Turning Thirty

by Mike Gayle

  ‘You have my total attention, Pete,’ I said, laughing.

  Pete recommenced his tale. ‘Faye had dark brown hair, was painfully skinny and didn’t really have any friends.’

  ‘No-mate-stick girl!’ said Ginny, Katrina and Bev, in unison.

  ‘It’s chilling how cruel prepubescent girls can be,’ commented Gershwin.

  ‘We didn’t call her that,’ said Ginny, in the girls’ defence. ‘Shelley Heath did.’

  ‘Shelley Heath,’ said Katrina. ‘Now she really was an evil piece of work . . . Do you know that she once bit my arm because—’

  ‘Tell us your story, Pete,’ interrupted Ginny, ‘before you blow a fuse or something. What’s Faye doing now, then?’

  ‘Glamour modelling,’ said Pete smugly.

  ‘No!’ said Bev.

  ‘Never!‘ said Ginny.

  ‘Get out of here!’ said Katrina.

  ‘You’re joking!’ said Gershwin.

  When it came to my turn to let out an exclamation I couldn’t because I was lost for words.

  ‘I asked her what she was up to,’ continued Pete, ‘and she told me just like that. Not even the faintest hint of embarrassment.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’ asked Bev.

  ‘Very,’ acknowledged Pete.

  ‘Is that just your opinion as a bloke?’ asked Katrina. ‘What did your ex think?’

  ‘Amy thought she was stunning too.’

  The game didn’t have the same sort of fizz after that revelation as everyone left knew that their own what-are-they-up-to-now? wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as Pete’s. Katrina, however, revealed that her old flatmate’s brother used to go out with Douglas Burton (then, the boy most likely to be on Prozac; now, a radio journalist in Cardiff). Gershwin said that he’d bumped into some guys in a pub in town who used to be in the year below us at school and they’d told him about Adrian Shearer from our year (then, the boy most likely to rob a post-office with a sawn-off shot-gun; now, doing a ten-year stretch for armed robbery in HMP Strangeways). Ginny revealed that she’d been parking her car at the UCI cinema in town when she’d seen Stephanie Tucker (then, the girl most likely to be average for ever) drive past in a Mercedes convertible. Finally, I divulged that Lara Reid (then, the girl most likely to have a hundred notches on her bedpost before her sixteenth birthday) was now managing a Christian bookshop in King’s Heath.

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ said Pete quietly. ‘Who’d have thought any of it in a million years?’

  seventy-six

  It was now one o’clock in the morning and we were all sitting in Ginny’s living room. Ginny was screaming, ‘Nooooooooo!’ at the top of her voice, while the rest of us laughed so hard we were on the verge of being sick. Katrina and Pete were lodged on the sofa; Bev was draped across the armchair next to the hi-fi (we allowed her to act as official DJ as long as she promised not to play any of that Goth nonsense); Gershwin was lying in front of the TV with the remote control in his hand and the sound turned right down, Ginny was next to him on the floor and I was lounging next to her.

  What had started out as a few beers before going to bed was now a more rowdy affair with us poring over a load of old photographs that Bev had brought up with her from Sheffield. The one that was causing Ginny so much consternation was an incredibly out-of-focus picture of herself running along a beach in a swimming costume. It looked innocuous at a glance but then you saw that her left breast was on show.

  ‘I blame you, Gershwin!’ said Ginny, trying to wrestle the snapshot from my hands. ‘You took the photograph!’

  Gershwin shrugged. ‘Why blame me? It was your bap on the loose. You should’ve had more control over it.’

