I once had a girlfriend who was famous. I suppose she still is in a way, but I can’t really say she’s my girlfriend anymore. At least we don’t go out and we don’t see each other, and people tend to see that as significant. Maybe she’s not even actually famous anymore either. I doubt anyone much under 15 has heard of her, and there’re still some people much older who’d have no idea who you were talking about, not that I ever mention it. If anyone ever brings up the subject it’s never me. That would be like giving a little piece of her away each time, and where she is now I can’t get anymore of her so I have to look after what I have left. Not that she’s dead, or anything like that. Not exactly.

But the people who do know about her, who do remember, all saw the same TV programme. It’s been shown on repeats plenty of times, but it’s never had the same impact on people as it did the first time, the time it went out live. It was one of those in-the-moment things; one of those this-was-the-year-that… kind of things. It’s six years since it happened, and there’s still people, who saw it live, who talk about it like they permanently carry the experience of watching it around with them.

My girlfriend was called Ciara. (Say was? Say is?) We met in a bar early evening, when I’d just popped in with some people from work. It was a Wednesday, and I usually only drank with them for one or two on a Friday. I was at the bar getting drinks when I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned round and there was Ciara. She was standing in front of a lamp by the wall, so her whole head had this strange glow of light all around it. With the bar being low lit and her face being the wrong side of that light, I suppose it should have been harder to make out her features than it was, though I didn’t think about that at the time. Her sharp blue almost luminous eyes seemed to go right through my own eyes and play ping pong all round the inside of my head. She looked like the kind of person who could be famous. People that good looking can always get famous. I suppose her hair should have been in shadow and not been so bright and blonde nor emitting the kind of hazy radiant gold-tinged glow either.

I realised that not only was I staring, but that also she was trying to hand me something; a mobile phone.

My mobile phone. I hadn’t even got halfway through my confused expression before she spoke.

“That’s right, it’s your phone. You’re going to need it if I’m going to call you.”

I thanked her and asked if I’d dropped it.

“Oh no,” she said, “I just magic’d it out of your pocket.”

I thanked her again and picked up my previous expression from where I’d left off and kept it going for just under a week.

She did call. It was just under a week later. We arranged to meet at the same pub. We got our drinks and got the last free seats in the place at a table, just as it was starting to fill up.

I had an older brother and a younger sister. She had an older sister and a younger brother. We both worked as junior producers in advertising firms. We’d both been there coming up to three years each. Our favourite band was the same, our favourite film was the same, our favourite place in the whole city to watch the world go by was the same.

It was my turn to go to the bar. The pub was heaving right then and it must have been three ranks deep, maybe four in places. Ciara must’ve seen the look in my eyes.

“I’ll get them,” she said.

“No, no, it’s my round,” I insisted. I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t a drinks buyer.

“No really – look at it,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

I shot a few looks to the side, not sure what she was up to.

“Close your eyes,” she said, in a voice that made me want to.

So I closed my eyes and before I’d barely had time to smile at the thought of how I must look, she told me to open them.

There, in front of us were two fresh and pint-full glasses of beer.

“Howdyou do that?” I said.

“Magic,” she said.

 

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