Turning Thirty

by Mike Gayle

  ‘Congratulations, I’m really pleased for you.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t have got together if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re not trying to blame me or anything.’

  ‘I told you, it’s the best relationship I’ve had in a long time.’

  ‘So you’re sure it’s a relationship?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you know, you feel like it’s going somewhere, that it’s got some sort of direction . . . I suppose what I’m trying to say is, well, it’s not just nostalgia, is it? Are you and Pete together because you like who each other is right now or is it because of who you used to be? Obviously I’m not saying it is like that. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that sometimes that was all Ginny and I were about.’

  ‘I take it this has to do with her non-appearance tonight?’

  I shrugged noncommittally.

  ‘Matt, you think too much. Getting together with Pete had nothing to do with old times. I didn’t even fancy him back then! Okay, maybe just a little bit. But the point is, he’s so lovely, we get on great and we’re friends. I’m not going to reject him just ’cause he’s part of my history too. That’s madness.’ Katrina gave me a look of intense exasperation, and disappeared.

  All alone again, the music reduced to a far-away rumble I decided to take a walk around the darkened empty corridors of the school. Bizarrely, I was compelled to visit the boys’ toilets, if only to remind myself how truly disgusting they’d been back then. I was surprised, and not a little horrified, to discover that they were exactly as I remembered them: graffiti on the doors, mysterious burn marks on the walls and, above my head, twenty or thirty years’ worth of once wet toilet paper pellets encrusted on the ceiling. However, elsewhere there had been a lot of changes. I discovered that the old English block on the third floor was now apparently the geography block. The old geography block on the second floor was now the new business studies block. And the history block was now the maths block and where the old religious education/music room had disappeared to was anybody’s guess. I finished my tour of the school at the doors of the art department and searched out Miss Pascoe’s room. The door was locked so I peered inside through the reinforced-glass window. There was just enough light to make out some of Ginny’s students’ work: paintings, friezes and papier-mâché models. It looked exactly the same as when I was there.

  Just as I made up my mind to go back to the party I heard the heavy doors to the main corridor open. I turned to look behind me and there was Ginny, standing in the shadows.

  ‘I got your message,’ she said.

  ‘You were in?’

  She nodded. ‘I was going to pick up the phone but . . . I didn’t.’

  ‘So you haven’t forgiven me, then?’

  She peered into the room I’d been looking at. It was clear that she didn’t want to answer this question quite yet. ‘I guess the school’s changed a lot since you were last here,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it has,’ I replied. ‘Everything’s shifted around.’

  ‘Except the art room,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Do you ever wish that we were all back here?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘No, I mean all back here again at school or in the sixth form. They were good days, you know.’

  ‘They were.’ She nodded.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a group of people passing the door on their way upstairs. They were obviously doing the tour of the school, just as I had.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘Katrina saw you go wandering off. My next stop after here was the gym.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of going there.’ I considered what to say next. I wanted to get this sorted one way or the other now. ‘How’s Ian?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I’m not seeing him any more.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You know what happened, Matt. You happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. When I said to you that I wanted to be with you, that I was prepared to stay here and try to make whatever we had work, I meant it.’

  ‘I meant it too.’

  ‘The thing is, when I thought about us, I could never work out why we were together. I don’t mean it like that. I mean – well, we’re obviously attracted to each other.’

  Ginny smiled. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But every time we get together it never seems to work out.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I really did think this time would be different. But I don’t know . . . I think after I learnt about Elliot dying and all that, it just changed the way I looked at things. I suddenly knew that I couldn’t take anything for granted any more.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I felt like that when Mum died.’

  ‘The thing is whatever it is about you that I like, well I don’t want to take it for granted any more. But at the same time I don’t want to spoil it either. I’m tired of being scared, Ginny. I want to give us a go.’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Ginny. ‘Not really. You just think you do. You think that us getting together will be the answer to everything. And if I’m honest that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking too. It would be so easy for us to get together, Matt, because I really do love you. But you know as well as I do that it’ll never work because at the back of our minds there would always be this shred of doubt that we’re only together because we’re scared of being on our own.’

  Even though at that very moment I wanted more than anything for us to be together I had to agree that Ginny was right. I was scared of being alone. ‘What do we do then?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘We stay friends,’ she replied.

  ‘But don’t you think it’s kind of sad that we’ve never got it together properly?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you think it’s sad that we’ll never know for sure whether us getting together would’ve been the best thing ever . . .’

  ‘Or a complete nightmare.’ She smiled. ‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The thing we do know.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we make good friends.’ She paused. ‘Shall we get back to the party?’

  ‘Yeah of course,’ I replied.

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This is going to sound strange but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Katrina told me your ex-girlfriend Elaine is here.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Why?’

