by Mike Gayle
She shook her head.
‘Have you heard of Michael Jackson?’
She nodded, but she might have been humouring me.
‘Well, this,’ I said, looking at the album cover, ‘is called Off the Wall, and it’s Michael Jackson before he went all rubbish. Shall we play it?’
She started yelling excitedly at the top of her voice. As this was the most animated I’d seen her since her mum had left, I took this as a good sign and decided to go with the flow. I was only going to play one song but in the end we listened to the whole of the first side. She was transfixed. When ‘Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough’ came on she launched herself off the sofa like a miniature disco diva and made me put it on four times in a row.
In the middle of ‘She’s Out Of My Life,’ the door buzzer went and I turned down the music.
‘Is it Mummy?’ asked Charlotte. ‘Maybe she’ll want to dance too.’
I looked at my watch. It was too early for either Zoë or Gershwin. I walked over to the intercom nervously – I was now more than half convinced it was one of the neighbours complaining about the music and the caterwauling four-yearold. ‘Hello?’ I said as I pressed the button.
‘Hi, Matt, it’s Ginny. Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ I said, and pressed the door release. I spent the remaining moments until she knocked on the door wondering why she’d come and how she knew I was here.
‘Hi, come in,’ I said, opening the door.
‘Cheers.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I called you at your mum and dad’s and they told me what you were up to. I couldn’t resist the temptation to see how you were getting on in your first day as a nanny—’ She stopped as Charlotte appeared in the hallway.
‘Is this Charlotte?’ she asked. She walked over to her and knelt down. ‘Hello. I’m Ginny. I’m a friend of your mum and dad’s.’
‘I’m four,’ said Charlotte.
‘You’re gorgeous, aren’t you?’ said Ginny, then beamed at me as if I were semi-responsible for Charlotte’s existence.
‘Look what we’ve been doing,’ said Charlotte, dragging Ginny by the hand into the living room. ‘Uncle Matt, will you play that record again? The one we were just dancing to?’
I did as I was asked. We listened to it three times in a row, during which Charlotte jumped up and down using the sofa as a trampoline.
The rest of that afternoon until Zoë turned up will go down in my autobiography as one of my all time favourites. The three of us listened to Guilty by Barbra Streisand (I think it was Gershwin’s mum’s), Sign of the Times by Prince, missing out ‘If I Was Your Girlfriend’ because I decided the end bit was too rude for Charlotte, Breakdance – The Album, for old times’ sake, and two Duran Duran singles, to make her proud of her cultural heritage. When Zoë arrived home just after five, she entered to discover Ginny, Charlotte and me lying on the living-room floor, staring at the ceiling and playing air guitar while contemplating the majesty and splendour that is Jimi Hendrix’s version of ‘All Along The Watch Tower’, from Gershwin’s vinyl copy of Hendrix’s Greatest Hits.
‘Have you been doing this all afternoon?’ asked Zoë.
‘Charlotte’s been bonding with Gershwin’s record collection,’ explained Ginny.
‘What have you been listening to?’ asked Zoë.
‘Cool music!’ yelled Charlotte, at the top of her voice.
‘Where does she get these words?’ I asked.
‘Gershwin taught her “cool”,’ said Zoë. ‘He said he wanted our daughter to have good taste. And according to him the best way for her to acquire good taste is to know what is and isn’t cool.’ She ruffled her daughter’s hair. ‘So, what’s cool music, then, Charlotte?’
Charlotte’s face took on a look of considered determination as she tried to recall that afternoon’s lesson, but then she shrugged nonchalantly as if to say it wasn’t important.
‘Cool is Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall,’ I said, on Charlotte’s behalf.
‘Cool is also Elvis, The Greatest Hits of Barry White, Culture Club’s first album and Kajagoogoo,’ added Ginny.
‘So what’s not cool?’ asked Zoë.
‘Daddy,’ said Charlotte.
Ginny and I stayed on for a little while then left at about a quarter to six. I desperately didn’t want to go home and spend the evening watching TV with my parents.
‘Do you fancy a quick drink in the Kings Arms?’ I said, as we walked along Wake Green Road towards Moseley high street.
‘It’ll have to be a quick one,’ said Ginny. ‘Ian’s coming round to mine at about seven. I think he wants to go out for something to eat. You could come if you want to.’
‘No, no, no,’ I replied, a little too effusively. ‘I’ll just settle for a drink.’
fifty-three
‘So, things getting you down at home?’ asked Ginny as we sat down, pints in hand, in the empty lounge of the Kings Arms.
‘You could say that,’ I replied, and took a sip of my beer. ‘I’m thinking about going to Australia early.’
‘You’re joking, right? Things can’t be that bad.’
