by Mike Gayle
I’m about to reply when I’m interrupted by the pilot over the intercom. He informs us that we’ll be landing at Heathrow in twenty minutes.
‘Regret is a terrible thing,’ continues Marian. ‘I can’t think of anything much worse than knowing you had the power to change a sad event into a happy one and choosing not to do so.’
There’s a long silence, and as I look out of the cabin window again I catch my first glimpse of the sun.
‘You’re right,’ I reply sadly. ‘Absolutely right. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about Alison and her wedding day. The last time she got married there were only three people there to witness it and it didn’t work out. Today she’s getting married again and she’s going to do it right this time. I know she will. And this guy she’s marrying, I’m one hundred per cent sure he loves her. And that he’ll care for her. And that he’ll never leave her – which is the most important thing of all.’
5.37 a.m. (UK time)
11.37 p.m. (US time)
‘Morning, Anatoly,’ says one of the cleaners, walking through Reception.
‘Morning, Anna,’ he replies.
‘How long until you knock off?’
He looks at the clock behind him. ‘A while yet.’ He laughs. ‘But I set the clock a few minutes forward every now and again.’
‘Don’t let them catch you out, will you?’ she says, laughing, then disappears through the double doors into the bar.
Anatoly turns to me expectantly.
‘Now I’ve told you everything,’ I say, ‘you’re going to ask me what I’ve decided to do, aren’t you?’
‘I think you know what you should do,’ he says. ‘I think you’re just waiting for the courage to do it.’
‘But I love Marcus,’ I reply.
Anatoly laughs. ‘See? I didn’t say what you should do, and you assumed I was in favour of Jim. That’s why I think you know what you should do. Your heart is speaking to you. All you need to do is listen.’
‘But why would I want to run off with my ex-husband just because of one stupid kiss? We only got our decree absolute a couple of years ago. It doesn’t make sense. I think it’s a case of pre-wedding jitters. The brain does funny things under stress. Makes you think and feel things differently from how you would under normal conditions.’ I stand up and kiss Anatoly’s cheek. ‘Thank you for listening to me. I really can’t thank you enough.’
‘It was no problem,’ he says. ‘In fact, it was my pleasure.’
‘Well, you were kind to a woman in need. I know this might seem odd, and obviously you may prefer to get some sleep, but I don’t suppose you fancy coming along to the wedding, do you? I’d love to have you there and you’d be more than welcome.’
Anatoly shakes his head. ‘Thank you. That would be nice but I can’t. I need to go home.’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope your life is a happy one, whatever choice you make.’
I smile at him but don’t reply, then head up the stairs to my room.
PART NINE
One month later
2003
Saturday, 15 March 2003
8.32 a.m.
I’m sitting in the back of a black cab on my way to Alison’s house. It has been a month since the wedding, and although I haven’t seen or heard from her since the day Disco died, I’m assuming they’ll be back from wherever they’ve been on honeymoon. I’m hoping that Alison still likes a lie-in on a Saturday morning. I’m going to drop off a wedding present – my small way of saying congratulations to them and wishing them well. I’ve already decided that even if they do ask me to come in out of politeness I’m going to decline. I don’t want to make a big deal of it. I just want to hand it over and leave, especially as any conversation they might have with me is bound to include some variation on the question: ‘How is life treating you?’ To which, if I’m going to be truthful, I’ll have to answer that I’ve been a lot better but thanks for asking.
Helen and I split up. It happened the day we came back from Chicago. It wasn’t nice. It didn’t make me feel great. But it was definitely the right thing to do. I told her she deserved someone better than me. And she said she didn’t want someone better than me. So then I explained that even if she didn’t want to be with someone better than me at the very least she must want someone who isn’t still in love with his ex-wife. Because she’d already handed in her notice on her flat, I let her stay at mine until she found somewhere else to go. Fortunately she did so a week later. I haven’t seen her since, and I don’t think I’m likely to hear from her again as I strongly suspect that I’ll always be – at least in her mind – the man who dumped his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. When I told Nick what had happened he looked at me as if I was stupid and said, ‘Why didn’t you wait until the day after?’
