Ch. 4 Daytime drinking

So I say I went to his local pub. It actually wasn’t that easy.

I do have a husband. Family. Responsibilities. Quite a responsible job. At some point these inconvenient truths waded into my pubescent fantasies; friends pointed out quite rationally and several times that I was losing my marbles and, shamed into it, I reluctantly got a hold of myself. Cracked on with work. Took care of my kids. Ignored that message on my blog and reminded myself that my little world was a world away from his altogether larger world.  And so time passed.  Christmas came and went, the weather got colder, I stopped checking my blog. My Twitter feed became a little less of an essential item to check and check and check again.  And I gradually welcomed reality back into my life. It was all a bit ridiculous, I said to myself, in fact, a lot ridiculous. This is real life.  Homework with the children. Feeding a neighbour’s cats. Book club.  Hanging out washing. Doing the weekly shop.

Yes that’s what I’d like to say happened, but then we are talking about Liam Gallagher here, and not one but two seemingly random meetings that have come out of nowhere. He actually kissed me twice. Not an easy thing to rationalise and put into perspective. How did this happen? Was it just luck? London is funny like that; the people you meet seemingly randomly can lead to all sorts of unexpected consequences. I certainly felt lucky sitting next to Liam’s PR girls on the night of those awards. I would be surprised if they felt the same way; I probably made a complete dick of myself. They probably felt they’d been dealt a bad hand stuck next to me for 3 hours.

Maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe I don’t even believe in luck. Or fate. Maybe it was just a crazy coincidence. I have morphed from average suburban working mother to superfan in a matter of months – I’m not proud of it, merely stating a fact.

So I was falling off my ergonomic office chair wasn’t I. And I did. It didn’t take a lot of googling to work out where his local is and one afternoon I found myself in the neighbourhood quite by chance. Well I say that, I actually cleared an afternoon in my diary, took a tube completely out of my way for the best part of 40 minutes to end up in his neighbourhood quite by chance. Walked around a bit by myself, felt very alone and started questioning my mental health. The clouds were heavy with rain and it was one of those grey London days where it never seems to get quite light. The red brick mansion blocks loomed high on either side of the treeless street on the way up the hill from the tube and it all seemed quite oppressive, not leafy and moneyed as you’d expect. But maybe it was just my mood.

I did find the pub and I peered in the window. It was very dark, heavy wood everywhere, virtually empty at 2 in the afternoon on a weekday. Course it was empty.  I went in anyway, heart thumping, feeling very exposed and ordered myself a glass of red.  As you do, in the middle of the day when you are miles from home with no particular plan in mind.  It was an old-school kind of pub with a kettle not a coffee machine; given my rattled state of mind I was happy to self-medicate with alcohol that afternoon.

There was no indication I was actually in the right place; I don’t know what I was expecting, a signed 10×8 of the man in a clip-frame by the bar or something? A blue plaque? I was looking for some indicator but didn’t find it.

Apart from 2 mums in the window of the pub with toddlers, pushchairs and a half empty bottle, and several old men scattered around reading the paper, I was alone in there.  Fleetwood Mac was on the jukebox and the barmaid looked bored, scrolling up and down on her phone. The mums and kids were making a lot of racket and I felt momentarily wistful for a time not so long ago when I had toddlers – then quickly banished the thought. There isn’t much tempting about returning to a time of stair-gates, sterilising and CBeebies, nostalgia apart. I’m glad to be out the other side. Out the other side and parked in a pub in north London hoping to bump into a famous person that is, oh yes the possibilities are endless now the kids are that much older, I thought savagely.  What on earth was I doing here.

I gulped down my wine, which I had optimistically stuck on a tab. Paid the bill quickly.  Somehow being in a pub on one’s own as a woman is still awkward; it still looks like you’ve been stood up regardless of your age and appearance, well that’s how I feel anyway.  Coffee shops are the opposite, but in a pub a woman on her own just looks a bit sad and dejected.

