by Mike Gayle
There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with these. In fact I’m sure that at least one of my brothers might leap at the chance to own a few of them. But this is the end of the road for me because one of the rules of turning forty is that the logoed T-shirt is the T-shirt of youth. It says: Look at me being needlessly casual, look at what the words and images on my clothing say about me. And while that might be fine if you’re twenty-one with a body as lithe as a snake’s, when you’re forty and daily fighting the effects of decades of beer and bad eating habits, drawing attention to the fact with an image on your T-shirt is a sign to all the world that you don’t own a floor-length mirror. No, from forty onwards if you’re over-warm and wish to get some air to your lower arms it’s either a shirt with the sleeves rolled up or a plain T-shirt (preferably in black, grey, or white although blue is just about acceptable).
And that’s just the beginning.
Don’t get me started on jeans (can’t do too baggy or too tight or too Marks and Spencer), shirts (no bright colours or daft ‘fashion’ collars, footwear (no trainers for non-exercising purposes), headwear (that’s a definite no to the baseball cap) and as for trousers the whole leg width thing gives me a headache just thinking about it.
As I wander into Selfridges debating whether to head straight up the escalators to the Paul Smith concession or stay on the first floor dominated by casual clothing for the needlessly young, out of the corner of my eye I spot Gerry Hammond from The Pinfolds again; but he’s not alone. This time he’s got a gorgeous girl on his arm who – dressed in a black tailored jacket over a Led Zeppelin T-shirt teamed with an incredibly short frayed denim skirt – looks like a young Anita Pallenberg.
The girl stops to look at the T-shirts on the table in front of me and I stare at Gerry. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, white jeans and expensive-looking shoes. He seems to have got this growing older but staying cool thing down to a fine art. I want to ask his advice not just about clothes but about life too.
I nod in his direction in the hope that he might remember me from the shop but there’s no recognition on his face and he simply carries on browsing. Lingering ironically next to a table of T-shirts that I know I’m never going to buy (I can’t really see me pulling off any item of clothing that declares to the world: I am your homeboy), I watch him for a good few minutes before realising that I’m in danger of stalking him and so I make my way upstairs to continue shopping.
Sitting empty-handed on the bus some hours later feeling somewhat dispirited (there had been an OK jumper in Paul Smith but it would have wiped out my little bonus in one swipe of my credit card) I plan to cheer myself up with a trip to the cinema but my phone rings and from the screen I see that it’s my mother. My gut instinct tells me to ignore it. But plain old-fashioned guilt makes me answer the call.
‘Matthew, it’s your mother here,’ she says as though there was any doubt in my mind. ‘Your father and I went to the Teals’ for lunch and ever since we’ve got home he’s been going on about how good Mrs Teal’s ham sandwiches were so I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind picking me up a few slices from the supermarket.’
‘Can’t it wait?’ I reply. ‘Dad’s not going to eat a ham sandwich now, it’s teatime.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s putting you out to get your dad some ham but tough luck, young man, you’re getting it!’
Even at the best of times there’s little point in arguing with my mum but on the top deck of the bus packed with people on their way home from work I have little choice but to agree to her demands as a list that was supposed to begin and end with ham grows to include corned beef, Cheddar cheese and sausage rolls.
My reluctance to pick up the odds and ends that my mum wants is less to do with laziness than a desire not to bump into anyone I know. Given my current circumstances I have little or nothing to crow about and the thought of having to listen to others’ success stories depresses me greatly. As it was, I’d already had to make a quick exit from the HSBC on the high street to avoid Darren Hemmings (then, the boy most likely to make a career as a football coach; now, head of customer liaison at HSBC); and had to leap behind a Jamie Oliver book display in WHSmith to avoid talking to Faye ‘wild child’ Wiederman (then, the girl most likely to lift up her shirt and show you her bra for no reason; now, harassed mother of four) all because I didn’t want to tell anyone about the current state of my life. Given the sheer volume of people supermarkets attract every day, entering the Kings Heath branch of Sainsbury’s would be tantamount to walking into an oversubscribed school reunion.
True to form I’ve barely stepped into the shop when from behind me I hear a voice boom: ‘Boffin!’ just as two huge hands come down on the backs of my shoulders. I turn round to see a tall bloke in a fur-trimmed parka laughing hysterically. I recognise him straight away.
‘Jason Cleveland!’ I say, my voice chock-full of fake bonhomie. ‘How are you, mate?’
Jason Cleveland was the supercool kid of my secondary school. He was the guy who wore the best clothes, got invited to the best parties and dated the best girls. Being what Cleveland labelled a ‘boffin’ meant that I hadn’t had much to do with him. And having witnessed first-hand his ability to destroy anyone who made the mistake of crossing his path wearing the wrong trainers or brand of designer clothing I was mightily relieved. The sickening thing about Jason is that he pretty much looked exactly the same as he had done in school. He was still ridiculously tall, and still ridiculously good-looking and judging from his multi-coloured Day-Glo trainers still had a thing for designer footwear.
‘I knew it was you the second I saw you walking in!’ he says. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Couldn’t be better. You?’
‘Excellent. Just come from work. I’m shattered.’
