Mind the gaffe

It was hot. So hot that for a few feet the air above the concrete promenade rippled and shimmied, causing the bare legs of slowly strolling flip-flop clad day trippers to look as if they were refracted through a fun fair mirror. I sat in the shade on the steps of the lifeguard hut eating a hamburger and wearing a knock-off Frankie Says… tee shirt that I’d bought for a pound in the market. A piece of fried onion escaped from the clammy stale bun and landed in a greasy coil on the turquoise capital F to the right of my chest. I picked it off between my fingers and flicked it onto the ground.

It was August 1984 and I was 15. We’d not long returned from an hour or so of canoe patrol along the sea front and our lifejackets hung dripping over the blue painted railings behind me. The hairs on my arms were salty tipped and bristled in the sunlight above the sticky wind burned skin that stuck out from sleeves that I’d rolled up to my shoulders. Later this afternoon I knew we’d be practising the exhausting half mile open sea swim from the jetty to the hut. But all that was yet to come. Right now it was time to rest.

I shooed a wasp away from my open can of Coke and took a swig of the warm flat sugary drink. It was foul. The door to the hut behind me opened, sending a waft of frying onions and a collection of teenagers out onto the steps. Inside, Relax was playing on the crackly radio as it had done every six or so records for the past few months, the interference not quite strong enough to dilute the insistence of the throbbing bass line. Dressed now in a white tee shirt, rolled up jeans and rope-bottomed espadrilles, Paul sauntered down the steps, hands in pockets and Ray-Bans perched on his shoulder length highlighted hair.

I felt the heat rise to my already wind chaffed face as I watched him scan the beach, eyes screwed up against the sun. A year older than me and effortlessly sophisticated, Paul was the absolute epitome of glamour in my eyes and I had a planet sized crush on him. I scraped back my damp sea-frizzy hair with one hand in what I hoped was a convincing display of nonchalance and feigned riveted interest in something slightly out of focus over my right shoulder.
“Hi Kate. You ok?” he said, turning and sitting down next to me on the steps.
“Ummm. Errr. Oh, err, hello Paul. Err, yes, fine, err, thanks.” I replied, as if I’d been snatched from some distant reverie and was, until that very moment, quite oblivious to his presence. Closer to the truth was that my heart was thudding so fast, the blood pulsing inside my ears so hard, that I thought he must be able to hear it.

Paul had not long finished his ‘O’ Levels and was, temporarily at least, stuck in that no man’s land between sitting examinations and knowing the outcome before he could return to school and take up a place in the 6th form in the autumn. I, of course, still had another year to go, and so we started talking about school and exams and such, he fluent and humorous, me flushed and stuttering. About ten minutes in, he mentioned that he was hoping to take part in the forthcoming school talent contest with a friend. They were, he said, going to perform one of Wham!’s songs, had been practicing the dance moves already. He, he told me, was going to play the part of George Michael, the band’s front man, his friend that of the much lesser supporting role of Andrew Ridgley.

“Oh, that sounds great!” I grinned enthusiastically. “I bet you’ll be brilliant.” He smiled and nodded handsomely at an obvious truth openly acknowledged.
“Of course,” I continued, keen to keep the conversation flowing and to show off my own sophistication of the arts “I’ve seen one talent show before. Years ago when I was in the first year of middle school. There were loads of really good acts, singers and stuff. But I do remember this terrible one, really awful it was. It was this boy, dressed in a black suit that was much too big for him and doing magic tricks. He was meant to be a magician but oh, God, it was a nightmare. Dreadful. Really crap. He kept losing stuff, got water all over the stage, knocked things over, dropped the microphone…”

I could sense a stillness from Paul and turned to look at him, expecting his face to be convulsed with laughter at my witty report of a tragically misguided soul’s belief in his own non existent talent. Instead, his face was quite quite frozen.
“That was me” he said quietly.