Best Man

by Matt Dunn

  It doesn’t help that Charlie is moving around like she’s made of liquid, eyes half shut as she feels the music and shimmies around me. Catching sight of myself in one of the mirrored walls, I realize that I look like I’m dancing to a completely different beat, as if I’m wearing my own set of personal stereo headphones and ignoring the huge speakers in front of me – which, ironically, are blasting out Sister Sledge’s ‘He’s The Greatest Dancer’. I last a couple more numbers, and then self-consciousness defeats me.

  ‘Upstairs?’ I yell at Charlie, as the Village People extol a life on the ocean wave.

  ‘I love you,’ she shouts, over the music.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she repeats, and I feel stupid. But later, lying with Charlie asleep in my arms, and listening to the faint sound of waves breaking on the beach below our window, I find myself wishing that I hadn’t misheard.

  All too soon it’s Thursday morning, and after we’ve just about made it downstairs in time for breakfast again, it’s time to check out. I try and keep a straight face when I see how much the bill is – I can see now why the hotel is called the Grand, as I’ve been charged as much as Nick paid for his monkey – and politely decline Charlie’s offer to pay half.

  On the way back home we take a detour past Beachy Head, the venue for so many of my college bonding, or rather bingeing sessions with the boys. We drive along the road that runs parallel to the crumbling chalk edge, and park near to where the cliff is highest. Charlie’s never been here before.

  ‘Wow,’ she says, taking in the stunning scenery. ‘It’s quite spectacular. I’m not surprised that this is where all the suicides come.’

  We walk up the grassy slope and towards the abrupt drop, where a number of people are stood gawping at the view or lying on their stomachs and wriggling forward to look over the edge. Charlie grabs my hand for support and leans gingerly over, gasping when she sees the crashing waves so far below. As we turn and head back to the car, she rubs her fingers and makes a face.

  ‘Ow!’ she says. ‘You needn’t have held on to me so tightly.’

  Didn’t know I had been.

  Chapter 12

  When I call in at the office that afternoon, Nick and I act as if nothing ever happened. He makes a big show of asking how things are going with Charlie, and I pretend to be interested in the wedding plans. When he tells me he’s booked the registry office, and I express my surprise at Sandra not wanting a church wedding, he even makes some joke about her having an aversion to crosses and holy ground, which I accept as his clumsy attempt at an apology.

  On the Friday we sign up a number of new sites, including one called Anal Accountants, which features photographs of naked women (who I assume are accountants, due to the fact that they’re wearing glasses) playing hide the calculator, which we email to Mark at his office. Charlie films a commercial for hand cream, and that night I get to experience first hand just how good the product actually is.

  By Saturday, and with less than three weeks left to convince Nick of the error of his ways, it’s time to put the next phase of my plan into action. The only trouble is, I haven’t thought of a ‘next phase’ yet. In the meantime, Charlie and I have been invited, along with Nick and Sandra, round to Mark and Julia’s for dinner this evening, and beforehand, so I can get my second opinion, we’re driving back down to Sussex, where Nick is due to turn out for the local village cricket team.

  Nick’s been playing (well, appearing for, ‘playing’ being rather a kind description of his on-pitch antics) for the Upper Dicker (I kid you not) second eleven ever since college, and today Upper Dicker are due, Nick tells me, to play Lower Bottomley, or some such village that’s probably little more than three houses, a pub and a post office-cum-newsagents-cum-video-rental shop. It’s a pre-season friendly, Nick tells me, although I can’t ever recall hearing about an unfriendly. Even so, he’s assured me it should be exciting.

  ‘Will there be a streaker, then?’ I’d asked.

  I’m no cricket fan – all those ‘silly mid ons’ and ‘leftfielders’ – although the idea of a short slip does interest me. Also, what’s the point of a game where there never seems to be a clear winner or loser unless one team has absolutely been pulverized? It seems to be good enough for a draw even if one team’s score gets within fifty runs or so of the other, as long as the light is fading or, in that strange mid-match tradition, it’s time for tea. Well, I’m more of a coffee man myself, but it’s a nice sunny day, and the chance to lounge around on the grass with Charlie whilst taking the piss out of Nick is too good to pass up.

