Best Man

by Matt Dunn

  Leaving Mark to finish his beer, I head out of Bar Rosa and retrieve the Impresser from the office. But then, when I get into the car and start the engine, I just sit there, as I realize something quite important. I don’t have a clue where I’m going.

  Chapter 17

  I find myself driving down Nick’s street, and miraculously there’s a space in front of his flat where the Ferrari is normally parked. I reverse the Impresser into the bay, which takes me two attempts, probably because of the beer I’ve already drunk this evening. I wonder if I should be driving at all, but then I needed some Dutch courage, or, given the fact that it was San Miguel we were drinking, Spanish courage, to come round to Nick’s and do what I’m planning to do.

  It’s Charlie’s fault that I’m here at all. I don’t mean all this baby stuff, but the fact that with Nick’s wedding happening next weekend I’ve decided that I just can’t ignore the Sandra issue any longer. I just know it’s wrong – one of those nagging doubts, like when you wake up in the middle of the night and think you might need to use the bathroom, but it’s cold outside the duvet and you reckon that the effort of getting up would outweigh the slight tension in your bladder, so you lie there and convince yourself that you’ll be able to go back to sleep without going, but eventually the tension gets worse and worse, and so you have to get up and go, cursing the fact that you didn’t earlier . . .

  Anyway, I also know that I need a plan, and, up until now, the best I have come up with just hasn’t been good enough. Plan A – telling him directly – I’ve tried, and it doesn’t seem to have worked. Plan B – getting someone else to tell him – I’d like to have tried, but, despite numerous attempts to enlist outside help, I can’t seem to find any willing volunteers. So, in desperation I find myself adopting Plan Z – sleep with Sandra. And as I say, it’s Charlie’s idea. Well, okay, not exactly.

  ‘So,’ she’d said, a few days ago. ‘Nick is sure he’s doing the right thing.’

  ‘Well, so he says.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you go and talk to Sandra?’

  ‘Talk to Sandra?’ I’d repeated her suggestion as if she’d said ‘stab yourself in the genitals’.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie had continued. ‘Sit down and actually talk to her. Surely if she can convince you that she’s doing this for all the right reasons, and Nick thinks he’s doing it for the right reasons too . . .’

  She had a point, I suppose. Of course. Again.

  But this is what actually happens. I ring the buzzer knowing, because Nick never walks anywhere, that the absence of the Ferrari means he’s out. Sandra’s clipped tones leap harshly from the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  I try and make my voice as friendly as possible, which where Sandra is concerned really just consists of me un-gritting my teeth whenever I speak to her.

  ‘Hi, Sandra. It’s Adam.’

  There’s a slight pause, and then, ‘Nick’s not here.’

  I’m worried that I might lose my nerve, but I find myself asking if I can come in, and saying that it’s actually her that I’ve come to talk to. There’s another pause, for a few seconds this time, and then she buzzes me in.

  I climb the stairs to the flat and knock on the door. When I get no response I knock again, louder this time, and I hear a muffled ‘Hold on’. I’m just about to knock a third time when Sandra opens the door. She’s wearing only a dressing gown, having just got out of the shower, she explains, as she invites me in, and clutching a half-full red wine glass that looks big enough to hold a kitten.

  Sandra produces another glass for me and a fresh bottle of wine, which I open. We sit on the sofa, and I ask her how the preparations are all going. We’ve never really spent any time together, just the two of us, and I soon begin to realize why, as she bores me silly with a long speech about the wedding that seems to focus on how much it’s all costing, rather than how much she’s looking forward to the day itself. She’s obviously been drinking already this evening, which I find slightly worrying, as she’s more than slightly tipsy. Every time she leans forward to refill her wine glass, which is alarmingly often, I catch a glimpse down her loose-fitting robe, which she makes no attempt to tighten up.

  I try, unsuccessfully, to steer the conversation round to how she actually feels about Nick, but she’s more keen to tell me the price of the silver-embossed invitations. Eventually, I have to ask her outright.

  ‘Sandra, tell me something. Are you really in love with Nick?’

