by Matt Dunn
‘No they’re not,’ says Nick.
‘Yes they are,’ says Mark.
‘Bollocks!’
‘Bollocks yourself!’
‘This is great, chaps,’ I interject. ‘You can’t beat a good, intellectual discussion.’
‘Okay,’ continues Nick, ‘if they’re so safe, why does everyone always use that phrase “You could get run over by a bus tomorrow”?’ He sits back smugly on his stool.
Mark retrieves his battered briefcase from underneath his seat and stands up. ‘Not if you’re on it!’ he replies triumphantly. There’s really no arguing with logic like that.
Mark waves goodbye to Rudy and walks out of the door. On his way past the window he stops next to the sculpture in red that is Nick’s car and, checking to see that he’s got our attention, points at Nick’s new personalized number plates and mimes the international wanker sign. Nick just raises his left hand and slowly extends his middle finger.
‘Why on earth did you get those embarrassing things fitted?’ I ask, as Mark disappears off towards the bus stop.
‘No point in having a Ferrari if nobody knows it’s yours,’ he says, a look of almost fatherly pride on his face.
‘But you know it’s yours,’ I reply. Nick just shrugs.
As usual, we’re sitting at one of Bar Rosa’s window tables, firstly so Nick can keep an eye on his car, as much to spot the traffic wardens as the approving glances, and secondly (although firstly in my case) so we can check out any women who might walk past. Today the scenery is especially good, as it’s a warm afternoon, which increases the amount of tanned midriffs and plunging cleavages on display.
Nick’s vocabulary includes a variety of alerts to any particularly interesting sights, his favourites being ‘hands up!’ whenever a girl with overly prominent nipples is approaching, and, of course, a ‘bit of a Monet’ for those women who look great from a distance but not so good close up. He always adopts the tone of a World War Two squadron leader when he does this, i.e. ‘hands up at two o’clock’, or ‘bit of a Monet coming out of the Sun’, the Sun being the pub on the opposite side of the road. However, today he’s unusually oblivious to the passing attractions.
As I work my way hungrily through a plate of nachos, I notice that Nick has hardly touched his food. As usual, he’s drinking his beer straight from the bottle, but for some reason hasn’t done his usual trick of stuffing a slice of lime down the neck, thus making it impossible to comment upon his liking for girly drinks. I’m about to ask him if he’s okay when he looks up at me and shifts nervously in his seat.
‘Listen, mate,’ he says. ‘Now that Mark’s gone, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘Corporation business? Should I be taking minutes?’ Nick and I run a small Internet company, PleazeYourself, headquartered in a small office suite in a small business centre just off the King’s Road, from which we make a small fortune.
‘Nope. It’s,’ he clears his throat and lowers his voice, so I have to strain to hear him over the noise from the bar, ‘ahem, personal stuff, actually. Sandra and I, we’re . . .’ His voice tails off, and he downs the rest of his beer before continuing. ‘You know how when you’ve been going out with someone for a while.’
‘Define “a while”.’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. I forgot that might be hard for you to imagine. But Sandra and I, we’ve kind of fallen into a routine, you know, it . . . it’s all got very comfortable. She’s there when I go out in the morning, and always around when I get back home.’
‘That’s because she doesn’t have a job.’ I say, thinking except for spending your money. I’m not Sandra’s biggest fan.
Nick ignores me and carries on. ‘Well, we were lying in bed last night, and she made us do this thing she’d read about.’
I shudder. ‘Steady on. I’m not sure I want to hear this.’
He looks at me disdainfully. ‘No. Nothing like that. We each had to write this list about what we wanted out of life, and then compare the two. Some sort of compatibility test.’
Bloody Cosmo again, probably. ‘And?’
‘And she got really upset.’
‘Because?’
Nick swallows hard. ‘Because she’d written stuff like “get married, have children”, whereas . . .’
This should be good. ‘Go on,’ I say, taking a large swig of beer.
‘Whereas I’d put “villa in the south of France, pet pot-bellied pig”.’
