by Matt Dunn
‘You know – Nick’s girlfr—’ I correct myself, and the word almost sticks in my throat. ‘Fiancée.’
‘Oh. That bitch? Only after his money if you ask me. I see her type in here all the time. Ask them what their favourite book is, they’re sure to reply “cheque”.’
‘Thanks, Pritchard.’
‘No problem. I mean, you’re welcome!’ He winks and goes back to the bar.
I look across at Mark smugly. ‘Told you.’
He laughs. ‘Told me what? You’re asking me to take an opinion about a woman from a man who doesn’t go out with women in the first place. Does that make him more or less objective, do you think?’
I sigh, exasperatedly ‘Mark, do you actually like Sandra?’
He pauses for a few seconds before answering. ‘Well, it’s not me that’s marrying her, is it?’
‘I know, but the way she looks down her nose at us sometimes, the way she flirts with every guy she meets, how she manipulates Nick, spends all his money. And her voice – sometimes she screeches in that high-pitched way that only dogs can hear—’
‘Steady on, matey,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re the one who’s got to stand up and say nice things about her on the day, you know.’
‘Yes, but what nice things? I’m not sure she possesses a single decent human quality. Even Nick says that she suffers from a condition known as Reverse PMT – grouchy most of the time, but, if you’re lucky, once a month she’s actually a normal person.’
‘She’s got a nice arse!’ opines Mark.
‘Thanks. I can just see that observation going down well in front of all her family. Hold on – I’m assuming she does have family and wasn’t just created by some evil scientist in a lab.’
Mark looks at me over his pint glass. ‘She seems to make Nick happy, though.’
‘Yes, but that’s probably because he doesn’t know any better. Since he’s met her, it’s all “Sandra thinks, Sandra says . . . ” It’s like he’s fallen under the influence of some evil cult.’
Mark laughs. ‘Are you sure you’ve got that last word right?’
‘It’s the same as his bloody car. He could have got something more reliable, but oh no, as usual Nick has to go for something that’s more style than substance.’
‘Says the man who goes out with ugly philosophy students!’
‘Piss off! This isn’t about me. And anyway, at least I don’t decide I’m going to marry them after a month.’
Mark shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Have you, er, talked to him about this?’
‘And said what? “Nick, I hate your fiancée, she’s nothing but a nasty, money-grabbing, two-faced bitch”?’
‘With a nice arse,’ repeats Mark, cutting me off. ‘Listen, whatever you think of her, and no matter who asked who, they’re getting married, and you have to go along with that. And look on the bright side – at least as the best man you’ll get to sleep with the bridesmaids.’
I look at Mark and shake my head. ‘That’s just a cruel myth designed to tempt people into accepting the role. In my experience, most bridesmaids tend to be either married already, which usually makes them off-limits, too ugly to be married already, which always makes them off-limits, or five years old . . . You get my drift.’
He frowns. ‘You slept with Julia’s sister after our wedding.’
‘Ah. But she’s the exception to the rule. And besides, she’s divorced.’
‘She wasn’t then. She is now.’
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘getting back to Nick. What would you do if you thought, no, knew he was making a huge mistake? I mean, you’d say something if he was about to step out in front of a bus, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, that would depend on whether he owed me money or not,’ jokes Mark.
‘I’m serious, Mark.’
Mark leans back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘Yeah, but what you have to understand is this. Most male friendships are based around an ancient and complex structure of mickey-taking. From the first time that Neanderthal man walked around the cave and boasted about the size of his’ – he lowers his voice – ‘club—’
‘Oh. I thought you were going to say “penis”,’ I interrupt loudly, causing Mark to redden.
‘. . . men have engaged in this ritual humiliation of their fellow man. Since then, an unwritten set of rules has developed, passed down from father to son through the mists of time, indicating which lines cannot be crossed, which subjects are taboo.’
I look at him strangely. ‘Have you been reading Cosmo again?’