  Although the four of us would all fit comfortably in my car, Nick’s driving down with Sandra separately. He always takes the Ferrari to Sussex – I suspect to remind his team-mates, most of whom are middle-management and lucky if they can afford the leather-seat option on their company Ford Mondeo, just how rich and successful he is now. This means that I’ll have to take his cricket gear in the back of the Impresser, because with Sandra occupying the passenger seat of Nick’s car, his boot is hardly big enough to hold his protective cup, let alone his Harrods-issue whites, pads and bats. Yes, bats, as in the plural.

  We rendezvous outside my flat, where I introduce a slightly nervous Charlie to a leering Nick, who, true to form, sneaks a peek down her top as he kisses her hello. Sandra is a little cool, shaking Charlie rather formally by the hand, but fortunately doesn’t seem to be suffering from foot-in-mouth disease, probably due to my reminding Nick last night to ask her to be nice.

  Setting off from London, I try hard not to lose sight of the gleaming red sports car as it swerves dangerously round buses and taxis. Once out on the motorway we maintain a steady hundred in the outside lane, until we hit the winding lanes of Sussex, where I manage to overtake and pull away, much to Nick’s annoyance. Normally he’d give chase, but I know that Sandra’s constant nagging at Nick to slow down can only count in my favour; and, in fact, by the time Nick and Sandra eventually arrive at the village green, Charlie and I are already out of the car and waiting next to the pavilion.

  Nick parks a safe distance away from the pitch – a lesson he learnt after a previous game where the less-than-sporting opposition kept trying to aim their shots towards his prominent bonnet. We walk over to meet them.

  ‘What kept you?’ I ask him. He just glances in Sandra’s direction and raises his eyebrows.

  We stroll back towards to the pavilion, the two girls chatting away in front. They’re obviously talking about the wedding, and when a beaming Sandra shows off her ring Charlie can’t stop her eyes from widening. Nick nudges me, a proud look on his face.

  Upper Dicker are fielding first, and as Nick heads off to get changed Charlie turns to Sandra and holds up the picnic rug, which we’ve retrieved from the Impresser’s boot.

  ‘Where shall we all sit?’

  Sandra waits until Nick is out of earshot. ‘Oh, actually, I think I’ll wait in the car. Cricket’s not really my thing,’ she replies, adding, ‘If you don’t mind, that is?’ as an afterthought.

  ‘We don’t normally see her out in daylight,’ I whisper, as she heads back towards Nick’s car and sits sideways on in the passenger seat with the door open, facing the pitch, thus ensuring no one forgets that she owns a Ferrari by proxy. Charlie and I find a spot on the grass, stretch out and watch as the spectacle unfolds in front of us. As Nick takes up position on the field, I see him looking smug as a group of spectators cluster round his car – and of course the pretending-to-be-blasé Sandra – more intent on its shiny curves than what’s happening on the pitch.

  The first half of the game passes without incident. Nick misses a couple of easy catches and manages to trip over a couple of times when running after the ball, which we cheer and clap accordingly. After a couple of hours, Lower Bottomley declare at two hundred for six, whatever that means, and we amble towards the clubhouse, where the other players’ girlfriends and wives are passing round sandwiches and tea. Sandra has elected to sta
y in the car, where her mobile phone seems to be glued to her ear.

  Then it’s Nick’s team’s turn to bat. Nick is ‘in at number ten’, which, when I get this translated by one of his team-mates, means that he’s not quite the worst batsman on the team, but almost, so we wait with him in the clubhouse, smiling patiently as he gives us his ‘expert’ commentary on how the game is progressing. When the Upper, er, Dickerians are nearly all out, he removes the whitest pads you’ve ever seen from his bag and makes quite a show of strapping them on, as if his life depends on them fitting properly. He picks up one bat, and then the other, and then the first one again, which he informs me is ‘state of the art titanium cored’, as he goes through an elaborate series of warm-up strokes. The bats used by the other players are somewhat scuffed and imprinted with various red marks where they’ve made contact with the leather cricket ball. Both of Nick’s, despite not being that new, are unmarked.

  With just a few runs needed for victory, Nick finally gets his chance, and, striding confidently to the crease, he calls for his position from the umpire. He’s a formidable sight, towering over the wicket, concentration etched on his face, and I’m sure the combined whiteness of his outfit and the reflection off his pristine bat must be dazzling the opposition.