‘Oh, they are,’ I said emphatically. I told her the you-can’t-go-out-until-you’ve-tidied-your-room story.
‘Never!’ said Ginny. ‘She said that?’
‘Those were her very words,’ I confirmed unhappily.
‘It’s unnatural for a man of your age to be living with his parents,’ said Ginny. ‘Even for a short time. In fact, I think it might be illegal!’ She tried to stifle a snigger. ‘But you’re not serious about going to Australia now, surely?’
‘I’m totally serious. It would only be a few weeks earlier than scheduled. I’m sure they’d put me up in a hotel if I asked them. And, anyway, I can understand my parents getting annoyed – I am messing up the place. We’ve done all the bonding we’re ever going to do so maybe I should go while we’re still on speaking terms.’
‘But what about us?’
‘Which us?’
‘You, me and Gershwin,’ said Ginny. ‘I thought we were all mates now. Proper mates. Not fake ones.’
‘Yeah, we are,’ I said, defensively. ‘You can both come over to Australia any time you like. The apartment the company said they’re going to rent for me is supposed to be really nice. It’ll have plenty of room if you and lan want to come over.’
‘Aren’t we having a good time?’
‘Yes, but look at me tonight. Gershwin and Zoë are staying in, you’re off with Ian . . .’
‘I invited you to come out with us,’ she said.
‘And I turned you down! I’m nobody’s third wheel, thank you very much. Nah, it all makes sense. It’ll give me a bit of time to get myself settled.’
She smiled softly. ‘What would it take for you to stay? A million pounds?’
‘Higher.’
‘Two million pounds and I’ll flash my boobs at you?’ Ginny chortled.
‘How about two million pounds, and I’ll give you back five hundred grand to keep your boobs hidden?’
Ginny laughed. ‘How about no money, but you can move into the spare room at my place at no charge?’
There was a long silence.
‘You’re joking, right?’ I asked.
‘Deadly serious, sir. Why would I joke? You need somewhere to live, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, there you go,’ said Ginny succinctly. ‘Problem sorted.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Or is it just the three mouthfuls of lager talking because you’ve consumed them on a school night?’
Ginny laughed. ‘A bit of both, I suspect. It’s weird I bump into you and Gershwin on his birthday. Twenty-four hours later I’ve bunked the day off work. And now weeks later I’m in the pub with you both nearly every night. I like this kind of randomness in my life. It’s fun.’ She paused and took another sip of her drink. ‘Do you remember that one half-term when Bev’s mum and dad went away and
left her in charge of the house and we all moved in for the week? We said then that at the first opportunity we were going to get a huge house together and spend the rest of our lives living together like an episode of the Monkees. This is that opportunity. Gershwin and Zoë could move in with Charlotte, too.’
‘But what about Ian?’ I asked.
‘What about Ian?’
‘Won’t he mind?’
‘Mind what? An old schoolfriend moving into the spare room? Of course not.’
I thought about it. ‘You’d let me pay rent, of course?’
‘No rent, as I’ve already made clear,’ said Ginny. ‘You do the supermarket shopping for the two of us and that can be your contribution, if you like.’
I thought about it once more.
‘And you’re sure you’re sure?’ I asked.
‘Of course I am,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Ian’s, like, the most laid-back man in the world. I could probably move a male stripper into my place and he’d be, like, “Oh, that’s nice, babe.” Anyway, it’s my house and I’ll do what I like in it.’ She seemed amused by her own forthrightness. ‘We’ll have to have rules, though,’ she added, in a voice that said, ‘This is me attempting to be stern.’ ‘I’ve had some nightmare house-shares in my youth, especially when they’ve been men.’
‘What kind of rules did you have in mind?’
‘Basic stuff. Like no washing-up left in the sink longer than twenty-four hours.’
‘Done.’
‘No leaving just two sheets of loo roll for the next person.’
‘Done.’
‘No leaving your skanky bloke pants in communal areas.’
‘Done.’
Ginny was silent, but I could tell she was trying to think of some more.
‘Is that all?’ I asked, checking.
‘Yeah,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘I think so.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some too. Well, one, actually.’
‘You can’t make up rules, you cheeky git. I’m the landlady.’ She giggled, yawned, then said, ‘Go on. What’s this rule you’ve got?’
‘No girl-pants or brassières drying on radiators,’ I said clearly. ‘That’s all I ask. Elaine used to do that and it nearly drove me insane.’
fifty-four
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Confessions
Dear Elaine
With regard to your recent bout of confession-making I now have one too. Sort of. Things were getting a bit tense with my parents so I was seriously thinking about going to Australia a few weeks early but then Ginny offered me a room at her house. So I’m kind of moving in with her in a purely platonic manner (the spare room will be my domain). Her boyfriend’s cool with it. And it’s only until I fly to Sydney. That’s it, really. No biggy.
love
Matt xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Re: Confessions
Dear Matt
‘Okay.’