‘So what are you doing back in town?’ he asks. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be something flash in the Smoke? Something to do with banks wasn’t it?
‘I work in IT.’
‘That’s it. How’s that treating you?’
‘Couldn’t be better, mate.’
‘I knew you’d do well, Boff! You were always good at that sort of thing. Not that I haven’t done well myself, like.’
I rack my brains.
‘That’s right . . .’ I begin, ‘you work in . . .’
He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and thrusts it into my hand: Cleveland Double Glazing.
‘Best business ever, mate, I am rolling in it! You should see my new Beemer, fully kitted out, all the works, it’ll blow your mind! In fact why don’t we go for a spin now? We could have a few beers afterwards and a proper catch up.’
‘I’d love to, mate,’ I say, ‘but I’ve got something on tonight. Maybe another time?’
‘Another time it is!’ he says, and I hope that he’s going to leave it there but of course he demands my mobile number and I have no choice but to give it. ‘I’ll text you in the week, Boff!’ he says as a parting shot, ‘I’ll sort out something legendary for us to do.’
I leave Jason buying lottery tickets from the kiosk, pick up a basket and head inside the supermarket where it takes me all of five seconds to spot Andrea Bell (then, girl most likely to tattoo her boyfriend’s name on her arm using a compass and a bottle of Quink; now, partner to a long-haired rocker type currently weighing loose peppers). Heading towards the chilled meats fridges I spot Toby Emmanuel from the year above me at school (then, boy most likely to become a professional actor; now, it appears, a manager in Sainsbury’s) talking to a woman unpacking a box containing packets of cheese. After giving him a wide berth and picking up the ham I set my sights on the corned beef but then I see the older sister of Ruth Burrows (then, girl most likely to get pregnant before her seventeenth birthday, now, the mother of a twenty-four-year-old son) and I’m so desperate to avoid her that I walk straight into a woman pushing a trolley coming the other way.
I apologise without even registering my target. ‘My fault entirely,’ I say and it’s only when she do
esn’t move that I raise my head and see Ginny.
13
Ginny doesn’t say a word and neither do I. All we do is stand and stare at each other as though waiting for something to happen. It’s only after several seconds of this that it occurs to me that just as I am expecting her new husband to appear from the tinned goods aisle at any moment she’s probably waiting for Lauren to do the same. In the end, with neither of our spouses apparent, it’s Ginny who speaks first.
‘Matt.’
‘Ginny.’
‘How weird to see you in here of all places. That’s why I didn’t say anything at first. I kept thinking, who’s this guy who really looks like Matt? What are you doing here?’
‘My folks are in the market for sandwich-making material and yours truly was nominated to get it,’ I say, noticing how great she looks. Older, yes, but no less attractive. I try and get a look at her wedding ring but of course she’s wearing gloves.
‘How long have you been back?’
‘About a week. I was going to call but you know how it is. You have to do the rounds with all the family and then everything else gets tagged on later.’
‘Of course. How long has it been anyway? Five? Six years?’
‘Six,’ I reply a little too quickly. It sounds as if I’ve been marking off the days on the walls of my prison cell.
Ginny winces. ‘Where did the time go? It feels like five minutes.’
‘I think when you get to our age everything feels like five minutes ago until you get the calendar out.’
Laughing, Ginny narrows her eyes as though sizing me up. ‘Have you been working out? You’re looking pretty buff for a computer nerd.’
‘I wish,’ I reply instinctively sucking in my stomach. ‘I run but that’s about it. What about you, though? You’re looking good.’
‘For a forty-year-old! Can you believe we’re forty?’
‘First off, some of us are still thirty-nine, thank you very much, and second, I’m pretty sure there are thirty-year-olds who would kill to look like you!’
Ginny rolls her eyes. ‘I bet you say that to all the middle-aged women you meet! I forgot your birthday isn’t until the end of March. Have you got any plans or are you in denial?’
‘I’m keeping my head in the sand just a little longer.’
‘Message received. So how’s work? Are you still doing the software thing?’
I’d like to say that I seriously considered telling her the truth, in the middle of Sainsbury’s, but I didn’t. Not for a second.
‘Yes, still doing the software thing.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Brilliantly.’
‘And how’s married life treating you?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘And Lauren’s well?’
‘Very well indeed, in fact she’s—’ I stop suddenly and meet Ginny’s gaze directly. It’s pointless not telling her the truth. Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is. ‘Lauren and I have split up.’
‘What?’
‘That’s why I’m back,’ I say in an effort to come clean. ‘I need somewhere to crash while Lauren tries to sell the house.’
‘So you’re back at your mum and dad’s again?’
‘For the time being. Oh, and I’ve jacked in my job too. I quit the software thing about six months ago and have done nothing since but sit on my arse and watch TV. I mean, there’s no point in having a mid-life crisis without going all the way, is there?’
‘I’m so sorry to hear about you and Lauren. I can’t really believe it. I know I didn’t know you guys as a couple all that well but you both seemed really happy.’
‘We were, but things change, don’t they?’
