by Mike Gayle
The next time they met was the following New Year’s Eve when Simon and Yaz had a small get-together at their house. Phil and several of Simon’s other friends arrived just after seven and the first thing Phil did on seeing Helen was to ask her what happened to the recording she had promised to send. Helen had lied and blamed the post, but Phil said that it didn’t matter anyway as he had offered one of his regular mail-order customers a ten per cent discount if they sent him a recording of her show. He claimed to have listened to it so many times that he had inadvertently committed parts to memory and proceeded to recite a minute’s worth of on-air banter about women’s underwear that she had exchanged with Sandy, the weather girl following the three o’clock news. Phil’s teasing had Helen in stitches and for the rest of the evening all they did was talk and laugh.
‘Call me and we’ll meet up,’ she said as she hurriedly tapped her home number into his phone.
‘Promise?’
‘On my life.’
Two days later, as she sat on her sofa watching TV Phil did indeed call but she didn’t pick up. Instead she stood next to the machine while he left a long and rambling message in the style of Sandy, the weather girl. The message made her laugh out loud but it also had the effect of making her think about the past, and she shed more tears in a single evening than she had in the previous six months.
Finally, some six months later, they met for a third time, on Simon and Yaz’s wedding day, in their roles as best man and maid of honour. At the reception, as Simon and Yaz took to the floor for the first dance of the evening Phil turned to Helen and asked her what exactly she was afraid of and without missing a beat she said: ‘Getting hurt, again.’
He gave her words careful consideration then reached for her hand and squeezed it, as if he was confident that this small action was all the reassurance she could need. In any other man, Helen would have found this response remarkable in its inadequacy but from Phil it felt like a beautifully eloquent gesture. He made her feel safe, he made her feel cherished and right there and then she knew he was all that she wanted.
Nine years, two house moves, three job changes, a large mortgage and a red setter called Samson later and Helen felt exactly the same way. Phil made her feel safe and secure and they were happy, really happy, until one evening out in the centre of Nottingham enjoying a post-cinema visit to Nando’s, Phil went and spoilt it all.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ he said reaching down beneath their table. He held out his hand and showed Helen a bright pink plastic ring with a red plastic jewel in the middle.
‘Somewhere out there is an under-accessorised four-year-old who is ruining her poor mum’s evening because she’s lost her favourite ring,’ joked Helen. ‘You should hand it in to the staff, there might even be a reward.’
‘Or,’ mused Phil, ‘I could just give it to you.’
Helen stared at the ring, saying nothing.
She was obviously in need of greater encouragement. He rolled the ring between his thumb and forefinger. ‘So come on then. How about it?’
She pushed his hand away. ‘Very funny, Hudson, you’ve had your fun, that’s enough.’
Defiantly, Phil placed the ring on the table in front of his plate. ‘Plenty of men would be more than a little bit crushed by a comment like that.’
‘Well given that you’re not one of them the point is, as they say, moot. Now, eat up and tell me what you thought of the film. If you’re lucky I might even pass off a few of your more perceptive comments as my own in tomorrow’s show when Carol-the-film-critic comes in for her slot.’
Phil began sawing at the chicken leg in front of him in a petulant fashion while Helen breathed a sigh of relief. She took a bite of her chicken burger and looked at Phil expecting to see him chewing. His lips were set in a grim line.
Helen calmly set down her knife and fork.
‘What now?’
‘Is there any need to use that voice?’
‘What voice?’
‘Your annoyed voice.’
‘I am annoyed, Phil! I just wanted us to have a nice night out and now you’re being all weird and sulky for no reason.’
‘No reason?’ Phil snorted loudly. ‘Of course there’s a reason! I can’t believe that you still don’t get it!’
‘Get what?’
‘How insulting it is.’
‘How insulting what is? I have no idea what you’re talking about!’
Phil’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve just asked you to marry me!’
‘Using a kid’s toy ring that you found on the floor! Am I supposed to be flattered?’
‘You know that’s not the point! I’m always asking you to marry me, and you’re always saying the same thing. How many times do I have to ask before you say yes?’
Hearing the genuine hurt in his voice amongst the anger and indignation made Helen feel terrible. He was right, of course. She had lost count of the number of times he had proposed. There had been several formal proposals in their first three years (one in a Michelin-starred restaurant on their first anniversary, another, in Venice during a private gondola ride as they passed under the Rialto Bridge) followed by countless informal ones over the next seven years when he was bored, drunk, sober, amorous, sentimental and, on at least one occasion, angry. No matter the context or the manner in which the question was posed Helen’s response had always been the same.
‘What do we need to get married for when things are working just fine as they are?’ asked Helen wearily.
‘Do you have that on a recording?’ Phil said bitterly. ‘Because you really ought to. Could you imagine? With a single press of a button on your iPhone your response – downloaded directly from completecliches.com – would be played back to any unsuspecting man who dared to suggest spending the rest of his life with you.’
‘But I do want to spend the rest of my life with you, you must know that by now. I’m not going anywhere, Phil. I’ve got a mortgage with you, I’ve got Samson with you, in fact I’ve pretty much built my life around you. Isn’t that enough?’
