The Reunion

by Gould, R J

  The invention of email was the excuse to shorten communication, though even in her brief exchanges Pru was able to fit in ‘fabulous’, ‘enjoyable’ and ‘wonderful’. Bridget’s stock phrases were ‘career continuing to go nowhere’, ‘still having marriage difficulties’, and ‘children getting more of a handful’. There was a recurring statement at the end of messages from both of them – ‘we really must meet up soon.’

  But they hadn’t met for over fifteen years and correspondence other than a Christmas card ceased after Bridget had sent a long email describing, admittedly with the necessary protective omission, what had happened to Roland. She got a curt reply. Sorry to hear that, poor you. We really must meet up soon.

  Then the out of the blue message arrived from Pru, informing her of the reunion. A flurry of communication followed with the plan that they would both go. At the point of signing up Pru announced she had been called to a conference in Prague. She couldn’t get out of it so Bridget was left alone. Her first reaction was to drop the idea of attending even though she’d already made plans for the children to stay with friends and she could think of nothing else to occupy her weekend. Visits to Facebook strengthened her belief that taking part would do no more than revive if not quite a nightmare, hardly ecstatic bliss. However, at the very least it would be an opportunity for a rare visit to her old home town. And it would be interesting to see whether the people she’d once despised had improved.

  “So I went along. And a good job too.” She turned and gave David a platonic kiss on his cheek. “Fancy a coffee? I’ll make them and bring them up.” She kept some things at his house now, including a shiny black kimono with little sprigs of pink and yellow blossom. She put this on.

  “To be honest,” she said when she got back, “all the boys at school ignored me except one. His name was David and I was hoping he’d be there.”

  “Really? I didn’t know. I do remember defending you against my friends who thought you were weird for wearing odd coloured socks and doing ink drawings on the back of your hand.”

  “You were the only one who checked if I was OK when you saw me crying in the playground.”

  “I didn’t like to see you hurt. I thought you were nice, too. I wish I’d been bold enough to act on it, to ask you out. All these years wasted.”

  “No, not wasted. For a start if we’d got together then there wouldn’t be Andy, Kay, Rachel or Sam. And it might have only lasted for a week like most of the other school pairings.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Here’s an odd question. You’ve talked about relationships after Roland and I’m sort of nosey about who and what they were like.”

  “That’s a bit weird. Well, I’m not going to allocate a score out of ten for each lover.”

  “A pity, I was hoping to produce a list.”

  “Until you I’ve not been great at choosing. I hope you realise I feel very secure with you. And don’t worry, you’re sexy too.”

  “Who were you with before me, before the reunion?”

  “Jesus, you really are a creep after all!”

  Jan had lasted a little over six months. The relationship ended when Bridget discovered he was married. The day they met she’d taken the morning off work to catch the Rothko exhibition at the Tate Modern. She’d been meaning to go for months but had left it until the final day. To avoid the crowds she made sure she was one of the first in and as a result was able to stand well back from the giant canvases to appreciate the colour and movement in them.

  “Magnificent,” exclaimed a deep voice behind her.

  “It is rather,” she agreed.

  “I’ve never been able to articulate how an abstract shape can take on such a vibrant form. His colours flow like a river.” The accent was Nordic or Germanic, the grammar and intonation perfect, even over-perfect, the comment surpassing pretentiousness. “And these blocks of colour have become a breakthrough art form. A hundred years ago people would have laughed at them. Don’t you agree?”

  “I can’t say, I wasn’t around then,” Bridget replied with deliberate detachment to waylay corny chat up lines that she had grown accustomed to. She turned to face a tall thin man with a narrow attractive face and sharp eyes. His honey-coloured hair was unfashionably long, but it suited him. They trekked round the galleries together. He was a smooth talker, interspersing details of his life with observations on the art before them.

  She’d got it wrong, Jan was neither German nor Scandinavian. He was a Dutch businessman who regularly came to London to sell his company’s graphic art software. Whenever possible during these trips he took in a gallery. Had she been to Holland? Only to Amsterdam? The Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh were all well and good but she should visit The Hague to see the Mondrians in the Gemeentemuseum. Surely Rothko was influenced by Mondrian.

  His knowledge of art equalled hers and conversation flowed. Having coffee together seemed a natural thing to do. Then at his request they walked over the footbridge to St Pauls, taking lunch at a restaurant near the old Billingsgate Market that one of his work associates had recommended. Jan was polite, unthreatening, not at all pushy and yes, she had to admit it, good looking.

  “You work in an art gallery, how wonderful. I’d love to see what you sell. May I meet you when I’m next in London?”

  Bridget agreed to exchange numbers. Two weeks later they were together again. He collected her at the gallery ahead of an evening meal and theatre performance. His impeccable gentlemanly behaviour continued over his next three visits, on each occasion ending with no more than a snappy kiss on each cheek. But the next time round there was an offer of a stay at his hotel and she accepted.

  “God this is sounding like a confession, David. Why the hell am I telling you any of this? Well I’m not embarrassed to admit I enjoy male company and I was more than ready for a new relationship.”