  Her expression changes, and she looks at me coldly. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  I put my wine glass down on the table. ‘Er, everything.’

  ‘Well let me rephrase my question,’ she says. ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Same answer, I think. Nick’s my oldest friend.’

  Sandra smiles, but it’s more the kind of smile you’d see on the face of a tax inspector or child molester.

  ‘So you’ve come round here because you’re worried about him?’

  I’m surprised at her perceptiveness. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Or is it that you’re more worried about you?’

  ‘Wh-what?’ I stammer.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it!’ she sneers. ‘Typical Adam Bailey. Always Mr Considerate. You like to make out that you’re thinking about other people but really you’re just making sure you’re okay.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘No?’ she says. ‘I know what you’re like, Adam. You’re one of those people who always need to be in control. I’ve watched you. At parties you’re the one who makes sure everyone’s got a drink. Or if we all go out for dinner you’re always the person who chooses the restaurant, or orders the wine, or divides up the bill.’

  At least I then pay my share of it, I think. ‘But that’s not about being in control,’ I tell her. ‘It’s called being polite. It’s about being considerate, or taking responsibility for your friends.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ she replies, her accent becoming less avenue and more street. ‘You just can’t handle the fact that, for once, Nick is doing something without you.’

  I shake my head. ‘You’re wrong, Sandra. What I can’t handle is that Nick is making the biggest mistake of his life marrying you, and he can’t see it. Especially if you don’t love him.’

  Sandra makes a face like she’s been sucking lemons. ‘I see exactly where this is coming from,’ she says. ‘It’s always been just “Nick and Adam” this, “Adam and Nick” that, living the high life and chasing round Chelsea in that car of his. Well, he’s found someone else to play with now. And the Ferrari is only a two-seater.’

  I find myself wondering whether Paul McCartney ever had this conversation with Yoko Ono, and I’m beginning to wish that I’d followed Paul’s advice, and let it be.

  ‘That’s not it at all—’

  ‘Oh yes it is,’ she spits. ‘For years you and Nick have been joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Well it’s about time that somebody separated the pair of you.’

  I’m getting angry now, and raise my voice to match hers. ‘Well as long as I get the brain. I’m sure Nick can survive without it. As far as I can tell he’s not used his since he started going out with you.’

  Sandra glares at me. ‘Do you know something? I don’t care what you think, Adam. Nick and I are getting married next weekend, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if I don’t love him? At least he can afford to make me happy!’

  ‘And that’s a good enough reason to marry him, is it?’ I ask, incredulously.

  ‘It’s good enough for me!’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. On the one hand, this is perfect. It proves what I’ve been worried about all along. But, on the other hand, what on earth am I going to do about it now?

  We’re standing up now, and it’s in danger of turning into one of those scenes that you see in films and think ‘yeah, right’, when the man and the woman apparently don’t like each other and are arguing and start
to struggle and then the struggle turns into a kiss and the next thing you know they’re at it like rabbits. So I tell her what I think, that she’s only interested in Nick’s money, and she says that I’ve never liked her and I’m more worried that she’s stealing Nick away from me, and I say don’t be ridiculous but start to blush because I realize that this actually is part of the problem. She starts to poke me in the chest as she gets more agitated, and I grab her hand to stop her. She struggles and tries to slap me with her other hand, so to pacify her I grab both of her wrists, and as she tries to wriggle free her robe falls open, and I see that she’s not wearing any underwear and that her nipples are quite erect, despite the fact it’s warm in the flat. Our faces are only inches apart and she’s shouting at me, and it crosses my mind to kiss her to keep her quiet, but, like I say, that only works in the movies, and even though she does have a very nice arse – Mark is right, by the way – she is, of course, despite my repeated attempts, still my best friend’s fiancée. Just at that point when I know it would be so wrong and start to move away, she leans forward and kisses me full on the lips, shrugging the robe off her shoulders.

  ‘Sandra. No! Get off! What are you doing?’ I shout, pushing her away.

  ‘Come on, Adam,’ she says, breathlessly. ‘I’ve always fancied you. You can be my final fling. Nick will never find out.’

