Ex-factor

I’ve gone round to Sharon’s and walked into a stand-up row between Sharon and her brother in their kitchen. They’re yelling at each other and the dog’s going barmy. She’s a slut and he’s a dick is the argument in a nutshell. The phone rings. I make myself useful and answer it. It’s Trevor, Sharon’s ex. He’s drunk, he’s down the pub and he wants Sharon to drive him and his van back to his house. He’s shouting as well. I relay the message to Sharon. She sags theatrically in despair, bursts into tears and aims a girly haymaker at her brother.

I drive Sharon, who’s still weeping, to the pub. We can hear Trev shouting in the pub from outside in the carpark. He got a real gob on him. Trev’s in the back bar. It’s a snug little bar with open fire and pool table, crowded as usual with tearaways, addicts, spongers, the lonely and the unloved. Trev’s in his element. He’s shouting and shoving and dancing and stealing kisses like an extrovert, populist tribal chief at a public feast. The moment he sees Sharon he howls like a wolf, bends her over backwards tango-style and crams his lips against hers. Sharon is surprisingly complaisant.

It’s not a pub I’m used to. I keep my anorak on. A boy and his underage sweetheart come through the door. Trev snatches the cap from the head of an old man at the bar and places it on the girl’s head. He steps back and cocks his head. Could have been made for her, he shouts. (It could, actually.) She models it shyly for her boyfriend. ‘To you, my handsome, a pound,’ says Trev. The poor lad hands one over.