‘If it was I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?’
‘And that’s it is it? You want so you get? I just don’t want to get married and I don’t understand why you won’t respect that.’
‘You know why.’
Helen sighed. ‘What would you say if I told you I didn’t?’
‘I’d tell you that – deliberately or otherwise – you were lying. You know as well as I do that this is all about him. It always has been and it always will be.’ He stood up, his face revealing the same blend of hurt and anger as his voice. ‘I’ll see you at home. For some reason I’ve completely lost my appetite.’
Phil was wrong. She was sure of this. Not wanting to get married had nothing to do with Aiden. Aiden was just an ex. A part of her history that she would have willingly erased from her brain years ago. As it was, he was a part of her history that few would let her forget because rather than disappearing without a trace after his initial success in London as Helen had hoped, professionally Aiden had gone the opposite way, rocketing to the top of the radio and TV talent pool. The man who had been so broke when they first met that he’d had to borrow money from her to take her out on their first date was now a multi-millionaire radio and TV presenter, with (if the tabloids were to be believed) a pop star for an ex-wife and a string of glamorous model girlfriends to help ease the pain of life at the top.
Since Aiden’s rise to fame Helen had lost count of the times tabloid hacks looking for an angle on a story about Aiden had dug up her name from his cuttings file and either doorstepped her in the hope of getting a reaction to whatever newsworthy antics he had been up to or offered her hard cash for an exclusive, private photos of the two of them together, plus studio shots of her wearing ‘something sexy’ to illustrate the story. Helen ignored the offers and the journalists themselves, in the hope that they would go away but she had naïvely believed that her former fiancé’s fame and fortune
hadn’t impacted at all on her relationship with Phil.
It was some time after ten when Helen got home to the three-storey Victorian terrace in Beeston which she shared with Phil.
She hung up her jacket, kicked off her shoes and called out to Phil over the sound of the TV coming from the living room. He didn’t respond, which Helen thought was stupid and childish but also possibly an indicator of just how strongly he felt about this issue.
Phil was sitting in the leather armchair in the corner of the room staring grimly at the TV. He looked over, his face as unfamiliar and unyielding as it had been in the restaurant, picked up the remote and switched off the set, a sign that he was attempting to meet her halfway.
She sat down on the sofa opposite.
‘Did you really mean what you said earlier?’
‘Forget it. I was blowing off steam that’s all. I’m sorry, okay.’
‘I can’t forget it though, can I? You know I love you, I love you more than anything or anyone. And what you said really hurt.’
He looked down at the stripped oak floor. ‘Then I’m sorry. I was out of line. Look, just forget I said anything.’ He pointed to the TV with the remote. ‘I was just watching the tail end of that Denzel Washington film you like. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea and come and sit with me for a while?’
Helen didn’t move. ‘It’s not because of him you know. It’s got nothing to do with him at all.’
Phil smiled wryly. ‘Who? Denzel? I’m glad to hear it because I don’t think I’d stand a chance against a guy like that.’
Relieved that Phil was back to making stupid jokes rather than being angry with her, Helen went to sit at his feet and rested her head on his knees.
He stroked her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have rocked the boat like that. You’re right, we don’t need to make any changes.’
‘But that’s not true, is it?’ said Helen looking up at him. ‘This keeps coming up and it’s not fair on you. I need you to believe that it was never about him. It was always – absolutely always – about me thinking that good things go bad when you try and change them.’
‘Look, you’ve got to remember that I’m this ordinary guy with a rubbish education who happens to have got lucky with you. Meanwhile the bloke who broke your heart just happens to be a ridiculously good-looking, well-educated millionaire TV presenter who can snap his fingers and have any woman he wants. How am I supposed to compete with that?’
Helen took both his hands in hers and kissed them. ‘You have no idea how amazing you are, do you? You’re twice the man he’ll ever be.’
‘Look,’ said Phil, ‘the point is I’ve always felt like the whole marriage thing is off the cards because of him. He hurt you, I get it, he let you down, but I’m not him.’
‘I never said you were.’
‘You didn’t need to. He’s been hanging around us since day one.’
‘That’s not true.’
Phil raised an eyebrow. ‘So the reason you never called me when we first met was nothing to do with him?’ Helen didn’t reply. ‘Look,’ continued Phil, ‘I’m not having a go, I promise you. All I’m saying is that I want the mistakes I get blamed for to be mine and mine alone. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
Tears began to roll down Helen’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Phil, I’m really sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I just wanted to get that off my chest and now I promise I’ll never ask you to marry me again.’
‘Good,’ said Helen, ‘because it’s about time I took my turn.’
3.
Helen was struggling on the stairs with the ‘slightly larger’ suitcase she had eventually chosen when her phone rang. Being in danger of being crushed to death if she attempted to leave it precariously propped up against the banisters while she took the call she soldiered on and after a great deal of time, low volume expletives and exertion she succeeded in her task. She looked at the screen and saw that the missed call was from her mum. Closing her eyes she drew a deep breath and pressed the call button.