  ‘Well I’ve never fancied you,’ I reply. ‘Besides, even if I did, you’re getting married to my best friend . . .’

  I pull back in shock and stare at her. She’s breathing heavily, her face flushed, and she’s making no move to pick up her robe. I’m wondering how on earth I can get out of this when suddenly Sandra glances behind me and her expression changes. I feel a hand on my shoulder spinning me round and then Nick’s fist smacks into my face. It takes me by surprise more than anything, and he’s not exactly the most coordinated of people so it doesn’t hurt so badly, but I sit down on the sofa in astonishment, the taste of blood in my mouth. My lip is cut where Nick’s signet ring has caught me – I’ve always said men shouldn’t wear jewellery – and I put my hand up to my stinging face.

  I look up at him wordlessly as he towers over me, red faced and shaking with rage. Sandra standing next to him, still naked, regards me with a look that horror writers would describe as a triumphant sneer.

  ‘Darling, thank God you came home when you did . . .’ she begins, putting one hand on Nick’s arm. He shrugs her off angrily, and I’m pleased as her expression quickly changes, particularly when he calls her a slut. Nick storms out of the lounge and into the bedroom, Sandra following closely behind, and I hear raised voices and various loud thuds, which I assume to be cupboard doors opening and then banging shut, rather than any further acts of violence. Unfortunately.

  I’m still sitting on the sofa like an idiot as Nick emerges from the bedroom and makes for the front door. He’s clutching a holdall and refusing to make eye contact with me. Sandra follows closely behind, struggling to hang on to him with one hand whilst desperately trying to pick up her robe from the floor in front of the sofa with the other. This strikes me as ridiculous, as by now we’ve both seen her naked, but it seems important to her, and I smile grimly at the scene, causing my split lip to bleed even more.

  The last thing I hear before the front door slams is her pleading voice, calling after Nick as he walks down the stairs.

  ‘Nick, but it didn’t mean anything!’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he shouts back up at her, his voice full of emotion. ‘It means everything!’

  Sandra rushes back into the room, having managed to put her robe back on, and adopts one of those comic-book hands-on-hips poses. Her eyes are ringed with red now, and she looks at me with contempt.

  ‘Pleased with yourself?’

  I stand up and childishly mimic her stance. ‘Yes, actually,’ I say, walking straight out of the flat.

  I’m just about to get back into the Impresser when I notice Nick’s car parked opposite, but he’s left the roof down and I can see he’s not in it, so I reckon he must have gone for a walk to cool off. Either that or, and more like Nick, he’s stormed off without his car keys and doesn’t want to come straight back to the flat to get them after making such a dramatic exit.

  I wait for him by the Ferrari for a few minutes, replaying the scenario over and over in my head. I suppose I should be pleased at this point. This is, after all, what I’ve been hoping to achieve for the past few weeks. But, thinking about it, I can’t imagine anyone’s going to be carrying me shoulder-high down the King’s Road just yet.

  When there’s no sign of him. I take my phone out of my pocket and, wincing when I put it against my face, try to call Nick’s mobile. He doesn’t answer, which I suppose isn’t surprising given the fact that I can hear it ringing from inside his glove compartment. I snap my phone shut and bend over to check my reflection in the Ferrari’s wing mirror. The bleeding has at least stopped, but my lower lip has swelled up so it looks like I’m in a major sulk about something.

  Eventually I give up and walk back over to the Impresser, and even though I’m not supposed to see Charlie until tomorrow I decide to head round to her flat to tell her what’s happened. As I drive I work out an edited version of the night’s events – not including the kissing and nakedness parts of course – and I’m looking forward to some pampering as a result of my injury, suffered in no small part, as I plan to remind her, due to her advice.

  It’s just gone eleven o’clock by the time I squeeze the Impresser into a space across the street from Charlie’s flat, and I’m just about to get out of the car when I see her, walking arm in arm with some chap. He’s tall, good looking – in fact much too good looking for my liking – and strangely I realize I’m feeling a tinge of what I can only identify as jealousy. As they stop by the entrance and Charlie fumbles in her handbag for her keys I shrink down in my seat, hoping they won’t see me. Probably just a neighbour, I tell myself, as I see her hold the door open for him.