  She smiled and shrugged. ‘I’m just curious that’s all.’

  Exactly One Year Later

  To:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  From:

  mattb@c-tec.com

  Re:

  My thirty-first birthday

  Dear Elaine

  First off thanks for the card and present – your Happy Birthday Snoopy card was v. tasteful and the self-assembly wine rack that accompanied it has pride of place in my kitchen. Life here in Australia is cool. My apartment is fantastic. (And so ultra-tidy that I scare myself. I went to bed last night leaving a Chinese takeaway foil container on a table in the living room and I had to get up ten minutes later to put it in the bin. That’s how freaky I am.) As for my love-life, which you so coyly enquired about (‘So, come on, tell me, Matt? Who’s blowing your bagpipes?’) I’m afraid to say it’s been a bit quiet. I was seeing a girl at work for a while but I don’t know, she was nice and everything. But she didn’t have . . . that thing. So I suppose I’ll have to keep on looking. Glad to hear, however, that the single life for you is still as eventful as ever. To be truthful I didn’t like the sound of Harry in advertising (too full of himself) or Woody the musician (a thirty-two-year-old who thinks he’s twenty-two – how sad) but I liked that
last guy, Carl, he had some good points (and reminded me a little of me) and you were way too hard on him.

  You asked how Gershwin, Zoë and Charlotte are, and the news is they’re all fine. Gershwin has finally packed in his job and is going to university in October to be a mature student and study history. Why history? I have no idea. But they’ve got quite a bit of money saved up so they’ll be fine. Charlotte’s cool too. She’s loving school and doing very well but apparently she misses my ability to make farty noises on the back of my hand. Katrina and Pete, who you met on my birthday, called me recently to say they’ve got engaged. Katrina was apparently dead set against it but Pete managed to persuade her it was a good idea. I heard via Katrina that Bev is okay too – which reminds me I must give her a call soon. And finally Ginny. She’s changed schools now and this one is apparently a lot less hectic. She’s still single although there was a brief thing with a guy at her new school (thankfully this one wasn’t attached) but that’s all over now. In fact, she called me yesterday to wish me happy birthday and to say that now she’s single again she’s thinking about coming over to visit me over Easter to see if I can fix her up with any good-looking Australian guys. I told her I’ll see what I can do. And that – as they say – is the news.

  Take it easy,

  Love always

  Matt xxx

  PS In your last e-mail you asked for some advice culled from my experience of the front line of thirtydom that might be useful to you as you turn twenty-five. I racked my brain for ages and the best I could come up with was this:

  1) Don’t take anything for granted because when it’s gone it’s always too late.

  2) Look after your mates – and they will look after you.

  3) The only thing in life that gets easier the older you get is the ability to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.

  4) Never move back in with your parents – it’s always a bad idea.

  5) And, finally, don’t go to the pub unless there’s somewhere to sit down. But basically it’s all just common sense.

  About the author

  Mike Gayle is the author of ten bestselling novels and has contributed to a variety of magazines including FHM, Sunday Times Style and Cosmopolitan.

  www.mikegayle.co.uk

  Also by Mike Gayle

  My Legendary Girlfriend

  Mr Commitment

  Dinner for Two

  His ’n’ Hers

  Brand New Friend

  Wish You Were Here

  Life and Soul of the Party

  The Importance of being a Bachelor

  Men at Work (Quick Read)

  The Stag and Hen Weekend

  Non-fiction

  The To-Do List

  Has Matt Beckford’s life improved a decade on? Here is a taster from TURNING FORTY (publication date 6 June 2013), the follow-up to the hugely successful TURNING THIRTY.

  1.

  Wiping my hand against the steamed up window of the taxi I press my nose up against the cold glass to get a better look at the worn but sturdy facade of my destination: 88 Hampton Street, the three-bed Victorian terrace that my parents have called home for over forty years.

  It looks exactly the way I left it following my last visit at Easter, same windows, curtains, and front door and even though I haven’t lived here in decades, it still feels like coming home.

  The cabbie waves the receipt I’ve requested (more out of habit than a desire to keep my expense records up to date) under my nose and I hand him a twenty-pound note and unload my bags on to the pavement. A smart young couple I don’t recognise carefully navigate their neon coloured state-of-the art pram around me and up the path to the house to the left of my parents’ that will forever be known to me as the O’Reillys’. I watch surreptitiously as they open their front door and manoeuvre the pram inside. I feel envious. A happy couple, a young baby, and a family home: all the staging posts of adult life ticked off one after the other. Next to them I’m a walking cautionary tale.

