by Matt Rudd
‘I’ll have them out of here by the end of the week.’
Wednesday 30 October
Alex has draped his entire annoying maisonette in deep-red velvet for Andy and Saskia’s engagement party. There are lava lamps in every corner (because ‘they’re trendy again’). There are small coves curtained off and packed with black beanbags (because ‘even though they’re getting married, it doesn’t mean we can’t have a sexy party’). The music is dark. The atmosphere is dark. The cocktails are dark red. In fact, the only thing that separates this from an East European brothel is the food (my contribution: canapés from Marks & Spencer).
‘Don’t you think this is all a bit…dark?’ I ask as I arrange my sausage rolls on a rubberised tablecloth.
But then Saskia and Andy arrive. ‘Oh my God, I love it,’ screams Saskia. ‘It’s so sssssssssssssssexy.’
So I guess we’re fine. And I can start drinking. And Isabel can start drinking, too. Jacob is at home with his grandparents, nineteen bottles of milk, five pages of written instructions, seven new toys, six emergency numbers and some last-resort Tixylix. We can relax. Or try to.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘Yes, he’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Are you really sure?’
‘Yes, I’m really sure.’
‘Good, I’ll have one of those red cocktails, then.’
By quarter past eight, we are both drunk and tired. By quarter past nine, we are inebriated and exhausted. This is way past our bedtime, but it’s amazing to be out with my beautiful wife again. It’s like the old days when we were young and free.
‘William. Isabel. Thank you. Thank you for organising this party. I know it means a lot to Andy,’ shouts Saskia above the dark throb of music.
‘It’s the least we could do,’ replies Isabel. ‘We’re really happy for you both. Congratulations.’ She’s being nice. Isabel is being nice to Saskia. At least, I think she’s being nice. She might be doing one of those fake nices women do when they’re actually being the opposite of nice.
‘Cool music,’ says Saskia, by way of disinterested small talk.
‘Yes, very cool music,’ I reply, because if Isabel is being fake nice and Saskia is making disinterested small talk, I need to interject.
‘You said you hated it a minute ago,’ says Isabel, who is either just having a bit of a tease or she’s getting grumpy because she thinks I’m saying the music is cool to look cool in front of Saskia. If it’s the latter, then she’s definitely being fake nice, which is bad.
‘Well, I did. But this is a good track.’ I’m starting to sweat. There’s probably no need to sweat, but there might be. I can’t tell.
‘Hi, guys. Great party. Thank you so much.’ It’s Andy. Thank Christ for that. It takes four more of the strange red cocktails to recover from what may or may not have been a potentially tricky situation.
Everything is great. I have a second wind. I love this cool party. It’s so…cool. I’m dancing. I’m still cool. Look at these moves. Check out these shapes.
‘I love it when you do your joke dancing,’ shouts Isabel.
‘My what?’
‘Your joke dancing. I’ve always loved it.’
She kisses me before I can protest. And then she kisses me again. We can get away with it because it’s so dark and the music is so throbby.
I have room spin. It must be the sheer excitement of being child-free. I don’t know what happened to my Middle-Age Self-Preservation System.
THE MIDDLE-AGE SELF-PRESERVATION SYSTEM (MASPS)
You have the power to sense hangovers twelve hours before they start. The more advanced middle-aged person can stop drinking even before he or she has started.
You listen to traffic reports before you drive anywhere involving a motorway.
You buy shoes based on comfort and durability rather than style.
You pack for holidays the day or, in advanced cases, the week before departure.
You never arrange to go out more than twice a week or on consecutive evenings.
You only make new friends if absolutely necessary.
My MASPS had failed. This is not good, I remember thinking. I was going to feel terrible in the morning. And then, when I should have been thinking about getting a glass of water and having a little sit-down, I set in motion a chain of events that would ruin everything. It began with the words, ‘Let’s have a lie-down on the beanbags,’ whispered saucily in Isabel’s ear.
Isabel replied, ‘Okay, I’ll see you on the beanbags. I need some water.’ Her MASPS was already kicking in.
I set off for the beanbags in one of the secret coves, but found Alex and Geoff nibbling each other’s faces and did a U-turn. Andy blocked my path, handed me another red cocktail and thanked me again for being such a good friend.
We chatted. I wished him well. He asked whether I still thought he was mad to be marrying Saskia. I said I didn’t. He said I could tell him, man to man, because best friends should never lie. I said I definitely didn’t. He said he would be more upset if I didn’t tell him than if I did. So I said, ‘Fine, I don’t think you’re mad, but I don’t think she’s wife material.’ Then it turned out that Andy was lying: he would be more upset if I told the truth. He looked shocked. So I said, ‘Only joking, mate. Hahahahahaha. I can see now that you’ll be great together.’ And he looked relieved.
Then I remembered my beautiful wife would be waiting for me on the beanbags.
I fumbled my way into the darkest beanbaggy corner and there she was, waiting.