‘All the time,’ says Ginny, more to herself than anything. ‘Sometimes I just wish they’d bloody stop for a while so I could get my bearings.’ She hugs me and kisses me lightly on the cheek. ‘Welcome home.’
I keep waiting for her to mention the fact that she’s married but she doesn’t say a word about it. Instead in an attempt to make the conversation a little less intense she starts telling me how she doesn’t normally go shopping straight from work but had to today because she’s had a manic week and completely run out of food and then she stops as she realises that people are getting annoyed at us blocking the aisle.
‘We should get out of the way,’ says Ginny. ‘How’s this for an idea? Why don’t you carry on with your shopping and then meet me out in the car park when you’re done – it’s a bright yellow Beetle, you can’t miss it – and come back to mine for something to eat.’ She gestures to her shopping trolley. ‘I have food now so I can offer you something more substantial than Cup-a-Soup and toast!’
Ginny is referring to the first time I went to visit her during her first year at university. She was so broke that packet soup and toast was all she could afford to feed me the whole weekend. It was one of the best weekends of my entire life.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, ‘but I’d better get back.’
‘Are you sure? It wouldn’t be a bother. Come on, Matt, I haven’t seen you in ages. We’ve got six years’ worth of catching up to do.’
I really don’t want to go. The last thing I need right now is to spend the evening making polite conversation while Ginny and her new husband sit across the table from me looking adoringly into each other’s eyes. I might be a lot of things, but I am nobody’s third wheel.
‘Honestly, Gin, I’d love to but I can’t. Maybe some other time.’
‘Of course,’ she says, but she looks hurt. ‘Some other time, definitely.’ There’s an awkward silence. We both want to get as far away from each other as possible but don’t seem to know how. ‘I suppose I’d better get off then. It was nice to see you, Matt.’
‘You too,’ I reply. ‘And I’ll definitely be in touch.’
I watch for a moment as she joins a queue at the tills and then make my way towards the tinned goods aisle, narrowly missing bumping into Toby Emmanuel coming the other way. Although he’s deep in conversation with one of the shop’s shelf-stackers our eyes meet and I see a flicker of recognition but he doesn’t say anything. To be honest, even if he had I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have told him my entire life story and asked him to spread the word to everyone we know with the express aim of making myself feel worse. I’ve just hurt an old friend for no reason other than ego.
By the time I emerge with a carrier bag full of food designed to appear between two slices of bread, I have beaten myself up to such an extent that all I want to do is go home and go to bed so when I see Ginny coming back into the store I’m half tempted to keep walking.
‘Ginny. What’s up? You looked troubled.’
‘It’s typical. All I want to do is go home and I can’t because I’ve lost my car keys somewhere between here and the tills.’
‘Are they black and attached to a wooden heart key fob?’
‘How did you—’
‘They’re hanging out of the bottom of your trolley,’ I kneel down and pluck them out for her.
‘Matt, you’re a life saver!’
‘No, I think you’ll find I’m a misery. I’m sorry about turning down your offer to feed me.’
‘It’s fine, you’ve obviously still got a lot on your mind.’
‘That’s just it. I haven’t.’ Ginny smiles. ‘OK, maybe I have a bit but it was really rude of me to say no like that. So if losing your keys hasn’t put you in too much of a bad mood I’d like to take you up on your offer if it still stands.’
‘I can’t think of anything that would cheer me up more. Come on.’
As we approach Ginny’s car it occurs to me that my parents are expecting me home.
‘You carry on,’ I say, getting out my phone. ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’ I wait until Ginny is well out of earshot before dialling my parents’ number.
‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be back for tea.’
‘What do you mean you won�
�t be back for tea? Where are you going?’
‘I’ve bumped into an old mate and she’s offered to make me dinner so I’ll see you later.’
‘But what about all that food you were getting?’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘So you’re bringing it home then?’
‘Do you need it right now?’
‘Well no, it’s for tea tomorrow.’
‘Then I’ll bring it back with me later tonight.’
‘Why don’t you just bring it now? I don’t want your dad eating ham that’s been sat out all night.’
‘It’s fine, Mum, honest. Ginny’s got a fridge.’
‘Oh, it’s Ginny you’re seeing? That’s lovely. How is she?’
‘She’s fine, Mum.’
‘She’s not still single is she? The single life can be hard for a woman, you know.’
‘No, Mum, she’s married.’
‘How lovely! Have they started a family yet?’
I look over at Ginny and wave so she knows I’m still coming. Little does she know that I’m discussing intimate details of her life with my mother. I have to end this conversation.
‘No, Mum, not yet. Listen—’
‘What’s she waiting for? She’s the same age as you isn’t she? I bet she’s one of those career women like Lauren. It’s never a recipe for happiness. I was reading an article in a magazine at the dentist about these career women. They’re all full of regret, you know.’
‘Really, Mum I—’
‘One especially, an Irish woman I think she was although now that I think about it she could have been Welsh, lived in a huge house in London which she shared with two cats. It was decorated lovely though. The curtains especially were—’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say finally.
‘Oh,’ she says, sounding disappointed. I feel terrible.
‘Listen Mum, it’s not you, it’s just that I’ve got to go. I promise we’ll have a proper chat soon.’