Thank goodness I was way up in North London and far from anyone I knew – imagine if I got caught by someone sitting here hoping to see a celebrity, I thought. My cheeks went pink imagining how a conversation with any one of my friends or family might play out. This all felt a bit contrived and nothing like as spontaneous as our previous two meetings, and I lost my nerve.  It was madness, I was embarrassing myself.  I had to get out of there. What if he actually walked in, what was I actually going to say to him? I had no plan at all. I just wanted to go home.

With new resolve and a sense of purpose, I was packing up my bits and pieces visualising all this horror when the mums raised their voices in greeting and I heard the toddlers yelling loudly at newcomers to the pub. The door opened and an overloaded pushchair tipped backwards – hilarity ensued. More pissed up mummies and over-excited snotty kids arriving presumably.  Jesus I thought, get me out of here.  With my head tucked into my parka I made for the entrance, crowded with further pushchairs and mothers. I swung past a couple of people on the way out, we clipped shoulders and my oversized bag got caught on the handle, preventing any of us from moving ahead, which I furiously tried to extricate. I hate this bag, it’s like it was designed to catch like a fishing hook.  A flurry of sorry’s followed and then someone said my name.

I looked up and there he was, right in front of me, looking surprised but rather delighted. I was so unprepared and astonished I’d actually tracked him down that I blurted a hello, but the momentum of the swinging door kind of kept me moving past him as he said something unclear back at me, and then I was out in the street, leaving him inside, squinting after the darkness in the pub.  A pause followed and I stood outside wondering if he’d come back outside – I wasn’t going to head back into that mummy mayhem and try and have a sensible conversation – and luckily the door swung open again and all of a sudden Liam Gallagher was facing me outside in the street. He was wearing a blue cagoule, dark jeans, the desert boots again.

“Carolyn! What the fuck are you doing up here?” Never one to mince his words. I felt excitement rising up in my gut hearing that foul language again. Nobody famous talks like this anymore, or at least peppers their language so lavishly with expletives like Liam Gallagher. It never stops being a novelty. Makes me feel young again for some reason and I always want to laugh when I hear it.

“I, uh, had a meeting with a client,” I lied, feeling the blood rise up my neck and rest on my cheeks. I am a hopeless liar.

“Hmm,” he said looking doubtful. “Fuckin good to see you man!”, he said, “I tried to get hold of you after the uh, incident..”

“Did you?” I asked innocently, blinking at him. Hard-to-get instinct kicked in in spite of being caught out, caught stalking a world famous rock star. “I didn’t realise.”

He smiled and said, “Let’s get a coffee.” I nodded, my heart pounding, stomach churning with butterflies.

What were the odds he’d actually turn up at the pub the only time I went to find him? He must have a lot of time on his hands. We walked a few doors down and I heard a shout of Liam! from the pub but he seemed quite determined to escape the attention of all those mothers – what on earth was that all about? A more unlikely setting I can’t imagine for the hard drinking, foul-mouthed former Oasis frontman with grown up kids. I would grill him on this later.

We settled in the corner of an Italian café, left alone again – North London treats its A Listers with real disdain, you wouldn’t get this where I live – and Liam said, “So they charged me with fucking driving with undue care and attention you know,” sipping his coffee.

“You’re kidding! You didn’t do anything, Elsie ran out in front of you! I think that’s really unfair. What happened next? I never heard about it in the press…” My voice petered out. I was still in a daze. Was this actually happening?

“No, well that’s why lawyers make so much fuckin’ money, fuckin’ ghouls,” he scowled. “I never want to see another one as long as I fuckin’ live.”

I didn’t want to pry and said nothing. Not really my business. But let’s be clear. Liam Gallagher isn’t my business. What the hell was I doing? I should have been doing domestic things, work things, mummy things myself, not consoling the ex-frontman of Oasis in a coffee shop miles from home. While I felt some compulsion to get the hell out of there, I couldn’t move a muscle. He looked absolutely beautiful, even at close range with a deep frown and a few days’ stubble. God was just showing off when He made Liam Gallagher.

