Free Low Expectations by Elizabeth Aaron Page B

cliché. He also plays lead guitar in a band called Tinny Wake Up Call or something equally odd. From what I remember it’s some sort of rock/minimal-electro/grime mélange that I pray I won’t be subjected to.
    â€˜Yeah, it’s very commercial but it pays the bills. Once Tin Can Bang takes off I won’t need to bother with that shit any more.’
    He leans against the wall with his arms crossed. One of his biceps is covered in tattoos; I hadn’t noticed that before. He looks like a walking Levi’s commercial. The kind of manthat men want to punch and women want to go down on in alleyways. Suddenly, I don’t care if his music includes the cries of abandoned puppies.
    â€˜You sound quite confident … cocky even …’ I smile, one eyebrow raised flirtatiously. I try to lean back against the wall sexily, mimicking his pose, but fall over my left foot in the process before righting myself. Luckily, he appears not to notice.
    â€˜It’s not cocky if you’re really fucking good, which we are.’ God, what is it about grown men still utterly convinced they are going to be rock stars that is so damn attractive? I do love a textbook man-child.
    I have dated musicians at various stages of failure before. It’s definitely time to leave when the realization dawns on them that they are going to be living in a bedsit in Willesden for the rest of their lives, teaching guitar to spoilt posh kids in W11 and having the landline periodically cut off. Even if you don’t care how much he earns initially, the depression that results from his unfulfilled egomania will get to you. You will start to see his future. He will spend his late thirties exaggerating his past accomplishments to impressionable but increasingly bored young girls. He will convince himself this is a sign that he’s still got it, rather than the reality, which is that than no woman his own age is willing to put up with his bullshit. By the time he is sixty, he will be one of those alcoholic perverts you once mocked in Sixth Form.
    I say none of this, as it would be unbearably rude and the key to a successful love life is to ruthlessly repress any thoughts or opinions that might cause offence for at least the first six months.
    â€˜I’d say good luck, but clearly you don’t need it. You play what …? Keyboard? Tambourine?’ I let the question dangle in the air coyly, as if far wittier than it is.
    â€˜Lead guitar, I sing a bit too.’ He leans over me, with his hand pressed against the wall at my head. ‘But you knew that.’ He leans his leg between mine and starts nuzzling my neck before we start kissing passionately. This is why I like cocky wankers.
    I come up for air, breathless.
    â€˜Lead guitarists and singers are the worst. Narcissists. Girls really like drummers. They’re not so desperate for the spotlight. Or a bass player, someone able to share the stage a bit.’
    â€˜You’ve got me there. When I want something, I don’t like sharing.’ He pushes me up against the wall. Oh my days.
    We never do get round to making dinner.

The Repulsion
    â€˜Oh ho! Don’t you just look happy as a clam!’ Rose says, as she spots me walking towards their table in The Queen Vic Tavern.
    There’s nothing like a beer garden on an unusually sunny, crisp November day to bring a smile to my face, but there is a bit more to it than that. I take my seat on the bench, taking care to swirl the fabric of my full, knee-length skirt over my thigh-high easy access stockings. I am wearing them on the off-chance that Beardy rings me later tonight after my trial shift at the Newt. Only true lust would make me behave thusly with winter around the corner.
    â€˜Yeah, a clam who’s been fucked repeatedly,’ Sarah adds dryly. Bingo!
    â€˜What a beautiful day, what a beautiful world!’ I put down my pint of organic cider and inhale the midday air