he'd been expecting from a student of—"
"Shut up! Shut up! Just - shut - shut up!"
In one of Carla's old school reports, one of the ones that never made it home, her tutor had called her an angry young woman, who - if she only applied herself - could be capable of so much more. Carla knew this to be bullshit: her schooldays were at best a blur, but she'd never really had to capacity to be truly angry, that she remembered, though lord knows she'd had every reason to be. She was a ball of repressed emotions, and that hadn't changed. Paranoia fuelled by drugs and drugs fuelled by paranoia, but never - never angry. If anything, she had a tendency to be passive in the face of adversity.
Peter seemed to be bringing out the best in her.
(Peter had probably spent his schooldays as a brown-nosed sycophant, training for the day he could butter up some unsuspecting old bastard to his own end.)
"If I were a boy—" Carla started again, chest heaving and hands shaking. "If I were a boy, none of this would be happening." Peter sneered at her and pushed at her shoulders, receiving the pleasure of watching her go from disgusted to infuriated in one blink.
"If you were a boy, Carla—" It looked like he wanted to hit her. On the trend of being honest, Carla kind of wanted him to hit her too: so she could hit back. So she could feel something tangible. "—they still would have preferred me."
There was a line: the line between the acceptable response to taunts like that, and making Peter bleed.
If she were a boy, Carla didn't have the faintest doubt that she wouldn't have any qualms at all about crossing that line. As it was, there was a huddle of lads standing near, and it wasn't worth the upset. If she jumped Peter - she'd be overpowered and collared.
If Carla were a boy, those lads would circle them and cheer if Carla followed through on her thoughts, would probably rally her until they decided to be humane enough to break them apart and send them on their way. As it was, Carla would be a bitch, a slag and a slut if she attacked Peter unprovoked.
Carla would've made great bloke.
But it wasn't worth it. She stepped back, deflating.
Maybe in another life.
She stepped back once more, to remove the temptation, and watched without pleasure as Peter's eyes widened a minuscule in surprise. They both knew she wanted to tear him down, and Peter probably wanted to be torn down - in the same way Carla got those urges sometimes, to jump off the top of her block of flats, or just stop eating.
She and Peter were stuck in limbo: Carla was tired, a bit too emotional, a bit too exposed, had had enough of her own pendulum temper. She turned to face the road, let the wind whip her hair out of her baseball cap, let her muscles unclench.
If Carla were a boy, she didn't think she would feel guilty about leaving Peter alone in Westminster. But Carla wasn't a boy, would never be, and she only had one friend. She wouldn't be letting Amy-Jo down anytime soon, wouldn't be leaving her kid brother alone in the middle of London. Instead of running off like she wanted to, she turned back to a bewildered Peter without a word.
Passing the lads, crossing the road, turning off at the end of the street - Carla let Peter choose. Ultimately, let him follow her down the street, and down the street, and homeward.
—
Missed Calls
Amy-Jo, called 21:22
Amy-Jo, called 21:29
Amy-Jo, called 22:48
Amy-Jo, called 23:12
—
Unknown No., called 23:34
—
Amy-Jo, called 01:09
Amy-Jo, called 09:56
Amy-Jo, called 10:02
Amy-Jo, called 13:00
Amy-Jo, called 16:49
Amy-Jo, called 19:23
—
Amy-Jo, called 00:12
Amy-Jo, called 08:33
Amy-Jo, called 12:21
—
Pete was splayed on the sofa, strumming the guitar slowly, his hands slack on the strings. From here he could see Amy-Jo stood in the kitchenette, frowning down at her phone every now and then whilst she went through the motions of making something edible, take-away cartons cursed and stuffed in the bin.
Every minute it persisted in staying silent, she would glance up at Pete and sigh, looking miserable enough that Pete could feel his own heart wilt.
Carla's radio silence had begun two days ago, as she walked away from Pete outside Amy-Jo's flat, ducking around the corner of the road. Pete had stared at that corner for a good five minutes after her coattails disappeared, had burnt the bricks into his retina before he'd called it a night. Amy-Jo had been glowing when he got in, ready to gush to either of them about her technicolor Joseph, Carla's absence going unnoticed.