‘Hi, Mum how are you?’
‘I’m ever so good thank you, sweetie. You’re not on the motorway are you? You know you shouldn’t take calls and drive don’t you?’
Helen laughed. ‘No, I’m not driving – I haven’t even left yet! Yaz is coming for me any minute.’
‘Are you excited? That picture you showed me of the hotel the other day looked ever so lovely.’
‘I can’t wait, Mum. It’s easily the poshest place I’ll ever stay in.’
‘Well you deserve it. You work so hard it’s a wonder you haven’t keeled over with exhaustion. Is Phil still there?’
‘He went this morning. Yaz’s husband picked him up.’
‘Where have they gone again?’
‘Amsterdam.’
‘I hope he’s not doing anything bad while he’s there. You do read such stories about the things young men get up to on these stag weekends. There was a programme on cable the other day – I only saw it as I was flicking through – there was a group of lads sitting outside a bar and one of them kept dropping his trousers and the camera had to go all funny so that you couldn’t see his backside.’
Helen just managed to stop herself laughing. ‘I promise you, Mum, Phil will definitely not be dropping his trousers in public. He’s not that kind of guy. In fact my weekend will probably end up more raucous than his.’
‘I don’t know why you young people need to have these stag and hen things. Your father and I didn’t and we were none the worse for it.’
Helen swallowed. ‘How is Dad?’
‘Exactly the same. Nothing changes.’
‘He seemed brighter last time I visited him. Much more like his old self.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘You have to keep positive, Mum.’
‘And keep lying to myself like you do? He’s not going to be well enough to walk you down the aisle, Helen, it’s just not going to happen. Your dad’s ill and that’s all there is to it, and he’ll get worse and worse until one day if we’re lucky his body will give way just like his mind did and put him out of his misery. It’s a terrible thing to see a proud man like your father in this state.’
They continued talking out of mutual feelings of guilt rather than the desire to communicate and once their time was served they prepared to exchange civil goodbyes.
‘Okay, Mum,’ said Helen. ‘I’d better go as Yaz will be here soon. I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes of course,’ replied her mum. ‘But just a quickie before you go . . . about the wedding dress.’
‘Mum, I’ve already said that I’m not talking about it.’
‘I know you did and I still don’t know why. Your auntie Caron was asking about it only last night. Have you any idea how embarrassing it is for me to have to say that I haven’t seen a picture of it!’
‘No one has, Mum, I told you, this is something I want to do on my own. I don’t understand why you won’t respect that.’
There was a click and the line went dead. Helen filled with rage. Why did her mum always insist on winding her up like this? Why did she always insist on getting her own way?
Much as they loved each other (and they did, quite fiercely) their outlook on life differed too much for them to have any common ground when it came to how Helen should live her life.
Despite Helen having explained her desire to do things differently this time around her mum seemed incapable of accepting this fact but it was the topic of Helen’s father that caused the most upset between them. (Her mum, a practitioner of the school of thought that called a spade a spade, viewed her husband’s rapid descent into the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s almost as if he had already died while Helen, an eternal optimist at least in terms of her father’s health, refused to even consider that a day might come when her father would be permanently absent from her life.)
Helen headed upstairs to get the rest of her bags and, when the doorbell rang, she checked her reflection in the mirror a
nd opened the door to an impatient-looking Yaz, holding a carrier bag.
Helen opened the door wider for Yaz to step in. ‘Before you start, I know what you said about not going overboard with the luggage . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she pointed to the bulging case and numerous bags standing in the middle of the hallway. ‘I tried to keep it to a minimum but I failed, okay? So, don’t give me a hard time about it.’
Yaz stared in disbelief. ‘How long do you think we’re going for? Is there anything you haven’t packed? If I open up that case will I find you’ve brought the kitchen sink?’
‘Look, do you want me to have a good time or not?’
‘Of course I do! But I was sort of hoping that you’d be able to do it without bringing your entire wardrobe. Is everything in there absolutely necessary?’
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it’s too late to try editing it now. It took me the best part of ten minutes to get it closed so I’m not risking opening it again until we get there.’
Yaz rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Okay, fine, you take the case. It’s not like the rest of the girls will need to sit down or anything. But you have to do something for me.’ She reached into the carrier bag and pulled out a bright pink T-shirt with a photo of Helen taken on her last birthday wearing a three-cocktail grin and a pink glittery cowboy hat with the words ‘Bride in training’ emblazoned across it. Helen had never seen anything quite so ugly in her life.
‘No!’
‘But you have to!’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’ll be fun.’
‘But you promised we weren’t going to do this kind of stuff. You said – and I quote: “The weekend will be tasteful,” which means no male strippers, no inflatable willies and no tacky T-shirts!’
‘And it will be tasteful. Just not this bit. Come on, mate, indulge me this once.’
Feeling guilty about the suitcase, Helen reluctantly accepted the offending items. She slipped the T-shirt gingerly over her top, placed the hat on her head and stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror.