William Walkers First Year of Marriage

by Rudd, Matt

  Tuesday 20 March

  Anastasia has asked me to help her with some research on a feature she’s doing about why some French rugby player is sexy. I am going to email the editor of Cat World to see if she’ll have me back.

  Wednesday 21 March

  She won’t. Drunk.

  Thursday 22 March

  Drunk.

  Friday 23 March

  Andy and Johnson agree to allow me another night of wallowing so we go to the local wallowing hole.

  ‘I think I’ve got piles,’ begins Andy, as if he’s in the confessional box.

  ‘The cream doesn’t work,’ says Johnson, distributing the Guinnesses.

  ‘Really? What can I do?’

  ‘Time is a great healer.’

  ‘It’s been two weeks.’

  ‘Squeeze them then.’

  ‘Jesus, are you sure?’

  ‘Yep, but put a stick or a rag in between your teeth before you do. Else you’ll bite your tongue off in agony.’

  ‘Guys, sorry, but my life is bad enough without having to listen to talk of arseholes.’

  ‘You’re right. My agony can wait. First, we need to get you your wife back. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, but it’s impossible.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ shrugs Johnson. ‘It’s simple. All you have to do is get a recorded confession off the floozy saying that the photo isn’t real and that she’s a total psycho, then play it to Isabel.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘Simple again. We wire you up and you just go and see her. If she’s as crazy as you say she is, she’ll be easy to get blabbing.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous idea.’

  ‘Got a better one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to spend the rest of your life in a warm and meaningful relationship with your own hand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then.’

  Saturday 24 March

  OPERATION PYTHON

  Stage one: secure suitable spy hardware

  ‘You don’t think python sounds a bit phallic?’ asks Andy.

  ‘No, they always have to have names like that,’ says Johnson sagely. ‘You don’t ever hear about an SAS strike force taking out an Al Qaeda quartermaster under Operation Fanny Flaps, do you? Or the Flying Squad busting a Colombian drug ring in Operation Flange? Ey?’

  ‘I’m not saying we have to name it after female genitalia either, Johnson. I just feel embarrassed taking part in Operation Throbbing Love Truncheon, that’s all.’

  ‘The name sticks. I’m going shopping.’

  Given that Operation Python is not being funded by the CIA, allowing Johnson—former crime reporter on the Manchester Evening News, and still a black-ops fantasist—to do the shopping was a mistake. The tape recorder with secret microphone cost £50, the door jemmy a tenner (‘Why do we need a door jemmy?’ ‘Why do we not need one is the question you should be asking.’ ‘This isn’t a movie.’ ‘Okay.’), the night-vision goggles £250 (‘I said this isn’t a movie.’ ‘I know, but have a go, they’re really cool.’) and the tracking device £199. (‘We can pinpoint the target anywhere in the world at any time to within six feet.’ ‘But she’ll be at her flat.’ ‘God, you really are a killjoy.’)

  TOTAL COST: £509.

  ‘I got these too,’ says Johnson, holding a pair of handcuffs. ‘Just in case things turn nasty.’ REVISED TOTAL COST: £529.

  Mission complete.

  Tuesday 27 March

  Practice run. I’m me, Andy is Saskia, Johnson is in charge of ‘comms’, by which he means communications.

  ‘Saskia, why did you send a fake photo to my wife?’

  ‘Because you’re so gorgeous, Willy. You’re simply ravishing. And I want you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you, just like Whitney Houston. But if I can’t have you, no one will.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

  ‘Well, it’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with the girl?’

  ‘I’m not picking any of this up,’ shouts Johnson from across the park. ‘You’ll have to stand closer to each other.’

  ‘We’re right next to each other.’

  ‘Go closer.’

  This doesn’t happen in Bond movies.

  Wednesday 28 March

  OPERATION PYTHON

  Stage two: sneak up on target, interrogate

  0700 hours. Location, a car outside Saskia’s flat (the one below my old one, back when my marriage was smelling of roses). No signs of life.

  ‘Is there anywhere around here that sells doughnuts?’ whispers Johnson.

  ‘No, you can get a falafel from the shop on the corner,’ I reply.

  ‘I want doughnuts.’ It’s almost a whine.

  ‘Can you put the heating on?’ whispers Andy.

  ‘No, it’s broken.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time you bought a new car?’ whispers Johnson.

  ‘Isabel says we don’t need one.’

  ‘Isabel, the woman who thinks you’re a bastard?’

  ‘Yes, she says it’s just a conspiracy, making us buy new cars every three years. Makes us all debt-slaves to evil multinational conglomerates.’

  ‘You sure you want her back? You could always get a nice new car instead. With heating and doors that open and everything.’

  ‘Why is everyone whispering?’

  0800 hours. Location, still Saskia’s flat. Still no signs of life.

  ‘Take those goggles off, Johnson. It’s daylight and you’re scaring people.’

  ‘I’m trying to see if there’s anyone inside the flat.’

  ‘The curtains are closed.’

  ‘That traffic warden looks like he’s giving you a ticket.’

  ‘You’re not giving me a ticket, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’re parked in a residential bay and you haven’t got a residential permit.’

