One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night by Brookmyre Christopher

Author:Brookmyre, Christopher [Brookmyre, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780748131983
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2011-06-15T16:00:00+00:00

‘Classy stuff, eh?’

‘Simply the best,’ replied Matthew.

Opening the sliding glass doors to the balcony, she discovered with a mixture of disappointment and amusement that there were no chairs out there. She had a look behind her at the room’s two-seater sofa. It looked just the ticket but it was going to be a job moving it.

‘Floor all right?’

‘Aye, grand.’

Matthew poured them a tumbler-full of champagne each and they sat down on the concrete floor, backs against the balcony, facing into the room. The submerged illuminations of the Lido caused rippling patterns of light to play on the building’s walls. The effect reminded Simone of dining-hall school discos, an impression enhanced by the Culture Club music booming from across at the Laguna.

‘Gavin’s special reunion-party Eighties compilation,’ she remarked. ‘He made it himself on recordable CD. It’s quite a line-up, let me tell you. Thompson Twins, Kajagoogoo, Howard Jones, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran – all the greats.’

Matthew laughed. ‘I think I experienced a different Eighties, musically. Probably just as embarrassing, but … different.’

‘Let’s not open up that particular treasure-chest of memories, shall we? I was a pseudo-Goth. I had all the records but my hair was too fine for back-combing. Had to make do with a Sisters of Mercy t-shirt and bad eye make-up. I could pull that part off, but not necessarily by intention.’

‘I’ve a very vivid image of you going around in a Clash t-shirt,’ Matthew told her, causing a tingle down her spine. She remembered the t-shirt herself, even remembered buying it in the old Virgin in Union Street with a birthday record-token, along with the 12-inch of ‘Vengeance’ by New Model Army. But the fact that he remembered her wearing it made her feel, well, she wasn’t sure. Touched, flattered, regretful all at once. If onlys.

‘Oh Jesus, what’s this?’ he asked as another not-so-golden oldie began thumping from across the Lido. ‘I don’t believe it. “Break My Stride”. Christ. That skinny wee guy with the bad ’tache. Matthew Wilder, that was his name. This isnae nostalgia, this is recidivism.’

He began to sing along, moving his hands to the moronic beat. Simone was doubled with laughter, trying not to choke on her champagne. Then he got to his feet and began dancing, beckoning her to join him, the pair of them useless with giggling.

‘Oh, we’re away noo,’ he said. ‘Look, mammy, I’m dancin’!’

‘Oh God no, stop,’ she implored, unable to continue. She squatted on the floor once more. ‘It’s too awful for words.’

‘What? The music, or my dancin’?’

Matthew sat down again and took a sip from his drink, then looked across at her with the kind of easy smile she hadn’t shared with a man for years. It wasn’t too late to be pals, he’d said. She and Gavin had never been that. She leaned over and kissed him. It was soft, tentative, fragile. Precious.

Oh shit.

When she opened her eyes she was relieved to see that he didn’t look bewildered or appalled. Surprised, certainly. Even a little afraid.

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