by Matt Rudd
Of course I can disregard the non-extravagant thing. I know she’s lying because women always lie when they’re talking about birthday presents. ‘Don’t spend anything on me. We haven’t got the money’ means ‘I will be very upset if you think you can get away with an M&S silk scarf’. I know this because, two years ago, I tried to get away with an M&S silk scarf. It’s the thought that counts and apparently I hadn’t. And last year, due to circumstances beyond my control, namely Isabel (temporarily) leaving me for a life of dry-stone-wall-repairing in the Welsh hills, I forgot altogether.
So this year, it has to be special.
And I have only an hour to sneak out on the pretence of going to the house to check that nothing else has fallen down. Except I don’t have an hour because when I get into the car, I have to get out again because it smells of dead bodies, whatever they smell of.
‘Our car smells disgusting. Come and have a smell.’
She has a smell. ‘Blimey.’
‘Did it smell like this the last time you used it?’ I ask.
‘I haven’t used it since the flood. The car seat fits better in Mum’s car.’
‘Maybe a bird has died in the engine?’
There is no bird in the engine, but there is a plastic bag underneath my coat in the boot. Inside the plastic bag are the ingredients of the fish chowder I was going to make back when everything in my life was going relatively well. The juice from the rotten fish has leaked through the carpet and into the spare-wheel compartment. There is dead fish juice everywhere.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t use the car.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t unload the car.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were using your mother’s car.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve destroyed the car as well as the house.’
So I spend the hour getting the car emergency-valeted instead of buying Isabel her really important don’t-spend-a-lot-but-do-really-thank-you-for-having-my-baby-plus-thirtieth-birthday present.
Sunday 21 April
The car now smells of wet dogs and dead bodies. Unable to use it. Not allowed to borrow mother-in-law’s car. Walk to the local shopping parade, which offers a selection of kitchen tiles, investment opportunities in Cyprus, local lamb and second-hand items from which all proceeds go to the World Wildlife Fund. What with all we’re doing for barn owls and bumblebees, we can leave it to other people to worry about the pandas. I also think I’ll have to leave the present-buying until tomorrow, which is fine. As long as I keep calm and don’t panic-purchase like it’s Christmas Eve, I’ll be fine.
Monday 22 April
Kick-boxing Ingrid explains that we have to work twice as hard today because we had last week off. Brenda takes this as an opportunity to start hitting me in the face again. So when Ingrid isn’t looking, I punch Brenda in the stomach. Except, because she’s so short, I accidentally hit her in the breasts. She falls to the floor squeaking, ‘He hit me in the breasts. He hit me in the breasts,’ and all the other women stop, fold their arms and nod approvingly while Ingrid reprimands me.
As soon as everyone has returned to their girly hitting, Brenda roundhouses me in the privates as hard as her little legs will allow. Which is quite hard. I fall to the floor shouting, ‘She kicked me in the balls! She kicked me in the balls!’ No one stops.
I am in too much pain to go shopping for Isabel’s birthday present. Besides, she doesn’t deserve one because she is a woman and all women are horrible.
‘I can’t believe you punched a woman in the breasts,’ is all Isabel can say by way of support. ‘Do you have any idea how painful that is?’
‘Not as painful as being kicked in the balls,’ I reply, wearily. ‘And I was trying to hit her in the stomach.’
‘Maybe you should give up kick boxing. I’m not sure it’s bringing out the best in you.’
‘I can’t. I’ve paid for the whole course. I won’t let them win. Did the builders call?’
‘No.’
Tuesday 23 April
Car now smells of dead dogs and wet fish. Before I can phone the valet company to ask them how long it normally takes for the smell to go away, the builder calls. Says he’s round the house. Any chance I can come over and let him in?
‘But I’ve got to go to work. I thought you were going to call to make an appointment.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I didn’t think I’d make it today but I had a window.’
‘You were supposed to come three weeks ago.’
‘Yep, and you weren’t s’posed to leave the tap on, Captain Impractical.’
‘You saw the show?’
‘’Course. Made a bit of a job of your bathroom, didn’t they? Even before you ruined it.’
‘Yes, well—’
‘Look, mate, can you come round or not?’
‘Yes.’
There is so much tutting and muttering and teeth-sucking as he picks his way through the wreckage of our former house that I’m hardly surprised when he says, ‘Four months.’
Isabel, on the other hand, does not have the benefit of the tutting to pre-warn her. ‘How long till we can move back in?’ she asks before I have even stepped through the door.
‘Four—’
‘Four weeks?! Oh my God.’ Jacob, until then calmly having breakfast on Isabel’s breast, is so surprised that he wheels his head around to see what’s going on. Isabel’s nipple stretches with him before pinging back like nipple-shaped calamari. ‘Ow,’ she says.
And then I say, ‘No, four months.’ And she says ‘ow’ again.
Anastasia, who has given herself twenty pages for the George Clooney feature, even though it is, as usual, about Italian lakes, Darfur and taking on the military-industrial complex, is unhappy that I’m forty-five minutes late. I tell her that’s her problem. She says, ‘We’ll see about that.’ I say, ‘Ohhh, scary,’ and she storms off. I still can’t get used to the fact that she is the Editor. My boss. And that she can see about things if she wants to.
