by Jon Rance
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
Saturday, July 29th, 6.00 a.m.
In bed. Can’t sleep. Emily in the land of nod. Two weeks until our wedding day. First week of the school summer holidays.
Why am I writing a diary? I’ve never written one before. I always thought they were for women, mainly, and people with lots of problems and ‘emotional issues’. I don’t really have lots of problems or ‘emotional issues’ to work through and I’m definitely a man (morning glory confirms this to be so) Then why the diary, Harry? No wait. If I’m going to do this diary business, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to refer to myself as Harry. Writing a diary is sad enough, but referring to myself in the third person is stepping over a line. Maybe I’ll call it a blog, but just not show it to anyone. A blog just for me.
Back to the why. First off there’s Emily. My fiancée. The woman I’m marrying in two weeks. Shit, two weeks, that’s pretty soon. I still need to talk to Ben about the stag. He says it’s all organised, but I’m worried because, well, it’s Ben. He’s probably going to have us bungee jumping in the morning, followed by a Guinness in Dublin for lunch and then a quick helicopter ride to Edinburgh for a night out on the piss and then a parachute jump back into London for a hair of the dog in the morning, despite my requests for something chilled-out and more Harry-like. I still have to pay the final installments on the suits, talk to Granddad about the car – he’s arranged the car because he knows a man who knows a man who can get a Rolls Royce on the cheap; anyway, Emily is concerned he isn’t going to come through with an actual car or if he does it will be a Ford Escort. But besides all of that. Why am I worried? I love Emily more than life itself. I know she’s my soul mate, but still, I’m nervous about getting hitched. It’s so final. Married. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health – do I?
Looking across at Emily lying there now, a small strand of spittle dangling from her mouth and onto the pillow, it isn’t even a question. I do.
There is the other thing though. That feeling that has slowly crept into my life over the last few months. That feeling of finality. I’m an adult with a house, a career and now a soon-to-be husband. Am I ready? I’m only twenty-six. Have I travelled enough? Have I done enough crazy stuff? Do I have enough stories? Have I slept with enough women? I’ve never even bought a record on vinyl. Admittedly, I don’t have a record player, but I could get one.
11.00 a.m.
‘What are you doing?’ said Emily.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re typing, Harry. On your laptop. You never type.’
‘It’s just a blog thingy.’
‘A blog thingy, you? What’s it about? Oh, let me read it.’
‘It’s nothing. Just something for school. The life of a history teacher. Really boring stuff, actually. Something Miss Simpson gave me as a summer holiday project. Blah, it’s even boring me,’ I said and I think she bought it. I yawned for effect.
‘Don’t forget we’re meeting my parents for lunch at Café Rouge.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
How could I? Her Dad hates me. And he scares the crap out of me. Why am I marrying a girl whose dad is a copper? If anything happens and I ever hurt Emily, I know he’ll come after me. He definitely seems like the eye-for-an-eye type. He’ll probably frame me for a crime I didn’t commit and then I’ll have to escape from prison and become a fugitive. Like that film with Harrison Ford. I can’t remember the title, but he was a fugitive on the run from the police for a crime he didn’t commit. That will be me.
‘Just make sure you’re ready. We have to leave in half-an-hour.’
‘Roger that,’ I said and then she left to get ready.
I must say I quite like this diary business. It feels strangely empowering. Oh God, it’s already happened. I’m turning into one of those emotionally needy people. Before long I’ll be on Trisha talking about my feelings of inadequacy in the bedroom. Not that I’m inadequate in the bedroom. At least I don’t think I am. Make a mental note to ask Emily about my performance in the bedroom without actually asking her about it. Is that too needy?
8.00 p.m.
Emily in the shower. Last diary entry of the day.
Lunch was a disaster. Every time I opened my mouth Derek pounced like the alpha-male lion he is.
‘Where are we going on the stag?’ said Derek.
‘Not sure. Ben’s organising it.’
