by Mike Gayle
‘It’s pointless going to this interview on Monday,’ says Jim, tearing leaves off a recently washed iceberg lettuce and throwing them into a bowl. ‘There’s no way I’m going to get this job. I’m going to call Monday morning and say I’m ill or something. I’m terrible at interviews. I think it’s why I haven’t got any of the jobs I’ve applied for so far. I don’t tell them what they want to hear.’
‘Well, that’s easily remedied. I’ll give you a mock-interview.’
‘This isn’t the best time for messing about.’
‘Who’s messing about?’ I tell him. ‘I’m serious.’
I rearrange the chairs at the kitchen table so that there’s one on either side, then move the tomato-ketchup bottle, the salt and pepper shakers and the place mats out of the way.
‘If we’re going to do this,’ I say firmly, ‘we’re going to do it properly. You go home and put on your interview suit and I’ll go and get into something a bit more formal. I’ll see you back here at eight o’clock on the dot.’
8 p.m.
I’m now standing on Alison’s doorstep, knocking at her door in my one and only suit, a white shirt, a dark blue tie and a brand new pair of black brogues.
‘Look,’ I say, as she answers the door, ‘I’m only going along with the idea because you’re being so insistent. Now I’m here this all feels a little bit too much like doctors-and-nurses territory, especially with you wearing that get-up.’ She’s in a fitted black jacket and a long black skirt with her hair tied back. ‘You look like some sort of office dominatrix.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ says Alison sternly. ‘Did you say something, Mr Owen?’
‘Ah,’ I say, getting the joke. ‘You’re in your role.’
Alison shakes her head dismissively and tuts like a schoolteacher. ‘Please follow me.’ We walk through the hallway into the kitchen in silence. Then she gestures to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Owen.’
I sit down and stare at her across the table. Dressed formally, she looks so disgustingly gorgeous I’m in danger of forgetting that her housemates might be home any second. The last thing they need to round off the day is to catch us in flagrante on the kitchen table. Again.
‘Okay, Mr Owen,’ says Alison sternly. ‘I’ll be straight with you. I’m a busy woman at a very busy firm, so let’s get on with it.’
And with that she begins grilling me on my knowledge of tax planning, my awareness of current and pending UK finance legislation, presents me with a problem-solving/difficult client scenario to sort out, probes me on how I might go about landing new business and finally tells me, in no uncertain terms, why ‘playing badminton’ should never be on anyone’s CV under ‘Extracurricular Activities’.
‘Well, thank you for you time, Mr Owen,’ says Alison, in conclusion of our mock-interview. ‘You’ll hear from us soon. Before you go, is there anything you’d like to ask me?’
I think for a moment. ‘What are you doing in fifteen minutes?’
‘Chairing a very important meeting with some clients, the outcome of which could bring hundreds of thousands of pounds in fees to the business. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just looking at you in that get-up,’ I confess, ‘and well . . .’
Alison laughs and comes round from behind the table to kiss me. ‘Just remember that if this kind of thing happens in your real interview you’re a dead man.’
Wednesday, 31 August 1994
7.08 p.m.
I’m at home when the phone rings and I answer it immediately.
‘Hello?’
‘Al, it’s me,’ says Jim, despondently.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve just heard from Greene Lowe.’
I can tell from his voice that he hasn’t got it. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ I tell him. ‘There’ll be other jobs.’
‘No, there won’t.’
‘There will. I promise.’
‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘No, there won’t be other jobs like this one. Because this one is mine. I’ve got it!’
Friday, 23 December 1994
10.20 a.m.
It’s the day before Christmas Eve and Jim and I are at New Street station with all our bags. It’s been nearly three months since I started my master’s degree. It’s nice being a student again. It’s nice to be using my brain again. I suddenly feel like I have a real sense of purpose and direction. The first term has flown by as I made new friends, learned new things and really began to think about what I wanted to do with my future. I’ve decided that I want to get into publishing. My dream job is to be an editor. I’m convinced I’ll never get there in a million years. I didn’t even tell Jim for a while because I thought he might think it was stupid. When I did tell him, he said, ‘I think you’ll make the best editor in the world.’ And he really seemed to mean it. It inspired me to start writing off to publishing companies in London to see if I can get any work experience with them next year.
Jim’s equally excited by his new job. He’s taken to it as if he’d been born to do it. I’m amazed by the transformation. He brings work home all the time on top of what he has to do to pass the first stages of his accountancy exams. ‘This is the best job,’ he told me, a few months into it, when I came downstairs looking for him in the middle of the night. He was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by textbooks and flies. It was two o’clock in the morning.
‘It can’t be if you’re having to work this late.’
Jim looked at the clock. ‘I hadn’t even noticed it was late.’
I smiled. ‘Are you coming to bed?’
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be up in a bit.’
He didn’t come up in a bit. When I woke the next morning the pillow next to me was empty. And when I went downstairs to find him he was asleep at the table. Exactly where I’d left him.
And now here we are at New Street, waiting to go home for Christmas.
‘Will I see you over Christmas?’ I ask.
