Starter for Ten

by David Nicholls

  “Anyway, he hated it. He never told me he did, of course, because why would you, to a little kid, but he must have because he was angry whenever he got home from work; not shouting or punching or anything, but just this silent, clenched, white-knuckled, red-faced rage at the tiniest thing, like toys left out or wasted food. You want your memories of your parents to be about picnics or being carried round on their shoulders, or something, but no one's childhood is perfect and all I mainly remember is him arguing in the kitchen with Mum about money or work or whatever, his face all red, clenching and unclenching his fists.”

  “That's terrible.”

  “Is it? Well, I'm probably exaggerating a little bit. Mostly I remember watching telly with him, if I was allowed to stay up until he got home. Sitting on the floor between his legs. Quiz shows. He loved quiz shows, and nature documentaries, David Attenborough, educational stuff, he was always going on about how important an education was, I suppose because he thought that was the key to a good life, to not being miserable, to a job you didn't despise.”

  “So, how did he, you know … ?”

  “Well, I'm not sure, exactly. I don't like to ask Mum about it, because it sets her off, but apparently he was out at work, in some strangers' house, trying to convince them of the benefits of double-glazing or whatever, and he just … fell over. Right there, in their living room. I'd got back from school and was watching telly while Mum was cooking tea, and there was a knock at the front door, and some talking in the hall, I went out to see what had happened, and there were two policewomen and Mum was curled up in a ball on the carpet. To begin with, I thought maybe Dad had been arrested or something, but this policewoman said he'd been taken poorly, and then they rushed Mum off to the hospital while I stayed with the next-door neighbors, and he died shortly after she got there. Oh, look. No more wine. D'you want some more? Another bottle? I stayed over at the neighbors', and they told me the next morning. Another bottle of Lambrusco please, no, we've not decided about desserts yet, can we have five minutes?

  “Anyway. Looking back, I'm not surprised, even though he was only forty-one, because he was just like this … knot, all the time. And he did drink, I mean a lot, pub at lunchtime and after work, you could always smell the beer on him. And he smoked about sixty a day. I used to buy him fags as a Christmas present, for fuck's sake. I don't think I've got a single memory of him where he isn't puffing away on a fag. There's even a photo of him and Mum with me in the maternity ward, and he's got a fag lit up. In a hospital, with the ashtray and a bottle of beer balanced on top of my cot. The silly sod.”

  “And how did you react?”

  “To him dying? Um. Not sure. Weirdly, I think. I mean I cried and everything, but they wanted to keep me off school, which worried me because I didn't like missing lessons, so that should give you some idea of the kind of swotty, cold little freak I was. I was more upset by Mum, to be honest, because Mum really loved Dad, and she was only, what, thirty-three at the time, and he was the only man she'd ever slept with, before or since, as far as I know, and she did take it really, really badly. Oh, she was okay as long as there were people around, and of course for the first two weeks the house was absolutely crammed—assorted vicars, and mates of Dad's, and neighbors, and my gran, and aunts and uncles—so there wasn't time for Mum to get too upset, really, because she was always busy making sandwiches and pots of tea, and making up camp beds for these strange cousins from Ireland, who we'd never seen before or since. But then after a couple of weeks they all started to drift off and it was just me and Mum. And that was the worst time, when things had calmed down and people left us alone. Quite a weird combination, a teenage boy and his mum. I mean, you're very aware that there's someone … missing.

  “And I suppose, looking back, I could have been better with Mum, sat with her and stuff. But I used to hate sitting in that living room every night, watching her watch Dallas or whatever and then suddenly bursting into tears. When you're that age, that kind of thing, grief, well it's … just embarrassing. What are you meant to do? Put your arms around her? Say something? What are you supposed to say, a twelve-year-old boy? So in a strange, terrible way I started to resent it. I used to avoid her. I'd just go from school to the public library and from the library to my room to do my homework; there was never enough homework as far as I was concerned. God, what a creep.”

  “How were they at school?”

  “Oh, it was all right. Compassion doesn't come very easily to twelve-year-old boys, not at my school, anyway, and why should it really? Some of them tried, but you could tell they were putting it on. Also—and this is really shameful—at the time it wasn't so much about the person who'd actually, you know, died, my dad, just dropping dead at the age of forty-one, or how it was for Mum even, I just thought how it was going to be for me. What's that word? Solipsism or solecism or something? Solecism.

