by Gill Mather
In truth I've enjoyed doing a load of ironing this winter weekend. It's a chance to pour myself a glass of red wine and watch all the old episodes of series I used to love, oft now repeated on the freeview and other channels. I'd forgotten what a pleasure it was to iron and drink and watch all my old favourites. So much so that when Markus knocks at the front door at three thirty Sunday afternoon as the light closes in outside, I'm fast asleep on the settee and it takes some heavy hammering by Markus to rouse me. But eventually I get up and stagger to the door. Markus is standing there swaying a little and holding a bottle. I crane my neck past him to see where he's parked his car but there's nothing.
"Got lift here," he says indistinctly. "Been s'where this lunchtime."
"Oh good," I say, "Come in then."
Markus lurches past me and heads unerringly for the kitchen where he dumps a rucksack and stands in the middle of the floor and looks at me. I realise of a sudden that he expects to be fed. He thinks an older woman, a woman of my advanced years, will provide sustenance. Perhaps he even, in his obviously inebriated state, sees his mother before him, a willing slave, someone who doesn’t need to be told what precisely he wants to eat.
"All right then," I say resignedly, "will cheese on toast do?"
"Oh, would you?"
"Would you like salad with it?"
"Tha'd be great. You're a star."
"You don’t have to say that. Beans?"
"Beans! I'd die for a helping of beans!"
"Right. Go and sit down in the lounge. I'll join you in a minute. You can pour me a glass of that wine."
"Oright."
Actually I’m quite peckish myself. I make a ton of the stuff and we sit companionably together scoffing huge quantities of cheese on toast and knocking back the wine. He's managed despite the state he's in to locate the largest glasses in the cabinet and change the channel to football. And he's poured us vast measures of the wine he was bearing on arrival.
I take a mouthful. It's the best liquid I've tasted. Ever.
"Dad's cellar," he says, seeing my rapt expression. "I brought few cases with me when I left."
"Wow. This is wonderful," I say. "I've never tasted anything like it."
"Prob'ly not," he smiles. "It costs two n'arf grand a bottle." I fall off my chair.
"Ashully iss lot more if y'don’ buy it in bulk."
"I could happily die now," I say.
"You can't. You're too beautiful to die,” he says.
"I wish," I say. “It must be the wine talking.”
“There's this girl I fancy like mad," he says looking at me soulfully. "She looks a bit like you. And my mum. She's working at the Sod 'n' Shovel. I've never seen anyone so gorgeous."
"Tell me what she looks like," I say with interest.
"Well. She's got sort of honey coloured hair. Quite long." He looks into the coal effect gas fire cosily flickering away.
"Her eyes are sort of green but sort of grey too. She's got a body to die for. Oh. And her mouth. Her mouth." He looks down at his hands. "I've never felt like this about anyone.”
“Why don't you ask her out then Markus?”
“She’s oready got a boyfriend. This ‘normous bloke who turns up on a motor bike and picks her up at the end of every shift.”
“Actually every shift?”
“Yes.” He looks glum. “I go there a lot.” He sniffs and eats his last toast crust, chewing it ponderously and swallowing it down with a large gulp of wine. He refills his glass, narrowly avoiding spilling the lot on my pale coloured carpet. “You know you do look a lot like her. I suppose….”
“Hmm?” I say. I’m not listening. I’ve got up to clear our plates away and I carry them off to the kitchen, returning with a cloth to wipe the crumbs off the coffee table. I’m glad to see that Markus is smiling again as he looks up at me. He really does have a lovely smile.
“You know this bloke you told me about.”
“Hmm?” I’ve started to secure the bin bags up with elastic bands. The shirts are actually on hangers to keep them nice and unrumpled. There were over a dozen shirts and it’s practically cleared me out of spare hangers.
“Can you bring the hangers back to work, Markus,” I say.
“Hangers?” he frowns. “No I was talking `bout that bloke. You know the one you’ve got the hots for.”
“Oh. Oh well yes but….”
“You know what I said last week. `Bout a substitute.”
“Er, vaguely. How are you getting home?” I look out of the window. It’s dark now.
He flaps his hand. “Taxi or something. Anyway….”
“Shall I phone for one?”
“One what?”
“A taxi Markus.”
“Later. I thought, you know. I’m on my own. You’re on your own. It’s the obvious solution.”
I turn quickly in his direction. He’s smiling away. I can't believe what I’m hearing. This is so ridiculous. The last man to proposition me was over twice my age. Now I’ve got a man nearly half my age doing it. I feel like bursting out laughing but it’d hurt his feelings. I continue to look at him.
“You know how the song goes,” he says. He shakily warbles a couple of lines: “You can't always get what you waa-ant, but if you try, try, try, you get what you need.”
I have to say he is rather lovely. He’s big and tall and handsome. I wonder what it’d be like to go to bed with a nineteen year old. It’s so long ago since I last did that I’ve forgotten, and as I was only nineteen myself at the time, I probably wasn't focusing on the same things I would these days. At that age it was more along the lines of trying not to make a fool of myself and trying to appear more experienced than I actually was to the extent that all the trying got in the way of the real purpose which was of course to enjoy it. If nothing else, age does make you less self-conscious and more able to have fun when the occasion arises.