‘Because,’ I replied, ‘the best time to do the right thing is always right now.’ I could tell he didn’t understand and I wasn’t all that sure I did either. All I knew was that Marian had been right. Even if Hollywood endings don’t happen in East Finchley, the world would indeed be a richer place if they did. And although at Heathrow I hadn’t jumped into a cab and asked the driver to take me to Warwickshire because I had a wedding to stop, I knew I had to take action of sorts. And I’m pretty sure that if none of the events of the past few months (Disco dying, my meeting up with Alison and, most importantly, our talk in the pub) had happened I would still be quite happily with Helen. I’m sure we would’ve been great together. Maybe we would’ve got married and even had kids. But those things had happened. And they had changed me for ever. Because from the moment Alison and I had kissed on the day Disco died, I had known the biggest mistake I’d ever made in my life was leaving her. Alison was the best I was ever going to get. And being with anyone else didn’t compare.
9.05 a.m.
‘It’s this block here on the left,’ I say, indicating to the cab driver to pull over. I get out of the car, making sure to take my wedding present with me. ‘Can you just hang on a few moments?’ I ask, checking his clock, then handing him a twenty-pound note. ‘I’m only going to be a few minutes.’ He nods, turns off his engine and gets out his copy of the Daily Mirror.
Turning my attention to the job in hand, I take a deep breath, walk to Alison’s apartment block and ring the buzzer. My heart begins to race as I imagine meeting Marcus for the first time. I wonder what he’ll think when he sees his wife’s ex-husband standing on the doorstep holding a wedding present a month after the event. I decide it doesn’t bear thinking about. Whatever happens will happen.
‘Hello?’ comes a familiar-sounding female voice from the intercom.
‘Hi,’ I reply. ‘Is that Alison?’
‘No, it’s Jane. I’m a friend of Alison’s. She’s just gone to the shops. Who is it? Your voice sounds familiar.’
‘No one important,’ I reply hastily, as I look forlornly at the wedding present in my hands. ‘I’ll come back another time.’
‘No, you won’t,’ says a voice behind me. I turn round and Alison is standing a few yards away from me. She’s wearing a red Puffa jacket, faded blue jogging bottoms, trainers and a green woolly hat that has clearly seen better days.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m okay,’ I reply. ‘How about you?’
‘Not too bad,’ she says, smiling at me. She looks down at her jogging bottoms. ‘Sorry, I must look like a right scruff. Jane insisted she wanted an omelette for breakfast. I only nipped out to the shops to get some eggs.’ She waves the box in her hand. ‘I wasn’t expecting guests.’
‘I’m not really a guest.’ I look over at the taxi. ‘I’m not staying. The reason I’m here is to wish you and Marcus all the best and give you a present.’
Alison smiles. ‘Jim, you really didn’t need to do this.’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I just wanted to.’
‘Is it what I think it is?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Depends on what you think it might be.’
&
nbsp; Alison looks at the box with a huge grin on her face. ‘Well, shall we look at the clues? One, the box you’ve got in your hands used to contain crisps, which is a bit of a giveaway unless you’ve actually bought me some crisps. Two, whatever is inside that box appears to be moving pretty rapidly of its own free will. And three . . .’ Alison falters and starts to laugh, then to cry, and then to laugh and cry at the same time, which is something I’d never seen before. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that I still miss Disco so much.’
Slowly Alison walks towards me, almost not daring to look at what’s inside the box. When she reaches me and we’re standing right in front of each other I take the eggs from her and hand the box to her. She sets it on the ground, opens the flaps and looks inside.
‘He’s eight weeks old,’ I tell her, as she pulls out a jet black kitten and cradles him to her. He has huge green eyes and when he yawns as he looks at Alison they seem to get even larger. I can tell immediately that for both of them it’s love at first sight.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ says Alison, trying to hold the wriggling bundle of fur while simultaneously wiping away the tears. ‘Absolutely gorgeous. You really didn’t need to do this, Jim. You didn’t.’
‘I know,’ I say softly. ‘I did it because I wanted to, that’s all. I know how much you loved Disco. And I know that Lucy can never be a replacement for her but . . . you know, she can be something different, can’t she? She can be a new beginning.’