Mark ignores me, firmly on his soapbox now. ‘This is good,’ he continues, ‘because it ensures that most male interaction is superficial, thus avoiding the need for violent conflict. When these lines are crossed, for example in a Saturday-night lagered-up “are you looking at my bird” kind of way, the result is all too predictable. However, the downside of this is that, between friends, it’s then much harder to ever talk about anything serious, because you’re fighting against generations of social conditioning.’
‘But say you were worried that he was becoming an alcoholic, or addicted to hard drugs. You’d do everything you could to stop him then, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘She’s bad for him, Mark. Why should this be any different?’
‘Come on, mate. It’s just one of those things, isn’t it? Your friends can criticize most things about you: your haircut, the shirt you’re wearing, but your choice of wife? At the very least that’s a hanging offence. And not necessarily by the neck.’
Mark’s right. And I know he’s right, although I can’t resist having one more try. ‘If it was you, you’d want me to tell you, wouldn’t you?’
He thinks about this for a moment. ‘I’m not so sure. Isn’t this one of these situations where you just have to let someone make their own mistakes?’ A look of concern suddenly crosses Mark’s face. ‘You don’t think I did, do you? With Julia, I mean?’
‘Er . . .’ I hesitate just long enough to enjoy the growing panic in his eyes. ‘Of course not! Julia’s . . . fine,’ I say, grinning at him.
‘Bastard!’ says Mark. ‘But seriously, we couldn’t tell you what we thought about Emma, could we?’
I look up sharply. ‘Even though you thought I was making a mistake?’
He nods. ‘Yup.’
‘And do you not think it might have been better if you had?’
Mark shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Well, in retrospect, I suppose so.’
‘And do you remember why you couldn’t tell me?’
‘Because she seemed to make you hap— Ah.’
‘Exactly!’ I say. But at the same time, I wonder whether I’d have listened.
We sit in an awkward silence for a few moments, drinking our beer. Eventually, I just sigh and shake my head, as I realize that I’m on my own on this.
‘Listen,’ says Mark, finally. ‘People want different things out of life. There are those who buy a Ferrari, perhaps because they’re seduced by the lines, the colour, the noise, even though it might not be the most sensible or reliable option. Others decide all they want is something to get them from A to B, and go out and buy a Ford.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Well, look at you, for example. God knows what you really want, and I don’t think that you’re even sure yourself, or know if anyone even makes the car for you. Me? Much as I hate to admit it, at this point in my life, I’m just trying to get from A to B. But as for Nick? Well, if you’ll excuse the phrase, for better or for worse, Nick’s a Ferrari kind of guy.’
Mark walks over to the bar, orders another couple of drinks and brings them back to the table. ‘Anyway,’ he says, putting a bottle of beer down in front of me, ‘at least you’ve got plenty of ammunition for the speech.’
And while that may be true, I’ve never actually been worried about what I’m going to say about Nick on the day itself. It’s working out what to say to him beforehand that’s p
roving to be the problem.
Chapter 7
Nick spends most of the following day out looking at wedding venues and choosing menus, and then I’m at the gym by the time he makes his fleeting appearance in the office. But this suits me fine, as I still haven’t a clue how I’m going to broach the subject of him and Sandra.
Friday morning, however, finds him sitting in his car outside my flat. We’re off to the Boat Show, as Nick – or rather ‘the company’ – has decided to buy a boat. While this kind of rash corporate expenditure would normally be something I’d resist in the strongest terms, we’ve already checked with Mark that we can (unlike the monkey business) offset part of the costs against tax – and although I don’t know my port from my, er, fortified wine, I actually quite like the idea of sailing around at the Inland Revenue’s expense. Besides, the Boat Show is taking place just round the corner, and it would be rude not to at least explore the possibility.
Nick revs the Ferrari’s engine impatiently as I lock my front door and walk over to where he’s double-parked. I had suggested on the phone yesterday that
perhaps we could walk there, but he’d just given me a lecture about why the internal combustion engine had been invented, so I jump into the passenger seat, and he screeches off before I’ve even closed my door properly. He’s looking tired and a little harassed, and I notice that he hasn’t shaved for a few days as he’s sporting a patchy growth on his chin.
