by Matt Rudd
And then she makes a little speech about how she still loves me, even though I broke the house and became a gambling, drinking reprobate in the year – the very year – we start a family. And I start a little speech about how I completely don’t deserve her, given everything she’s listed, but I’m interrupted by the phone.
‘Don’t answer it,’ I beg.
‘I have to answer it.’
‘Don’t answer it.’
‘I have to…Hi, Alex. Yes, I’ll just get him.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him.’
‘You have to talk to him.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him – Hi, Alex…No…not at all…yes…no…no. No, just because you didn’t call, it doesn’t mean he will call. You don’t need to speak to him every day. Give him some space. We talked about this…No…No…Look, it’s fine. Just because he hasn’t called, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you…But he’s in Morocco…Yes, but mobile calls are expensive…No, don’t call him. It’s good to give each other a bit of space…No…Don’t call him tomorrow, either…That’s what he’s expecting. You have to play a little harder to get, okay? Okay. Be strong. He might have won today’s battle, but love is a war. Byeeee.’
‘That’s ridiculous advice,’ says Isabel, who has been eavesdropping.
‘No, it’s not. He’s being too clingy. Men hate that.’
‘Yes, but the opposite isn’t that appealing, either.’
‘Yes, it is. You wait and see.’ The Zen Master of Relationships strikes again.
Tuesday 24 September
In order for me to be best man, Andy wants me to become proper friends with Saskia. To bury the hatchet. I email Saskia.
‘Hi, Saskia. I just wanted to say congratulations.’
‘Thank you, darling. Are you jealous? You know you could have had me.’
‘Umm.’
‘Don’t be a naughty boy, William. I meant marriage. You already had me the other way, didn’t you?’
Oh God, this is going to be difficult.
‘I was wondering if we might have a quick drink?’
‘I’d love to. Usual place?’
‘No. Let’s make it a sandwich.’
‘Ooooh.’
‘A lunchtime sandwich.’
‘Okay.’
Wednesday 25 September
Geoff still hasn’t called. Alex must hold firm.
Thursday 26 September
I should really tell Isabel that I’m going to meet Saskia to bury the hatchet. But I don’t because every way I rehearse saying it out loud it sounds like a euphemism. Even burying the hatchet sounds naughty when Saskia is involved.
Still not a peep from Geoff. He’s good at this game.
Friday 27 September
Geoff called. Alex didn’t answer, as I instructed. Geoff left a message asking Alex to call. Alex has called me to ask what to do. I said he should call but not yet. Maybe leave it a couple of days. And if he calls again during that time, leave it. Isabel says men have no idea about relationship politics and I should phone Alex back and tell him to call immediately. I don’t.
Saturday 28 September
Geoff hasn’t called again. This guy’s playing hard ball.
Sunday 29 September
He has called. Again. And Alex left it, again, as instructed. Alex is miserable. ‘I want him. I don’t care what’s happened in Marrakesh. I’ll forgive anything. I want him back.’
‘All right. Calm down. Call him tomorrow. He’ll be eating out of your hand.’
Monday 30 September
I chose lunch as the most suitable time to meet Saskia. Whether it’s more neutral than meeting for coffee is debatable, but it’s a lot better than drinks or dinner – and she is about to marry my best mate, so it’s not like anything bad is going to happen.
Except that she’s managed to find the only low-slung smoochers’ couch in the whole otherwise-entirely-unsexy sandwich bar, she’s wearing a dress that wouldn’t cover a budgie and, speaking of budgies, I can’t help noticing – although I’m trying very, very hard not to – that she’s had some sort of breast enhancement.
‘Do you like them?’ she says as I sit down next to her. Oh God, she saw me looking at her breasts. Why did I look at her breasts? These are the very breasts I should not be looking at. These are evil breasts. These breasts destroy lives.
‘Like what?’ I reply pathetically.
