by Rudd, Matt
It’s not Isabel, it’s Johnson.
‘Where are you? It’s half eleven. It’s press day. The managing editor is going to kill you.’
The managing editor hauls me into his office to tell me that he doesn’t care how many of my grandmothers are dying, he doesn’t care if they’re dropping like octogenarians in a Greek heat wave, I cannot keep turning up late on a press day. From now on, it has to be immediate family members.
I tell him if only.
He tells me he’s serious.
I tell him the reason I was late was because I spent the night in a police cell as research for an article I’m doing on crime in modern Britain.
He tells me I’m lying.
I agree, explaining that I was in the cell on Saturday night.
He says he’s issuing a second formal warning. One more strike and I’m out.
I am not going to lose my job purely because Isabel is having some sort of midlife crisis. I will simply adjust to life as a singleton, get work back on track and wait for Isabel to come crawling back.
Wednesday 11 April
I am all alone. I live alone in a house that six months ago represented the hopes and dreams of a married couple. I go to sleep alone in a double bed. I eat breakfast at a table for six. It takes two days to load the dishwasher and four days to have enough clothes to bother putting a wash on. No one shouts at me if I mix colours and whites. No one laughs at me when I make an entirely unamusing joke at someone-on-TV’s expense. No one makes me tea or dinner or happy. Alone, I watch the spring bulbs flowering through the obscured windows of rain-soaked April. I listen to Morrissey. I am depressed.
THINGS MEN DO THAT WOMEN DON’T KNOW ABOUT WHEN THEY’RE ON THEIR OWN IN A HOUSE (APART FROM THE OBVIOUS)
Wee in the sink
Drink from the tap
Eat pizza for lunch, dinner and breakfast
Lick the knife clean
Lick the plate
Stick the butter knife straight in the marmalade without cleaning it
Watch Trisha
Try a bra on
Go to bed in clothes
Watch TV the way women hate, flicking from one channel to the
next every few seconds until settling on World’s Most Terrifying Police Chases
Dance to MTV
Sing Singstar power ballads with air guitar accompaniment.
Thursday 12 April
No, I’m not going out. I have to get up early for work. It’s the new me.
Friday 13 April
No, I’m not going out. I don’t have the energy. But it’s the new me so that’s okay.
Saturday 14 April
I already know alcohol isn’t the answer. I don’t feel like socialising. Walking from empty room to empty room seems to help. Part of the healing process.
Sunday 15 April
The novelty of walking from room to room has worn off. I play myself at Scrabble but it’s tedious arguing with myself. So I just play with myself but that’s also tedious.
Monday 16 April
I try being the new-new me because it’s boring being the old-new me: I brush my hair; I wear a blazer and smartly pressed shirt; I allow everyone onto the train before me; I smile at everyone at work. The managing editor asks if I’m sickening with something. I say no. He says, ‘Must be some reason you managed to turn up on time.’ Johnson eyes my blazer and says, ‘Women,’ and wanders off, shaking his head.
Then Anastasia tells me I’m to look after a work experience. Do I think I can manage that without throwing (cold) tea at her? I’m the new-new me so I don’t rise to it—and politely accept her order. The workie is absolutely gorgeous. I want to marry her, just as soon as I get a divorce.
Tuesday 17 April
I think she likes me. She wants to go for a drink on Friday…her pretext being to find out more about life as a journalist. But who goes for a drink on a Friday if they’re not flirting?
Wednesday 18 April
Last ever anger-management class. One final chance to prove my point.
‘Harriet. How have you been this month?’
‘Fine, thanks. I see you’re making notes again.’
‘Yes, Harriet. It helps me to relax.’
Victory isn’t quite so sweet when someone bursts into tears quite so abruptly.
‘It’s Ms Prestwick. And I’ve just about had enough of your nonsense, you despicable man. I’m only trying to help and if you don’t want that help, fine. I’ve had enough. I’ve just had enough.’
‘You’re crying.’
‘Yes. Anger-management people have feelings too.’
‘Really?’
‘I hate working in Penge; I hate spending my life looking after horrid people like you. I trod on my glasses this morning and my husband has run off with the postwoman.’
‘It sounds like you have some issues.’
‘SHUT UP, SCHOFIELD. GO AND THROW ANOTHER BIKE THROUGH A WINDSCREEN.’
Felt like a despicable man for the rest of the day, despite also being the new-new me. No wonder Isabel went to Snowbloodydonia to make walls or whatever. Anything to escape the sort of man who takes pleasure in upsetting people who are trying to help. The sort of man who responds to the blatant sexual flirtation of a work experience young enough to be his daughter (if he lived in a trailer park in Idaho and had become a father at the age of eleven).