I just about manage to prevent lager from coming out of my nose. ‘Ah. Probably not what she wanted to hear, I imagine.’
He shakes his head. ‘Quite. So I thought I’d better do something about it. You know, think about my priorities, make a decision.’
I’m sure he’s going to tell me they’re splitting up and he wants a hand moving her stuff out of the flat, or changing the locks. Nodding sympathetically, I prepare the now traditional ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ speech.
‘So,’ he announces, before I can deliver it. ‘We’re . . . I’m . . . getting married!’
The bar suddenly seems deathly silent. Out in the street, the birds have stopped singing. A piece of tumbleweed blows past the open doorway, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks.
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘To Sandra?’ For a moment I think, no, hope, that I can’t have heard him properly, but he’s smiling like an idiot, so I must have.
‘Of course to Sandra,’ replies Nick, thankfully mistaking my disbelief for surprise.
I realize that the look on my face isn’t exactly conveying my delight, and I fight to hide my astonishment. Not knowing what to say, I get a sudden flashback to five years ago, Mark and Julia’s wedding, a drunken Nick lurching up to me, putting his arm around my shoulders and gesturing towards the happy couple.
‘Just me and you now, mate,’ he’d slurred. ‘The last of the musketeers!’
‘It’s mohicans,’ I’d replied, only slightly less the worse for wear.
‘What?’
‘It’s Last of the Mohicans. You’re getting confused with The Three Musketeers.’
He’d struggled to process this piece of information. ‘Yeah, but at some point there must have been just two musketeers left?’
‘Yes, but the thing to describe the last of anybody is mohi— Oh, never mind,’ I’d said, realizing I was also arguing against the combined forces of Jack Daniel’s and Johnnie Walker. But as we’d stood there, gazing at our friend, I’d known exactly what he meant.
‘That’s right,’ he exclaims, snapping me out of my reverie. ‘So, will you do me the favour . . .’ Oh my god, I know what’s coming. Quick, try and look pleased, I tell myself, and force my mouth into some approximation of a smile. ‘. . . of being my best man?’
My mind starts to race. Now’s my chance, I think. Decline gracefully. Tell him what you think of Sandra. But instead of condemning the idea as sillier than, well, most of the other decisions Nick makes in his life, to my surprise I find myself congratulating him, telling him that I’d be honoured, and we clink our bottles together loudly. Nick grins broadly, suddenly finding his appetite again, although I seem to have lost mine.
I’m still reeling from Nick’s news when Rudy appears at the table, all white teeth and perma tan.
‘Are you guys celebrating something?’ he drawls.
I raise my eyebrows at Nick, who nods his consent. ‘Nick’s getting married,’ I say, still not quite believing it myself, and pretty sure that ‘celebrating’ isn’t the word I’d choose.
Rudy doesn’t miss a beat. His face drops and he gazes imploringly at Nick, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘But, Nick,’ he asks, ‘are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I mean, denying your true feelings?’
Nick falls for it. ‘What do you mean, my true feelings? Sandra and I—’
‘No, I mean your true leanings. Sandra will find out. They always do.’
Nick looks confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s okay,’ con
tinues Rudy. ‘A number of my ex-boyfriends were married before they could admit to themselves and the world where their loyalties lay. It was like a final denial to themselves.’
Nick turns bright red as realization dawns. He looks lost for words for a few seconds, before selecting a couple of choice ones.
‘Fuck off!’ he says, with a grin.
Rudy starts to laugh, and despite my recently darkened mood I can’t help but join him.
Suddenly, Nick’s mobile rings, and when he sees the number displayed on the screen his face drops.
‘Shit!’ he says loudly, looking at his watch and then at the two of us. ‘Fuck!’
‘Tourette’s playing up again?’ says Rudy, causing us both to snigger.
Nick ignores him and hurriedly answers the call.
‘Hello, honey,’ we hear him say. ‘Yes. No, I hadn’t forgotten. Be right there, hon.’