Wednesday 24 April
Late again because Isabel and I were arguing about where we should rent with the pittance the insurance company will give us for ‘emergency shelter’. If we stay where we are, we can only afford a tiny bungalow and I hate bungalows. Isabel is all for moving half an hour further out of London to some remote village where we’d get a whole family house for our money. I think we should temporarily cut our losses and move back to London. The only thing we agree on is that we can’t possibly spend the next four months at Isabel’s parents’ house.
‘You can come and stay in our house,’ says my mum, thoughtfully. ‘Your father can give you his room. He can sleep on the sofa. It will be just like the old days.’
So now I have to find a new place to live, almost certainly a new fish-free car and, by tomorrow morning, a birthday-cum-birth present for Isabel. And it’s now 6 p.m. and the posh little jewellery shops have shut and I’m already down to department stores, supermarkets and petrol stations. If I lose department stores, I am in real trouble.
So I’m in Liberty, where handbags cost £600 and the clothes are all far too weird and fashiony and machine unwashable and not at all designed for people who might have babies throwing up on them every five minutes. And also all cost £600. And why is the temperature in here so high? It’s spring now. Can’t they adjust the thermostat so you don’t have to sweat while you panic-shop? And I’m getting texts from Isabel asking how late I’m going to be because her mother is teaching her how to dress Jacob properly because apparently she’s been doing it all wrong and if I don’t get home soon there will be blood.
And now it’s half six. I have an incredibly boring floral birthday book.
So now it’s 6.50 p.m. In ten minutes, it’s supermarkets and petrol stations. I need to make a decision. Do I stay in Liberty or make a break for John Lewis?
John Lewis. Not as posh. Potential for good thoughtful present. Some cutlery or something.
And now I’m running.
And getting snagged in a Japanese guided tour.
And knocking over the entire Evening Standard kiosk.
And apologising.
And helping the woman at the kiosk back up again.
And crossing between two buses. Then getting trapped on an island in the middle of the street.
Finally, I’m there. And the security guard says, ‘No.’ I am finished.
For a long time, I sit on a bench, head in hands, miserable. I’ve done it again. I’ve screwed up her birthday present. And this time, it’s her thirtieth. The woman has chosen not only to spend the rest of her life with me but also to have a child with me. A beautiful child. And she is a perfect, dedicated mother, raising our perfect though high-maintenance baby with patience and devotion.
How do I repay her? I destroy the house. I destroy the car. I force us to move around the country like refugees. And, to cap it all, I get her a present from the late-night Tesco Metro.
This is not good enough.
It won’t do.
I won’t let this happen.
And then I have an idea. All I need is a notebook, preferably not too big, ideally with nice thick paper. Like Jason Bourne, I leap into action. The WHSmith at the station will still be open. It will sell notebooks. If I jump on that bus, it will take me to the station. And there’s no way the CIA will be able to follow me. Sort of thing.
The plan goes perfectly. Notebook acquired, I sit down on the train and begin writing. This is the hard part. I get home. I apologise for being late. I then wait impatiently for everyone to go to bed before I creep downstairs and start writing again. It takes all night, during which time I can’t help thinking that a pair of diamond earrings would have been much easier. But, anyway…
Thursday 25 April
7 a.m. A lie-in (thank God, given that I only got to sleep at five). Birthday breakfast. A very frumpy nightdress from her mother. A book on Japanese art from her father. And from me, a notebook explaining why I am the luckiest man alive to have Isabel. And a note to meet me at 6 p.m. at our house. Yes, the wrecked one. Her parents will look after Jacob.
I get into terrible trouble leaving work early. I would have been in a lot more trouble had Anastasia noticed that I’d spent all day on the phone to estate agents. Too bad. My marriage and my family are more important than work.
When Isabel walks in, I’ve laid out a picnic rug in the flood-ravaged dining room. If it wasn’t for the strong smell of damp, the candles would have given the place an almost romantic feel. I haven’t even started opening the champagne and she’s already hugging me.
‘That was the most beautiful present I’ve ever had. I mean, it was quite long, and rambling in parts. But I haven’t had a proper love letter for ages.’
‘Well, I meant it, darling.’
And we kiss. And then I ask her what other proper love letters she’s had.
‘Don’t spoil it.’
‘No, you’re right. Anyway, what I also want to say is sorry. Sorry for doing this to our house. But I think this might make things a little easier while we wait for it to get fixed.’ And with a flourish, I hand her the photograph of our new (temporary) home.
I had decided to take matters into my own hands. I had rented a cottage in a village even further down the railway line from metropolitan civilisation. There would be green fields and stables and orchards and crappy little village stores that don’t sell Marmite because it’s too modern. And we would live the rural life people always talk about but never go for. And Isabel, a country girl at heart, would be happy. And so would I.
‘Blimey,’ says Isabel. ‘It looks great. When did you go and see it?’
