Upgrading

by Simon Brooke

  I look round and immediately the waitress, a French girl with long black hair in bunches and thick black eye make-up, is at the table.

  “Hi, look, sorry, I’m a bit short of cash. I’ll just dash across the road to the cashpoint shall I?” The girl looks and smiles and I realize that she hasn’t understood a word I’ve said. I take my card out of my wallet and start thrusting it into the air.

  She laughs and says,

  “Oh, OK.” I laugh too and get up to leave. On the way out I walk into the manager who has been watching us.

  “Can I help you?” he says, obviously meaning the opposite.

  “Yeah, I’m a bit short of cash so I’m just going across the road to get some more. Won’t be a minute.” He nods sullenly and turns away. By the time I get to the cashpoint a queue has mysteriously formed and I get stuck behind some daft old biddy in an anorak who, when she is asked whether she wants a receipt, tries to calculate to the nearest tree the effect it will have on the world’s non-sustainable forests. I’m just about to reach over her shoulder and press “no” on her behalf when she does it herself.

  Then it’s my turn. I jam in my card, stab in my PIN number, choose “Cash” and the machine blinks back at me: “Card retained—refer to bank.”

  I have to walk round the square, down the King’s Road a bit, behind Peter Jones, across Sloane Street and along to Eaton Terrace Mews to avoid the café and its justifiably suspicious manager. It’s nearly seven when I ring the bell and so Marion, who opens the door to me, is furious.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  I can’t be bothered to argue.

  “Just walking.”

  “Walking? What is it with all this walking suddenly?”

  “I dunno, I just like walking.”

  The next morning I’m watching TV while Marion gets ready to go out. Our usual morning routine.

  “What are you doing to today?” she asks, looking in her bag for something.

  “Dunno, really.” I keep my finger on the remote so that the telly flicks through one channel after another.

  “Will you turn that off while I’m talking to you?” says Marion, interrupting her ferreting. I hit the off button and we’re both slightly stunned by the sudden silence.

  “That’s better,” say Marion after a moment. “You watch far too much TV for a young man. You should be out doing things. How do you expect to be able to make the kind of money you need to live in this style?” Well, that’s where you were supposed to come in, I think, almost laughing out loud at the idea of it. Did I ever really believe that?

  Instead I say, “I don’t know.”

  “Such a waste of a life,” says Marion sadly. I let her consider this tragedy for a minute. Then I switch on the telly again.

  “Andrew?”

  “What?”

  There is a pause.

  “I said what are you going to do today?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The usual. I might go for a swim a bit later.” I swill the last of the coffee around my cup and wonder if it’s too cold to drink.

  “That’s a good idea. I’m going to arrange for you to join the gym I go to down the street. It’s extremely good.”

  “Thanks,” I say, switching the TV on again.

  “They have a very good swimming pool and someone to swim alongside you all the way.”

  There is a pause as I notice a girl in a swimsuit and hope for a moment that I might have unwittingly stumbled on the porn channel. It’s not—she’s actually modelling some white plastic garden furniture on a quiz show.

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “What’s the point of what?” says Marion, now scraping around in a drawer in her desk. There is another pause. This time I’m sure I’ve found it. No, it’s an American advert for “Sports Illustrated—the Swimsuit Edition.”

  “The point of having somebody to swim alongside you,” I murmur vaguely.

  “Erm.” Marion apparently finds what she is looking for. “To keep you company, take your order for the café afterwards. One of them is an astrologist—like she says, you can firm your thighs and know your future at the same time.”

  Perhaps I was just rather drunk last night at Marsha’s but I’m beginning to suspect that I’m becoming quite incoherent. I can’t seem to finish a sentence these days, perhaps because I never have to say anything much, really. I just have to ask for things—in shops, restaurants, from Ana Maria. Sometimes I just point or raise my eyebrows. Marion’s friends don’t really want to hear from me and I certainly haven’t got anything to say to them.