I whispered, ‘There you are. Sorry, I got delayed.’
She whispered, ‘Hi, darling, I was just taking a breather,’ and pulled me towards her.
We started kissing. She smelled different, exotic. Must be the drink. She felt different, exotic. Must be the drink. She was quite aggressive and her breasts were firmer, bigger, bouncier. Must be the—
She froze.
I froze.
I think it was in that order.
A voice behind us said, ‘What are you doing?’ It was my wife’s voice, which was weird because I was holding my wife’s breasts in front of me. And then another voice, the one attached to the breasts, the one that was suddenly, obviously Saskia’s, said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’
Then there was a blur. I remember proper lights going on, not bloody lava lamps. I remember shouting, puzzlement, protestation. I remember Isabel storming off into the night and telling me not to come home. And then me telling Andy it was an accident. And then Saskia seeing the funny side and then Andy not seeing the funny side and having a row with her, as all the other guests made their excuses.
Then I remember running wildly into the night, missing the Tube, missing the bus, missing the last available taxi and therefore missing the last fast train home.
The slow train. I remember the slow train. I remember waking with a start one stop before home and thinking to myself, ‘Stay awake. It’s only another ten minutes. Then you’ll be home and you can apologise and sleep and everything will be all right. All you have to do is stay awake.’
And then I remember waking with another start at my station. And jumping out just in time. Except, it wasn’t my station, it was the one four stops further down the line. It was the village station. And it was now very late, far too late for any trains to be going back, far too late for taxis in this godforsaken chicken-murdering village. I could call home with my—No, I’d left my bag on the train. My bag with my phone and my money.
I could wait five hours for the first train of the day or I could walk. It couldn’t be more than twenty miles. I could have a quick nap in the waiting room. Just a quick one so I had the energy for the walk.
And then I remember waking with yet another start. It was 3 or 4 a.m., I think, and I was in the murky twilight zone between night-before drunkenness and morning-after hangover. I felt sick, I had proper room spin, my face was numb and my brain wa
s throbbing. I started walking, across the village green, past the dreadful pub, past the dreadful village shop run by that dreadful woman who’d automatically taken Brenda’s side and refused to sell me basic food provisions, past our house where Louise and Thelma had died and away up the road, north towards home.
Then, I think, it was 5 a.m., and then 5.30 a.m., and cars were beginning to stream past. And then a bus. I could catch the bus, but I couldn’t because I had no money and, anyway, this had become a mission and the hangover had taken full hold. The throbbing in my brain was now so acute I stopped to look at my reflection in a window to see if it was visible to the human eye. I couldn’t focus enough to tell. Why hadn’t I stopped drinking? Why? Why? Why?
And then I was home.
Thursday 31 October
And Isabel and Jacob were still asleep. So I tiptoed into the shower, washed off the night’s terrible adventures, shaved, dressed, attempted to regain my composure, wrote ‘Sorry – I love you’ on a note that I left by the kettle and headed off to the station to (a) report my lost bag and (b) attempt to get through a whole day’s work with virtually no sleep and the world’s worst hangover. Stupid red cocktails.
‘Due to a problem in the Wadhurst area, all trains are subject to cancellation or severe delay. We apologise for any inconvenience this has caused,’ announced the station computer unapologetically.
‘I’d like to report a lost bag,’ I whispered blearily to the platform assistant.
‘It’ll have to wait, mate. Bit of a mess today, I’m afraid,’ he replied.
‘Right, yes. What is it? Leaves on the line? No leaves on the line? The wrong kind of leaves on the line? The late running of an earlier service? Because if it’s the latter, that’s not a proper excuse.’
‘Someone’s jumped in front of a train.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry. Killed, were they?’
‘Nah, just broke a nail. Of course they were killed.’
I am an hour late for work, by which time I have ceased to feel sorry for the suicide victim and started to curse their lack of consideration. Why couldn’t they jump after the rush hour? Why couldn’t they jump on a branch line? Why couldn’t they just take an overdose?
Only when Janice has stopped whingeing at me about being late (‘This magazine isn’t going to go to press by itself’) can I call home and begin the long, tedious process of apologising for (accidentally) snogging Saskia. In my two years of marriage and apologising, I have learned that you have to get a lot into the first sentence. That first sentence is crucial.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, look, I’m sorry, but it was dark, I was drunk, I thought you were her and I didn’t realise until—’
‘You haven’t heard?’ I’m in serious trouble here. She isn’t even letting me finish the first all-important sentence.
‘What?’
‘About Brenda.’
‘What, now? Another dead cat? Another family hounded out of the village? What?’
‘She threw herself in front of a train this morning.’
NOVEMBER
‘I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.’