‘The new boobs.’ She heaves them forward, we both plunge into the middle of the sofa and I plunge into the middle of her cleavage. I’m like Tarzan when he falls in the quicksand. The more he struggles, the deeper he gets. ‘You can have a squeeze if you want.’
‘Umm.’
‘It’s okay. I only had the jab. It’s the latest. Gives me an extra D for a couple of months. But don’t worry, darling, it’s still all real. See?’
‘Umm.’
They are right there, right in my face – her relationship-destroying breasts – and I can’t think of a thing to say. I try to look at the floor, but it is obscured by the breasts, so I look at the ceiling. A piece of crust goes down the wrong way and I start choking. Her murderous breasts are choking me.
‘I’m delighted you are marrying Andy and I’m delighted I’m going to be best man,’ I say after I’ve gulped at my water and pushed myself back on to my side of the sofa.
‘That’s sweet, sweetness. I’m delighted, too. He’s amazing in bed, you know.’
Why does she talk like this? Why, over an egg-and-cress sandwich and inflated breasts, do I get to hear all about how she never thought a man could make love so sensitively, so beautifully, so expertly as Andy? She says it’s almost like making love to a woman, a woman with a penis. And that’s as close to perfection as you could ever wish for. So she, too, is delighted to be marrying Andy.
As I leave the sandwich bar, Isabel calls.
‘Hi, darling,’ I say in the voice I know I use when I’m trying not to sound guilty about something even though, on this occasion, I really don’t have anything to sound guilty about.
‘Hi,’ she replies, immediately suspicious. ‘Where are you?’
This is the moment in the conversation that calls for direct honesty. I need to tell Isabel that I met Saskia to congratulate her on her engagement, that it all went well and that I’m now heading back to the office. It’s not difficult. It won’t cause any problems. Isabel will be fine with that. The one thing I mustn’t do is try to conceal my meeting with Saskia.
‘Nowhere. Just walking. Going back to the office.’
It must have been the breasts. I must have felt an urge to conceal the lunch because Saskia hadn’t been concealing her breasts. Or maybe I’m intent, subconsciously, on making my life so pointlessly impossible that I have to create these ridiculous situations.
‘Okay, darling,’ she replies, even more suspiciously – and who could blame her, you idiot? ‘You need to call Alex. Geoff’s split up with him.’
It turns out Geoff was in a car crash in Marrakesh. He wasn’t hurt – just a few cuts and bruises – but he was shaken. He didn’t leave a message because he didn’t want to scare Alex. But he has now ended it because Alex wasn’t there for him when he most needed him. And it’s my fault.
‘This is fine,’ I say to Alex when he’s finally stopped ranting. ‘He’s simply adjusting to the new you…and that new you is what he wanted in the first place. It will be fine. You simply need to do the following…’
Text message from Saskia. ‘There was nothing wrong with your penis, either. Thanks for the lunch.’ Delete. I can never speak to Andy again without thinking of him as a woman with a penis, a penis that is as acceptable as my penis.
Then Isabel phones to ask why I didn’t tell her I was having lunch with Saskia.
Then Andy phones to ask what I thought of Saskia’s new breasts.
Then Saskia phones to say she phoned Isabel, given that we’re all friends now, and didn’t realise I hadn’t mentioned our little sandwich à sandwich.
I tell Saskia she’s a nightmare.
I tell Andy he’s marrying a tart.
I go home and I’m halfway through telling a frosty Isabel that I’m an idiot when the doorbell rings. It’s the policeman from the village in which we’re lucky we no longer live.
‘Evening, sir. Can we have a few minutes of your time? You’re not under any formal caution.’
‘Certainly, come in. It is bath time, but I’m sure I can spare a few minutes. What seems to be the problem this time, officer?’
‘A cat has been murdered.’
‘Sorry?’
‘A cat has been murdered.’
‘What cat?’
‘Smudgie, the cat you have, in the past, threatened with violence, was found this morning by her owners. She experienced a long, slow, painful death.’