Love
Elaine
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Re: Re: Confessions
Dear Elaine
What sort of ‘okay’ was that? ‘Okay’ as in ‘it’s all right’? Or ‘okay’ as in ‘over your dead body’?
Just wondering.
love
Matt
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
You have NO idea, do you?
Dear Matt
I meant okay as in: ‘Of course it’s okay for you to live in close proximity to your old high-school (or whatever the UK equivalent is) girlfriend at this crucial point in your being where you are assessing and reassessing your (nearly) thirty years so far and are assuming that your best days are behind you because obviously there won’t be any rekindling of old sparks especially when she’s parading around all day in just her underwear.’ That’s the sort of ‘okay’ I mean.
Love
Elaine
fifty-five
Over dinner the following evening – beef mince, potatoes, cabbage and carrots – I announced to my parents that I’d be moving out. It was quite heartening, really, because as soon as I said it, I became number-one son again. Mum tried to persuade me to stay and, at her insistence, my dad tried too but not particularly hard. It wasn’t that he wanted to see me out on the streets or anything but, as a man, I think he appreciated that if I was ever going to brush myself off and get back on my horse, it would be more likely to happen in a place where I knew my mum wasn’t going to come round every five minutes to ask me if I was okay.
The following evening after I’d left from babysitting Charlotte I moved into Ginny’s, with the help of my parents. Although I was only moving twenty minutes away my mum made me promise to visit for dinner at least once a week, and insisted that I take a large cardboard box with me as well. It wasn’t until my parents had gone and I’d sorted out my new room that I realised the box contained tinned food, tea-bags and breakfast cereals.
fifty-six
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Re: Okay?
Dear Elaine
Are we having a row here?
Matt xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Re: Re: Okay
Dear Matt
OF COURSE WE’RE HAVING A FIGHT. (I DON’T ‘ROW’ I’M AMERICAN!!!!!!!)
Elaine xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Row/fight
Dear Elaine
Fair enough. Let’s . . . argue. Let me see: you’re annoyed with me because even though we’ve split up I’ve moved into the spare room of an ex-girlfriend from about fifteen gadzillion (your word) years ago. You, meanwhile, have been ‘getting together’ with random bar guys . . . and I’m the one in the wrong? I love your complete lack of grasp of the fundamental points of logical thought.
Love
Matt xxx
fifty-seven
On the whole living with Ginny was a less stressful experience than I thought it could be, especially given our history. In the old days this definitely would’ve been a recipe for disaster given the way we used to flit from being lovers to best friends without even pausing for breath. But with my new turning thirty persona, I could handle it. Of course during the first few days we had to made a few more rules: if you finish a bottle of milk, buy a new one – and no getting round it by leaving a few drops in the bottom; the bath had to be washed immediately after use, and with proper bath-cleaning implements – not just a quick wipe round with a damp towel; and no borrowing of gender specific razors without permission. To be truthful, these were my rules, but Ginny didn’t complain too much because being such a neat freak, I tended to do most, if not all, of the cooking and cleaning for both of us. It was a lot like living with Elaine and was strangely comforting and helped to take the edge off the lower moments in life.
fifty-eight
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Re:
Arguing
Dear Matt
Let’s not argue any more. I can’t get any work done when I’m just sitting here waiting for your next e-mail. Having slept on the issue I admit that I might have been a little bit hasty re: you and your ex. I apologise. I promise you I’m not jealous. I just worry about you.
I know how you are. Maybe you should date her after all. I think it would be good therapy for you to revisit your past like that.
Love
Elaine xxx
fifty-nine
Ginny and I established our own routines as if we were a genuine happily living-together couple. Every weekday she got up at six-thirty, disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, then back into her bedroom where she’d dry her hair, put on her makeup and get dressed. Then she’d go downstairs, have a bowl of muesli and make her sandwiches for work. The entire process took her an hour and a half and, without fail, she would leave the house late.
My routine was far less sedate. Gershwin’s mum was still away so on the days I had to look after Charlotte I’d get up at seven forty-five, race into the shower, nip back into my bedroom, get dressed and be out of the door seconds before Ginny.
It was fun hanging out with a nearly four-year-old and fortunately she seemed to like hanging out with me. To make her laugh all I had to do was make a farty noise on the back of my hand; and to make me laugh all she had to do was laugh at my farty noise. With her love of television, odd combinations of food (try beans on toast with cottage cheese all mixed together) and walking in the park, she made the perfect companion. I suspect I was built to look after children. I really was.
sixty