‘Hello, mate,’ I say. ‘What’s new?’
‘Well, they’ve managed to clone a sheep . . .’ replies Nick.
‘Heavy night?’ I ask, as he struggles to conceal a yawn.
‘Sorry, mate. Up till late looking through brochures for the honeymoon,’ he says, wearily. ‘It’s a nightmare. Just can’t decide between the Maldives or Zanzibar.’
‘Gosh, it must be tough being you,’ I tell him. ‘Nice beard, by the way. Razor broken?’
‘Fuck off,’ he says. ‘It’s not a beard. It’s designer stubble.’
‘Well, you need to get a better designer. Who was it – Stevie Wonder?’
It takes us a quarter of an hour to negotiate the rush-hour traffic and cover the mile or so from my flat to Earl’s Court, during which time I fill Nick in about my encounter with Charlie. He listens patiently, then slowly shakes his head. ‘Wuss!’
Nick roars into the underground car park, leaving the Ferrari parked across two spaces to avoid those annoying door dings, and we make our way into the hall, brandishing our complimentary tickets. He’s already decided on the type of boat he wants: something that’s big enough to entertain people on without ever actually having to leave the safety of the marina, and, of course, the plushest most expensive one in its class, but he’s decided to go to this stand last so he can be fawned over by lots of other manufacturers beforehand.
We wander round for a while, looking as much at the bikini-clad girls draped over the stands as the boats themselves, and chatting to the odd exhibitor whenever Nick sees something that takes his fancy. After an hour or so I tell him that there’s only so much sales talk I can stomach, and head off in search of a coffee.
I walk through the luxury yacht section and soon find a cafeteria near the entrance. Ordering an espresso, I sit down at a corner table and flick through the exhibition programme. It’s good coffee, so I get a refill and gaze around at the boats, some of them bigger than my flat. The multi-millionaires’ playthings that cost more per metre than most people earn in a lifetime look a little odd displayed out of the water, and I marvel silently at the money that’s floating round this part of the exhibition.
As with women’s breasts, one espresso’s never enough and three’s too many, and as I still have half an hour to kill before I’m due to meet Nick again I decide to drool at the yachts instead.
It’s a higher class of demonstrator girl here too. Off come the bikinis and on go the business suits, and as I walk round the various stands I’m somewhat shocked to see Charlie. This must have been the other job she mentioned – I hadn’t asked her what it was – and I suppose, on balance, that I’m pleased to see she’s not half naked and draped over a speedboat, but looking very respectable, standing in front of a large blue and white motor cruiser that’s probably twice as big as and at least ten times more expensive than my parents’ house.
The boat is propped up on a huge trailer adorned with white and blue flags. Up on the deck a man and a woman are sitting opposite a smug-looking salesman, who seems to be in the process of accepting a cheque from the male half of the couple, a short, bald, tanned chap in his sixties, whilst his platinum-blonde wife, who can’t be much more than my age, pouts her surgically enhanced lips in her husband’s direction.
Charlie hasn’t seen me, so I decide to spectate for a few minutes while considering my approach. As she hands out leaflets and chats pleasantly to passers-by, a couple of middle-aged businessmen in ill-fitting suits walk towards her. I say walk, but it’s actually more of a stumble, as they’ve obviously spent the best part of the morning in the hospitality section, and I can almost smell their beer breath from where I’m standing, or rather lurking, behind a small speedboat named, I note with amusement, the Penetrator. Charlie sees them, and in a split second sizes them up, but doesn’t miss a beat, greeting them with a beaming smile, and handing each of them a brochure. I see the fatter one of them feign interest in the boat, whereas the other, skinnier man seems more interested in Charlie’s curves than those of the sleek cruiser.
I move a little closer, banging my left shin painfully on the Penetrator’s propeller, managing to stay just out of Charlie’s line of sight, but near enough to listen in on their conversation. It’s clear she’s a little uncomfortable, particularly as the drunker of the two (although it’s a close-run thing) seems to be edging towards her.