‘You don’t know where you’re going on your own stag? Dear oh dear, Harry. How about the car? Is the car sorted? Emily mentioned your Granddad was organising it.’
‘He is.’
‘But is it done? Will there be a car on the day?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I said.
‘Think so! It doesn’t fill me with confidence. You do know that this is a wedding, Harry and not a school fete. My daughter’s wedding. My only daughter, Harry.’
‘Granddad usually comes through.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, as long as he usually comes through, I won’t worry then!’
And so it went on until it was time to say goodbye.
‘See you next week,’ I said
I wish he wasn’t coming on the stag, but Emily said I had to invite him. ‘He is paying for the wedding,’ she said playing the emotional blackmail card. Not the stag though, I thought, but it seemed a tad churlish to argue about it.
‘If I know where we’re going,’ said Derek, squeezing my hand until I whimpered.
Here comes Emily. Night, night, diary. I mean blog. Actually, forget the night, night too. It sounds a bit naff. Harry, over and out.
Sunday, July 30th, 9.00 a.m.
Cloudy. I think it might rain. Emily having breakfast. There’s a new weatherman on the BBC. He looks awfully young to be a weatherman. I don’t think he’s ever had a shave.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ said Emily.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Just have a nice time with Stella and leave the men to build the shed.’
‘That’s the problem. I wouldn’t mind if it was men, but it’s you, Ben and Steve.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ I replied.
Today is the day we finally build the shed. Since we moved into our lovely, new, well the place we bought on the cheap because it belonged to Emily’s great-aunt Beatrice, may she rest in peace, Wimbledon house six months ago, the one thing I’ve been dying to do is build a proper shed. A garden needs a shed and for some reason, Great-Aunt Beatrice left us sans shed. It will be the place where I can get away from it all. It will be a man’s place. A place where we’ll smoke cigars, drink beer and discuss football and other important man things. Emily said we can’t smoke cigars in the shed because it’s a fire hazard. She also said we had far more important things to do inside the house, but I convinced her that having a shed is integral.
‘Just don’t fill it full of shit,’ she said.
As if I would.
11.00 a.m.
Emily with Stella in Kingston-upon-Thames. Just waiting for Ben and Steve to turn up. Sunny. Good shed building weather.
I have all the lumber, the plans, the tools, a brand new tool belt and most importantly, enough beer and cigarettes to keep us going until the job is done. Blur’s Parklife album is in the CD player, the sun is shining and we’re ready. The boys should be here soon.
11.45 p.m.
Having my last cigarette of the day by the back door. Emily asleep. Feeling accomplished.
There really is nothing like building something from the ground up. Ben and Steve arrived just after eleven and we got to work.
‘You didn’t bring gloves?’ I said to Steve.
‘Sorry. Forgot. Lots on my mind with Fiona.’
‘How’s she doing?’ said Ben.
‘I’m not going to lie,’ said Steve. ‘She’s massive.’
‘When’s she due again?’ I asked.
‘August fifteenth,’ said Steve.
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t drop at the wedding,’ said Ben with a laugh but Steve wasn’t laughing. ‘Any ideas for names yet?’
‘Fiona likes Jane and Jasmine. I like Jamie and Jennifer,’ said Steve.
‘So all Js then?’ I said.
‘Oh, yeah, we hadn’t even thought of that,’ said Steve chuckling.
‘Here, have these,’ I said tossing Steve a spare pair of gloves. ‘You’ll need them.’
It was ten minutes later when Steve hit himself for the fourth time. He was off hammering duty after that. The shed instructions were fairly simple and according to the directions, it should take no more than five hours. So after three hours and everything looking rosy, we decided to take a break.
‘Tools down,’ I said and we all popped to the fish and chip shop and then we sat in the garden, eating, drinking lager and then smoking. It was a proper man’s day. You could feel the testosterone in the air.