“Markus. I’m flattered. I really am.” I nearly go and sit down next to him on the settee but think better of it and perch on the arm of a chair instead. “But I don't think we can. Or should.” I want to say that it’d be wrong of me which is what I actually think but that would sound patronising as though he’s a child. “It wouldn't work Markus. It’d be desperately awkward at work. And….er….I want to wait and see whether it’s possible to get together with this man I told you about. I don't want to get close to anyone else. Maybe you should wait and see if the girl you’re interested in becomes free.” At their ages, it’s quite likely her romance won't last but I can't voice this idea either.
Markus sighs. “I suppose so,” he says looking very downcast and he slumps back on the settee and yawns. I think I’d better call a taxi soon in case he falls asleep. Various platitudes run through my mind. At your age there’ll be plenty more opportunities, sleep on it and you’ll see that I’m right, it’ll all seem better in the morning (this isn't true of course - a hangover just makes you feel ten times worse). Again I hold my tongue. He wouldn't thank me for preaching at him.
I go and make the call and very quickly his transport arrives. We take his laundry out together and distribute it around the interior of the taxi. There’s a difficult moment when Markus can't remember his friend’s exact address and has to call him to find out. I wave him off and go indoors. I see that the sweet lad has left a couple of bottles of the ludicrously expensive plonk on the kitchen table and I add them to the few far cheaper models in the wine rack to keep for a special occasion.
As with the Michael incident, I wonder whether I made a mistake and should have grabbed a little comfort when offered. But I know I’m right, and of course I can't go around sleeping with different men just by way of a diversion. However I start to feel depressed. The gravity of turning away a young man’s well-intentioned offer has quickly sobered me up. Therefore I dwell instead on my nutty New Year’s Eve with Justine and this always lifts my spirits. I make a cup of coffee and spend the rest of the evening watching back episodes of Desperate Housewives.
I AM MEETING up with the Arsehole. He has called this mid-January Saturday morning and wants to see me to discuss further developments he says. He has offered to take me out for a meal and has suggested the Sorcerer’s Kitchen and that we meet there. I can only assume he wishes to further press his case for a sale of the house and an even division of the assets and I suppose I’ll have to agree. I’m glad he wants to meet at the pub since the house is in a bit of a state. Maybe he’s managed to deposit a bun in the oven of the Backside despite all the malevolent thought waves I’ve been aiming at her, specifically directed at her reproductive organs, and now needs the money in a hurry. I can maybe use this as a bargaining tool.
Since New Year’s Eve and the night of adventure, I’ve felt a bit more upbeat. The experience, though alarming, jolted me back into a more positive frame of mind. It makes me want to laugh every time I think about it. I haven't yet seriously taken up cold-water swimming though I have read since New Year’s Eve that it can boost circulation, immunity and the libido. I read this in a Guardian article found on the internet, a rather pretentious piece if I may say so, in places featuring unnecessary cultural references such as to silent and other music. I’d test out the libido-enhancing qualities of cold-water swimming myself if only I had anyone to my taste with whom to do so.
And it’s refreshing to have a friend who’s a dyke. Some of the things she tells me when we go for a lunchtime drink together, she hobbling with the aid of a crutch, are revelations. I never thought people got up to such contortions for purely sensual purposes, plaster or no plaster. And now apparently she’s seeing Dr. Phil as well, fertile ground to produce a midday giggle together down the pub. I’m glad that I’m not meeting the Arsehole while in thoroughly negative mode. I’m sure he’d be bound to pick up on it and take advantage of it.
I have a quick tidy up in case the Arsehole does end up coming back to the house though I hope not. I felt very uncomfortable alone in the house with him the last time. With some ex-es it’s easy to remain friends but I don't think the Arsehole and me are ever going to be able to become good mates. I have realised I don't like him much, that he’s a shallow opportunist little twerp. I bet that at work he sucks up to the superior he thinks is most likely to prosper but that he changes just like that and starts to brown-nose a different boss if it looks as though his first choice was a bad one. At school, or maybe it was at a singing club I once frequented, we used to sing a song called The Vicar of Bray about a very adaptable sixteenth century clergyman who changed his allegiances to suit those of the monarch of the day. The song had a chorus that went something like:
And this be law that I’ll maintain until my dying day, sir
That whatsoever king may reign, I’ll still be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
I’d put the Arsehole squarely in the same category as that turncoat cleric, though the Arsehole wouldn’t risk hanging or beheading if he chose the wrong side, more’s the pity.
Someone should develop an alternative social media site for use by adulterers and would-be adulterers and other types of traitors. Not sure what they’d call it. All the best names have already been purloined or at least thought of; Arsebook, Scumbook, Jerkbook, etc. Perhaps Scrofbook. would be appropriate, scrofulous meaning, amongst other things, being morally contaminated, corrupt, degenerate, tainted. Instead of having a wall to post their messages on, users could drop their despicable secrets into a graphic representation of a large boil, with privacy settings so that only those with whom they’re in cahoots could prick the boil and gain access to the putrid contents within.