There was a pause. I was about to ask him about the mothers in the pub when he said suddenly, “Listen can you drive?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Alright! Show off!” He gave me a mock scowl and a wink.

“No I didn’t mean –“

“I’ve got a car round the corner, want to get out of here?”

“Yeah!” I didn’t mean to sound this enthusiastic.

He nodded to the owner, left some change on the table. We walked a few hundred yards and sure enough there was a glorious 2 door, dark blue Mercedes 500SL cabriolet, a classic 80s model I have always admired, in pristine condition. It had obviously been restored, resprayed, new fabric roof, chrome gleaming.

What a class act. He might be a terrible driver but he has amazing taste in cars. Liam passed me the keys.  Let me be your middleman, I thought to myself, sliding in behind the wheel. I turned the engine over and my nerves evaporated. I sighed with happiness. Could it get any better than this?! If there is one thing I love doing it’s driving, and as my world famous passenger was a known menace on the roads I felt in control for the first time throughout this whole bizarre episode.

The car was a joy to drive and we headed north, stop starting through Highgate, out through the dreary post war sprawl of the north circular and pretty soon we were on the M1 making good progress, Liam rooting around the foot well looking for cassettes to put into the ancient stereo, chatting easily about music, the band, his family, his kids, making me laugh out loud. He talked about Noel and said nothing I hadn’t already heard him say publicly about that situation, it was really very sad. I’d hoped it was all a big publicity stunt. He was surprisingly good company – he doesn’t come across as the most articulate rock star but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have plenty to say. I let him talk, laughing at his jokes, waiting for a good moment to say,

“…..Where are we going?”

“Little place I know up north. Fancy it?”

I nodded. Of course I did. But now was the time to admit what had been on my mind since I cleared the North Circular.  I had childcare issues looming; my kids would need collecting from after-school club on the other side of London in a few hours.  Pressing as this was, I was not about to ruin this incredible situation with a few silly real-life details. I gulped, realising however that I couldn’t even discreetly make a phone call from the behind the wheel of a classic sports car in the first lane of the M1.

“…You know what I mean? I mean, fuckin, come on!” Liam looked sideways at me, gesturing wildly, hoping for a response to the end of whatever story he’d been telling. I’d tuned him out worrying about all this.

“Er, Liam look I’m sorry – I have a little problem here,” I said, changing lanes. The driver in the car on the offside did a double take when he saw who was overtaking him and waved at Liam with gusto. My co-pilot ignored him and asked me what the matter was. I explained sheepishly and he said – give me your phone.

I gestured to my bag on the floor, and not for the first time Liam Gallagher was rooting around my grotty handbag. Oh why oh why had I not brought out a nicer, newer one this morning, I wailed internally.  I winced watching him rummage amongst crumpled tissues, a Happy Meal toy, various kids snacks, some that I know were half-eaten, and I really cringed when he produced a cheque book and said, ‘Seriously?’ I sputtered that it was rude to go through a woman’s hand bag and he said with a wink, ‘You’re not just any woman Carolyn.’

My stomach did an involuntary cartwheel at such an unexpected compliment and then with my phone in his hand he got me to reveal my security number and asked for the name of the childminder.  He punched the details in. I changed lanes again and as if in a dream I heard him say in a perfect, clipped Home Counties voice, “Hello? Yes I’m sorry but Carolyn won’t be back on time tonight, she has a dinner date with Liam Gallagher, which simply can’t be moved. He will hit the roof if we have to reschedule again. Please can you contact the next of kin to arrange further childcare. Yes, I realise that but quite frankly I couldn’t give a fuck. Many thanks.” And he hung up, raised his eyebrows at me and said, “There. Not that hard is it.”

I looked back at the road, stunned, feeling a familiar, utterly maternal combination of liberation and guilt, only in a very unfamilar, unorthodox situation. What on earth is going to happen at home now, I thought, shrinking at the wheel in horror. I should have pulled over, taken control and done the responsible thing. But I am no hero. It was selfish I know, and I would end up probably very sorry once all this was over.  But I said nothing.  Kept driving. Put the drama unfolding in my domestic life in a box labelled ‘Tomorrow’, and looked across at my passenger, now busy slapping his hands to the music on his knees nodding and humming. Imagine going through life being Liam Gallagher, I thought. The possibilities really are endless. It made my head spin.