‘Blimey. Is “murder” technically the right word?’
‘For the last ten days, she became increasingly deranged, unable to stay in her own garden. Something, we don’t know what, was terrifying her. Her owners suspect poisoning. Then, it is our theory that the would-be killer grew tired of waiting for the poison to take full effect. Smudgie was found this morning, her skull crushed by what we assume was a heavy mallet-shaped object. Do you own a mallet, Mr Walker?’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Please just answer the question, sir. Let’s try to keep things cooperative for now, if we don’t mind?’
‘I don’t own a mallet. But I’m pretty sure they’ve got a croquet set at the pub.’ The policeman ignores my insinuation. I’m tempted to say it was me who made the anonymous tip-off about the death of Brenda’s whippet, but something tells me that won’t help.
‘You work for a cat magazine, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you would have knowledge of how to poison a cat?’
‘No, that’s not something we’ve covered on the magazine. Our readers tend to prefer more positive features.’
‘Please don’t take that sarcastic tone with me, sir. Where were you between the hours of six and eight this morning?’
‘I was out cycling. I’m training for a triathlon.’
‘Anyone else training with you?’
‘No, my best friend is supposed to be, but he’s too busy rubbing aloe vera all over his fiancée’s new breasts.’ The policeman doesn’t laugh, so I continue. ‘Look, do you really think I’d kill a cat?’
‘There’s not enough evidence to know who did it for sure. But there will be.’
‘Isn’t this a lot of fuss over a cat?’
‘Sir, in my twenty-four years as a policeman, I have never seen such a brutal killing of an innocent and loved family pet. The man who did this needs to be stopped. Good evening, sir.’
As the door closes, Isabel is standing in the living room, arms folded. Jacob stops tearing the newspaper I had yet to read into a thousand tiny pieces and looks up intently.
‘What did you do the night we left the village?’ asks Isabel.
‘I poured Lion Poo all over the pub garden.’ There was no point in trying to make this sound any worse than it already was.
‘What?’ exclaims Isabel, astonished.
‘Dadda!’ exclaims Jacob, dismayed. My nine-month-old child can do dismayed. Teresa’s child can do happy and sad. Mine can do dismayed, nonchalant and three different types of perturbed.
‘It was to avenge the death of Louise. I was upset.’
‘So, where were you this morning? Butchering a cat?’ This is Isabel again, not Jacob. He is now looking mortified, which is even more impressive than dismayed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was cycling. But I know who killed Smudgie.’
As Isabel swept Jacob up to bed, I walked to the computer and started playing Minesweeper despondently. Only when I lost the first game did I notice the e-mail in my inbox. ‘We haven’t seen you for a while at Poker54321.com. Come back and have a flutter with this free £50 bet. For our most trusted customers only!’
OCTOBER
‘Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was that they escaped teething.’
MARK TWAIN
Tuesday 1 October
Saskia isn’t talking to me.
Andy is angry with me and hardly talking to me.
Isabel is only 96 per cent sure I didn’t stave Smudgie’s head in.
But…I deleted the e-mail. I am no longer a gambling addict. I still have £8,000 in secret debt, but it’s no longer spiralling out of control.
And…Alex is talking to me.
‘It worked. William, you are a master of love. You have saved us. Geoff does love me after all. He was just a bit hurt, you know, psychologically as well as physically. It’s brilliant. Thank you.’
‘This is fine, young Alex. You still have much to learn, but if you keep to my simple Guide to Not Being a Bunny Boiler, you will prosper.’
GUIDE TO NOT BEING A BUNNY BOILER
Being totally in love is very unattractive. If this is unavoidable, hide it (though not in a creepy secret-dungeon kind of way).
Saying ‘I love you’ hourly is too much. So is more than once a day. Once a week is fine. Twice a month in the early stages of a relationship is ideal, moving to once a month, bi-monthly and, finally, on birthdays in the twilight years.
