by Matt Dunn
I order a port and lemon for my mother, which I have to explain to the waiter how to make, and a bottle of red wine for my father. When the waiter pours him a little to taste he sniffs, sips and rolls it around his mouth for so long that I’m worried he’ll spit it out rather than swallow it.
My father does this every time, as he makes his own wine and always likes to compare his to any he has when he’s out. It’s not as if he crushes his own grapes, but he is rather handy with those packet kits you buy from Boots. He’s filled their airing cupboard and spare bedroom with all sorts of tubes, bottles and filtration systems, meaning that nowadays a night in my parents’ house is always accompanied by a vibrant soundtrack of bubbling and fizzing.
He does a pretty good job; the white certainly is a ‘cheeky little number’ and the red has the same effect as Ribena mixed with vodka. Over the years he’s perfected the amount of sugar he needs to add to get just the right alcoholic kick, which is a good few percentage points above the norm. In fact, Dad’s homemade wine has such a following amongst my friends that he always gives me a couple of bottles to take back to London, and I’m guaranteed a visit from the boys once I’m back to ‘help’ me drink it. After what seems like an eternity, he finally nods his approval at the waiter. ‘Not bad,’ he pronounces.
Over lunch, I try and explain my dilemma surrounding Nick, hoping that by some miracle they might come up with a solution. My father is one of those people who will always offer advice, whatever the subject, and although I normally just smile and nod when he’s handing out his pearls of wisdom, for once I’m genuinely interested to see whether he has any good suggestions. That I’m desperate enough to ask for their help shows that I’m at my wits’ end, but although my parents have known Nick for as long as I have – and therefore know what he’s like – they are also big fans of marriage, and are starting to despair that they’ll never go to another wedding given my relationship history. They’ve also never met Sandra, and quite frankly I don’t have the energy to respond to my mother’s ‘She can’t be that bad’ comment. When, as usual, my mother turns the conversation round to why I’m not married yet, I find myself switching off, and it’s a relief when, catching sight of Charlie on the street outside, I work frantically to change the subject.
As she walks over to the table, all smiles, my father struggles to stand up, his knee having stiffened since he sat down.
‘Charlie – my parents, my parents – Charlie,’ I say, emphasizing her name at each opportunity.
‘How lovely to meet you, Charlie,’ says my mum. ‘Adam, why don’t you call that lovely Somalian chap over and get Charlie a drink.’
Charlie, my father and I exchange glances until I finally cotton on. ‘Mum, it’s sommelier.’
‘That’s what I said, dear,’ she replies, and turns back to Charlie.
I order some more drinks and then take a back seat as Charlie charms them. The only hiccup is when I excuse myself to take a phone call, and return to find my mother showing Charlie the Bonny Baby clipping that she’s actually brought with her. I really must destroy that one day.
‘Nice photo,’ grins Charlie.
‘Mum,’ I manage, in a voice that suggests my mother has just knitted me a particularly embarrassing jumper. ‘Don’t forget that I’m the one who’ll be picking your rest home.’
An hour or so later we usher them outside and into a cab, and as we say our goodbyes Charlie promises that, yes, she will come down and visit them soon. I remember that I couldn’t reach them on their mobile phone earlier, and wonder whether my mother has accidentally switched the ringer off, but when she gets the phone out to check we find that she’s actually brought their home cordless phone by mistake.
I pay the driver, sending them back off towards the Eye, and Charlie and I take a leisurely walk back towards my office. I leave her shopping on the King’s Road, stroll into reception and smile at Becky.
‘Any messages, gorgeous?’
Becky blushes. ‘Just the one,’ she replies. ‘Sandra phoned – Nick’s had a breakdown. She’s got to go out so can you go right over?’
‘Wh-what?’ I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
‘That’s what she said,’ says Becky, reading from a little yellow tear-off memo pad. ‘Nick’s had a breakdown.’
‘When did she call?’ I ask, anxiously. ‘Why isn’t she with him?’
Becky doesn’t seem at all flustered by this. ‘Oh, about ten minutes ago. She mentioned something about a hair appointment, so can you go round and sort Nick out.’
