by Matt Dunn
‘Spoilsport,’ I say. ‘We’d have heard them coming.’
Charlie gives me a mischievous look.
We drain our glasses, pack the cool box up and carry it back to the car. On an alcohol-inspired whim, we hire roller-blades from the hut near the car park, which seems like a great idea until I try and stand up in them and fall flat on my backside. I try again, and fall straight back down, and it’s not just a little collapse-type fall, but a heavy slam-type fall. I’d always wondered why they rented them out along with the knee and elbow pads, but within seconds I’ve found out exactly why.
I’m a little embarrassed when I have to hand my roller-blades back to the pimply kid in the hire shop a mere fifteen minutes later, mumbling something about having a meeting I’d forgotten I have to go to. I retire hurt to a nearby bench and watch Charlie as she finds her feet, or rather wheels. She’s obviously done this before, and I look on in admiration as she glides up and down the path in front of me, looking quite sexy in a semi-bondage kind of way with her gloves, pads and helmet, almost like an extra from Rollerball.
Charlie skates on for a while, and I walk with her, dragging her by the hand up some of the small inclines where the path weaves through the trees. We continue on round the corner and unexpectedly come across a mother deer and her fawn on the grass in front of us. The fawn is clearly only a few hours old and still struggling to stand, and its mother watches us warily as we approach. I feel Charlie’s hand tighten on mine and so I smile at her, and it’s that moment that I think, yeah, there are worse situations to be in than having a family and a life partner, but then I catch sight of a girl sunbathing on the grass nearby, and am snapped back to reality.
‘Come on, skate-boy. Race you back to the car,’ shouts Charlie, and she speeds off back towards the car park, leaving me to follow sheepishly on foot.
Later, when I’ve driven her home, I walk her to her door and ask if I can come in, but she tells me that I have to go round and have it out with Nick. ‘Now!’ she says, slapping me playfully on the behind.
‘Yes, miss!’
Charlie hands me my phone – she’d kept it in her bag so I didn’t break it when I fell over, and I switch it on, find Nick’s number on the speed dial, and then stop myself.
‘I need to think of what I should say . . .’ I tell her, standing there like an idiot with the phone to my mouth.
Charlie gets exasperated with me. ‘Adam! It’s not a mission to the moon you’re planning. Don’t think – just go round there and talk to him.’
Just then, my mobile rings, making me jump, and I stab the answer button, to hear, coincidentally, Nick’s voice, asking if I want to come to Bar Rosa for a drink.
‘I’m meeting Mark there later,’ he tells me. ‘Thought you might want to come and stop him boring me with his latest get-rich-quick schemes.’
‘Call you straight back,’ I say, and I ask Charlie if she wants to come along. She’ll be able to meet Pritchard and Rudy, I tell her.
She thinks about this for a second. ‘And Nick’s going to be there too, is he?’
I nod, naively.
‘Then I’d love to,’ says Charlie. ‘I can make sure the two of you have that talk.’
I make a face, and then ring Nick back. ‘Do you mind if I bring Charlie?’
‘Not at all,’ he replies, slightly surprised. ‘Do you want some money towards it? Make sure you get the good stuff—’
‘No,’ I interrupt him. ‘I mean my Charlie. Not Sandra’s.’
‘Ah, oh, yeah. Of course. See you later,’ he says.
Charlie looks at me sweetly. ‘My Charlie?’ she says, raising one eyebrow.
When we arrive at Bar Rosa, Mark is indeed holding forth in front of a glazed-looking Nick, who looks incredibly relieved as we walk in. He jumps off his stool and kisses Charlie hello and, as usual, peers down her blouse as he does so.
‘Hi, Mark,’ she says, as Mark turns round in his chair. He stands up and holds his hand out to her, which she ignores and instead gives him a big kiss on the cheek. He can’t stop himself from raising his hand to wipe where she’s left an imprint of lipstick.
‘I’ll get the drinks in,’ announces Nick, heading off to the bar before anyone can tell him what they want. Sure enough, he arrives back with a grinning Rudy, who’s carrying a bottle of Moët, Pritchard looming behind him.
‘Champagne? Is Sandra here?’ I ask, causing Nick to glower.
Placing the bottle on the table, Rudy beams at Charlie. ‘And who is this lovely creature?’