  The picture had been taken the summer we’d all finished our exams and were looking forward to doing our A levels. None of us was even the faintest bit inclined to get jobs over the summer despite being so poor that the only drink we could afford in the Kings Arms was a half-pint of blackcurrant and soda water. Knowing how poor we were and how hard we’d worked during our exams, Elliot’s parents had said we could all stay at their holiday cottage in St Ives. On our third day there, as we were all lying on the beach, an over-energetic Ginny challenged the lads to a race and demanded a huge head start. Gershwin, too lazy to join in, nominated himself the race judge and, to make sure everything was fair, he borrowed Bev’s camera to photograph the finish. The race got off to a good start but descended into farce soon after the words ‘On your marks, get set, go.’ Suffice it to say, it was not the best of ideas for a ‘fairly perky’ sixteen-year-old girl to be sprinting in a poorly tied halterneck bikini top. As she crossed the line, beating Elliot and me by some considerable distance, her left breast made its break for freedom and was preserved on film by Gershwin in all its glory.

  Gershwin stood up, plucked the photo from my hands and handed it to her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I exclaimed. ‘She’ll tear it up!’

  Ginny perked up. ‘I take back what I said about you, Gershwin. You’re a hero. An absolute gentleman.’ She looked at me and pulled a face. ‘I think I’m going to keep this photo,’ she said. ‘I mean, how many women have photos of their boobs in peak condition?’

  seventy-seven

  It was just coming up to half past three in the morning and we were all in exactly the same position we’d been in two hours earlier. Bev had stopped DJing; Ginny had stopped looking at her left-breast photograph; Pete and Katrina had been deep in conversation for most of the night but were now quiet; Gershwin was on the verge of falling asleep; and I was looking at Ginny thinking of how, right now, I wanted nothing more in the world than to kiss her again.

  ‘I hope you’re not falling asleep, Matt,’ said Ginny, nudging me.

  ‘I’m totally awake,’ I replied, nudging her back.

  ‘I think we should try to stay up all night again,’ said Ginny.

  ‘Okay.’ I yawned, even though I would rather have shoved strips of bamboo under my fingermails. ‘What about everyone else?’

  ‘Definitely,’ mumbled Bev.

  ‘Absolutely,’ sighed Pete.

  ‘Yeah,’ groaned Katrina.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ muttered Gershwin.

  seventy-eight

  When I woke up next morning, bursting to go to the loo, I was less than surprised that we’d failed to stay up all night yet again. I had no idea what we were trying to prove (that we were still young? That we didn’t need sleep? That we could still talk rubbish at four o’clock in the morning?) but whatever it was I suspected our constant failure was proving the opposite. The last thing I remembered was Ginny and I going upstairs to bring down duvets and sleeping-bags in order to make our vigil more ‘comfortable’. Clearly a little too ‘comfortable’. Everyone was dotted around Ginny’s living room in various states of unconsciousness. Katrina and Pete were swaddled in one duvet. Bev was curled up in an armchair in the bright yellow sleeping-bag Ginny had owned since she had joined the Brownies. Gershwin was on the sofa beneath his coat and Ginny and I were on the floor in front of the sofa underneath the duvet from my bedroom.

  I sneaked out of the room and upstairs to the toilet. On my way back to the living room I heard sounds in the kitchen and ventured in to see who was up. It was Katrina.

  ‘Morning,’ she said brightly, as she filled the kettle.

  ‘Morning,’ I returned. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘No. Terrible. You?’

  ‘Terrible too.’

  ‘Guess what?’ she whispered.

  I looked at her blankly. I couldn’t have guessed what if my life depended on it. ‘I haven’t the faintest clue.’

  ‘I can see that from your face,’ she said. ‘I think I’d better tell you but you’ll never believe me.’

  Her last sentence piqued my curiosity. ‘When did whatever it is happen?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In there.’ She pointed to the living room.

  ‘Right,’ I said, mysti
fied. ‘You’ve got my attention. What could you possibly have done in a room full of people that’s worthy of whispering . . .’

  It suddenly hit me. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you . . .’

  ‘Not that!’ said Katrina, with displeasure. ‘Less than that.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘There were only two single men in the room last night and you were one of them.’

  ‘You mean, you and Pete were snogging in the living room while all of us were asleep? That’s so teenagery. How did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘One second everyone’s saying let’s stay up all night and the next everyone but Pete and I are out like lights. A bomb exploding wouldn’t have woken you up and, well, we got talking. We’d been at it all night – the talking, that is. He’d been telling me about his divorce and how he missed his son, and I was telling him about my own bad luck with relationships and, well, we just ended up . . . kissing and then we fell asleep.’