Rudy and I exchange knowing glances as Nick hangs up sheepishly. ‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ he says to no one in particular, and heads off towards the gent’s.
‘And how do you feel?’ Rudy asks me, once Nick’s gone.
For a moment I think he’s off on another of his mickey-taking routines but he actually looks quite sincere.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re not exactly jumping up and down with happiness. Everything okay?’
I do a good impression of a goldfish, my mouth moving but no sound coming out. ‘I just . . . I mean, it’s all a bit sudden, don’t you think?’ is the best I can eventually manage.
Rudy looks at me, enquiringly. ‘Is that all?’
‘Come on, Rudy, you’ve met Sandra. She’s . . . Well, she’s hardly his type. Mind you,’ I add, ‘I’m not sure what Nick’s type actually is.’
Rudy sits down next to me. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘What can I do about it?’ I say, weakly. ‘This is Nick we’re talking about. Once he’s made his mind up . . .’
Rudy sighs exasperatedly. ‘Here’s an idea. Just tell him what you think. Is that too easy for you?’
‘Rudy, you just don’t understand. We’re English and we’re male. Talking about stuff, especially stuff like this, just isn’t in our nature.’
‘But surely he’d listen to you.’
I shake my head. ‘There’s only one person Nick listens to nowadays, and she’s hardly got his best interests at heart.’
‘Maybe he’s in,’ Rudy clears his throat and adopts a Barry White voice, ‘lurve.’
Horror crosses my face. ‘With the Wicked Witch of the West End?’
Rudy corrects himself. ‘Smitten, then. She is very attractive.’
I nod. ‘Maybe. And that’s the problem.’
‘How do you figure?’ asks Rudy.
I look around, checking that Nick’s not on his way back yet. ‘Well, he’s not the best-looking of guys, right?’
Rudy laughs. ‘I’ve seen Picasso portraits with more regular features.’
‘Exactly. And most of his other girlfriends . . . well, let’s just say a few of them were born in Grimsby,’ I say, emphasizing the first half of the word.
Rudy looks puzzled. ‘You mean butt-ugly?’
‘Well, over here we prefer the term aesthetically challenged.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Your point is?’
I nod towards Nick’s car through the bar window. ‘Look at when he bought the Ferrari. Mark and I tried to talk him out of it, and, if anything, that made him more determined. He got obsessed with the idea, particularly when he saw how everyone else responded when he told them. Since he’s made all this money, he’s realized he can buy into a new Nick. An Armani-suited, Breitling-wearing, Ferrari-driving Nick.’
Realization dawns on Rudy’s face. ‘And Nick judges himself by how other people react to him. Or rather, what he’s got.’
‘Precisely. Every now and again, he gets a notion about something he believes may make him appear a little better, and then decides to go through with it without really considering the consequences. It’s as if he likes the look of it, the immediacy of it, without wanting to open his eyes to the possibility that in the longer term it might not be the most sensible thing to do. I mean, a car is one thing, but . . . getting married? And to Sandra?’ I look at the ceiling in despair.
Rudy folds his arms. ‘Jeez! You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?’
‘I know him, Rudy. What he’s like, how he thinks. And anyway, you heard him. He calls her “hun”!’
‘As in “Atilla the”?’ says Rudy. ‘Come on, Adam. He’s your oldest friend. You’ve got to tell him what you think, if only because you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.’
‘But he’s asked me to be best man.’
Rudy smiles. ‘So be the best man. Surely the best thing you can do is try and stop him from ruining his life.’
I stare at him for a while before replying. ‘You’re maybe a bit too perceptive for your own good.’
He winks conspiratorially as Nick arrives back at the table. ‘It’s in the genes.’
Nick eyes us suspiciously. ‘What are you two talking about?’ he asks.
‘Er . . .’ I stammer. Fortunately Rudy rescues me.
‘I was just wondering where Adam bought his jeans,’ he replies.
Nick looks at us strangely and checks his watch again. ‘Right,’ he says, picking his car keys up from the table. ‘Must dash.’
