by Mike Gayle
I coughed uncomfortably. “I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye about everything, Julie, and I’m sorry about that. I’m also sorry about the time I was sick over your bathroom floor, I’m sorry that I’ve always been so rude about your dinner parties and I’m really sorry that I used to call you Nosferatu behind your back.”
“You called me Nosferatu?”
“Damn. I thought you knew. Well, now I’m really really sorry I called you Nosferatu. I’m sorry for just about everything, but please, I’m begging you for just ten minutes of your time while I explain what I need from you. Please.”
I studied Julie’s face to see how many points I’d scored in my favor. Judging by her posture (defensive) and her facial expression (overflowing with disdain) I reasoned it was a figure somewhere near, as they say in Eurovision circles, to nul points.
“No way, Duffy,” said Julie firmly. “Mel told me everything that you said to her at the wedding. And do you want to know what I advised her? I told her that she was mad to think that you were capable of growing up, let alone changing.”
I took a long deep breath and held it. I wasn’t going to breathe again until the impulse to commit manslaughter had passed, which it did surprisingly quickly as it finally dawned on me what this was all about. Julie was protecting Mel in the same way that I would’ve tried to protect Dan had someone like Julie wormed their way into his affections. I had to convince her that I was good for Mel. That I’d do anything to make her happy. I took another long, deep breath.
“Okay, Julie,” I said, pulling up my trousers at the thighs. There was only one person on earth for whom I’d normally do what I was about to do, and that was Mel. “You want me to beg, well, I’ll beg.” I got down on my knees, put my hands together as if in prayer and wailed at the top of my voice, “Pleeeeaaase!”
Julie’s first reaction was to check if the neighbors had started looking out yet (they hadn’t), her second was to look at me as if I’d lost the plot (which to all intents and purposes I had), and her third was to take great pleasure in exclaiming loudly, “No!”
“Please!
“No!”
“Please!”
By now the twitching-curtain brigade were out in full. Julie knew this. I knew this. It was just a matter of whose nerve would break first. She stepped back inside and slammed the door shut. Determined not to give up, I stood my ground and continued to yell at the top of my voice on Julie’s front doorstep.
“Julie! I know you’re still there and I’ll stay right here on your doorstep keeping your neighbors awake for as long as it takes for you to let me in and listen to me. I don’t care if you call the police. I really don’t care. Not anymore. So you see you’ve got two choices: let me in for five minutes and listen to what I’ve got to say, or have me carted away by the Old Bill and really give the neighbors something to talk about. Which is it to be?”
There followed a long silence in which I contemplated what a night in gaol would be like. It didn’t seem that bad in theory. The main thing that bothered me was that they’d take the laces out of my trainers. It always took me ages to lace up my trainers. Julie opened the door just as I’d decided that if I did get arrested I’d give my trainers to the desk sergeant for safekeeping rather than unlace them.
“Okay, okay,” she said wearily. “Come in. But you’ve got exactly five minutes and no more.”
She let me in and I followed her through to the lounge. The room seemed emptier somehow, less furniture. Metropolitan minimalist chic a-go-go, I commented to myself silently. Julie sat down on the sofa and rubbed her eyes. It was strange seeing her just-got-out-of-bed hair and and Clinique-free features, because although on the one hand she now really did remind me of one of the undead, on the other, for the first time ever she almost looked human. I decided to soften her up with flattery. “You look fantastic, Julie.”
“No I don’t,” she snapped. “I look hideous. It’s how people who have been woken up on a Sunday morning look. Don’t flatter me. Don’t make small talk. Tell me what it is you want and then disappear.”
“Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I’m trying to butter you up because I’ve got a huge favor to ask. There’s no reason in the world for you to do it other than that you’re the only person who can help me. Please. I don’t want to cry in your living room but I will if I have to.”
“What do you want?”
I outlined her role in the plan, although not the plan in its entirety. She listened, didn’t say anything one way or the other, and as soon as I’d finished looked just as unmoved as she had done before.
“Firstly,” said Julie, “it’s a ridiculous idea. Secondly, I don’t think anything can convince Mel to spend the rest of her life with you, and thirdly . . . no. A plain and simple no. In fact, let me put it this way. Not now. Not ever. Let me tell you, Mr. Duffy, you have put my best friend though hell. You weren’t the one who had to console her when she was falling apart when you first split up. You weren’t the one who had to watch your best friend get back together with the man you loathe most on earth. You weren’t the one who had to mop up the tears when she found out she was pregnant. Why? Because you’re never the one who has to clean up after the devastation you cause.”
“I know what you think of me,” I said, “but there’s another side of me, Julie. You’ve got to know that. I admit I’ve been selfish in the past, but I’ve changed.”
“You say that now,” said Julie passionately, “but what about in six months’ time? Men leave. That’s what they do. They get tired of what they’ve got and they get up and go.”
I was confused. This was more than a general “all men are crap, get a dog instead” speech. She sounded as if she was talking about something specific.
“I don’t get this, Julie. What are you trying to say?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Mel told me that you’re having a hard time at the minute. She wouldn’t tell me why. Is it something to do with Mark being in Los Angeles?”