  Glaring menacingly at Nick, the bowler rubs the ball against his groin for a little longer than is perhaps necessary. He starts his run-up from fifteen yards, gathering speed as he nears the wicket, and then unleashes his delivery. It’s a short ball, and it leaps up tantalizingly, just asking to be thwacked over the boundary. Nick decides to hit out, and is – missing the ball, over-balancing and colliding with his own stumps. Charlie and I applaud politely as he trudges back towards the pavilion, as dejected a sight as I’ve ever seen, surrounded by the celebrating opposition.

  In the pub afterwards, we commiserate with him.

  ‘Bad bounce,’ he claims. ‘That pitch is awful. I don’t know how they can still use it.’

  ‘Didn’t seem to affect the other batsmen,’ I mutter. Nick throws me a withering glance.

  We chat about work for a while, Sandra’s only contribution being a disdainful ‘So you’re a model?’ aimed at Charlie, pronouncing the word ‘model’ like she is saying ‘drug dealer’ or ‘paedophile’.

  ‘Yes. Mostly exhibition work, with the odd commercial now and then,’ replies Charlie, pleasantly. ‘In fact, I filmed a hand job this week,’ she adds, reddening when she realizes what she’s just said.

  Nick splutters into his pint. ‘What did you say?’ he asks, incredulously.

  Charlie tries to explain, but only succeeds in making it worse for herself. ‘That’s what we call them. Hand jobs. You know – just using my hands on someone else.’

  Nick cuts her off. ‘We’ve got—’

  ‘I know,’ says Charlie, patting him on the back of the hand. ‘Whole websites dedicated to just that.’

  Charlie and Nick are getting along well, which pleases me, and watching Charlie banter with my oldest friend brings a strange feeling of pride. Nick, as usual, is trying his best to flirt a little, but he’s so bad at this that I’m not at all offended, and instead take it as a sign of his approval. Sandra is sitting on the periphery, not really making an effort to join in, despite Charlie’s valiant attempts to include her. Eventually, I notice our glasses are empty, and stand up.

  ‘Whose round is it?’ I ask. ‘Sandra?’ in the vague hope that she might actually get up and put her hand in her pocket for once.

  ‘No, nothing for me, thanks,’ she replies, without a trace of irony.

  Charlie stands up next to me. ‘Must be my shout,’ she says. ‘Same again, Nick?’

  Before Nick can answer, Sandra announces that, actually, she has a headache and would rather go home and lie down.

  ‘But what about dinner at Mark’s?’ pleads Nick.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to cancel,’ she says, a little acidly. ‘I’m sure Adam won’t mind telling them I wasn’t feeling very well. I wouldn’t be much company anyway.’ No change there then, I think.

  ‘Anyway,’ she adds, getting up from the table. ‘We’ve got things to do. You’ll have plenty of time for your little friends after we’re married.’

  Biting my tongue, I try unsuccessfully to catch Nick’s eye. Even Charlie can’t believe what she’s hearing as she stares quietly into her glass.

  We head outside and wave them off, a dejected-looking Nick roaring out of the car park, Sandra not bothering to look at us from the passenger seat. I’m disappointed that Mark and Julia will have gone to such an effort for them not to show up, and slightly worried that I’m not going to get the opportunity to expose Sandra’s shortcomings in front of everybody, but at the same time quietly pleased to see the back of her.

  Once they’ve gone, Charlie shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘So, that was the infamous Sandra,’ she says, as we walk back towards the car.

  ‘Yup.’

  Charlie stops and turns to face me. ‘If you don’t tell him, I will.’

  I look at her earnestly. ‘I might hold you to that.’

  ‘It’s just that Nick’s so . . . so . . .’ Her voice tails off.

  I laugh. ‘Yes. Most people struggle for an adjective to describe him. There are plenty of nouns, on the other hand.’

  ‘And, well, Sandra. She’s just . . .’ Again, Charlie struggles to finish her sentence.

  ‘So not Nick?’

  Charlie nods. ‘How can he not see that?’

  I shrug, and open Charlie’s door for her. ‘Therein lies my problem.’