She definitely hadn't been gushing once she'd eked out what had happened. How she managed to figure out anything might have happened in the first place was beyond him, but his face had always been very expressive, and he'd - more or less - regretted what he'd done as soon as the thrill of watching Carla lash out had worn off. How could he help himself, though?
Carla was beautiful when she was angry. All that nervousness, loathing and self-consciousness melted away, leaving nothing but blinding fury behind, directed straight at him. Pete had always been a bit of an attention whore. Even when she had disappointed him, he had craved her full regard.
But now Pete rather lacked anyone's regard. After unsuccessful visits to:
- Carla's bedsit - which was genuinely quite terrifying, cramped and forlorn, with the one window overlooking a brick wall, bed slept in but purse, keys and phone missing.
- Her ex-boyfriend's flat - or, what they could see from the entrance, before they'd been hustled out by a red-faced Welshman, who had, at least, sworn he wasn't "harbouring that depressing fuck".
- The four pubs she apparently frequented - every one, upon learning their intent to find Carla, leaning over the bar and demanding payment for rather hefty tabs. They'd had to leave pretty sharpish after that.
- A record shop, a cinema and a comedy club - all of which fronted by teenage boys who blushed scarlet through their inquiries. Carla, it appeared, had awful taste.
- And as a last-ditch attempt, the library - whose receptionist had nearly pissed herself laughing at their enquiry.
—Amy-Jo had stopped talking to Pete directly. The hours of trudging through London hadn't helped his cause in the slightest, the rain soaking them head-to-toe and hammering the final nail into the proverbial coffin, their return to the flat featuring Amy-Jo shivering, swearing and decisively ignoring Pete.
Worry had previously consumed guilt, but guilt had had two days to edge its way back in, digging its fingernails into Pete's chest. Guilt, he was learning, had sharp, filed fingernails painted a lovely carmine, much like Amy-Jo.
They were stuck in a deadlock.
Amy-Jo emerged from the kitchenette with a sad-looking tuna sandwich on a chipped, floral plate. Pete wasn't particularly hungry, didn't really like tuna and had an aversion to the hideous crockery Amy-Jo had acquired over her time at university, but kept mum as she was, essentially, walking away from her phone and the hideous Carla-shaped hole he'd created.
"I could've made this myself, y'know." Amy-Jo raised an eyebrow.
"I'm beginning to doubt you can do anything by yourself." Pete winced and took the plate from her, pushing the guitar to one side and swinging so he was upright on the sofa. There would be no arguing if Amy-Jo wanted to talk. She sat beside him before deflating onto the cushions.
"I can't believe - fucking—" Her head rolled back and Pete picked bits of tuna out of the sandwich as she stared at the ceiling. "Do you even listen to me? I said be nice."
"I didn't—"
Amy-Jo swatted his hand away from the mangled sandwich and let out a hissing sound, not bothering to look away from the plaster patterns on the ceiling.
"Fuck off, Pete, you knew what you were doing." Pete felt the back of his neck heating up. "You always do." He didn't want to make excuses, didn't want to try to reason anything to Amy-Jo, though he knew he should. He nibbled on a crust, the bread turning sickly sweet in his mouth as he continued to chew the same piece mechanically.
Pete's life was just like that: unsavoury on repeat.
The ensuing silence was broken by three sharp raps on the unlocked door. Without pause, the door creaked open, and Carla shuffled in, shoulders hunched, like a trick of the light. Out of the corner of his eye, Pete could see Amy-Jo spring to life and to her feet next to him, her eyes wide. Had her greyscale world turned technicolor, or was that just him?
Carla looked pale under the lights in the hallway, olive skin washed out and worn. Jittery. She looked, Pete supposed, terrified at her own sobriety, a trait betrayed by her steady hand on the doorknob.
Pete couldn't see Amy-Jo's face, but the days-old tense set of her shoulders melted away visibly, and soon she was clinging to Carla like an octopus, arms squeezing her torpid to flustered, mumbling into Carla's hair. The touch seem to drag Carla out of her head: Carla caught Pete's eye over Amy-Jo's shoulder, and Amy-Jo detached herself, albeit reluctantly, as Carla made an abortive step towards him. He stood up hastily.