Sort Nick out? Bloody Sandra. If only I’d been a little more helpful, or said something earlier, or had her killed . . .
Mind racing, I rush outside and grab a cab round to Nick’s flat, where I’m a little surprised to find him waiting outside, sat disconsolately on the bonnet of the Ferrari.
‘Mate!’ I shout. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No I’m not okay,’ he fumes. ‘Bloody car won’t start. Again.’
Ah-ha. That kind of a breakdown.
‘Would you believe the AA didn’t have any replacement fan belts for a Ferrari?’ he continues, although he seems strangely proud about this inconvenience. ‘Can you give me a lift down to the dealership? I want to shout at them, and that’s best done face to face.’
Nick knows nothing about cars. He’d even phoned the AA when he couldn’t find the engine one day. ‘Have you tried looking in the boot, sir?’ the exasperated AA mechanic had asked him. ‘These are rear-engined cars, you know.’
We walk round to my flat to pick up the Impresser, and I drive us through Chelsea and over Wandsworth Bridge. The showroom is just across the river, and I park carefully between approximately a quarter of a million pounds of Italian engineering. As Nick climbs out of the car he bangs his door, or rather my door, if you see what I mean, into the wing of the adjacent Ferrari, taking an inch of its gleaming red paintwork off in the process.
‘Be careful,’ I tell him.
He surveys the damaged wing. ‘It’s just a little scratch, mate. Probably come off with a bit of polish.’
‘No, I meant my car. And, anyway, that’s probably about two-of-your-monkeys’ worth of damage you’ve just done there.’
Nick looks at the dent, shrugs and walks off into the dealership. I follow him in past a beautiful black Ferrari with the word ‘wanker’ neatly scratched on to the bonnet.
Beyond the heavy glass doors, the dealership has an air of sanctity – red thick pile carpets emblazoned with the prancing horse logo, plush leather armchairs, which exhale as you sink into their embrace, and a coffee machine which serves only the finest Italian blends. The place is a shrine for the worship of all things Italian.
‘No wonder it costs so much for a replacement windscreen wiper blade,’ I mutter to Nick, while helping myself to a large espresso.
‘Good afternoon, Siignor Morgan,’ says an instantly materializing sales assistant, wearing a name badge that identifies him as Paolo, and talking in an accent that wouldn’t be out of place coming from the villain in a Bond movie. ‘And ’ow are you today?’ I’m not making this up. This is how he speaks.
‘I’d be much better if I could have driven here in my fucking car that I paid you a hundred grand for less than a year ago, rather than some cheap Japanese piece of crap,’ replies Nick. ‘No offence, mate,’ he says to me.
Paolo from Roma becomes Paul from Romford.
‘I’m, er, I mean, Ey yam zorry to ’ear zat,’ continues Paolo. ‘What seems to be ze trouble?’
‘Ze trouble is ze fucking fan belt. Eet has fucking overheated. Again,’ replies Nick, mimicking Paolo’s accent expertly.
Paolo sighs and looks to the heavens. ‘The Ferrari – eet ees like a beautiful woman, no?’
‘No,’ Nick replies.
‘Well, it is like Sandra,’ I say.
Nick turns and frowns at me. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you spend a lot of money on it and all it does is sit there.’
Scowling, Nick turns back to Paolo. ‘So, Paolo,’ he continues, ‘when can you get me a mechanic out to fix the bloody thing? I think you know the address.’
‘Well, Meester Morgan, I will check but our customer serveece technicians, they are very busy.’
‘That’s because your fucking cars always break down,’ says Nick, getting angrier.
‘Zey are not really meant for London driving. Eet ees all these stop and start.’
‘Well, it has stopped and I want you to start it again. Today.’
Eventually, Paolo agrees to send an engineer out that afternoon. I finish my coffee and we get back into my Japanese piece of crap, which starts, as ever, first time. As we drive off, I look in my rear-view mirror and see the owner returning to the Ferrari that Nick has dented. He gets into his car, starts the engine, then gets out again as the dent registers. As his face goes through a mixture of confusion and anger, I put my foot down.