I’ve decided that the Backside is well and truly welcome to him and that it’s her loss and my gain. So I’m basically ready for his onslaughts. I’ll hum and ha and choose the most expensive dish and bottle of wine on the menu and then when the meal’s over and he’s picking up a sizeable bill I’ll tell him yes OK anyway about the divorce and the house sale and the clean break. As he said, we need to move on.
He’s not coming to pick me up. We’re meeting at the pub and I drive myself there thinking that as it’s local I can leave my car in the car park if I want to and walk back or if necessary get a taxi. I don't want a lift back with the Arsehole if I can possibly avoid it. I don't want to spend any more time with him than necessary.
But I must try to be friendly. It’s not cool to appear to be on bad terms with the ex even if inside you think he’s a crummy detestable little worm that ought to be trodden underfoot - except I don't think that about earthworms which I rather admire for having so much life in them when put at risk despite having no obvious head or eyes or facial features and probably only a very rudimentary brain, if any, and nervous system; they squirm and lash about wildly and make energetic attempts to escape and get back underground, which is definitely incidentally where the Arsehole should aim for.
I GET TO THE pub quite early since I think it puts one at an advantage to be already sitting relaxed and taking one’s ease when the other person rushes in panting and sweating and looking at their watch. I assume he’s made a reservation therefore I ask about this and I’m shown to our table and request a glass of tap water for the time being. On the way I pick up a complimentary newspaper to read or at least appear to be reading when he arrives.
I can just see from my seat in the dining area the table in the bar at which Dennis and I sat early last October. I stare wistfully at it. I do wish we’d been able to make something of our initial date, that I’d been ready for a bit of a fling. I haven't heard from him since the week after the business breakfast last December when he came and collected Trixie. It was quite late at night therefore I had her ready in her carry box and all her things. He didn't come in. He just took a couple of trips to the car, thanked me profusely and left.
I must assume that he and Cathy Earnshaw formed a firm and profitable South-North alliance. An entente-by-ecky-thump. I haven't been called upon to care for Trixie again as I thought I might and would have liked to do, so presumably The Lady of the North has been galloping south for rendezvous at chez Dennis. This of course is of no importance to me I try to tell myself. If they’re gi’ing it wellie regularly these days, it’s none of my business.
Nevertheless perhaps I’ll phone Dennis some time and see how he’s getting on if I can summon up the courage. I’ve already considered and immediately abandoned the idea of turning up at every gym in the area in the hope of meeting up with him accidentally on purpose. To do so would be rather sick, signalling an unhealthy obsession, tantamount to stalking. No. If I can manage it, the honest direct approach would be the best. After all, he can only deliver a crushing rejection. I’d die of shame and embarrassment of course but at least I wouldn't get prosecuted for harassment.
I sniff and bury my head in the newspaper. It’s important not to look glum when the Arsehole arrives. I need to appear upbeat in order that he shouldn't take advantage of me and wear me down to a 60-40 split for example in his favour. No way! True he did provide the larger share of the deposit for our first house but that was years ago, years of faithful marital attention on my part and of course less than faithful on his. Any disparity in our respective contributions has been washed away by the long period during which our marriage flourished and from which I’m sure he profited. They say men don't do so well if they’re single and the most contented men are those in a settled happy relationship.
I try to read an article about the strengths and weaknesses of the economy, though my thoughts drift to the Backside’s sexual orientation and whether the Arsehole knows about that. It was a decidedly mean trick of hers to make things up about me and encourage someone to do what Justine did to me. I don't think I’ll say anything to the Arsehole about this though. Or about the photo of me given to Ebden Andrews. He can keep his own damn house in order.
I’m just settling into mental griping mode when I see the unmistakable approach towards my table of the Arsehole. I’m frankly surprised at the de
gree of disappointment and repugnance I feel at his appearance. Five months ago, I’d have run to him like a puppy to its master, tail and bottom wagging furiously, tongue hanging out. I’d have rolled onto my back and wriggled in ecstasy, and helplessly piddled on the floor the first time he touched me, as is the habit of puppies.
I decide I don't want to press for a more generous split than 50:50. I’ll make do with whatever hovel I can buy with my share of the proceeds of sale and whatever mortgage I can muster on my minimal income. If necessary I’ll let out rooms to paying guests as a friend of my mother’s in reduced circumstances used to genteely insist on putting it.
These days we call it a house share which sounds cool and fun and presages the possibility of new friends; new romantic attachments even. Evenings down the pub, cosy chats in the kitchen while making coffee, communal dinners several times a week, assistance with the housework and gardening….. But that’s the optimistic side. The flip side is more likely to be twenty-somethings only interested in round the clock partying who apply. Or else solitary sociopaths, odd specimens who stick to their rooms and avoid all contact, who look at you strangely, who make you think you should lock your bedroom door at nights and bolster it with a heavy chest of drawers and….