Equally, the more you phone, the lower the value of the currency of your phone calls. If you can’t stop yourself, leave your phone at home or wear boxing gloves so you can’t dial.
Presents should match the moment. Three hundred red roses for a second date? Too much. Six pink carnations for a second anniversary? Not enough. The balance is hard to gauge but either way, err on the side of caution until you are well and truly past the dating stage.
Your motto should be: Cool and Aloof. Only laugh at her, or indeed his, jokes if they are genuinely funny. Laughing at everything is unattractive. Being early for dates is unattractive. Planning for the distant future is unattractive. You should be operating hand to mouth on dates for at least the first year. ‘Sure, let’s do it again next week. I’ll see if I’m free. Oh no, it’ll have to be the week after’ and so forth.
If he doesn’t call, he doesn’t write, he doesn’t text and he doesn’t come round, he doesn’t love you.
Wednesday 2 October
Isabel says she is now 100 per cent sure I didn’t bludgeon the cat. (I decided to get quite shirty about her suggesting she wasn’t 100 per cent sure, which was a gamble given all the other things I’ve been keeping from her, but it paid off. Sometimes you need to draw a line in the marital sand and, this time, she didn’t cross it.) She thinks I should register a complaint with the police about the blatantly partisan behaviour of the village bobby. I point out that I did throw Lion Poo all over Brenda’s garden, so it might be best to lie low and hope it all blows over.
Surprised at my self-control and calm deliberation, she agrees.
I’m also surprised, and to make things even better, I go for a swim. This is the new me. I am a swimming, cycling, running superdad. I live in a nice house with a lovely wife and a child who is wearing 12-18-month clothes despite being only nine months old. I am strong. I produce strong, healthy offspring. I have strong genes. No challenge is too great. Not the triathlon, even though it’s less than two months away and it’s called the Xtreme 3 and it will be November. Not the accusation of cat murder, even though I am partly implicated. And not the selling of aloe vera.
Well, maybe that. I have upset Saskia and Andy, my two most loyal customers. They have threatened to use another distributor. I shall have to find alternative sexoholic hippies. But still, I am strong. Nothing can stop me making this year, this first year of fatherhood, a success.
Thursday 3 October
Brenda and Bob are on South-East Today and Meridian local news. Brenda has puffy red eyes. Bob looks like granite. He isn’t even pretending to be upset any more. They are appealing for witnesses to the brutal murder of a cat they treasured like a child. Even the earnest presen
ters are using the word ‘murder’.
Cheered up by a nice text from Alex. He is sticking to the Ninja Code and Geoff is now the keen one.
Friday 4 October
Brenda is on the train that I catch in order to avoid bumping into Brenda. She sees me. I see her. Normally we ignore each other. Today, she marches over.
‘I will make you pay,’ she hisses and the whole carriage, except the guy who always falls asleep against the window and dribbles down his tie, jumps to attention. This is a posh train. People don’t have arguments on it.
‘Listen, Brenda. I didn’t kill her.’ Even the dribbling guy has been elbowed awake to watch the excitement.
‘You did. You killed her. You drove her mad with poison and then you stamped on her. And now she’s dead.’ Brenda, the poor irritating woman, is now pointing her stubby little fingers into my chest. The dribbling guy assumes we’re talking about a child, I’m sure of it. He has automatically leaped to the conclusion that I killed a child, perhaps the ginger woman’s child, perhaps years ago, and that I got sent to prison but I’m now out on day release. He has plainly watched too much ITV drama. I need to clarify the situation before the audience starts heckling.
‘It was only a cat.’ There is a collective gasp.
‘So you admit it.’
‘No, of course not. I had nothing to do with it. And even if I did, which I don’t, you killed Louise.’
Another gasp.
‘It was only a chicken,’ says Brenda to the rest of the carriage, not to me, and no one gasps. She turns back, her ginger pointy eyes burning gingerly up at me. ‘You killed my cat – and I’m going to make you pay.’