Alison smiles, even though the tears are still falling. ‘Who’s Lucy?’
‘The kitten.’
‘But you referred to it earlier as he.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘But if he’s a he, why is he called Lucy?’
‘You know me,’ I reply. ‘I’ve always been terrible at cats’ names. I’m sure you and Marcus can come up with something better.’
Alison smiles sadly, and there’s a silence.
‘If I was going to keep him,’ she says eventually, with her eyes fixed on the kitten, ‘I’d never call him Lucy in a million years. He looks like a Harry. And I think you should call him that.’ She looks up at me briefly and our eyes meet.
Even after all this time apart I can tell when something’s wrong with her just by a look, or one of the dozens of invisible signals you learn to read when you know someone as well as you know yourself. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘Why can’t you keep Harry? You haven’t already got a kitten, have you?’
She shakes her head.
‘So what is it?’
‘I just can’t accept him, that’s all,’ she says, as she places Harry back in the box, closes the flaps to stop him escaping, then puts it at my feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry.’ And she walks away from me towards her front door.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I didn’t come here to upset you, Al, honestly. I came here to try to do something nice because . . . I don’t know . . . you make me want to do nice things. Is it so wrong to want to give your ex-wife a wedding present?’
Alison turns to me with tears in her eyes. ‘It is, if she didn’t get married.’
‘What?’ I say, stunned. ‘But it was all going to happen on Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it?’ She nods. ‘And it didn’t happen?’ She shakes her head. I pause before asking one final question. ‘But you’re still together?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Yeah?’ I reply. ‘Well, I’ve got a long story of my own. Helen and I have split up.’
‘But I thought you said she was the One.’
‘We all make mistakes, I suppose,’ I reply, looking down at the crisps box wobbling at my feet as Harry bounds around it, clearly frustrated at being parted from his new mistress. ‘Some of us more than others. But that’s life, isn’t it? None of us is perfect. And sometimes it takes a while to get things right but we get there in the end.’ I kneel down, open the flaps, reach inside the box and take out Harry. ‘But wedding or no wedding,’ I say, walking over to Alison, ‘long story or short, I want you to have Harry. He’s yours. I can tell just by looking at the two of you that this is going to be the love story of the decade.’
Alison takes him from my hands and pulls him tightly to her as she looks across at the cab. ‘Don’t go,’ she says quietly.
‘I really should clear off,’ I reply. ‘I told myself on the way over here that I was just going to give you the present and go.’ I step forward and kiss Alison’s cheek. ‘Take care,’ I tell her, ‘and have a good life,’ and then I whisper in Harry’s ear, ‘Look after her for me. And try to keep her off the fags because those things will kill her one day.’
‘You can’t go, Jim,’ says Alison, as I’m half-way to the taxi.
‘Come on, Al, I have to,’ I reply.
‘You can’t,’ says Alison, laughing. ‘How am I going to make Jane’s omelette without you?’
I look down at my hands and see she’s right. ‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, walking back to her. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘A likely story,’ says Alison, as I offer them to her.
She sighs theatrically. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?’ she says, indicating with her eyes to Harry, who is trying to crawl up her Puffa jacket. ‘You’re such a typical bloke sometimes.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Bring them inside for me, stay for breakfast with me and Jane, and then this afternoon you and I can go to the pub and trade those long stories we both mentioned.’
‘I would,’ I say uncomfortably, ‘but you know what happened last time we went to the pub to talk.’
‘I do,’ she says, and smiles mischievously. With that she places Harry back in his box, fishes out her house keys from her coat pocket and opens the front door.
I remain rooted to the spot.
‘Are you coming or what?’ she asks.
I look at Alison, then at the cab, and then at her again. And as I wave off the taxi and walk towards her, I’m certain that these next few steps will take my life in a completely different direction.
The right direction.
This time.
About the author
Mike Gayle is the author of eight best-selling novels and has contributed to a variety of magazines including FHM, Sunday Times Style and Cosmopolitan.
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Turning Thirty
Dinner for Two