‘I’ve got a lot of work,’ he says. ‘I was hoping to use the peace and quiet at my parents’ to get some done. I’ll definitely see you for New Year’s Eve.’ He looks at his watch. ‘My train will be pulling in any second. I’d better go.’
He kisses me and we hug and then say goodbye. And as he walks away I know it’s stupid but I begin to cry. We haven’t even exchanged Christmas presents. His is still in my bag and I wasn’t even sure if he’d remembered to get one for me.
Saturday, 24 December 1994
11.20 p.m.
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m at my parents’. I’ve just got in from the pub after seeing all my friends from home. I’m just thinking about going to bed when the phone rings, much to my mum’s consternation. In her world, polite people don’t ring after seven o’clock at the latest.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, can I speak to Alison, please?’
‘Jim, it’s me. You’re drunk, aren’t you?’
‘Very. Happy Christmas Eve, babe.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a phone-box outside the pub I’ve been drinking in since three o’clock this afternoon. I’ve been telling all my old schoolmates about you. I told them you’re the best girlfriend in the world and that I’m the crappest boyfriend in the world.’
‘Why would you tell them that?’
‘Because I forgot to give you your Christmas present. Do you forgive me?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I’ll come and give it to you the day after Boxing Day, if you like.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll get it from you when I see you on New Year’s Eve, okay?’
The beeps start to go.
‘I haven’t got any more change,’ he says.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘Happy Christmas.’
11.25 p.m.
Outside the phone-box the minicab driver I’ve asked to wait for me beeps the horn.
‘Where to, mate?’ he asks, when I get into the back of his car.
‘I know it’s Christmas Eve,’ I begin, ‘but how much would you charge to take me to drop a parcel in Norwich tonight?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Absolutely not.’
He thinks for a minute, then quotes me a price that he probably thinks is so ridiculous I’ll change my mind. Without hesitating, I reply, ‘It’s a deal.’ Frankie the cab driver and I go to the nearest cashpoint where I take out the money and hand it to him. We then drop round to my parents’ house to get the present and proceed to make the six-hour round trip to Alison’s parents’ front door. When I reach Alison’s I think about knocking on the door but I don’t. Instead I open the porch door and leave it on the welcome mat. As I carefully shut it it occurs to me that it’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to being Father Christmas.
Saturday, 31 December 1994
11.59 p.m.
Alison and I are at a houseparty in Moseley, surrounded by all of our friends. Everyone is counting down to the new year. When we reach zero everyone shouts at the top of their voices.
‘Happy new year,’ I say to Alison, as I put my arms around her.
‘Happy new year to you too.’
‘Any new-year resolutions?’
‘I think I’m going to take up smoking again,’ she says. ‘Someone needs to try to balance the number of people who are always giving up. Think about the cigarette manufacturers. We can’t have them going out of business. What about you?’
‘Only the one.’
‘What is it?’
‘To be nicer to you. I know I’ve neglected you a bit recently—’
‘You haven’t.’
‘I have. And you know it. I just want you to know that I’ll make things right.’
‘Well, I’ll try hard too,’ she says. ‘I really do think this is going to be our year.’
1995
Tuesday, 17 January 1995
7.17 p.m.
It’s a couple of weeks into the new year and Alison has just come over to my place for something to eat. She’s sitting at the table in the kitchen watching me cook one of my only recipes: Jim Owen’s World Famous Vegetarian Cottage Pie (which is essentially the same as Jim Owen’s World Famous Normal Cottage Pie, sans meat).
‘I’ve got a present for you,’ says Alison, reaching into her bag.
‘Whatever anniversary you’re celebrating, babe, not only have I forgotten but I haven’t bought you anything.’
She laughs and her eyes flit briefly to the present in her hand. Her face changes but only for a moment. It’s a look that’s excited and apprehensive at the same time. She hands me a small parcel and I take off the wrapping paper to reveal one of those small cereal boxes you get in variety packs. The label on the box says ‘Coco Pops’. I give it a shake. It jingles. I look at Alison for clarification.
‘It’s a set of keys,’ she says.
‘A set of keys to where?’
‘To mine,’ she says sheepishly.
I take them out of the box and look at them. ‘A key exchange? You do know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Apart from you not having to throw stones at my window when you’ve been to the pub and think you’ll be able to get lucky?’
‘This means you won’t ever be able to get away from me even when you might want to.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But I can’t think of a situation when I’ll want to get away from you.’
I dig in my pocket, pull out my keys and hand them to her. ‘Fair’s fair,’ I tell her. ‘Now neither of us will have anywhere to hide.’
Tuesday, 14 February 1995
7.08 a.m.
It’s Valentine’s Day. I receive two cards in the post:
1. A picture of a single rose – inside, in Alison’s handwriting, it reads, ‘Dear Jim, Happy Valentine’s Day. Loving you has made my life sweeter than ever. All my love Alison.’
2. A cartoon drawing of two kittens kissing – inside, in Alison’s handwriting, it reads, ‘Dear man with the can-opener, have a puuurr-fectly happy Valentine’s Day. Thanks for all the Whiskas, feline love, Disco.’
7.17 a.m.