‘I haven’t yet. But the estate agent assures me it’s fine. And another couple were interested. And it’s the only house in a ten-mile radius available for short-term rental and—’
Isabel’s mobile rings. It’s her mum; she thinks Jacob’s teething. So we scoff the beautiful picnic I had bought at great expense from a can-they-really-charge-£8-for-a-smoked-salmon-sandwich-and-keep-a-straight-face deli and rush back.
Saturday 27 April
The euphoria of my sensitive, loving, atypical approach to Isabel’s birthday has continued, unabated, into the weekend. Neither the news that Alex got her a diamond bracelet (shouldn’t he be getting one for Geoff these days?) nor the revelation that 110,000 people have now viewed a super-slow-motion YouTube spin-off clip of me as Captain Impractical can dampen my spirits.
We go to see the rental house and it is lovely. Yes, there is a mobile-phone mast at the end of the very small garden, which nobody saw fit to mention. Yes, that quiet country lane is actually a racetrack. And yes, it’s not half an hour from our old house – it’s more like forty-five minutes. But it’s only temporary. And it’s a house. And the bathroom is already on the ground floor, so the amount of damage I can do by leaving the (non-dildo) taps on is limited.
Sunday 28 April
Not even the pain in my neck caused by lugging all our junk over to the rented house can dent my happiness. This is the first breakfast we have had as a family unit without in-laws for a month. So what if the dishwasher doesn’t work? So what if the bed in the spare room is springy? It’s better than the floor. And so what if the local pub seemed quite unfriendly when we went in for a celebratory new-house drink? They’ll get to know us.
Monday 29 April
So what if it now takes nearly an hour and a half to get to work? My family is happy. Isabel has already made her first friend. Another mother with a baby the same age as Jacob. They’re going to have coffee on Wednesday. And she may even be invited into the woman’s baby group. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy.
So what if kick-boxing Brenda called me a loser under her breath when Ingrid wasn’t looking?
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, fat boy. Let’s box. Or are you frightened?’
And she did a quick one-two to my midriff before I had even put my mouth guard in.
Ingrid barked at us to pick up the pace. ‘Nice and easy, Brenda. Remember, this isn’t Rocky IV. And William isn’t Ivan Drogo. Haha-haha.’ Maybe it was because I had an extra spring in my step. Maybe I’d had enough of all this chippiness. Whatever it was, something snapped. And for once, it wasn’t my nose.
The swing I took was perhaps a little too hard, perhaps a little too high and perhaps a little too soon after Ingrid blew her whistle. I caught Brenda square on the nose and she went down. There was no referee counting to ten. Just Ingrid asking for everyone to give Brenda space. And for someone to call a doctor.
I don’t think I’ll be going to kick boxing again for a while.
And I don’t think I’ll mention this to Isabel.
Tuesday 30 April
Still, no point crying over spilled midgets. The builders have started work already. We’re going to look at a new car at the weekend. Anas-tasia is out of the office on a long weekend. And it is our second wedding anniversary. Not only have I managed to hold down a marriage for two whole years, but I remembered that I have.
Breakfast in bed for my wife of two years. With freshly plucked spring flowers and a croissant and everything. Not a fresh croissant, obviously – everything in this village is six months past its sell-by date because, even though it’s only an hour and a bit from London, it pretends it’s as remote as Svalbard. Isabel likes this. I find it wilfully backward, but it won’t annoy me. Not today, not when everything is going right for once.
Except it isn’t. When we pop back to the village pub for a seriously-how-many-Brownie-points-does-one-married-man-need drink, I notice the one person in the world I wouldn’t want to see in my new village pub on my wedding anniversary. Apart from Alex. Or Saskia. Or Anastasia. Or anyone who works for the insurance company.
There in the corner, nursing a white-wine spritzer and a very shiny black eye, her ginger, spiky hair tied spikily back, her nasal voice rising above the general murmur, her feet barely touching the ground despite the fa
ct that the chairs in this pub are surprisingly low-slung, is Brenda.
Our eyes meet. She looks surprised, then furious, then away. I think about saying something to her. Something like, ‘Blimey, this is an unpleasant coincidence’ or ‘I’m sorry I hit you, but we were at kick-boxing class’ or ‘Can I get you another ridiculous drink?’ but I don’t. I try to ignore her.
‘What’s up?’ says Isabel as Brenda goes to the bar for another drink and a chat with the grumpy publican.
‘Nothing,’ I reply as the grumpy publican looks at me and then walks over.
‘Are you sure?’ asks Isabel just before the publican says, ‘So you’re the man who hit my wife?’
And I say, ‘Well, hang on just—’
And he says, ‘When she wasn’t even looking?’
And I say, ‘That’s really, honestly not the way—’
And he says, ‘Would you mind leaving? She can stay. So can the baby. But you’re barred.’
Of all the villages in all of the just-about-commuter-belt, I had to pick the one in which Brenda’s husband runs the pub.
MAY
‘If nature had arranged that husbands and wives should have children alternatively, there would never be more than three in a family.’
LAURENCE HOUSMAN
Wednesday 1 May
REASONS TO BE HAPPY
I have proved myself to be a loving husband and father by rescuing my family from their homeless predicament while at the same time remembering a birthday and an anniversary in quick succession.