  I watch the TV for a moment longer and hear the hoover start up in the other room. Then I rush upstairs into the bedroom and open the wardrobe. My two scruffy old bags have long been chucked out but there is a nice new leather and canvas holdall in their place. I pull it down and then open the drawers.

  My socks and underpants are neatly folded. Who else do I know who has their undies ironed and folded? I pick them up and throw them into the bottom of the bag. Then I look at them—all unfurled and twisted, like bodies thrown from a car crash. I pick up a pair of socks. They are silk ones Marion had Ana Maria buy for me when I complained that all mine had holes in them. I smell them and rub them gently against my cheek. They catch slightly on day-old stubble. Poor things. I fold them neatly again and put them back in the drawer. Then I do the same with the undies. I squash down the bag again and push it back onto the top shelf of the wardrobe.

  On the way to the pool I go into a call box, put ten pence in, then a twenty just in case and begin to dial Vinny’s number at work. Just for a chat. Perhaps meet up for a drink. The number rings once and I hang up. I stand and look at the cards around me, offering Strict Nurse, 50DD, Asian Babe and New to London. I realize people walking past must assume I’m trying to choose which one to call so I leave quickly.

  Marion and I spend a quiet evening in watching TV at opposite ends of the settee. I suppose she doesn’t want to go out to dinner because she doesn’t really want to talk to me. The feeling is mutual. I can hardly bear to look at her these days. I think she just wants to get this marriage thing out of the way and then dump me. I was wondering why she couldn’t find an English maid but then who would want to work six and a half days a week and get treated like shit by a mad woman? Fifteen grand sounds like quite a bargain on Marion’s part when I come to think about it. Every time she opens her mouth it is to say something ridiculously offensive. I’ve asked her a couple of times about the cheque but there is always a problem with it. Once she said it would take a while to raise it and I said, “Oh, come on, you must have that much in your current account.” She told me not to be impertinent. I just laughed at her. Another time she started writing it but then Channing rang and next thing she had to get ready for dinner which takes her about eight hours. I can hardly stand over her and make her write it but it’s just such a shag to keep pestering her. How did I choose such a wrong ’un? I don’t know whether she does it to be annoying or whether she simply doesn’t understand she is doing it. Which is worse?

  I don’t sleep much that night. Marion tuts every time I turn over or move. Eventually she says, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m getting married tomorrow, remember?”

  “So? Just get some sleep. You want to look your best on your wedding day, don’t you?” I can’t be bothered to get cross with her. I change my mind about going through with it every few moments. £15,000 for nothing. I’d be divorced within a year and no one would be any the wiser. What if the police find out? What if I’m thrown into a nightmare scenario of official letters, police interviews, summonses. Would I go to prison? Or would it be just a fine? Marion would have to pay it—she got me into this mess. I look across at her, apparently asleep peacefully under her eyepads. Somehow I just know she wouldn’t be around if that happened. I turn over again, away from her, and hug my pillow. No, like Jerry said—and Mark too—people do it all the time these days, no one ever finds out. No
one is ever caught.

  I can smell again the disinfectant and hear the squeak of shoes on those hard, polished floors in the Registry Office.

  Would it matter if in years to come I say to my future fiancée, “I’d prefer a Registry Office. Why? Not very religious myself and there is something else I should mention …” Almost embarrassed to think it, I find myself wondering, in case the situation ever possibly arose, about what Jane would want. I keep replaying a conversation with her over and over in my head. “Jane, I’ve told Marion it’s over. I’ve left her. I want to be with you. I love you.” “Want to be with you?” No, that doesn’t sound right.

  I nod off for a moment and then wake up to find the room bathed in a pale orange light. I realize that I’ll never get back to sleep again so I get out of bed very quietly and go downstairs. I get myself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and flick on the telly. It’s some seventies detective thing my mum used to watch.