  ‘You and Pete. That’s so . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘He said he’s going to come down to Stoke to see me next weekend.’

  ‘What? You’re going to make a r-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p out of it?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this only a few hours after we got together but I’ve got this feeling. This really good feeling. That everything’s going to be all right’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I just don’t think you should take it so seriously. You’ll have forgotten all about him by the time you’ve gone back to your lifestyle editing on the Staffordshire whatever-it’s-called, and he’ll go back to his comic-book empire. It’s been good being back together but I think it’s easy to get carried away. But you don’t want me to say all this, do you?’

  ‘It’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?’

  ‘I prefer to call it realistic.’

  Katrina raised an eyebrow suggestively. ‘Sounds more like you’re talking from experience.’ Her eyes flitted over to the open living-room door where a Ginny shaped duvet was clearly visible.

  The kettle came to the boil and Katrina made two mugs of tea.

  ‘We’re just friends,’ I said, emphatically, as Katrina handed me a mug. She raised her eyebrows again but remained silent. ‘She’s already in love with someone,’ I added.

  ‘Who?’ asked Katrina.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘Who are you in love with?’

  I didn’t answer.

  So she grabbed her tea and disappeared into the living room.

  seventy-nine

  When everyone else woke up at around eleven, looking somewhat the worse for wear, we made a unanimous decision to go out for breakfast. Pete suggested that we got to British Home Stores in town because they did a full English breakfast for £1.80 but then he remembered they stopped serving at eleven so that was out. Katrina sniffed at BHS straight away and put forward Café Rouge because apparently they did a very nice scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. I was in the middle of pointing out that there was quite a reasonable McDonald’s in King’s Heath, when Ginny suggested a nearby motorway service station – yet another trip down Memory Lane. When Pete had first passed his driving test his parents bought him an ancient Triumph Dolomite, which became our official chariot. Whenever we could we’d all climb into it, drive to that motorway service station and spend entire evenings hunched over a cup of coffee and a single plate of chips between us. There was no rhyme or reason to our madness – we just did it because we could.

  Two hours and several all-day breakfasts later, we were all feeling up to doing something with the day. Again, opinions were diverse, and stretched from shopping to finding a decent pub in which to vegetate. We took the latter option. On the Saturday evening we had a barbecue. Pete, Gershwin, Katrina and I did the cooking, while Ginny and Bev sat inside watching the Brookside omnibus, taking a break every now and again to ask us whether we were insane because it was freezing cold, windy and threatening to rain. After we’d eaten we spent the rest of the evening talking, drinking and playing board games (Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly and Mousetrap) until the early hours.

  When we woke up the next day, Ginny and Bev went out to a corner shop and purchased the ingredients for a fried breakfast to end all fried breakfasts, which Gershwin, Katrina and I cooked, while Pete volunteered to do the washing-up afterwards, secure in the knowledge that Katrina would take pity on him and give him a hand. Later we descended on the Kings Arms, and spent the afternoon drinking. Somewhere around eight o’clock that evening it became clear that, even though we didn’t want it to, the weekend was going to have to end quite soon.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ said Bev, finishing her drink. ‘The trains to Sheffield are always crap on a Sunday.’

  ‘I’d love to stay a bit longer,’ said Pete, his eyes meeting Katrina’s, ‘but I’ve got to get off too.’

  ‘And me,’ said Katrina.

  ‘You can’t go just yet,’ said Ginny. ‘We haven’t organised the next time we’re all meeting up.’

  ‘You mean there’s got to be a next time?’ I said. ‘I thought once every six years was enough for us.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Ginny. ‘And just for that, the next time we’re going to get together will be for your birthday, Matt.’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother,’ I replied. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to do a Gershwin – just go down the pub, have a few drinks and then go home.’

  ‘You wish,’ said Gershwin. ‘You’ve got no choice in the matter. Ginny and I planned the whole thing yesterday.’