  I watch them go inside, and then get out of the car and stare up at her flat. The rest of her floor is dark, and, sure enough, after a couple of minutes I see her lounge light come on. But when the next light to come on is in what I know to be her bedroom, I start to get worried, particularly because no other lights have come on in the building, completely blowing my neighbour theory. I hesitate by the car for a few moments, then walk across the street and cautiously ring her doorbell. When there’s no reply, I ring again, longer this time, until I hear the click of the receiver being lifted in her hallway. But then, instead of Charlie’s dulcet tones, a man’s voice answers.

  ‘Rick speaking.’

  I’m not prepared for this. ‘Oh. Er, hi, er, oh, I’m sorry. I think I’ve rung the wrong bell,’ I stammer, my delivery not helped by my fat lip.

  ‘No problem,’ says Rick. He puts the handset down.

  I stand there, stunned, until a thought occurs to me. Maybe I did ring the wrong bell? I tentatively press the buzzer again, making doubly sure it’s Charlie’s button I’m pressing.

  ‘Hello?’ says the same voice – Rick’s voice – slightly less friendly now. I look up again at the flat, and sure enough the bedroom fight is still on.

  I start to back away from the door, and then turn and jog back across the road and quickly get into the Impresser. As I put the key in the ignition I glance back up at her bedroom window just in time to see the curtains part, and catch sight of Charlie, in her dressing gown, peering out into the night. I start the car and wheelspin off down the road.

  I’m already back home by the time my mobile rings. She must have seen me, I think, as I angrily stab the button that diverts the call to voicemail and then turn the phone off. Almost immediately my home phone rings, and I rush to the answerphone and switch it off before it can take a message. The phone rings for a minute and then stops.

  I sit down in a daze. What’s going on? I’ve finally met the first girl I’ve ever really loved – yes, I do use that word in my thoughts –
and I catch her doing, well, I can’t even bring myself to think what she was doing. Or how she was doing it. Or how many times. Aargh!

  Oh, and she’s pregnant with my baby, or at least what I assumed until just now to be my baby. I suppose this is what you call ironic, and I’m not enjoying the feeling one bit.

  Oh yes, and how could I forget? My best and oldest friend has just punched me in the face because he caught me with his naked fiancée a week before I’m due to be best man at his wedding.

  Shit.

  Bollocks.

  What do I do now?

  I pick up my mobile, switch it back on and press the message key. It clicks into voicemail, and a harsh woman’s voice tells me I have no messages. I switch it off again, and throw it on to the couch.

  ‘Bitch,’ I say, meaning Charlie, not the voicemail woman.

  I start pacing anxiously round the flat, wondering what my next step is going to be. How do I play this? A number of confused thoughts run round my head: I am Adam Bailey, after all. Women don’t make me feel like this. Well, not since . . . Not nowadays, anyway. I’m the cold, heartless one. Love them and leave them (well, make love to them and leave them, to be accurate). Or maybe destined to die old and alone? Perhaps Nick’s prediction is correct?

  I shake my head to clear it. I need some time, I decide, so I walk into the kitchen and help myself to a large drink, which I take back into the front room and sip slowly, sitting there in the darkness. Glad I found her out for what she really was before I got in too deep, I tell myself.

  Hold on, who am I trying to kid? I’m already in too deep.

  It’s approaching midnight when my door buzzer goes, and I just sit there and listen to it ring, three times, each ring longer than the last. After the third time, I stand up and walk towards the door, telling myself that if it rings once more I’ll let her in.

  But it doesn’t.

  Chapter 18

  Pride. Noun. 1) A group of lions. 2) A stupid, misplaced feeling of self-respect and personal worth that stops men from behaving like rational human beings where relationships are concerned. So while the sensible thing would have been to call Charlie and at least hear her explanation, what I actually do is de-activate my voicemail and leave my mobile firmly switched off.