‘So, Harry, excited for the wedding?’ said Steve. ‘Fiona and I had a great day. The weather, the dress, the first dance, OMG, it was beautiful.’
Like I said, you could feel the testosterone in the air.
‘A bit nervous,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Ben giving me a look. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Just the usual stuff,’ I said. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Steve?’
‘Not really. I couldn’t wait to get married to Fiona.’
‘You’re different though, aren’t you mate,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ said Steve.
‘You were born married. I bet your first words were “I do”.’
‘He’s right,’ said Ben. ‘Of all the men I know, you’re the only one who organised their own wedding.’
‘I did my bit, just like any man,’ said Steve a bit defensively.
‘Your bit? From what I remember the only thing you didn’t choose was Fiona’s dress.’
‘I did cut out some ideas from her bridal magazine, but still, it was her choice,’ said Steve.
As we sat there talking about the wedding with Steve giving me his top-ten wedding hints and tips and Ben trying not to laugh, I couldn’t help but ponder why I wasn’t as excited about getting married as Steve. Admittedly, Steve isn’t your average man, but still, shouldn’t I be more excited?
Eventually, eight hours after we started, we finished the shed.
‘It’s a beauty,’ said Ben.
‘Glorious,’ said Steve.
‘It’s an actual shed,’ I said.
We all stood and looked at it in awe, until Steve picked up a bag from the floor.
‘What do you think all these extra nails are for?’ he said.
‘Probably just extras,’ I said.
‘Probably,’ said Ben tentatively.
Wednesday, August 2nd, 9.00 a.m.
In the lounge. Eating a bacon, egg, sausage and black pudding sandwich. Emily at work. Hot. The new BBC weatherman said it was going to be cloudy. He’s not off to a great start.
Off to see Nan and Granddad today. Nan hasn’t been feeling well and had to go for some tests. They were trying to keep it from me, but I overheard Granddad on the phone to the doctor. I’m worried because it makes me think it might be something serious. I also need to ask Granddad about the Rolls Royce.
Mrs Crawley from number four, head of the Neighbourhood Watch Committee, has been over again asking me to join. ‘We need more young blood,’ she kept saying, but she scares me. Despite her old-person demeanor, I think she might be a bit of a nutter and possibly a racist. I heard her call the lovely Indian family down the street, the brown ones at number seven. I’m too young to be on a Neighbourhood Watch Committee. It’s a slippery slope from there to the Conservative Club and then bingo. Before long Emily will have bingo-wings and I’ll be ordering a pint of mild and bragging to my friends about the price of the carvery.
Off to see the old folk.
3.00 p.m.
I’m devastated. Nan has cancer. I can’t believe it. There’s me worrying about the stupid Rolls Royce and Nan has cancer.
‘Blood cancer,’ said Granddad solemnly. ‘It has some fancy doctor’s name, but its blood cancer.’
Nan was sitting on the sofa next to Granddad and they were holding hands. I suddenly burst out crying. I even surprised myself. The tears coming before I had time to try and hold them in.
‘Oh, now stop that,’ said Nan. ‘I’m going to be just fine.’
‘She’s a fighter, Harry, you know she’s a fighter,’ said Granddad. He turned to Nan and smiled. His wife of fifty-five years. He squeezed her hand and I could see tears glistening in his eyes too. ‘She’s going nowhere soon. Ain’t that right, love?’
‘That’s right,’ said Nan, but she didn’t sound so sure.
‘Apparently people of her age and with this type of cancer usually have between five months and a year.’ Granddad was telling me in the kitchen while Nan had a lie down. It had been a long day and she was tired. Granddad was stirring the tea bags in the mugs. ‘It’s just words, Harry. They don’t know your Nan.’
‘Right,’ I said trying to sound supportive.
‘Anyway, enough about us, what’s the latest with the wedding?’
‘I was going to ask about the car, Granddad. Is it all sorted? Sorry, but Emily’s dad Derek has been asking about it.’