JOHN ADAMS,
SECOND PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
(AND FATHER OF THE SIXTH)
Friday 1 November
Suicide? I mean, she was a nightmare and she made our lives, which were already a nightmare, even more of a nightmare – but suicide? This is partly my fault. I left the Lion Poo in the garden. She deserved it. They deserved it. They deserved Lion Poo in their garden. But suicide? Jumping in front of a train? Hell, I know people love their cats, but that’s a bit of an overreaction.
The news has somewhat eclipsed the events of the party. It has also eclipsed the deadline to move the aloe-vera boxes. At least Janice is off on some cat-related assignment. I’ll do it first thing on Monday.
Saturday 2 November
Andy and Saskia have decided to postpone the wedding.
That news has somewhat eclipsed Brenda’s suicide.
He says it wasn’t because of the (accidental) snog – that would be ridiculous – although it did start an argument that hasn’t finished. And the argument got him thinking, would there have been an (accidental) snog if Saskia wasn’t so…Saskia-ish? And now he’s thinking that maybe I was right all along. Maybe she isn’t the girl for him. Beyond the sex, the continual sex, what is there? Maybe my (accidental) snog of his fiancée has saved him from making the biggest mistake of his life.
I start to point out that he’s wrong, but he says he doesn’t want to talk about it.
He still wants to do the triathlon training tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to talk about it then, either.
This is all my fault.
Brenda getting squashed by a train is only partly my fault, but this one – this one is all my fault.
Sunday 3 November
The thing about the triathlon is that we’re doing it to prove that we are still young and are not having midlife crises. Or that if we are having midlife crises, we’re handling them in a supremely manly, sporty way. The rule, unspoken, was that we never discussed this. Officially, we were doing a triathlon. We weren’t trying to prove anything. That was it. Now, Andy has broken the rule. He has burst the bubble. He keeps banging on about how pathetic he is, how pathetic his life is, how ridiculous it is that the only way he can feel good about himself is by doing a pointless triathlon.
‘I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it?’
‘I don’t. I’m not. I’m talking about how sad it is that two men in their mid-thirties can only feel like they’ve achieved anything by doing a stupid, rubbish triathlon.’
‘You know it was an accident,’ I reply, attempting to discuss the elephant on the cycle track.
‘What was an accident?’
‘Me and Saskia snogging.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘And that we were all drunk.’
‘Yes. So?’
‘So, don’t you think a drunken heated argument about an accident is a bit of a flimsy reason to call off an entire marriage to the girl of your dreams?’
‘You don’t think she’s the girl of my dreams.’
‘I don’t think she’s the girl of my dreams. I do think she’s the girl of your dreams.’
‘No, you were right.’
‘About what?’
‘She is the Destroyer of Relationships. I thought you were being melodramatic, but she’s not the girl for me. I was chasing a dream. She’s not a dream. I was blinded by all the sex.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You did, in so many words. You said she couldn’t be trusted. She was self-centred. She was impossible to share a relationship with. And you were right.’
‘I didn’t say all that.’
‘You did.’ He’s right, of course. I did. But it sounds much harsher now he’s saying it back. And he shouldn’t be basing his views of Saskia on what I think. That would be a disaster. Although I suppose it already is a disaster. I wish I’d never said anything about anything in the first place.
‘This is nothing more than a tiff. You’re being hot-headed. You two are great for each other.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Monday 4 November
The trains are stuffed and the platform assistant is still using Brenda as an excuse, even though that was four days ago (‘Yeah, but the late running of these services has been caused by the late running of earlier services which, in turn, have been caused by the late running of Thursday’s services – it’s butterfly theory, innit?’). By the time I get in to work, Snowy is already looking at the cardboard boxes nervously.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Th
e boxes. I’ll get rid of them now.’
But Janice has other cats on her mind. ‘Have you seen the news? That woman with the murdered cats? She killed herself.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m late again. She jumped in front of a train.’
‘But that was last Thursday.’
‘I know. It’s butterfly theory.’
‘Poor woman. Losing two cats. It’s more than any person can cope with. And her poor husband. Both cats and now his wife. How will he manage?’
‘He’ll probably be quite relieved,’ I say, too busy transferring ninety bottles of aloe vera from perfectly acceptable cardboard boxes into perfectly unacceptable plastic bags to think about what I’m saying.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. I was thinking of something else. Did you hear about that new breed of cat? Stands up like a meerkat. Big pointy ears. £20,000 a pop. We should do a feature.’
Wednesday 6 November
‘Evening, sir. Mind if we have a few minutes of your time? You aren’t under formal caution.’
At least these are different police officers, not the local bobby who looks like Bob and couldn’t be objective if his life depended on it. These bobbies have been speaking to Bob, though, and he’s told them how I attacked Brenda and then mounted a campaign of intimidation against her. Bob claims I was the one who killed their cats and holds me responsible for her tragic and untimely death. What do I have to say to that?
Nervously, I start by telling them how relieved I am that they said ‘killed’ and not ‘murdered’ because everyone else, even the local press, has been using the word ‘murdered’, which is ridiculous because they’re only cats, aren’t they?