  I glanced over at Ginny. Our eyes met and she looked away guiltily. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you’ve been conspiring to surprise me, have you?’

  ‘Oh, get lost!’ said Ginny. ‘I just wanted to get you back for this weekend.’

  ‘So what have you got planned?’ asked Bev.

  ‘Well,’ said Gershwin, ‘we talked about having a surprise birthday party for Matt, but we were afraid he’d plan something else for the big day.’

  ‘So we’re going to do the next best thing,’ continued Ginny, ‘which is to have a surprise birthday party that he knows about.’

  ‘That won’t be much of a surprise, then?’ said Pete.

  ‘No matter,’ said Ginny, excitedly. ‘He’ll love it anyway.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Gershwin.

  ‘And you’re sure you’re not going to tell me what it is?’ I asked.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Ginny. ‘But what I will say to everyone here is this: keep four Saturdays from now clear so you can bring your wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends or even just yourselves to the best thirtieth birthday party you will ever witness.’

  And that was that. Half an hour later we were all at Ginny’s saying goodbye. Bev started crying and saying how much she loved everyone: Pete and Katrina decided they could no longer keep their new-found love a secret and were kissing frantically on the doorstep; Gershwin was bemused by all that was going on, and Ginny looked happier than I’d seen her in quite a while.

  And that was that.

  Katrina went back to Stoke.

  Bev went back to Sheffield.

  Pete went back to Manchester.

  Gershwin went home to Zoë and Charlotte.

  And suddenly, after being surrounded by old friends the whole weekend, we were alone.

  On the sofa.

  Alone.

  eighty

  ‘Is this a good idea, Ginny?’ I said, still grappling with her bra strap.

  ‘I think we’ve had this conversation before, Matt,’ she said, still unbuttoning my shirt. ‘You’re not sure again, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean I’m not sure? You weren’t sure last time, were you?’

  ‘Well, it’s me asking the question this time. So what’s your answer?’

  ‘Okay,’ I admitted, �
�I’m not sure.’

  ‘What aren’t you sure about?’

  ‘About you. Me. Here on the living-room floor. Your . . .’ I hesitated, getting it right ‘ . . . your right hand unbuttoning my shirt, your left underneath the aforementioned shirt.’ She withdrew her wandering fingertips. ‘Do I need to spell it out?’

  At this point we both laughed, looked into each other’s eyes and finally unleashed the teenagers within.

  eighty-one

  To:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  From:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  re:

  Stuff

  Dear Elaine

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while. How are you? How’s work? How’s life sharing with Sara? How’s the spider plant? As for me, I’m fine. The weekend get-together went really well. It was the best time I’ve had in . . . well, ages. You’ll be pleased to know that as the days go by the whole turning-thirty thing is becoming less of a trial. Maybe I’m tempting fate talking like this but right now it feels like just another birthday. Anyway, hope you’re well and everything. Take care of yourself.

  Love

  Matt xxx

  eighty-two

  To:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  From:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  re:

  My last attempt at honesty

  Dear Elaine

  I’m writing this e-mail all of six seconds after I wrote that last one (which I now give you permission to ignore . . . well, actually don’t . . . you can keep it and call it exhibit A should I ever accuse you of cowardice). Three seconds after I pressed SEND I was overwhelmed with guilt. I mean really overwhelmed (the sweaty palms, the hot flushes, that tight feeling in your stomach like you’re going to throw up at any second). In as roundabout a way as possible this is me telling you that I have some news – news that I’m not sure how you’re going to react to. So here goes: Ginny and I got together as in ‘got together’. Obviously things are still complicated. We haven’t even had a chance to talk about it yet – she went to work this morning without waking me up but I guess we’ll try and sort things out tonight. I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear (mainly because if the tables were turned this is the last thing I’d want to hear myself) but if I don’t tell you then everything we ever had is going to fall apart. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about turning thirty it’s this: good friends are hard to come by so when you’ve found a few it’s a good idea to keep hold of them.