  I suddenly have another panic—what if someone sees me? What if someone from work or one of my friends happens to be walking down the King’s Road and sees me coming out of the Registry Office in a dark suit with a girl in a dress?

  They’d just assume I’m at someone else’s wedding. Besides, who cares?

  My head suddenly feels heavy and my eyelids sting with lack of sleep. I rest my head on the back of the chair and close my eyes.

  I wake up after what can only be ten minutes or so with a headache and the makings of a stiff neck. Literally in the cold hard light of day I’ve decided not to do it. I’ll pack my stuff and sneak out. Poor Ana Maria—left in the lurch. Still, it won’t be the first time it’s happened to a bride and not many grooms could have as good a reason as I have for not turning up. I’ll never have to see any of them again. I’ll get out of this, out of this whole mess. I wish I had someone to talk to about it. Someone normal.

  I go upstairs to have a shower and a shave and by this time Marion is awake. It’s just gone eight. I can smell bacon frying downstairs. Ana Maria has obviously decided that her husband needs a hearty breakfast. Or is that the condemned man? A thought strikes me: isn’t it unlucky to see your bride the day of the wedding? I look at my foamy face in the mirror and laugh. How unlucky can I get? Marion calls to me.

  “Yeah?” I carry on shaving.

  “You all right in there?”

  “Fine.”

  “Nervous?”

  Am I? Not really, not any more.

  “No, fine.”

  “Good.” Marion comes to the bathroom door and I look at her. Is this one of the last times I’ll see her? She catches sight of herself in the mirror and ruffles up her hair.

  “I’ve arranged for Chris to take Ana Maria. He says to leave here at ten fifteen to be safe. You should leave maybe a little earlier—why not walk? You’re very keen on walking at the moment.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then we can all come back here and have a glass of champagne.”

  “OK. Are we having lunch after the, er, the thing?” There is a pause. Marion ruffles her hair again, still gazing at her reflection.

  “Do you think I should go shorter this Fall?”

  I walk downstairs and there is a scream and a giggle from the kitchen. The door slams shut and then a moment later another Ana Maria emerges.

  “Hello, Mr. Andrew,” she says, as if reading a script. “I am Ramona, Ana Maria’s friend. I cook you breakfast because you must not see Ana Maria this morning.”

  I look at her for a moment, noticing that she is almost identical to my bride. “I just want a cup of coffee and some Rice Krispies, please,” I tell her. I wander over to the settee and switch the telly on again. The girl goes back into the kitchen.

  “Now I’m feeling a tad nervous,” says Marion, coming into the room. Somehow this is obviously supposed to be my fault. I carry on staring at the telly. “Is that the suit you’re going to wear? Well? Stand up and let me look at you.”

  I glance up at her. Immaculate in a bright yellow suit with black brooch and necklace.

  “Oh, Marion, for God’s sake.”

  “Stand up and let me look at you.” I do as she says. She tightens my tie and picks some imaginary fluff of my shirt. “Where’s your jacket?”

  “Over there.”

  “Don’t leave it on the settee. It’ll get crumpled. Hang it up.”

  Ramona creeps into the room with a tray.

  “Ana Maria, pick up Mr. Andrew’s jacket and hang it somewhere, will you,” says Marion to her. “Oh, and I’ll have a coffee—decaff and some of my special herbal detox pills.”

  Ramona pauses, looking confused and frightened for a moment. Then she whispers, “Yes, madam.” Leaving the tray on the coffee table she makes a dash for the kitchen.

  “No, forget the coffee,” says Marion, still picking fluff off me. “Just some of that organic Chilean honey in hot water.”

  “Yes, madam,” says Ramona, now in abject terror.

  “Oh, and make sure it’s mineral water. Not that cow piss out of the tap.” She carries on patting my shirt and adjusting my tie. “You want to look your best even just for this wedding—” She stops and looks at me quizzically. I give a little snort of laughter.

  “It’s Ana Maria’s friend,” I explain. “Ana Maria doesn’t want me to see her this morning.”