As we head back into Chelsea I’m suddenly conscious that I’m running out of opportunities, so ask Nick if he wants to come for a drink, but he cries off, explaining that he wants to be there when the mechanic arrives. I drop him off outside his flat, and look at my watch. It’s nearly five o’clock, so I head on over to Bar Rosa, park outside and stroll in, saying hello to Pritchard, who is sitting at a table chatting to a good-looking, young chap. Rudy is keeping an eye on them from the bar, so I sit down right in front of him to purposely obscure his vision.
‘Checking up on Pritchard?’ I ask him.
‘Get out of the way,’ he says, moving a couple of feet to his left. ‘New chef interview. Anyway – where have you been for the last few days?’
‘I’ve been out . . .’ I start to say, and then change my mind ‘. . . working.’
Rudy squeezes my bicep. ‘Working out, more likely,’ he scoffs. ‘Oh – hold on. What’s that smell?’ He breathes in deeply. ‘Reminds me of that cheap nineteen seventies perfume. What was it called?’
I sniff, but can’t smell anything. ‘What are you talking about?’
He grins. ‘I remember now. Charlie, isn’t it?’
‘Ha ha. Good one, Rudy,’ I reply, my voice as sarcastic as I can make it. ‘You’ve been talking to Nick, I take it?’
‘Might have been.’
Pritchard walks past me and back behind the bar. ‘I hear you’ve been, what is it you Cockneys say, feeling a proper Charlie?’ he says, high-fiveing Rudy, and heading off towards the kitchen.
I shake my head. ‘Christ. Not you as well.’
Rudy turns back to me. ‘So, when do we get to meet the girl who’s charmed our Adam?’
‘Maybe I’ll bring her in here one day,’ I say, ‘when I feel confident enough that you two won’t scare her off.’
‘First Nick and now you,’ says Rudy. He puts his hand up to his ear. ‘What’s that ringing sound?’
Normally I’d find this kind of thing amusing. But with time running out where Nick’s concerned, the only bells I can hear ringing are alarms.
Rudy walks off, singing ‘Love Is In The Air’. I pick up a pistachio from the bowl on the bar, take aim and throw it at him.
And miss.
Chapter 14
By Thursday I’m bored of sitting in the office on my own. I last until late morning, then stroll home, switch on the lunchtime news and wait for the weather report. Some chap wearing a standard-issue weatherman jacket – in one of those particular pastel hues that doesn’t match his trousers – proceeds to tell me how the weather is at the moment. ‘Well, that’s saved me looking out of the window,’ I say to him, and then realize I’m talking to the television. I’m not due to see Charlie until this evening, but I decide to phone her anyway.
‘Busy?’
‘I was,’ she says, ‘but I’ll drop everything if you like . . .’
I resist the juicy bait she’s dangled in front of me by asking whether she’s had lunch yet. She hasn’t, and when I suggest a picnic in the country I can hear the delight in her voice.
I stroll round to my local Sainsbury’s to stock up on food and the primary ingredient of all successful picnics – a chilled bottle of Chardonnay – and then, picking Charlie up on the way, head out of London on the A3. When, twenty minutes later, we arrive at Richmond Park, she seems a little surprised, but this is as country as I’m prepared to get. After all, the Impresser might have four wheel drive but surely that’s to keep me on the road rather than to take me off it, and also I’d have to wash the car afterwards. With Charlie sitting by my side, I can think of better things to do with my time.
I’m an experienced picnicker. I’ve got all the gear: waterproof zip-away rug, collapsible wine glasses, bottle chiller, Frisbee, although I stop short at plastic cutlery. I leave the Impresser across two spaces in the car park, copying Nick’s trick, and we head off towards the ponds, Charlie holding my right hand, whilst my left struggles to keep a grip on the heavy, industrial-sized cool box that I need to transport all of the above.
It’s not your usual English spring day – the sun is shining, there’s not a cloud in the sky – and the park is full of people walking their dogs, and mothers with children learning to ride their stabilizered bikes. We walk over to the larger of the two ponds, find a sunny bench overlooking the water, and watch the swans, geese and ducks vying for scraps at the water’s edge, until the incessant noise from the Heathrow-bound planes overhead gets too annoying.