  The cabbie is holding out my change. There was a time when I wouldn’t have given the handful of shrapnel he was proffering a second glance. Not any more. I have to make every penny count. I scoop up the change and funnel it deep into the pocket of my jeans. As I head up the icy front path I spot my mum’s Capodimonte figurines collection on the windowsill. Despite my current gloomy state of mind the tramp on a bench, the cobbler mending a boot and the Edwardian lady posing with an umbrella actually manage to bring a smile to my face. I’ve lost count of how many times my siblings and I accidentally broke off the odd limb only to have my dad Evo-stick them back together. Ugly and damaged as they are it’s reassuring to see them again. In a city that feels increasingly alien it’s an apt reminder that there are still a few things in my home town that thankfully will never change.

  I take a deep breath to bolster my spirits as a sharp gust of October wind sends a shudder through me. Everything’s going to change once I open this door. Nothing will ever be the same again. Maybe I should’ve called to let them know I was coming up after all. I tried a couple of times but didn’t get much further than staring at their number on the screen of my phone. For a moment I seriously consider running after the taxi and getting him to drop me back at the station but then the front door opens to reveal my dad, disconcertingly dressed in a thick brown cardigan, jeans and market stall trainers.

  ‘All right, Dad?’

  His face lights up. ‘Matthew! What are you doing here? I was hoping you were the postman. Your sister ordered me a new pair of slippers off the internet. I could really do with them coming today. You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he shrugs, ‘maybe later. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Just passing through, Pop. Thought I’d swing by and say hello.’

  Dad makes a great show of leaning to one side to get a better view of my bags. ‘For someone who’s just swinging by you you’ve got a heck of a lot of stuff with you.’

  ‘You know me, Pop. I’m like the Boy Scouts. I like to be prepared.’

  He looks back up the path. ‘Where’s Lauren?’

  ‘Back in London.’

  ‘You didn’t bring her with you?’

  ‘She had to work.’

  Dad looks disappointed. Despite Lauren’s innate poshness they really hit it off on our first visit to the UK. It wasn’t just that she was easy on the eye (though Dad never could resist a pretty face) it was that she made such an effort to make Dad feel comfortable. He couldn’t stand being too formal and the fact that Lauren mucked in getting dinner ready with the rest of the family increased her standing with him more than a million perfectly selected Christmas and birthday gifts could ever have done.

  ‘You should bring her with you next time,’ says Dad forlornly. ‘Your mother would love to see more of her.’

  I hope this might be an end to his questioning but as I open my mouth to suggest that he might actually let his first born son inside the house rather than interrogating me on the doorstep like a rogue double-glazing salesman, he sparks up with another.

  ‘Where’s the motor?’

  ‘It’s gone. I gave it up, Dad.’ I mentally picture the pristine basalt black Porsche 911 Turbo that was my pride and joy. It almost brings a tear to my eye. ‘I came up by train.’

  Dad’s disappointment once again becomes apparent. ‘That’s a shame. It was a lovely little number you had there! So what’s that company of yours giving you next then? I bet it’s a cracker! I can’t believe some of the flash cars they’ve let you have!’

  ‘That’s more to do with them than me. They gave me an allowance and I topped it up out of my wages. Thought a nice car would compensate for the fact that I’d part-traded my soul. As for the new motor, there won’t be one.’

  ‘How come? Won’t you need one? I suppose not given how often you’re gallivanting around the world these days. You’re barely ever in this country.’

  ‘It’s a long story
, Pop, I’ll fill you in another time. Are you going to let me in or do I have to tell Mum you made me stand out here so all the neighbours can see our business?’

  ‘Your mum’s not here,’ says Dad, putting his huge hand in mine, ‘but come in if you must.’ We shake hands awkwardly but it doesn’t feel like near enough contact. I give him a one-armed hug and he tolerates it with the grace of someone who, while loathing the awkwardness of physical exchanges, has at least learned to appreciate the sentiment behind them.

  Dad insists on carrying my bags and then ushers me into the kitchen. He runs the tap and fills the kettle.

  ‘Still not much of a tea drinker?’ he asks setting down the kettle on its stand and flicking the switch.

  ‘I have one now and again,’ I reply, ‘but I’m more of a coffee man these days. Can’t make it through the day without at least half a dozen.’

  ‘Don’t touch the stuff myself,’ says Dad. ‘But I’m pretty sure your mother’s got some in for guests.’ He begins searching in the nearest cupboard, which even I know is where Mum keeps her baking stuff, canned goods and pasta. Mum still clearly does everything domestic.

  ‘Try the next one along,’ I suggest.

  Dad snorts that he knows his own ‘bloody kitchen’ better than I ever will. Once it becomes clear that he’s looking in the wrong place he simply mutters, ‘Well of course I chose the wrong cupboard, you were distracting me!’