Friday 20 April
Turns out beautiful work-experience people do want to go for a drink on a Friday to find out stuff about careers rather than to have sex. Either that or my sudden lunge scared her. I blame the whisky: I already know alcohol isn’t the answer. I’ve established that. So why was I drinking so much of it? And what am I doing even trying to kiss someone else? That’s exactly the sort of thing Isabel would expect of me. And Ms Prestwick. I’m even worse than a despicable man. I’m a perverted, lecherous, unfaithful man who can’t even be bothered to change out of his clothes when he goes to bed.
Saturday 21 April
Johnson says it’s completely predictable that I would try to hit on a workie. I feel low right now, as if no one loves me. I explain that this is because no one loves me. He says that’s not true, my mum probably does. Andy agrees with my own conclusion about being perverted and unfaithful and little.
Sunday 22 April
This afternoon, three blasts from my horribly depressing past.
First, Saskia called from New York to ask if I was all right. I said I wasn’t. She said I could always get Isabel back if I wanted. I just had to communicate better. I said she’s in northern Wales, in a place with too many ‘ll’s—communication was well-nigh impossible. And anyway, who was she to be telling me how to conduct a relationship she’d pretty much ruined?
‘You should go and get her,’ replied Saskia.
And I hung up.
Second, I opened the door to find a less-mad-than-usual Primrose standing there gripping a fruitcake in one hand and the unreasonable local policeman in the other.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to apologise.’
‘Oh right.’
‘I was taking the red pills once a day and the blue pills once a week.’
‘So?’
‘It should have been the other way around. Why else would I build a scarecrow made of chicken bones in my garden?’
‘I assumed it was a country tradition.’
‘The constable here—my doting nephew—would also like to say sorry.’
‘Yes,’ said the constable, after an elbow to the ribs. ‘I’m sorry I believed Aunt Primrose. She’s always made fruitcakes but she’s never actually been one. Hahahahahahahaha. Anyway, ahem, not a very nice welcome to the village. So, welcome. And, err, sorry.’
Primrose held out the cake, which I took nervously.
‘Is Isabel around? I think we owe her an apology too.’
‘No, she left me. She’s gone to Wales.’
‘Oh, but she’s such a dear. Why didn’t you go after her?�
��
Not her as well.
Third, the doorbell goes again. I assume it is Primrose suffering a relapse. But it’s Alex, looking nervous and satisfyingly bruised.
‘What do you want?’ This has become my standard greeting.
‘I want you to get Isabel back.’
‘Fuck off.’
I slam the door, wait three minutes and open it again. He’s still standing there.
‘I said, “Fuck off” .’
He looks as if he’s about to cry again, which is annoying, given that I am the victim here.
‘Why do you, the total nutter, want to help me get my wife back?’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And therapy. And Iyengar yoga…Also, your mate Andy phoned up and was entirely reasonable about the whole thing. And your mate Johnson phoned up and wasn’t. Either way, I’ve realised I was being irrational.’
I slam the door again. So he starts talking through the letter box.
‘I want her to be happy. I want to make amends.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘Why? She’s only in Wales. It’s not exactly Borneo.’
‘She doesn’t want to be with me any more.’
‘She does.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know. Much as I hate to admit it, I know. And so do you. You need to go and talk to her at the very least. You can take my car.’
Three people who all played their part in my marital horror story now trying to make it all better. Annoying.
Monday 23 April
They had a point, however, given that the alternative was to sit around my house in my underpants for the rest of my life. I told the managing editor I was going to Malaysia to research an article on cannibalism.
He said I wasn’t, was I?
I said no, I was going to save my marriage.
He mumbled something about how he wouldn’t go further than Shoreditch to save his, but that, contrary to his job title, his reputation and his manner, he was a romantic at heart. He wished me good luck in my mission and said that if I wasn’t back next week, I was definitely fired.
Advice was plentiful.
Andy: ‘Tell her you can’t live without her. Tell her you won’t live without her. And if she still says no, threaten to throw yourself off a Welsh cliff.’
Johnson: ‘Tell her she can’t live without you. Tell her she won’t live without you. And if she still says no, throw her off a Welsh cliff.’
Mum: ‘Have you packed a jumper? It can get very cold at night in Wales.’
As night falls, Alex’s car—a vintage Porsche, aka a completely impractical vehicle for a marriage-rescuing mission—breaks down just outside Telford. The relaxed mechanic who arrives an hour later casually explains that he doubts he can fix it. I explain that he must help: my marriage depends on it. He seems unmoved by the idea of a romantic nail-biter. I do some begging. He says he’s not sure the local garage will have the right part. And, besides, they’re shut until tomorrow. But he tows Alex’s stupid, pretentious car to the deserted forecourt, points at a sub-Travelodge across the dual carriageway and leaves.
Why didn’t I just hire a bloody car?
Tuesday 24 April
‘It’s going to cost you,’ explains the mechanic.
‘Fine, please just hurry,’ I reply. If the ground hadn’t been wet, I would have actually dropped to my knees and begged.
Four p.m., he finishes. Three hundred quid, he charges. Thank God for that pay rise. Oh no, it got cancelled. Bastards.