‘So, sweetheart,’ asks fat drunk man, pointing unsteadily at the boat behind Charlie, ‘what does it cost to get on board one of these?’
‘Well,’ replies Charlie, ‘if you’d like a price list I’ll just—’
‘And what does it cost to get on board you?’ leers the other one, putting a sweaty hand round her waist and pulling her towards him. She tries politely to remove his arm but he’s got quite a firm grip.
I’ve seen enough, and hurry over, fighting my first urge, which is to lay the guy straight out. I hurriedly decide on Plan B.
‘Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late,’ I announce in a loud voice, leaning towards her and kissing her full on the lips. Unsurprisingly, she looks surprised.
I turn back to Laurel and Hardy. ‘Excuse me, gents. Can I just borrow my wife for a moment?’ Without waiting for an answer, I take Charlie by the hand and lead her away. Thin drunk man’s expression changes from a leer to a frown, and he removes his hand sheepishly from Charlie’s waist. I’m probably a good six inches taller than him, and he’s plainly not stupidly drunk, so he doesn’t say a word. Charlie still hasn’t spoken either, and for a moment I’m worried she hasn’t recognized me.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask her, when we’re out of earshot.
She breaks into a smile. ‘Shining armour suits you.’
I look back at the two men, and, hoping Charlie can’t see my face, give them my best ‘fuck off’ glare, which actually just consists of me scowling at them and mouthing ‘fuck off’ slowly and deliberately. Fortunately, they fuck off.
‘Sorry if I came over a bit forward there,’ I say, turning back to Charlie. ‘I just thought they might be bothering you.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘they were. How lucky that you happened to be passing just at the right time,’ she adds, raising one eyebrow.
‘Oh no, I was watching you from over . . . I mean, I didn’t—’ I want to say that I didn’t want to interrupt her at work but she cuts me off before I can explain.
‘Well, whatever you’re doing here, I’m glad you are,’ she says. ‘But what are you doing here?’
‘Oh, the company has . . . well, Nick’s thinking of . . .’ Damn. Why can’t I stri
ng a sentence together when I’m around her? ‘We’re thinking of buying a boat. Maybe. For the business.’
‘Wow!’ says Charlie. ‘I wish I’d taken that job after all. Anyway, you’ve come to the right place.’
Charlie glances back towards her stand, where some other potential customers have arrived. Fortunately, they appear sober.
‘Adam,’ she says, ‘I have to get back to work now, but . . .’ she pauses, and then she reaches up and kisses me quickly. ‘Thanks.’
I don’t say a word, but feel myself wanting to kiss her again. All I can say is, ‘You’re welcome,’ as I stand there and watch her walk away. But just before she reaches the stand she turns round, takes her mobile phone out of her pocket, points to it and mouths something, which I hope is ‘Call me’. I grin and nod like an idiot.
Realizing that I’m due to meet Nick soon, I stroll back towards the main hall, and suddenly remember that I have my mobile on me. Scrolling through the received calls section I find when Charlie phoned earlier in the week, hoping it doesn’t say ‘number withheld’. It doesn’t, and before I lose my nerve I press the dial button. After two rings she answers.
‘Just wanted to check those guys had gone,’ I say.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘And . . . I wondered if you needed an escort home?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got my Fiesta.’
‘No, I mean—’
She cuts me off with a laugh. ‘I know what you mean. Duh! But if you’re calling to ask me out, then I’d love to, and I’m free for dinner tonight.’
I’m slightly taken aback. ‘Tonight? As in this evening?’
‘Sounds good. Pick me up at eight? You’ve got my address on my CV, I think?’
‘Er, okay.’ Duh indeed! And I’m the one who’s supposed to be good with words.
The rest of the conversation is a bit of a blur, punctuated by mostly monosyllabic responses on my part, but we eventually decide on this new restaurant she’s heard of, and I tell her that I’ll book a table and see her later. More than a little elated by the time the call ends, I head off like an excited five-year-old to tell Nick.