  We take a leisurely drive back towards London, phoning ahead to explain Nick and Sandra’s no-show, and it’s early evening by the time we reach Mark’s place. Parking next to the people carrier, but well away from the trees, therefore avoiding the risk of bird droppings, I retrieve a bottle of wine from the boot and, kissing Charlie on the way past, go to ring the doorbell. Mark has heard the car and beats me to it, opening the door with a broad smile on his face. I’ve already briefed him on the conversational topics he and Julia are not allowed to cover tonight, which primarily include my ex-girlfriends, and Julia’s theories about why there are so many of them.

  ‘Mark – Charlie, Charlie – Mark,’ I say.

  Mark offers his hand to Charlie, and she grabs it and kisses him on the cheek. He smiles back at her, embarrassed, and ushers us in, clapping me on the back while raising both eyebrows and nodding as I pass him.

  We walk into their front room, and Julia appears, my goddaughter India peeking shyly out from behind Julia’s legs. India is hiding from me because last time I saw her she’d proudly told me how one of her milk teeth had fallen out.

  ‘And I put it under my pillow and the fairies came and took it and left me twenty pence,’ she’d told me proudly, in that way kids have of talking without any punctuation.

  ‘Twenty pence?’ I’d said, whispering ‘tight git’ to Mark. ‘Well, you’d better be careful you don’t ever fall asleep with your head under your pillow,’ I’d told her, ‘or the fairies will come and take all your teeth out.’

  Mark told me later it had been a week before India was sleeping properly again.

  Julia shakes Charlie’s hand a little formally.

  ‘And who’s this?’ says Charlie, bending down to smile at India.

  ‘I’m India,’ she lisps.

  ‘What a pretty name,’ says Charlie, putting a hand on India’s cheek.

  India gives Charlie a gap-toothed grin. ‘It’s where I was conceived,’ she says.

  Julia and Mark look at each other, and then at me accusingly. ‘I don’t know who told her that,’ says Julia.

  ‘Not guilty’ I say, holding both hands up.

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it, Mummy?’ asks India.

  ‘Yes dear,’ says Julia, blushing slightly.

  ‘India, do you know what “conceived” means?’ I say.

  Julia shoots me a murderous glance, but India just shakes her head and
runs out of the room, fortunately not asking me to explain.

  ‘Seriously, though, what a beautiful name,’ says Charlie. ‘I love it when people’s names actually mean something significant. Whereabouts in India were you, if it’s not an indelicate question?’

  ‘Goa,’ laughs Julia. ‘But we didn’t think we could quite call her that.’

  I smirk. ‘Quite. Not the best name for a girl.’

  ‘Lucky though,’ says Mark. ‘We were in Phuket the week before.’

  Julia turns back to Charlie. ‘So, you’re the one who’s finally tamed our Adam?’ she asks. ‘We were worried he’d never go out with someone for more than oof!’ The ‘oof’ comes from Mark elbowing her sharply in the ribs. Charlie turns to look at me quizzically, but fortunately just then we hear a bark, and Max bounds into the room, his tail wagging excitedly, and sticks his nose straight into Charlie’s crotch.

  ‘Oh I am sorry,’ says Julia, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him away. ‘He always likes to stick his nose somewhere smelly.’ Her expression changes as she realizes what she’s just said. ‘Er, I mean . . .’

  ‘Drinks?’ says Mark, trying to save his wife’s embarrassment.

  ‘So, Charlie,’ asks Julia, once Max is safely shut in the garden. ‘What was it about Adam that made you go out with him?’

  ‘He asked me. Eventually,’ replies Charlie, still smarting a little.

  ‘I hear you’re a model,’ says Mark, trying to steer the conversation back to a civil level. ‘Have you done anything I’d have seen?’

  ‘No dear, I don’t let you read those kind of magazines,’ says Julia, rubbing her ribs. ‘Only joking,’ she says to Charlie, a slightly false smile playing on her lips. I can see the two girls are locking horns, and I worry it’ll be a long evening. What is it about good-looking women that they feel threatened when someone else attractive comes on the scene?

  Charlie turns back to Mark. ‘Adverts mostly,’ she replies. ‘Have you seen that latest camcorder one?’ She goes on to describe some television advert that finishes with the camcorder cradled in a pair of gold-painted hands. ‘But you wouldn’t recognize me – it’s only my hands you see.’