‘It’s Mark,’ I reply, as Charlie blushes. ‘I thought you knew . . . Oh, sorry. You mean Charlie?’
I do the introductions, and Pritchard clasps Charlie in a big hug. ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ she says, as Rudy takes her hand and kisses it.
Pritchard pops the champagne open and pours everyone a glass, including himself and Rudy. We all squeeze round one of the barrels, and Rudy announces a toast.
I glance round suspiciously. ‘What are we drinking to?’
‘Oh, nothing special,’ says Rudy, as the others all avoid my gaze. ‘It’s just nice to finally meet you, Charlie,’ he says, holding up his glass.
‘Likewise,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Most of it under-exaggerated, I’m sure,’ laughs Rudy.
‘So,’ says Pritchard. ‘Tell us all about yourself. I hear you’re a model?’
‘Catwalk or catalogue?’ asks Rudy.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Nick about to open his mouth. I silence him with a look as Charlie talks a little about her work, although she’s clearly embarrassed about being the centre of attention.
‘Any family? Brothers or sisters?’ says Pritchard.
‘Brothers in particular?’ asks Rudy, raising one eyebrow.
Charlie nods. ‘Just the one. A brother, I mean. He’s a writer. You might even have heard of him?’
‘What’s his name?’ asks Mark.
‘Richard. Richard Evans,’ replies Charlie. ‘I think his book is called French Letters or something.’
‘We know it,’ chorus Pritchard and Rudy. ‘A Queer In Provence. It’s fabulous!’
Nick almost spits his champagne back into his glass. ‘What did you say?’ he splutters.
‘French Letters – A Queer In Provence,’ repeats Pritchard. ‘It’s about this gay guy who goes and lives in a small French village for a year . . .’
‘. . . and how the locals react to his lifestyle,’ adds Rudy. ‘It’s hilarious.’
‘You should read it,’ recommends Pritchard. ‘I think I’ve got a copy upstairs if you want.’
‘No thanks. It’s hardly my idea of bedtime reading,’ says Nick, indignantly. ‘So, your brother, Dick . . .’ he asks, turning back to Charlie.
‘Richard. Not Dick. He doesn’t like Dick,’ she interrupts, innocently.
Nick lets out a loud snort. ‘That’s not what it sounds like!’
Charlie blushes, and I suddenly feel a little pissed off at Nick, even though I have to fight not to smile.
Charlie ignores him, and turns back to Pritchard and Rudy. ‘He’s coming over to visit soon. You should meet him.’ She glances back at Nick. ‘He’s a bit like Nick really.’
‘Like me?’ says Nick, slightly taken aback.
She smiles. ‘Yes. Except he’s good looking, charming and has a great sense of humour.’
‘Ha! She got you!’ says Mark, laughing. Nick just sulks and pretends to be interested in something floating in his glass.
‘Seriously though,’ continues Charlie. ‘I’ll bring him in to meet you guys, if you like.’
‘When’s he here?’ I ask.
‘Oh – he normally just turns up out of the blue,’ she replies. ‘But I’ll be sure he comes in and says hello. I’ll get him to bring some signed copies of the book along.’
‘Yes please,’ says Pritchard.
‘Yes please,’ says Rudy.
‘No thanks!’ exclaims Nick. I nudge hi
m under the table, and he looks at me sharply. Sometimes I think he forgets who owns the bar where he’s drinking.
‘Maybe you should read it,’ suggests Mark. ‘It might help you get in touch with your feminine side.’
Nick slams his glass down loudly. ‘What would I want to do that for, Mr Cosmo? It’s feminine insides I want to get in touch with, and I don’t think that’s going to be helped by reading some French fairy story.’ He turns to Pritchard and Rudy. ‘No offence.’
‘I’ve often thought that I should write a book about the time I spent in Ireland when I was younger,’ says Rudy.
‘Really? What would you call it?’ says Mark.
Rudy frowns. ‘What is it the Irish say – Looking for the Craic?’
‘Except in your case, you’d spell it C-R-A-C-K,’ says Pritchard, causing them both to dissolve into laughter.
Mark looks at the two of them disdainfully. ‘Move over Little and Large – there’s a new comedy double act in town.’
The evening rush is just about to start, so Rudy returns to the bar, where some other customers have been waiting impatiently for a while, and Pritchard heads off to the kitchen. Once we’ve finished the bottle, which given Nick’s capacity for champagne doesn’t take that long, I join Rudy at the bar to order another.