  “We all have pasts though in terms of relationships mine consist of little beyond Jane. I’m not judgemental, I’m interested in hearing about you. It’s what’s made you who you are.”

  Bridget continued. Four months into the affair Jan invited her for a weekend in Amsterdam. Without embarrassment or remorse he came out with it. His wife and children would be away visiting her parents in Brabant so it would be a perfect opportunity.

  “Wife? You didn’t tell me you’re married.”

  “I haven’t told you I’m not, you’ve never asked.”

  “I’m just your bit on the side then.”

  “Have you enjoyed our time together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well so have I. Isn’t that what’s important?”

  “There is such a thing as morality, Jan.”

  “Bridget, this is the twenty-first century, not some time in the distant past when adulterers were stoned or burnt at the stake. I’m at ease with my twenty-first century morality.”

  “Well obviously I’m still stuck in the past.”

  Bridget ended the relationship there and then, about three months before the reunion.

  She informed David that was it for the day or possibly for ever as far as telling him about her past.

  They made late morning love.

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 34

  There had been several get-togethers for the two families – meals, cinema, bowling and a Rachel performance of Fiddler on the Roof. Kay and Sam were getting on well. The relationship between Rachel and Andy was civil but distant, with Rachel categorising Andy as a nerd. “Ready for our big outing are you, Andy?” she’d asked as they’d got into the car.

  Rachel and Andy sat in the back as they made their way to Oxford. The younger children were at friends. “Why are we doing this?” Rachel asked with dramatic emphasis on the ‘are’ as they turned off the M25 and onto the M40. Andy had yet to say a word.

  David had already told her and was unwilling to go through the reasoning again.

  Bridget showed more resilience. “Look out there. Not a cloud in the sky, beautiful countr
yside. And when we get there you’ll love the architecture. Your dad and I went to Oxford loads when we were your age.”

  “Together?”

  “No, we didn’t know each other then.”

  “I thought you were in the same year at school.”

  “Well yes, but we weren’t friends.”

  “Actually they hated each other,” Andy joked.

  “Andy, you’re alive. I was worried. They probably still hate each other deep down.”

  “No, we don’t,” said Bridget as she stretched across to kiss David on the cheek.

  “Anyway Bridget, you can cut out the crap about this being a tourist trip to discover our roots. We’re here to be sold the university.”

  “We can include a look, there’s nothing wrong with that is there?” Bridget replied.

  “Well maybe not for Andy, but not much point for a lazy thicko like me.”

  “Lazy yes, thick no.”

  “Thanks a million dad. Stick to driving will you.”

  There followed some rummaging through her backpack before Rachel’s iPod and headphones were extracted and activated. She looked across at Andy playing a nerdy game on his tablet. She reckoned he’d fit in perfectly with the other eggheads doing computing at Oxford. She turned up the volume to drown out Bridget and her father’s voices. She hated sitting in the back on a long journey, it made her feel sick. Her dad knew, but since Bridget had arrived on the scene there had been an assumption that the front passenger seat was hers.

  She looked out the window as they were driving through the steep chalk cutting at Stokenchurch. It was OK seeing some countryside while listening to Elbow, the music in harmony with the sheep dotted around the gentle hills. Cows always stuck together but sheep spread out. Why was that, she wondered? Her point was proved as they passed a herd of cattle squashed together in the corner of a field. Some were sitting, did they expect rain or was that idea as absurd as much else she had picked up from adults over the years?

  They took the motorway exit to Oxford. The decision makers in the front had opted for Park and Ride. Rachel couldn’t understand why they didn’t drive into the centre of the city, but she decided not to argue her case. There would be more important things to contest.

  It turned out that she should have argued because Park and Ride was inappropriately named. It ended up as find a space right on the outer rim of the jam packed car park. Walk miles to get to the bus stop. Wait. Wait more. Stand up on the crowded bus. Ride to a place called Headington. Disembark when the bus breaks down. Wait. Wait more. Wait lots more. Stand squashed like anything on the replacement bus which surely was illegally overcrowded. (Though with the benefit of being able to edge up against a dishy bloke with baggy jeans and a Glastonbury tee shirt). Ride. Stop in traffic jam. Ride. And finally get off at a bus station that looked like any other bus station, namely it was full of buses.

  Bridget claimed to know Oxford well and marched them off towards a particular place for lunch. Why they didn’t stop off at one of the Prets, Starbucks, Café Neros or Costas they passed en route was beyond Rachel’s understanding, and she made her view known as they trundled up and down roads because Bridget couldn’t remember exactly where her preference was located. In addition to the university assignment, Bridget and her father were on a blatant mission to discover non-mainstream venues to add to their obsessional coffee bar research.

  The food was OK, they all chose a pasta something or other, but her Diet Coke was lukewarm. Bridget’s reunion with Nellie’s Tea Room went way over the top in terms of the great delight it appeared to generate.

  “Do you know what,” she announced, “I think I might be sitting on the same chair at the same table as when I was last here more than ten years ago.”