  ‘But I’m in the car.’

  ‘But the car is parked, sir. Illegally, sir. Ergo you get a ticket.’

  ‘I didn’t think traffic wardens spoke Latin.’

  ‘It’s a common prejudice.’

  ‘What if I drive off right now?’

  ‘You would be evading a fine.’

  ‘Have you taken my licence yet?’

  ‘I’m about—’

  0900 hours. Location and lack of life-signs as before. Traffic warden evaded.

  ‘I have to go to work.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Mission failure.

  Thursday 29 March

  OPERATION PYTHON

  Revised stage two: text target, arrange

  meeting, interrogate

  ‘Saskia, can we meet?’

  ‘No. I’m back in New York.’ Which explains why the stakeout didn’t work.

  ‘For good?’

  ‘Back on Saturday.’

  ‘Can we meet then? It’s important.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘1300 hours. St James’s Park. Come alone.’ Or a text to that effect.

  Saturday 31 March

  We meet by the lake we first walked past on the way to have sex on Hyde Park Corner but a lot has changed since then. This time, rather than the standard-issue belt and boob tube, Saskia is wearing a business suit and glasses. Her hair is tied back in a prim little bun rather than flowing provocatively down her terrifyingly naked back.

  ‘Like my new look?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too. So I thought you never ever wanted to see me again so long as we both shall live.’

  ‘I want to know why you are so intent on destroying my marriage.’

  Oh, here we go again. It’s always me doing the marriage-wrecking. Well, it takes two, as you very well know, to tango. And anyway, I told you, I just wanted to be friends.’

  ‘That’s all you wanted?’

  ‘Well, maybe not. Not the first time around, anyway. But I’ve decided you’re too conservative for me anyway. I have more
interesting men to see and do.’

  She takes a deep, resolving breath and walks a little more briskly, so I have to quickstep to keep up.

  ‘But you just thought you’d ruin my life anyway?’

  ‘Hardly. You still lived happily ever after.’

  ‘We’ve split up.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She doesn’t mean it. I can see she doesn’t mean it. She’s cold, not tarty or slutty or tempting or the Saskia I thought I knew. This is the real Saskia, the one who wrecked me and Isabel. Just for kicks.

  ‘Why did you send the photograph?’

  ‘What photograph—and why are you standing so close to me?’

  ‘The digitally remastered one of us having sex—and because I’ve got an ear infection. I can’t hear properly.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh come on. First you sent the underwear, then you sent the photograph. And you’ll be delighted to know it worked.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘All your mad scheming. I’ve lost the girl I love. So thank you.’

  Saskia stops in her tracks. A jogger runs past, his head turning to watch the motionless figure drop her head and start crying. I stop as well. Andy and Johnson make a bad job of finding a new hedge to hide behind. Then, everything is still except for the gentle sob of a girl who seemed so much more of a lunatic two minutes before.

  ‘You think I ruined your stupid marriage?’ she whispers slowly. ‘Well, now you know how it feels. You ruined my life and you still don’t seem to care.’

  I feel a flash of anger. I can’t still be responsible for something so trivial and so long ago.

  ‘We had a fling. You went to New York. Get over it.’

  ‘It wasn’t a fling for me! Don’t you realise? It was a romance. My first romance. I fell in love with you, William.’

  The jogger has gone now. It’s just the two of us, and our spies. I can’t think of anything to say to stop this so she continues. ‘I thought you felt the same way, but it turns out you didn’t. I was nothing more than a bit on the side to brighten up your evenings.’

  ‘That’s not how it was.’

  ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! Don’t try to make it all right now.’

  ‘I thought it was a mutual thing, to end it.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. But you’re like every other man—you don’t listen, you don’t care, you’re a bastard. That’s why you deserved what happened.’

  And suddenly, the little nagging voice in my head that’s been saying all along that this has to be nonsense—no one would go to such lengths to ruin someone’s life—is snuffed out.

  ‘So you did send the photograph?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  I realise now that I’m gripping her shoulders and she’s crying quite noisily now. It must be a disturbing scene for the surrounding picnickers, Queen’s cavalry and the two commandos who are making unhelpful keep-her-talking signs from behind a very small bush.

  I also realise that I am crying, which is surprising because it doesn’t happen very often, especially in front of blokes.

  ‘It’s why I agreed to help Alex.’

  The world stops.

  Everything falls silent.

  I stare out across the lake, blinking away tears, trying to understand what she just said. It doesn’t work.

  ‘I don’t understand what you just said.’

  ‘Because you were such a bastard, I agreed to help Alex.’

  ‘But you don’t know Alex.’

  ‘He emailed me in New York.’

  ‘He what?!’

  ‘He emailed me in New York.’

  ‘How’s that possible?’

  ‘I expect he got my email address. And. Used. It. Told me you’d stolen the girl he loved. Wondered if I would help him get her back.’

  ‘But how did he know you would help? I thought we’d ended things amicably enough. Not counting your little phone call to Elizabeth.’

  ‘Let’s just say I wasn’t the only ex he contacted. Given your sensitivity in the end-of-relationship department, it was inevitable he’d find someone to help. Probably had a long queue of pissed-off ladies shouting, “Me, me, me.”’