‘She’s lovely,’ he says to me.
‘I know,’ I reply, looking proudly back towards the table, where Charlie is talking animatedly, Nick and Mark listening intently to her every word. Or rather, Mark is listening intently and Nick is still trying to look down her top.
I head back over and squeeze in between Nick and Charlie. Pritchard brings us over some complimentary tapas, and as Charlie pops an olive into her mouth, Nick suddenly leans over.
‘Have you ever tried these with pepper?’ he asks her. ‘They’re delicious!’
Charlie says she hasn’t, and so Nick picks up the pepper pot and shakes a much too generous helping on to the plate. I look at him curiously, and too late realize what he’s playing at, as the cloud of pepper causes Charlie to sneeze. He and Mark sit there transfixed as she sneezes. Eleven times. A record since I’ve known her.
‘Excuse me!’ says Charlie.
‘Er, bless you!’ says a wide-eyed Mark. Nick just sits there, leering.
‘I’m sorry about Nick,’ I tell her. ‘He was dropped on his head as a child and he has these funny turns every now and again.’
‘Do you know,’ says Charlie, recovering her composure, ‘the sneeze is the second most pleasurable bodily function, apparently?’
‘Oh yes?’ says Nick. ‘And what’s the first?’ He looks at her, raising one eyebrow.
‘Shopping!’ she laughs. I almost expect to see Nick nodding in agreement.
The four of us chat for a while, Charlie gamely trading lines with Nick, as Pritchard and Rudy maintain a steady supply of food and drink from the bar. When, eventually, Mark looks at his watch and announces that he has to go, surprisingly, Charlie does the same. I get up to leave with her but she puts a hand on my shoulder.
‘Oh, that’s okay, Adam, I’ll just get a cab. You stay here and keep Nick company.’
I don’t get it for a moment, and then realize she’s leaving me to have the chat.
‘Give me a call,’ she says, kissing me goodbye.
I watch as she flags down a cab outside and gets in, then walk back over to where Nick is sitting, wondering how I’m going to start the conversation. Fortunately, he does it for me.
‘You’ll be next,’ he says, when I get back to the table.
I look at him strangely. ‘What are you talking about?’
You and Charlie. You won’t be long.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I scoff.
Nick regards me suspiciously over the top of his glass. ‘What have you got against marriage, anyway?’
I take a deep breath, determined not to let this opportunity slide. ‘Well, for one thing, over half of all marriages end in divorce nowadays, so what’s the point of getting into something that will statistically only help to improve the standard of living of lawyers?’
Nick sits back in his chair. ‘Blimey! What’s turned you into Mr Cynical all of a sudden?’
‘It’s just . . .’ I take a deeper breath. ‘Marriage isn’t something you can just try for a while and then discard. It’s not like buying a car that you can then trade in for a newer model whenever you feel like it.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he says, and I think he’s joking, but then I see he’s not. ‘How else do you know whether you’re going to like it or not? Sure, you can try an extended test drive, but sometimes you’ve just got to go for it.’
Cars. Excellent. One subject we can talk about. I decide to keep the analogy going, in the hope it won’t make me sound like I’m being nasty. ‘But what if, for example, I’d driven . . .’ I correct myself quickly, ‘I mean, read a review of the car you were planning to buy, and knew that it wasn’t the right . . . model for you?’
His face darkens, and for some reason I’m suddenly reminded of a piece of advice my father always used to give me – never return to a lit firework.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Say, for example, there were certain problems, in terms of . . . economy, or . . . reliability, that you might not be aware of.’ I’m clutching at straws now.
Nick puts his glass down and stares at me. ‘What exactly are you saying, Adam?’
‘Well, we think—’
‘We?’ he interrupts. ‘Who is “we”, exactly? You and Charlie? Little Miss Perfect? Or am I going to have to have this same chat with Mark?’
I realize I’m getting in deeper water without a paddle, or whatever the phrase is, so I try a different tack. ‘We . . . I mean, I’m worried that Sandra’s motives may not be as . . . heartfelt as they should.’
Nick snorts. ‘What are you saying? That she’s only marrying me for my money? Thanks very much!’
This is exactly what I’m saying. I think Sandra’s philosophy is something along the lines of ‘If it ain’t broke, marry it’. But I realize that this is actually a grave insult to Nick, suggesting he has no other qualities apart from the size of his bank balance.