  “Oh, OK. Sweet. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes. I know it’s not a real wedding but it’ll be good practice anyway. I have to tell you, I was so much better at my second wedding. Everyone said so.”

  “What about about your third and fourth?” I ask, looking her straight in the eye.

  “There, that’ll do,” she says, patting down my lapels. “I’ll see you at the Registry Office.”

  Chris rings the entryphone dead on ten.

  “The big day,” he says.

  “Fuck off,” I tell him, not looking away from the telly. Marion has gone back upstairs to shout at the pedicurist. Ramona appears again.

  “Mr. Andrew, Ana Maria says you should set off.”

  I’m about to tell her to get lost but then I think I’d actually quite like to get out of the house. I pick up my jacket, push past Chris in the doorway and walk out.

  I’m slightly stuck for cafés so I wander into Peter Jones. Women in pearls and stripy shirts with up-turned collars are picking up crystal glasses. “Something like this would be perfect for a casual supper party in Gloucestershire,” says one to her mother.

  “But will it fit in the dishwasher?” the mother points out, triumphantly. They look up at me. I must be staring.

  Finally I make it up to the computer department and so I start to play patience on one of the machines. Someone asks if they can help. I say no, thank you. After losing a couple of games and finally winning one I check my watch. It’s nearly ten twenty-five. I’m not surprised. I follow a woman with a pushchair into the lift and go down to the ground floor.

  Outside it’s started to rain. There is a taxi coming down the other side of the road so I dash across and grab it. Funny how you can always get a taxi when you don’t want one. I tell the driver “Chelsea Town Hall, please” and reach into my pocket. Five quid. That’ll do. The traffic inches along in a dismal line. Ahead there is nothing but rain-blurred rear lights. It takes us ten minutes but finally I see the Town Hall coming up on the left. The driver slides back the glass and twists his head round.

  “Wanna geddout ’ere, mate? Might be quicker.”

  I think about it for a moment.

  “No, just carry on.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  By nearly twenty to eleven we are just yards away and there is Ana Maria wearing a bright orange suit, peeping out anxiously from the doorway. She is carrying a little bunch of flowers. Oh, God, Ana Maria, why are you making this worse? Or do you just think that you’re never going to get a chance to do it properly? With a real husband who really loves you? You deserve better than this.

  Chris is standing next to her, looking around furious
ly. Then, behind them I notice Charles and Victoria. The witnesses, Marion said. Very kind of them. But there is Channing, wearing a Tartan suit, orange shirt and a black tie. And beside him are Farrah and her new boyfriend who looks very uncomfortable. What the hell is this? I notice Marion’s friend Renata and another couple we met recently from Hong Kong or somewhere. Daria is looking madder than ever with thick black, pencilled-on eyebrows and the two French boys are lighting cigarettes. A woman we were introduced to at Aspinalls is checking her face in her compact while another woman I recognize from New York is talking to her and adjusting her hat. Even the couple we bumped into after our first date are there. Scattered around them are other rich, glamorous oddballs I’ve met over the last few weeks. I see Christopher Maurice-Jackson looking at his watch and the woman talking to him is Marsha whose house we went to the other night. Standing behind them, smiling that 1000-watt smile and listening intently to a Middle Eastern-looking woman I don’t recognize, is Mark.

  The whole fucking world is here.

  Marion has invited everyone she knows. They’re all here to witness my humiliation, to take part in this ridiculous pantomime. “Look,” she is saying. “Look at what I can make my toyboy do. Much funnier than jumping through a hoop, don’t you think?”

  I lean forward. “Just …”

  “Yeah?” says the cab driver, watching the traffic anxiously.

  I take a deep breath. Chris has spotted us and is moving forward hesitantly, looking down into the cab window to check it is me. He says something to Ana Maria and she looks straight across at me.

  “Just keep on.”

  “What?”

  “I said, just keep going.”