I receive two cards in the post:
1. A cartoon of two pigs wallowing in mud – the caption inside reads: ‘Let’s make bacon.’ The inscription reads: ‘To my sweetheart, Have a great day, big love, Jimmy Jimmy.’
2. A card featuring a reproduction of Modigliani’s Girl with a Polka-dot Dress. The inscription, in what I recognise immediately as Damon’s handwriting, reads: ‘I won’t stop loving you because I can’t stop loving you.’
Friday, 24 March 1995
7.04 p.m.
I’m sitting in Alison’s kitchen minding my own business when she comes in, looking pensive.
‘Jim?’
‘Yeah?’ I respond, a forkful of beans on toast hovering in front of my lips.
‘What are you doing two weekends from now?’
‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve got to see my mum and dad.’
I shovel the beans into my mouth and wonder why she considers this information worthy of disturbing my dinner. ‘That’s nice,’ I say, chewing. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’
‘Well, hopefully you won’t.’
‘You’ve got no worries there, babe,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll definitely miss you.’
‘No, you’re not getting me,’ says Alison. ‘I’m hoping you won’t miss me because I want you to come with me.’
I put down my fork in an attempt to add gravitas to what I’m about to say. My action says: Look, I have put down my eating implements. I am not messing about. ‘That’s sweet, Al, but I don’t really do parents.’
‘I know it’s asking a massive favour,’ pleads Alison, ‘but they’ve specifically asked to meet you.’
‘No offence, Al, but your parents have always sounded a bit high-maintenance.’
‘They are,’ says Alison. ‘One hundred and ten per cent. And now they want to meet you. And I know for a fact that they won’t take no for an answer because I’ve tried. So, what do you say?’
I think for a moment and then respond. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I mean, no. As in “Thank you for inviting me to your parents’ for the weekend but I don’t want to go.” That kind of no.’
‘But you can’t just say no like that. I’m your girlfriend.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have just said, “No.” What I should’ve said is, “No, sweetheart.”’
‘That doesn’t make it any better,’ says Alison, exasperatedly.
‘Well, you tell me how I can say no and have you accept it and I’ll say it.’
‘But why?’
‘I’m just not very good at it.’
‘What?’
‘Meeting parents.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘No, I’m not. Every time I’ve met girlfriends’ parents it’s gone terribly.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m not joking. Samantha Gough’s parents invited me for dinner. Her dad didn’t say a single word and just glared at me across the table. Natalie Moore’s parents invited me to their holiday cottage in south Wales for the weekend and her mum got drunk and tried it on with me. And, worst of all, I met Christine Taylor’s parents one evening when I went round to pick up their daughter for a night out. They were nice enough until we were just about to go and her father shook my hand and I could feel he was holding something in the palm of his hand which ended up in mine.’
‘What was it?’
‘Have a guess. They usually come in threes but he’d just given me the one.’
‘No!’ exclaims Alison. Her laughter fills the room.
‘Yes, and on top of that, he whispered, “If you can’t be good, be careful.” It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was fourteen and it was the first time I’d ever been out with her. I’m telling you, I’m cursed.’
&nb
sp; Saturday, 25 March 1995
8.20 p.m.
Despite my protests Alison refuses to take no for an answer. Instead she badgers me until I have no choice but to give in. It occurs to me that, of all the early stages of a relationship, for me meeting a girlfriend’s parents is right up there at the top of the list of ‘Things that I’d Much Rather Not Do If I Had the Choice’. The fact is, however, that I don’t really get the choice. As she says, I’ve got away with it for long enough.
I’m going to have to go.
And from the moment I agree to go Alison begins briefing me on her parents as if she’s planning a military operation (which, in many ways, she is). I’m informed of what to do, what not to do, and what will be expected of me. And if that’s not enough, I’m tested on a daily basis.
Sunday, 26 March 1995
10.35 a.m.
‘What is the number-one topic of conversation that is absolutely off-limits?’ she asks me first thing in the morning right after what we currently refer to as the Sunday Roll in the Hay.
‘The general topic of politics,’ I say carefully.
‘Correct,’ says Alison. ‘And what about politics specifically?’
‘The Labour Party since 1979?’
‘Not bad,’ she says coolly. ‘Not bad at all.’
Wednesday, 29 March 1995
17.45 p.m.
It’s evening and we’re in the frozen-food aisle in Safeway. I’m trying to decide whether or not I want a packet of Findus Frozen French Bread Pizzas when Alison turns to me and says, ‘What’s the number-two topic of conversation that is absolutely off-limits?’
I have to think for a moment. ‘The general topic of religion?’
‘Good . . . and?’
‘The state of the Church of England specifically?’
‘More specific than that?’
‘Er . . . er . . .’ I know the answer. It’s on the tip of my tongue. ‘I’ve got it,’ I say finally. ‘Women priests.’
‘Very good,’ she says. ‘Very good indeed.’
Saturday, 1 April 1995
8 p.m.
Alison and her housemates, Jane and Mary, are all in the living room debating whether to make a journey to the video shop. Mary doesn’t care what she sees as long as it doesn’t have subtitles. Jane doesn’t care what she sees as long as it has subtitles. I don’t care what we see as long as it has explosions. Alison doesn’t care what we see at all because she has other things on her mind.