“No.”
“Then what’s wrong? I know it’s not like me to show concern but if it’s serious—”
“Mark and I have split up, okay?” she said without looking at me. “He’s gone.”
I was stunned. It was worse than when I discovered at the age of eight that Father Christmas didn’t exist. At least then I still knew that I’d be getting presents from my mum, Father Christmas or no Father Christmas. But if the king and queen of togetherness couldn’t make their love work, what hope was there for mere mortals? No wonder Mel was unsure about getting together with me: not only had I provided her with enough doubt, she was also having to deal with the fact that everything she’d idealized about Julie and Mark had been broken in two. “I’m sorry, Julie. I really am. I had no idea.”
“Well, now you know. He moved out about a month ago. I told Mel not to tell you because I knew what you’d say. I know you used to think that Mark and I were smug. What was the phrase you used? Oh, I remember now. ‘Keeping up with the Mark and Julies.’ Bet you’re happy now.”
“No, I’m not, Julie. It’s crap when things fall apart. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I am sorry about you and Mark. Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head.
I sat and watched her for a moment. A shadow of her usual venomous self, I found myself actually feeling sorry for her. As much as I’d derided Mark and Julie, I’d always thought that they were right for each other. I suddenly felt guilty sitting here asking her to help out my relationship when she was so obviously on the verge of falling apart.
“Listen,” I said, standing up, “I’d better go.”
She pointed at the door. “I think you’ll find that’s the way out.”
I wasn’t going to say anything, I was just going to get up and leave, but then I thought about Mel and what was at stake and I suddenly got angry. “There’s nothing I can do to get you and Mark back together. If there was I’d do it. But can’t you see that you’ve
got the chance to help me and Mel? I know that I can’t change her mind if she’s doesn’t want me, but I can show her that I meant every word I said when I told her that I loved her.”
“I don’t believe in love.” Julie stood up in a bid to hasten my exit.
“Because Mark left you?”
“Because no one means anything they say anymore. Because everything is temporary. Because nothing lasts. Because that’s the way it is.” She looked over at me expectantly.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said, meeting her gaze.
“I think you’ve had your five minutes.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering what I was going to do now. “I suppose I have.”
This is Little Elvis
“Are you cold?”
“No, Mum.”
“You must be cold.”
“I’m not, Mum.”
“These hospital waiting rooms are incredibly drafty and you’re only wearing a shirt.”
“But I’m not cold.”
“You’re bound to catch a cold. Why don’t you go home and put on a cardigan?”
“I’m fine, Mum,” I said, making contact with my inner Dalai Lama. “Honestly I’m fine.”
Three days had passed since Julie had ruined the Plan. Three event filled days that had begun on Tuesday with a telephone call and ended with me lodged on a hard plastic chair in a waiting room in Whittington Hospital.
It all began at the beginning of the week with a long and confusing answerphone message left by Pete Berry, a comedy promoter at the Chuckle Club in Hackney. In it he informed Dan and me that he wanted to book us for a gig in a fortnight because he’d been hearing good things about our new act. He then went on to reveal that if the gig went well he would consider us as a support slot for the previous year’s Perrier Comedy Award Winner on a six-date national tour he was organizing. All of this was news to me because to the best of my knowledge Dan and I hadn’t written a single joke together, and the only people who knew about Carter and Duffy the double act were Carter and Duffy the double act.
I had to wait two hours for Dan to get back from his weekly shopping trip to Muswell Hill Sainsbury’s before I discovered that all this was his doing. “If you’re going to make a splash,” he said, “you’ve got to make a few waves.” By “waves,” I think that he meant the following complete and utter fabrications:
a. that we’d been approached by Channel Four to develop a new sitcom called Dexter’s Plectrum about a bunch of geeky no-hoper sixth-formers who turn out to be the next U2;
b. that we’d accepted a “substantial five-figure sum” to do voice-overs for a series of adverts selling a well-known brand of cooking oil;
c. that a talent scout from a U.S. talent agency had spotted our act and signed us up and we’d already been flown to Los Angeles for casting auditions in two Hollywood pictures as “Limey bad guys.”
Dan had pitched his lies perfectly. In the world of comedy, where one day you could be bottom of the bill in the Dog and Duck and the next taking meetings in Hollywood, anything was possible, and our fictionalized success was just wild enough for anyone who heard it to believe every single word.
“Honestly,” said Dan, nearly doubled over in laughter, “I told two of the regulars on last Sunday’s bill at the Laughter Lounge in Hammersmith, and by Monday night the whole of the London comedy circuit knew about it. We are hot!”
The second event to occur was the arrival of my mum at Euston station on Tuesday afternoon. One of the first things she’d said to me when Charlie and I picked her up from the station was that she was coming round to see where I lived first thing Wednesday morning. As the flat was in the worst state I’d ever seen it, I made Dan stay up with me until three o’clock in the morning so we could have it tidy for her inspection. In the process we discovered £7.86 in change down the back of the sofa, fungus the size of a small yucca plant at the side of the washing machine, and Dan’s car-boot-sale copy of ET lodged behind the sideboard.