Amy-Jo looked between them, and Pete got a feeling of peculiar déjà-vu as a slow smile creeped onto her face. This, he swore to himself, was going to end better than their first meeting.
In any other circumstance, Pete had no doubt that Amy-Jo would be all over Carla, worry rearing its ugly head. She'd paced enough the last two days for that to be viable, but instead, she was edging behind Carla, temporary relief leading her to smile beatifically at Pete for the first time in days. Selfishly, Pete wondered if this meant a pardon might be the horizon.
Amy-Jo gestured uselessly at the door. "I'll just pop out to get some milk, ay?"
Pete fleetingly entertained the idea of stopping her, but her hair and pearly teeth whipped around the door as Carla steeped closer, oblivious. No, he didn't need a babysitter. Pete nervously rubbed his hands along the front of his trousers and drew a breath, as Carla's gaze dropped to the guitar beside him. They both spoke at the same time, eager for resolution.
"Carla, look, I'm sorry—"
"—need help with that?"
Pete stopped short, and Carla hesitated as he did, her hair slipping from behind her ear to veil her eyes. Pete would never have had described Carla as coy, before, but with the afternoon sun filtering through the window and Carla's face divvied up into further shadows, it almost looked like she could be.
He wanted to apologise, he did, but - a blank slate, maybe?
—
Carla hummed under her breath, and Pete tracked her fingers with his eyes, trying to memorise it -
I met in a club down in old Soho where they drink champagne
A - and it - D - tastes just like coca-cola - E then A.
C-O-L-A, cola
E - she walked up to me and asked me to dance - A.
I asked her her name and in a - D definitely - dark brown voice she said Lola - E.
She moved a leg under her, propping the guitar further up, and Pete followed that motion, too.
Carla shouldn't be bothering with drama school, with stuck-up thespians who had more money than sense. Maybe that was part of the reason he'd fucked up her chances with the theatre society. Maybe he was just a cunt.
Pete knew, however, if he should know little else: that she should be playing guitar, she should be playing guitar with him, with her back turned to the shadows and a smile on her face. The smile didn't necessarily have to be directed at Pete, but he'd like it to be.
A - L-O-L-A - D - Lola,
Lo lo lo - C - lo Lola - D, fuck, then E? E.
well we - B7? - drank champagne and danced all night - F7.
under electric candle light,
A - she picked me up and sat me on her knee,
A - and said "dear boy won't you come home with me?"
He'd show her his songs, when he came back to London. And he would be back, as soon as his exams were over, without a shadow of a doubt: would come with suitcases and his own guitar, rather than just a backpack. He'd come with reams of his sloppy poetry and laboured lyrics, his heart and his notebooks wide open to any curiosity she deigned to amuse.
One more trip back to Hexham. Then he would have all the time in the world to convince Carla of the future he'd wanted to share - not with Carl, no, not anymore - but with Carla, who had the potential to be better than anything he'd hoped for.
Well - E - I'm not the world's most passionate guy,
but when - A - I looked in her eyes, well - D - I almost fell for my,
E - Lola, Lo lo lo lo - A - Lola - D - Lo lo lo lo - C -
"Lola—" Pete's head jerked up, and Carla started, her hands slipping off the strings momentarily in embarrassment. Pete hadn't realised how close he had shuffled into her space, but was suddenly very conscious of his hands spread on the floor, an inch from her knees, his elbows tucked around her calves. She collected herself quickly, though, and Pete's heart swelled, her mumbling returning.
(She didn't mind.)
"Lola, Lo lo lo lo Lola—" Lord knows if they were any chord changes now, the flush on Carla's cheeks and her lowered eyes persistently distracting. Why would he need to know the song anyway, if Carla could play it?
"—Lo lo lo lo Lo-la."
Carla glanced up as Pete harmonised, blue eyes bright and after a moment, searching. The room was still for a moment, song cut short on a violent strum, and Pete froze, as static as the sun through the window or the flat's own disarray, a tableau of a chaotic lifestyle. Whatever Carla was looking for, though, after that moment she seemed to find.
She grinned at him, before ducking her head and trying to hide the smile in the folds of her shirt.
Pete leaned closer, automatically grinning back.
—
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First Name: Peter
Last Name: Doherty
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