Finding a quieter spot away from the path, I spread out the rug, and Charlie sits down next to me, laying out the various foods as I open the wine and pour us each a glass. We’re just about to start eating when a huge wasp flies by and starts buzzing round my face. I try to swat it away, and only succeed in hitting myself painfully on the nose.
‘Just ignore it,’ says Charlie, as my eyes water.
‘Ignore it? This huge buzzing stingy thing?’ Wasps aren’t my favourite creature on God’s earth. When I eventually manage to trap it in my glass and take great pleasure in trying to drown it, Charlie just rolls her eyes.
Once we’ve finished eating, we just sit quietly side by side, basking in the early afternoon warmth, and sip our drinks. This is perfect, I find myself thinking, and, for a minute, manage to forget all about Nick and Sandra. That is, until Charlie turns to face me.
‘So, how’s it going with you-know-who?’ she asks. ‘Have you had the chat with him yet?’
‘Er, sort of.’
She looks at me enquiringly. ‘Sort of? You don’t exactly have a lot of time left, you know.’
‘Well, it’s not for want of trying. I keep hinting about Sandra but he never seems to take the bait.’
Charlie looks to the heavens. ‘Have you ever thought of just sitting down and talking it over with him without insulting his fiancée? Or would that be too obvious an approach?’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that . . .’ I start to explain, but Charlie cuts me off with a poke in the ribs.
‘Do you know what I don’t understand?’ she says.
‘Einstein’s theory of relativity? The offside rule?’
She pokes me again, but harder this time. ‘No. Why you men can’t ever talk to each other about anything more serious than sport or cars.’
I think about trying to rephrase Mark’s explanation from a couple of weeks ago in Bar Rosa, but I’m not sure I can. Besides, Charlie didn’t buy it before, and, to be honest, neither did I. ‘You know,’ I suggest, ‘it’s all that stuff about Men Are From Mars, Women Are From—’
‘Twix?’ interrupts Charlie. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And anyway,’ she continues, ‘how are you going to feel when it’s five years down the line, they’ve got a couple of kids, Nick’s miserable and you could have prevented all this with one simple question?’
I refill our glasses, being careful to remove all traces of pickled wasp from mine. ‘Blimey! The thought of Nick as a dad! Do they make baby seats for Ferraris, I wonder?’
I’m chuckling to myself at the vision when Charlie suddenly
looks at me, slightly more seriously than I’m used to.
‘And how will you feel when your best friend is involved in a series of affairs?’
‘He should be so lucky,’ I say, adding, ‘and, anyway, Nick’s not like that.’ Charlie gives me a withering glance. I decide not to tell her that I’ve tested this out recently.
‘He may not be now,’ she says, ‘but in my experience, once a guy decides to make an honest woman of someone, it can make a dishonest man of him.’
‘In your experience?’
‘Let’s just say that I have . . . a friend who’s been through similar circumstances,’ she says, cryptically. ‘It’s the worst feeling in the world. The lying, the suspicion . . .’ Charlie swallows hard, and when I see the look on her face I decide not to pursue this line.
‘Maybe . . .’ I say, trying to convince myself, ‘. . . maybe Sandra is right for him. Maybe she’ll keep him on his toes and that’s the best way to be . . .’
Charlie snorts. ‘Adam, Sandra’s horrible. Nick may think she’s what he wants, but no one deserves to end up with someone like her. I’ve only met her once and I can tell that already. And besides, do you really want to see him in one of those IKEA marriages?’
‘IKEA marriages? What are you talking about?’
‘Where it looks nice in the catalogue, and initially fits together perfectly, but a few years down the line it starts to come apart, and you find yourself thinking that a couple of extra “screws” might make it steady again . . .’
This is one of the worst metaphors I’ve ever heard. And three guesses where she got it from – bloody Cosmo. I decide to change the subject in the best way I know how – by rolling on top of Charlie and kissing her hungrily. After a few minutes she removes my hand from inside her top.
‘Not here,’ she says. ‘It’s a little bit public for my liking.’
I ignore her and put my hand back where it was, only to remove it again quickly as a group of schoolchildren appear on the path.
‘See,’ says Charlie, sitting up and straightening her clothing.