Rudy nudges me, and I take a deep breath. ‘Stay for another beer?’
Nick shakes his head. ‘No can do. Off to look at rings.’
‘Sounds like my kind of afternoon!’ smirks Rudy, as he heads back behind the bar. Nick and I grimace simultaneously.
‘So, have you set a date yet?’ I manage to ask, trying in vain to prolong the conversation.
‘Yeah,’ replies Nick. ‘Sandra thought it would be nice to do it on my birthday.’
I’m confused for a moment. ‘But that’s . . .’
‘I know,’ he grins, walking away from the table. ‘Six weeks’ time!’
Nick’s already halfway out of the door before I can think of anything else to say. I watch through the window as he squeezes himself into the Ferrari and, evidently having selected ‘dragster’ on the automatic gearbox, screeches off towards his intended, or rather, intended’s, destination. And, standing there, I suddenly realize that Rudy’s right. In hindsight – which is always 20/20 – I wish that someone could have told me.
You see, Emma and I weren’t right for each other – a fact she made quite clear in the letter she left for me on my kitchen table. I won’t bore you with the details, although I can still recall every single word that she wrote, or rather typed, in Times New Roman twelve point. On my computer.
One sentence bears repeating, though: ‘You always told me that people should never compromise in relationships.’ Even in my distraught state I was impressed by this: throwing my own logic back at me, although I still can’t work out how she was having to compromise. After all, I was the one who’d been prepared to take on . . .
Anyway. That’s just sour grapes now. At least she gave the ring back, although what good was it to me any more? I could hardly do the walk of shame into the jewellers and return it, or keep it for the next ‘one’, could I? Instead, I ran to the end of Brighton pier and threw it out as far as I could into the stormy grey water.
When I told them, Nick and Mark came straight round. I even showed them her letter, which they read, one after the other. And then, before I could stop him, Nick theatrically ripped it up right in front of me.
‘You know, I think she did you a favour,’ he said, earnestly. ‘We never thought she was right for you, but we couldn’t tell you that, could we?’
Open mouthed, I asked them why not, but Mark just shrugged. ‘Because she seemed to make you happy.’
‘Oh well,’ Nick grinned. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’ And I actually laughed at his insensitive observation, because, despite the pain I was
feeling inside, I knew he was right.
But later, worried that Nick had destroyed the last piece of contact we might ever have, I switched on my laptop and found where she’d saved her letter. And it was then, as I read it through one last time, that I realized the fundamental problem with real life: There’s no backup copy.
Nick’s my best friend, Sandra’s not right for him, and someone really needs to let him know before it’s too late – because you can bet that Sandra won’t. And even though there’s not much time to get them ‘disengaged’, how hard can it possibly be?
After all, he’s only known her for a few weeks.
Chapter 2
I finish my beer in a bit of a daze and walk home, pausing only to nod goodbye to Rudy, who indicates the tyre marks where Nick’s Ferrari had been parked and mouths what I guess is ‘talk to him’. Back in my flat, I head straight for the bookshelf in the hallway, where I find my copy of The Best Man’s Bible, which I’d bought to check on my duties for Mark’s nuptials. I leaf through the book a couple of times, but nowhere can I find the chapter titled ‘Stopping the Wedding’.
The night when Nick first met Sandra was little more than a month ago, a dark and stormy night – no, honestly – when Nick and I went to a black tie benefit that Mark’s firm were sponsoring in aid of London Zoo’s Adopt an Animal charity, at the Natural History Museum of all places. Strange choice of venue, perhaps: an event trying to raise money to keep animals in captivity alive held in a place that’s famous for displaying the remains of their long-dead relatives.
The evening hadn’t got off to the best of starts. I was running late, as it had taken me ages to get a taxi because of the weather, and I was still trying to get my bow tie done up in the back of the cab as I headed round to collect Nick. By the time I got to his flat he was already waiting impatiently on his doorstep but, as befitted Nick’s usual sartorially challenged style, he was sporting a white dinner jacket.