  A flood of sarcastic options emerged for Rachel to select, but she kept quiet, aware that David was eyeing her with suspicion. She contemplated whether she would end up saying things like that when she was older. Near orgasmic ecstasy over a fucking chair. And Bridget wasn’t even old and was relatively cool. What must go on in the heads of even older people like the ones sitting opposite them? ‘Look at this teapot, darling. It’s identical to the one we got as a wedding gift.’ ‘Do you think this is Linguine or Vermicelli?’ ‘I think you’re incorrect on both counts, sweetheart, I believe it’s Fedelini.’ It’s just fucking pasta; it all tastes the same so eat it.

  Rachel’s anger grew to boiling point. It was a complete and utter waste of a day and she’d been pretty well forced to come along because, as her dad had put it, Andy is coming and he’d appreciate you joining him. His tablet had been keeping him company, he’d got up to about level eight million on his game and had hardly spoken.

  Now they were walking up The High. Bridget had made a point of telling her that the word Street should be omitted and ‘The’ added. The sign said High Street, but apparently that was beside the point.

  They crossed into Queen Street. “At last, we’ve reached The Queen,” Rachel tested.

  “Yes, Queen Street.”

  “Why add ‘street’ and knock off ‘the’. The High lost its second name, why not this one, too?”

  “Because when…” Bridget started before ceasing, with explanation barely started. There was an abrupt end to the scout-like stride they had been subjected to, followed by some whispering between David and Bridget as they watched two sneering men approach.

  “What’s the matter? Who are those two fatties?” Rachel asked.

  “Ex-school mates,” Bridget said as the men moved in position to block their path.

  The shorter man spoke. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our David again.”

  “Hello Ben. Hello Bill.”

  The taller one, Bill, looked across at Bridget then back to David. “You’ve managed to hook up with this tasty bit of skirt, you sneaky bugger.”

  “I do have a name, though clearly your brain struggles to access two bits of information in quick succession,” Bridget stated with a fair degree of aggression. “Still, a big congratulations for remembering it’s David.”

  Some shoppers sensed trouble and were giving the group a wide berth. David had flashbacks to Ben’s potential for violence and his encounter with the mugger. He hoped Rachel wasn’t making the same mistake. “Ignore them, Bridget. Let’s head on.” The men had engaged in Sunday lunchtime drinking and the smell of beer on their breath highlighted the danger of replicating the evening in Kitts Yard.

  But Bill wouldn’t have it. He stepped in front of Bridget. “You were a mouthy bitch at the reunion. Maybe bits of skirt shouldn’t try to be bits of mouth. What d’you reckon, Ben?”

  Ben appeared to be in a conciliatory mood. “Let’s go. Come on, Bill,” he suggested, but Bill was still having none of it.

  “Go, why? Let’s join the romantic couple for a Sunday stroll.”

  Rachel and Andy had been ignored like they were a pair of walkers who only stopped because they happened by chance to be behind Bridget and David when they were blocked.

  The conversation between Bridget and the one called Bill was getting heated, Bridget accusing Bill of being brain dead and Bill suggesting she must have had breast implants. David and the one called Ben were making unsuccessful attempts to separate the antagonists.

  Andy stepped forward. “Stop being rude to my mother.”

  “Who’a, a knight in shining armour. I’m really scared of you.” Bill said ahead of giving Andy a shove. Andy held firm.

  “I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

  “Oh would you rather I didn’t do that,” Bill sneered as he gave Andy a stronger push.

  Ben and David were in the process of suggesting the antagonists move apart when Andy grabbed hold of Bill and with what looked like very little effort, deposited him on the pavement. Ben leapt up, furious, his fists clenched. “I’m goin’ to get you for that, you little bugger.”

  The previous group of shoppers who had steered clear of the scene had been replaced by a predominantly younger clientele of
onlookers who formed a circle to watch as Andy threw Bill over his shoulder and back to the floor. There was a loud cheer. This action was repeated twice more and Rachel found herself joining in the applause. Bill was game for more humiliation, but Ben intervened. He grabbed hold of his staggering, cursing friend and led him away.

  Several people came up to Andy and patted him on the back with a ‘well done, mate’ before continuing on their quest for consumer gratification.

  “Under-16 county judo champion,” Bridget announced as they continued down ‘The Queen’.

  It is fair to say that Rachel’s opinion of Andy was elevated, at the very least to Nerd Plus status. She was a little more tolerant than she might have been as they explored Queen’s, Magdalen and Christ Church, at each college entering through small uninviting gateways and stepping into a world of imposing ancient buildings with immaculately landscaped gardens.

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 35

  Over the following week discussion about the café intensified via a flurry of phone calls and emails. David took his ever growing list of decisions needed round to Bridget after work on Friday. It was a miserable late March evening – a cruel dark grey sky was hurling down rain, hail and sleet. “This is useful,” Bridget stated having given the document no more than a cursory glance. “But there’s no point doing anything else until we have an idea how much it’s going to cost and where we can get the money from.”

  David agreed, he needed to wear his accountant’s hat for this venture and hats are worn on heads not hearts. The discussion about costs had been delayed long enough and it was vital for the business plan to be presented to the bank.