It was late afternoon and we were in real open country by now, well beyond the M25, heading into Oxfordshire on the A41, gentle green hills and sandstone villages every few miles. Cosy pubs and chintzy gift shops and an overabundance of outrageously expensive kitchen shops in this part of the world for some reason. Need a salad bowl/egg timer/funky knife set? Look no further than the Cotswolds.

Turn off here, he instructed me. A few more left and right turns into a deeply rural area. Down a gated dirt track with a sign lit up at the entrance that in the twilight that I couldn’t make out clearly, and we pulled up outside what looked like a hunting lodge with a gravel driveway, glowing with warm lights, heavy curtains and a huge fireplace. Through the leaded windows a few people were gathered at the bar, laughing and raising glasses. The place looked expensive and very inviting. Not the kind of retreat I would expect Liam Gallagher to neither know nor care about actually, he was full of surprises. But it did look private and these days Liam wasn’t one to be seen at the best parties, so perhaps this suited him.

We headed inside and I took a deep breath and relaxed. I couldn’t do much about whatever was happening at home, but whatever was about to happen next I knew I was going to enjoy myself.  He ordered a bottle of Malbec and 2 enormous glasses and left me at the bar for a few minutes.

He came back in with a swagger, clapped his hands together and said with a smile, ‘Nice one!’ We settled into a booth near the open fire. Few people were around and it was now dark outside. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.

“Something very sexy about a woman who knows how to handle a big motor,” Liam was saying as he filled my wine glass. “Know what I mean?” he added, giving me a look that suggested he wasn’t talking about cars at all. “Is that right,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Well seeing as I can’t even fucking drive, yes, for a variety of reasons,” and I felt his leg press hard against mine. The light fell across his face emphasising his cheekbones and strong jaw, and I gulped, not for the first time since our story began. He was such a knockout even now, 20 years later. How on earth did I get this lucky?

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for fuckin’ months,” he went on. “You’re a tricky one. False names here, there and everywhere. Dead ends, broken fuckin’ links. Do I even know your real name? Are you a fed or something?”

“No of course not,” I laughed.  “You should have asked Aysha and Amber.”

“What? I tried that didn’t I. They said you were married and refused to give me your fuckin’ number.”

“But I am married, with kids. They weren’t wrong to do that. You might not realise this but my extra-curricular obsession with Oasis – and you by association – is perhaps not the most appropriate hobby for a woman of my age. Not everyone gets it. My husband has been terribly patient with all this. Very understanding, even though he doesn’t understand it really. It is a bit weird.

“So it’s easier to just have different handles for my blog, twitter, my character’s name. I didn’t want anything to connect…it’s quite deliberate, Monsieur Poirot. It’s not as if I expected to ever have any contact with YOU is it,” I said, taking a big gulp. I laughed out loud. This was ludicrous. “Sorry I didn’t leave my phone number, Liam. I will make a mental note to do that next time I log on.” I raised an eyebrow at him.

He laughed, reached over and pulled me forward, hand around the back of my head. Kissed me firmly and moaned, “Jesus Carolyn, you do something to me…” He kissed me again. “At a very base level,” he added, in that posh Home Counties voice again. I laughed, something at a very base level stirring inside me, too.  “You look lovely. Come on. Drink up.”

Before I knew it the bottle was empty.  I admit I kind of forgot I was the designated driver until it was far too late, and when I realised that it raised a rather obvious question. But like the proactive, take-control character I am I did nothing about asking that question and just nodded meekly when Liam held another full bottle over my glass with those famous eyebrows raised. My stomach did another involuntary cartwheel.

Right he said. Dinner? The rooms here are amazing. We can stay if you like. They have a room for us. You can talk me through all your pseudonyms one by one. Probably take us all fuckin’ night.

Bugger the consequences, I thought. This is the chance of a lifetime.

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