Free Clapham Lights by Tom Canty Page A

up.
    Mark refuses the offer of a tray but after a failed attempt to carry all of the drinks, he downs one pint of Glasnost and necks one of the double shots, which makes him splutter.
    He sits in a booth in the middle of a row parallel to the bar and reads the food menu. His finger lingers over the ‘St Petersburger’ but he puts it down and stares at the mural of Yuri Gagarin on the ceiling.
    ‘Hello,’ says a squat, muscular woman in a low-cut black top.
    ‘Hi,’ Mark says, half-ignoring her.
    ‘How are you?’
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘Can I sit down?’ the woman asks, her jaw flexing.
    ‘Sorry, I’m expecting somebody,’ Mark says bluntly.
    ‘Mark, it’s me. Claire.’ She points to her face which glows with fake tan and is covered in an uneven layer of shimmering blusher. She has short brown hair and a long fringe swept over the right side of her face, partially covering her eye.
    ‘Claire. I knew it was you,’ Mark bumbles. ‘I was joking. How are  you?’
    ‘Good thank you. How are you?’
    ‘Yeah, fine.’
    She flattens her skirt over her powerful thighs and shuffles onto her seat. Her chest is solid muscle and a silver pendant dangles from her neck.
    ‘Have you been here long?’ she asks, looking at his two empty shot glasses and half-drunk pint.
    ‘I got here a bit early. I only live up the road. Did it take you long to get here?’
    ‘No, it’s only two stops on the train from Balham.’
    ‘You live in Balham? Oh yeah, I remember you saying now.’ His tone is flat and he keeps looking away.
    ‘I remember you trying to invite yourself back there on Saturday night,’ she says, smiling.
    ‘Yeah, I was very pissed.’
    ‘It was funny. I don’t think I’ve ever been chatted up in a kebab house before.’
    Mark takes the drinks menu.
    ‘I love Clapham,’ Claire says. ‘There’s always something going on, it’s really fun.’
    ‘Yeah it’s all right. But you get a lot of twats around here as well. Do you want a drink? I’ll get them.’
    ‘Oh, could I have a cocktail?’
     
    Mark drinks his last shot, shudders, and places the sixth empty back on the wooden wheel.
    ‘I
love
Russian Roulettes,’ Claire says. ‘Let’s do another one.’
    ‘No, no I can’t. I’ve got to be at work early in the morning.’
    ‘Lightweight. Finish your pint. I’m one ahead of you now. My rugby team would drink you under the table.’ Claire glugs her beer and bangs the glass down on the table. ‘You never told me what you do, Mark.’
    ‘My job? Finance - in the City. I’m an investor relations chief executive . I…’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘How about you?’
    ‘I’m a PA at Mutual Equitable, the insurance company.’
    ‘Really,’ Mark says, uninterested. ‘How long have you been there?’
    Claire rolls her eyes. ‘Too long. Since I moved to London, in 1990.’
    ‘1990?
Eighteen years
?’
    ‘I
am
thirty-nine, Mark.’
    ‘Thirty-nine?
’ he says in disbelief. ‘You don’t look that old.’
    ‘Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment. I did tell you this the other night.’
    ‘Did you?’ he mutters, checking his watch.
    Claire takes her mobile from her Fitness First rucksack and reads a text. ‘It’s my son.’
    ‘You’ve got a kid as well? Is he with a babysitter?’
    ‘Babysitter?’ Claire says, laughing. ‘He’s a bit old for that. He’s at university.’
    ‘What?’ Mark says, his face contorting.
     
    It’s quarter past ten and Chernobyl is now full of young professionals either wearing suits or distressed jeans and t-shirts.
    Claire leans in and licks her lips. ‘Why don’t we finish these and then head back to yours?’
    ‘Umm, it’s still early. Let’s have another drink. I’ll get table service,’ Mark says, drunkenly looking around for a waitress.
    The music goes up several decibels and Mark drums his fingers on the table.
    ‘Who are all those men?’ Claire says, scanning the murals on the walls.
    ‘That bloke above the bar in the cap is Lenin,’