  Even though I had always known Alex was a manipulative little shit, I hadn’t ever imagined a partnership, an alliance, an axis of evil. Or the extent of what he’d done.

  ‘He bought the flat downstairs from you and offered it to me for a peppercorn rent. I was coming back to London anyway so it seemed like a good idea. Revenge and cheap accommodation in one go.’

  And with that, Alex goes straight to the top of my list of all-time arseholes.

  THREE ALL-TIME ARSEHOLES IN MY LIFE (UNTIL NOW)

  3. Dr Hurd. Teacher. Sadist. Played up-down hair-pulling game. Threw chalk in Latin if you nodded off. Which it was impossible not to do.

  2. Anonymous. Driver of Datsun Cherry. Hit-and-run on Minka, the only cat that ever loved me.

  1. Dr Atkinson. Vet. Told Mum and me that Minka couldn’t survive which I now think was an exaggeration. Then put her down. Then asked if we would like to take the body home. Then, when we said yes, chucked Minka into a see-through plastic bag and handed her over.

  ‘And while we’re at it,’ says Saskia, interrupting my thoughts, ‘that weekend when I ended up in the room next to yours in New York wasn’t a coincidence either. That took quite a lot of last-minute planning, but it was worth it. How predictable that you wouldn’t mention it to your poor wife. Why do all men always decide that honesty is the worst policy?’

  ‘So all the texts and the socks and the storming into the office?’

  ‘I deserve an Oscar, don’t you think?’

  ‘And the bed and the Brazilian?’

  ‘Well, you clearly thought I was a tart, so I thought I’d show you how much of a tart I really could be.’

  ‘And the underwear?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘And the photo?’

  ‘Not me either. After that last lunch, I’d had enough. I told Alex I wasn’t interested in this game any more. He tried to convince me to carry on but, frankly, my dear, I no longer gave a damn. You were making such a hash of things anyway, you clearly didn’t need my help.’

  ‘So you didn’t send the text?’

  ‘What text?’

  ‘The one about how I’d ruined your life so you were going to ruin mine.’

  ‘Not me again. Though that pretty much summed up how I felt. You might want to have a chat with Alex though. He’s the one you really hurt.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You stole his true love.’

  ‘I didn’t steal her. She never even went out with him. They kissed when they were teenagers. He felt one of her breasts. Once. That’s it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Oh”?’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite how he put it.’

  Andy and Johnson have stopped making signals from behind the bush. They’re both standing there open-mouthed.

  APRIL

  ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost

  Than never to have loved at all.’

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, In Memoriam (1850)

  Monday 2 April

  Spent Saturday night weighing up our options. I could go to Isabel with the tape but you can’t really hear what everyone is saying through the tears and the barking dogs and the drone of aeroplanes and the leap of a grasshopper and the wing-flap of a tiny, tiny fly. Fifty quid well spent.

  ‘I must have got the balance wrong.’

  ‘No, it’s great. This is all the evidence we need. If we were insects.’

  But even if it were crystal clear, I am now realising that Isabel is beyond the point of believing anything I or Saskia say. Particularly something as far-fetched as the fact that her alleged best friend has been plotting for months to ruin her marriage.

  Johnson sugges
ted we should kill him using the door jemmy.

  Andy suggested we should call the police, though he’s not sure whether Alex being the world’s biggest cock is actually breaking the law.

  Just before last orders, we reached a compromise: we will use the door jemmy on Alex’s flat rather than Alex, gather evidence, then either kill him or report him to the police, depending on what we find.

  It doesn’t seem like such a good idea now that it’s a cold Monday morning and we’re standing outside his pretentious apartment.

  OPERATION PROBE

  Stage one: break into Alex’s flat, prove he’s a maniac

  ‘This is all a sex thing for you, isn’t it, Johnson?’ asks Andy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Probe? Python? Shall we go on Operation Shaft next? Then Operation I Bet She Really Wants It?’

  ‘Child.’

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘Hippy.’

  ‘Sex pest.’

  The safest time to break into a flat, according to Johnson, who claims to be well informed in matters of espionage, is during the day. Less chance of being disturbed by (a) the occupant, who should be at work, and (b) the police, who only come out at night. Once we have convinced Johnson that the balaclavas he’s brought along are not necessary, he sets about the door with the jemmy.

  ‘I think you’ve got it the wrong way around.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Maybe we should try a credit card first.’

  ‘This isn’t Murder She Wrote.’

  ‘Well, hurry up.’

  ‘It’s not easy.’

  ‘Let me try.’

  ‘Get off.’

  With a terribly unsubtle crunch, the door frame splits away and the door swings open. ‘We’re in.’ ‘You think?’ For fifteen long minutes, we search Alex’s annoyingly pretentious apartment/maisonette/stalking pad and find nothing. The living room and kitchen are clean—unusually so for a bachelor. The bathroom looks as if it’s about to be in a World of Interiors photo shoot. Even his bedroom, the one where I caught him chopping up photos from my wedding, is spotless. No papers, no scrawled death threats, no nothing.