‘No, I just . . . I haven’t ever heard either of you say that you’re in love,’ I counter.
Nick shrugs. ‘Maybe so. But when was the last time any of us ever admitted that we loved anybody? Except for Mark of course, but he cries at films.’
‘But you’ve always said that you’d never get married unless you really loved the person.’
‘I say a lot of things. And I also reserve the right to change my mind.’
‘But . . .’
Nick swallows hard. ‘Mate,’ he tells me, ‘it’s all right for you. Any time you feel like it you can go out and find yourself somebody to, for want of a better word, shag. You see someone you like and off you go, like some kind of meat-seeking missile, knowing that your odds of success are pretty good. But the rest of us, well, quite frankly we have to take any opportunity we can, and when we finally find someone who agrees to have us, well . . .’ He pauses and takes a long gulp of champagne. ‘Life’s all about making choices. Are you a lager drinker or a bitter drinker? Do you like Dairy Milk or Galaxy? Do you stay single for ever, or . . . Well, let’s just say I’ve made my choice.’
I’m thinking about my response to this, wondering whether I should mention Guinness, or Bournville. I want to tell him that these things aren’t mutually exclusive, but then Nick looks at me and sighs heavily.
‘Let’s just say that I’ve failed in too many relationships in the past to want to go through it all again. I’m sick of them always ending so badly.’
‘Nick, every relationship you have is going to end badly except for the last one. Or, to put it another way, everyone fails at every relationship except one. Look how many I’ve “failed” at, for example. Don’t let your poor track record stop you from trying to find the one.’
Nick sighs wearily. ‘It’s not my “po
or track record”, to use your delightful phrase, that I’m worried about. It’s just that I’m tired of going through the same process, and it all leading to nothing. Sandra and I, we’re . . .’ He searches for the right phrase. ‘We’re ready, you know? And sometimes in life you just have to decide on a course of action and follow it through. If it goes wrong, well at least you’ve had the courage of your convictions and tried it. And, anyway, what’s the worst that could happen? It doesn’t work out and we get divorced. Big deal.’
It’s now that I should deliver the killer blow and hit Nick in his most sensitive spot – his wallet – by adding ‘and she takes half your money’, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to do it. All I can manage is ‘That’s the best reason for getting married I’ve ever heard.’
Nick ignores me. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘Sandra thinks you’re jealous because you’re worried that she’s stealing your best friend, or some bollocks like that.’
When I don’t reply, his expression suddenly changes to one of concern. ‘You’re not, are you?’
‘No!’ I reply, perhaps a little too loudly. ‘No. I . . .’ I look round to check that no one’s in earshot. They’re not, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘I just worry about you, that’s all.’
‘Ha!’ exclaims Nick. ‘That’s a good one. And I’m touched, really, but you don’t have to. I know what I’m doing. I know you’re not the greatest of friends with Sandra, but please try and get on with her. For me.’
I open my mouth to say something, but Nick interrupts me.
‘You’re going to be my best man, for Christ’s sake. And as my best man, and my best friend, I expect you to support me.’
How can you refuse a plea like that?
Chapter 15
Well, that’s that, then. I guess I just have to accept that despite my best efforts, which if I’m honest haven’t been worthy of the word ‘best’ (and in some cases would have struggled to be called ‘efforts’), Nick seems determined to soldier on with his wedding plans. And for the next few days, and for the sake of our friendship, I try as hard as I can to be enthusiastic.
So on the Saturday I spend a ridiculous afternoon in Moss Bros., where Nick tries on a succession of dress suits and top hats, and then sulks for the rest of the day when I answer his ‘So, how do I look?’ Sunday afternoon finds me sitting in Nick’s flat, patiently writing addresses on envelopes as he and Sandra argue about whom to invite to the reception, and I cringe quietly as Sandra crosses name after name off Nick’s list. On the Monday, and on Sandra’s insistence, I help Nick look for horse-and-carriage hire firms to transport her, sorry, them, from the steps of Chelsea Town Hall to the reception venue, despite the fact that it’s due to take place at Bluebird, the Conran restaurant just across the road. And on Tuesday Charlie and I even accompany them there for dinner, so Sandra can check it’ll be good enough for her, sorry, their, guests.