‘Oh, and by the way, I would keep it below forty for the next couple of weeks. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all a bit…ah, no, you’ll be fine.’
It really shouldn’t take two days to reach northern Welshland, but it has. By the time I arrive in the village of Lllllanllanlan, it’s just after ten. There is no street lighting and in the murky moonlight I see no sign of Isabel or any recently repaired dry-stone walls. No sign of anyone, actually. I park the car and walk into the only pub.
Six people stop talking and turn to look at the tired and unhappy stranger who has just cracked his head on the very low beam across the door. Refusing to believe the stereotypes about the Welsh hating the English, I decide to befriend them before asking any wife-locating questions.
‘Evening,’ I begin, in as chipper a voice as I can manage given my long and horrendous journey. ‘Any chance of a sharp half?’
Which, in retrospect, was probably a little too chipper and English.
No one replies. Not the punters; not the short, red-faced, moustached person nursing a pint behind the bar whom I take to be the landlord.
‘Sorry. I mean, err, any chance of a drink?’
Still no reply. Maybe none of them speak English. Maybe their tongues have been bred away over centuries of incestuous impropriety. Maybe they’ve just killed the landlord, robbed his takings for the evening and are having a quick celebratory round before escaping into the Welsh night.
‘I’m looking for my wife. Her name’s Isabel.’
Silence. Absolute silence.
‘Well, do you have a room for the night?’ I ask, very slowly and clearly.
‘No,’ says another short, red-faced man with a moustache, this one leaning against a fruit machine.
‘Oh right, not to worry then,’ I hear myself reply, before turning tail and walking out. Far too polite. Don’t know why they have to be so rude. I wouldn’t be if they came to my village and asked for a pint. As the door closes behind me, I hear them all whispering, but I decide it isn’t worth another confrontation.
Wednesday 25 April
Vintage Porsches are not good places to spend a night. They aren’t well insulated. They aren’t generous in the legroom department. I very nearly died in the small hours when I woke with a dead leg, attempted to resuscitate it and skewered my testicles on the unnecessarily pointy handbrake. I didn’t really sleep again after that, and by half eight I was standing cold and wretched outside the only teashop in the village. It was supposed to open at nine but the curtains only began to twitch at twenty past.
‘Morning, love,’ said the tea lady. ‘Sorry to have kept you.’
‘Morning.’ At least she was friendly.
‘Now what’s an Englishman like you doing in a Welsh place like this?’
I explained.
‘Oh, how sweet. You’ll need to talk to the park ranger about that. He’s in charge of all them volunteer projects.’
‘Oh right, where can I find him?’
‘In his house up on that mountain. Or in his hut up on that mountain. Or somewhere in between. He’s always wandering around, is our park ranger. More cake, dear?’
It appeared that there wasn’t a dry-stone wall headquarters in the village.
‘No thanks…you don’t have his mobile number, do you?’
‘Of course, dear, but I’m not going to give it to you.’
‘Oh right.’
‘There’d be no point, my dearest. No reception, you see. We had it for a while, you see. But then it went.’
‘Oh right.’
‘Shall I tell you why?’
‘Umm, well, I’d really better be—’
‘UFOs.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We had one here, you see. Gwill, who runs the pub, he saw it clear as day. Even though it was night. Hovering, it was. Then after that, it went. Whooosh. Gone. Just like that.’
‘Right.’
‘You don’t believe in UFOs?’
‘Well—’
‘You see, that’s what the authorities want you to think. They came here, men in radiation suits and everything. Examined Gwill. Like ET, it was. Then they left. And from that day on, no mobile reception.’
As she finished, the door swung open and a short man with a red face and a moustache walked in on a gust of icy wind. I couldn’t be certain if he was one of the men from the pub.
&nb
sp; ‘Not talking nonsense about UFOs again, are you, Ceri?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I was. You should have seen his face.’
And they both burst out laughing.
‘I’m sorry, son. She likes a good wind-up, does Ceri.’
‘Can I have the ranger’s number, then?’
‘He doesn’t have one. No reception round here, as I said. More cake?’
‘No thanks, I’d better head off to his house.’
‘Or his hut.’
‘Or somewhere in between.’
And they both burst out laughing again.
I drive the stupid Porsche as far up the stupid single track as I can, then abandon it and start walking in the direction the hilarious tea lady pointed. After two hours, the only good thing that has happened is that I’ve reached the top of the mountain. On the other hand, the bad things that have happened are many and varied: it has started raining again, then hailing, then raining and hailing at the same time. I am wearing jeans and a wool-mix three-quarter-length coat, both of which are waterlogged and have tripled in weight; I smell of sheep; and then I realise the top of the mountain isn’t the real top. It’s only a pretend one.
By early afternoon, after three more false summits, and one quite extensive man-cry when I fall headfirst into a stream, I find the ranger’s house. It’s a hundred yards off a B-road that I could have driven up if the tea lady hadn’t implied I had to walk.