I felt awful asking him about the stupid car when he just found out his wife has cancer, but I suppose something mundane might be helpful at a time like this.
‘All taken care of. My mate Norman, you know Norman (I don’t), well his mate Benny Johnson, you met him once (?), Aunt Beryl’s friend’s son, the one with the lisp, his brother works for the hire company. The Rolls is all booked for the wedding day. Hefty discount, Harry.’
‘Thanks, Granddad,’ I said and then I felt more tears coming but I managed to keep them in
‘She’s going to all right,’ said Granddad putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘Oh and before I forget, not a word to your parents. We’ll tell them when you’re on your honeymoon. We don’t want anything spoiling the big day. The last thing your Nan needs is a lot of fuss and nonsense.’
‘OK, Granddad,’ I said, sniffing up more tears.
‘We have another appointment Thursday morning. That should give us a better idea of what’s going on. That’s what Doctor Robinson said. Nice man. Seems like he knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’ll pop by in the afternoon then, shall I?’
‘That would be nice,’ he said with a smile.
10.45 p.m.
In bed. Watching Emily sleep.
After I got home I told Emily everything. She hugged me for a while and was her usual wonderful, supportive self. We talked about my grandparents and then the wedding.
‘I can’t wait to call myself Mrs Spencer,’ said Emily.
‘Only because that was Princess Diana’s maiden name and you’ve got a serious Royal crush.’
‘Oh stop it,’ said Emily. ‘You’re no Prince Charles.’
‘My ears are far too small,’ I said and Emily laughed.
‘Seriously though, Harry, I can’t wait to be your wife.’
‘And I can’t wait to be your husband.’
‘No last-minute nerves?’ she asked and suddenly I didn’t know what to say.
Seeing my grandparents today, I couldn’t help but think about Emily too. I want with Emily what my grandparents have. A life with your soul mate, the one you love, your best friend and The One who makes you feel complete. What else is there? Sometimes I think we make life too complicated. There I am worrying I haven’t slept with enough women, haven’t travelled enough, not been on an 18–30 booze-fuelled lad’s holiday to Malia, won’t ever get to see another pair of breasts in the flesh, won’t go on a first date, have a first kiss and a hundred other things, but none of that matters because I have everything I need with Emily.
‘None,’ I said. ‘And what about you? Any last-minute jitters?’
‘Just a few,’ s
he said.
‘What?!’
‘I’m only human, Harry, and I am marrying you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You always leave the toilet seat up.’
‘We’ve been over this, Em. Why should it always be me who puts the seat down? I need it up, you need it down, so let’s meet in the middle. Sometimes it will be up and sometimes it will be down. Please, just let it go.’
‘And what about the dried toothpaste in the sink and the flossing debris on the mirror? And always forgetting everything, never paying attention when I’m talking to you and that noise you make when you eat your Crunchy Nut Cornflakes?’
‘These are the things you’re worried about?’
‘That and the fact I have to have sex with you for the next fifty odd years,’ Emily said and then laughed. ‘I’m just kidding. Of course I don’t have any last-minute nerves. I’m a woman, we think these things through before we decide to get married. We also don’t think with our vaginas.’
Watching her now, I’m not worried about getting married. How can I be? Emily is perfect for me.
I can’t stop thinking about Nan. I know she’s old. I know she’s lived a long life. But it doesn’t matter. The thought of her dying scares me to tears.
Night, night, Nan. Love you.
Friday, August 4th, 10.45 a.m.
Emily at work. Eating biscuits and listening to Snow Patrol. Stinking hot. New BBC weatherman cautiously said it might be quite hot in patches. Talk about playing it safe. Off to meet best mate Ben for lunch. Lots of squirrels in the garden this morning – probably admiring the shed!
Meeting Ben for a wet lunch in the City. Today I find out where I’m going on my stag. I just hope it’s nothing too outlandish. I don’t want to end up tied to a lamppost in Newcastle.