By the time we’d finished it looked like a completely different flat. My mum would’ve been well impressed by our efforts had she ever got to see them, which she never did because of the next big event: Vernie going into labor.
Mum called me from the hospital on Charlie’s mobile to tell me. This was just about the funniest thing ever: my mum and “newfangled technology” just did not go together, so for the first few minutes all she said was “Can you hear me?”, “Am I speaking into the right end?” and “Am I doing it right?” As it was 3:20 A.M. and I was on my way to bed after my cleaning fit, I told her that I’d be there before lunchtime on Wednesday. She promised to call me if there was any other news and I went to sleep.
As soon as I woke up I made my way to the hospital and I sat in the waiting room, listening to Mum’s constant questions.
“Do you want a cup of tea or coffee from the machine?” she asked, her change purse open to display a vast collection of coins of the realm. My mum liked to be ready for every sort of occasion and collected change like some people collect stamps.
“No thanks, Mum,” I said, refusing for my usual reasons.
“I was going to have a cup of tea,” she said, closing her purse, “but I think I’ll wait just a little bit longer as well.”
She dropped her purse into her handbag, rooted around a bit and pulled out a packet of sweets. “Trebor Mint?”
“No thanks, Mum.” I smiled. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Was I nervous? I think I was. I was excited. I was going to be somebody’s uncle. There was going to be a child who would have an uncle Duffy; someone to whom I’d be able to pass on the skills of making the perfect slice of toast, and read books Mum used to read to me as a kid. Someone to be around for when they wanted to talk about how much their parents drove them up the wall. This felt good.
It didn’t require a huge leap in my thought processes to make the connection between what was happening here and what was happening in my own life. I was going to be somebody’s dad too quite soon. I hadn’t thought about it in France, or since I’d got back, or even when Mel had told me. It was easy not to think about it because it hadn’t happened yet. But sitting here in this admittedly now chilly waiting room, it struck me: I’m going to be a dad.
Suddenly I felt sad. Sadder than I’d ever felt before. Not about the baby, but about Mel and me. Our having a baby was bound to be one of the best things that would ever happen in my life, and yet here I was not making the most of it. Whatever decision Mel made, nothing would change the fact that I was going to be responsible for a life other than my own. A greater privilege than that, I couldn’t think of.
“Mum,” I said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I know,” said my mum.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know exactly what it is, but I can tell when you’re troubled, Ben.” She handed me a mint, took another one from the packet and put it in her mouth. “I’ve got something to tell you too. Two secrets, in fact. One big, one not so big. I’ll tell you my secrets first—that way it’ll make it easier to tell me yours.”
I was kind of perturbed by the whole situation. I couldn’t imagine what kind of secrets my mum would have that she’d think I needed to know about.
She put her hand on mine and began. “The small secret first: I may be moving down here to London permanently. Vernie’s been asking me to come and live with her and Charlie since they knew about the baby. I told them I didn’t want to, but she said that she didn’t want the baby just to see her gran on special occasions. I told her I’d visit as often as I could, but then Charlie insisted too. I finally gave in, but I told them I’d give it a go for a few months first to see how it went. I’m keeping the house in Leeds until I’m sure.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Vernie will love having you around. Me too.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so foc
used was my mind on secret number two. “So what’s the big thing you’ve got to tell me?”
“Confess rather than tell,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how to say this so I’ll come straight out with it: when you broke up with Mel I was really worried about you. I know that you’re a grown man and I should’ve kept my nose out, but I couldn’t help thinking it was wrong: you loved each other—anyone could tell that. When you told me you’d split up because you weren’t sure you could commit, I blamed myself. I hated the idea that you weren’t getting married because of what had happened with me and your dad. Which is why I wrote to him and asked him to get in touch with you.”
“You wrote to him?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “You’ve been in contact with my dad?”
“I got his address from his sister in Tamworth and I told him that he had to get in contact with you and arrange a meeting to explain to you that you’re nothing like him.”
It was odd being subjected to this much love. To think that my mum would open all sorts of painful memories just to try and make me happy. I gave her the biggest hug I could manage and she started crying.
“I was only trying to help, Ben,” she sobbed quietly. “He wrote and told me that you never got back to him. I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted you to see that you were nothing like him. You’re your own person. You always were and you always will be.”
When she’d finished crying I fetched a cup of tea for her from the machine and a coffee for myself so that she didn’t feel like I was being left out. While it went cold I told her the story of Mel and me, right from the beginning, from when I first saw her four years ago through to the last time, less than a week ago at Meena’s wedding.
Mum didn’t say anything for a moment: I think the shock that in a few months she’d be a grandmother for a second time had left her speechless. She drank her tea silently. “So Mel’s going to make her decision in two days’ time?”
“The arrangement is she comes back from Glasgow on Friday,” I explained. “She’ll call me as soon as she gets home. I’ll go round to her flat and one way or the other we’ll sort this whole thing out. We both want what’s best for the baby, and for what it’s worth, if she decides that she doesn’t want to be with me, then at least I think we’ve learned enough from the past to make it work as friends.”