  “I suppose it got me noticed, though, in a terrible way; this awful, maudlin kudos, the dead-dad-boy, you know, lots of girls who've never talked to you before, coming up and offering you a finger of their Kit Kat and rubbing your back. And there was a bit of bullying of course, and a couple of kids took the piss, calling me Orphan Boy, that kind of thing, which isn't even witty, because it's not like I didn't have Mum. But I had one mate, Spencer, who decided to look after me for some reason, and that helped. People were scared of Spencer. Quite right too, because he's a hard bastard, Spencer …”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “Spencer? Oh, Dad. No, not in my wallet. Why, d'you think I should?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Back at home I do. If you come back to mine. Not tonight necessarily, but, you know, whenever …”

  “And you think about him?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. All the time. But it's hard because we never really knew each other. Not as two adults anyway.”

  “I'm sure he'd have loved you.”

  “D'you think so?”

  “Of course. Don't you?”

  “Not sure. I think he'd have thought I was a bit weird, to be honest.”

  “He'd have been proud.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. University. Star of the quiz team, going on telly and everything …”

  “Maybe. The only thing I do still think, and I don't know why, because it's not rational, and it's not even technically their fault, but I'd love to meet the people who employed him, the people who made all the money from making him work like that, because I think they're cunts. Sorry—bad word. I don't really know their names or where they are now, probably in some big fuck-off villa in the Algarve or something, and I don't know what I'd say to them even if I met them, because they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just running a business, just making a profit, and Dad could always have left if he hated it so much, got on his bike and looked for something else, and he would have probably, you know, gone early at some point anyway, even if he was a florist or a primary school teacher or something, it's not like it was criminal negligence, or a mining accident or a fishing boat or something, he was just a salesman, but it's not right for anyone to hate their job that much, and I think the people who made him work like that, well, I do think they're cunts and I hate them, every day, whoever they are, for taking … anyway. Anyway, will you excuse me a minute? I've just got to go to the loo.”

  16

  QUESTION: The lachrymal duct and gland are primarily responsible for the production and distribution of what?

  ANSWER: Tears.

  In the end I suppose it was a blessing that we were seated so near the toilets.

  I've been in here some time now. Too long, probably. I don't want her to think I've got diarrhea or anything, but I don't want her to see me crying either. As a seduction technique, uncontrollable sobbing is definitely overrated. Now she thinks I'm one of those boys who cries. She's probably next door right now, shaking her head, paying the bill and hurrying back to halls to tell Erin all about it: “God, you wouldn't belie
ve the evening I've had. He's only one of those boys-who-cry …”

  There's a knock on the cubicle door, and I assume it's Luigi, checking to see if I've done a runner through the fire exit, but there's a voice …

  “Brian, are you okay?”

  “Oh, hiya, Alice!”

  “Are you all right in there?”

  “Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine.”

  “D'you want to unlock the door, sweetheart?”

  Oh, God, she wants to come in the toilet cubicle with me.

  “Unlock the door, darling …”

  “Actually, I'm fine, I'll be with you in a minute.” Hang on— “sweetheart” ?

  “O-kay. Come back to me soon, though, won't you?”

  “Two minutes,” I shout, and, as she's going out the door, “Go ahead and order dessert if you want to!”

  And she goes. I wait a moment, then leave the cubicle and look in the mirror. It's not so bad, I suppose—the eyes are a bit red, but my nose isn't running anymore, so I adjust my bowtie, mold the fringe back in place, reattach the braces, and walk back in, head slightly bowed so Luigi won't see me. When I approach the table, Alice stands up, and amazingly puts her arm round me and hugs me really tightly, her cheek pressed against mine. I don't know what to do, so I put my arms around her too, leaning forward slightly to allow for the volume of the puffball skirt, one hand on the gray satin, and one on her back, her beautiful back, just where the flesh swells out over the top of the satin, and she whispers in my ear—“You are such a lovely man”—and I think I'm going to cry again, not because I am such a lovely man, but because I'm such a disgusting, fucking stupid, fucking twat, so I squeeze my eyes tight shut and we stay like that for a little while. When I open my eyes again I see Luigi watching, and then winking slyly at me, and giving me the thumbs-up. I don't really know how to react to this, so I give him the thumbs-up back, and immediately feel despicable, because I don't quite understand what I'm giving the thumbs-up to.

  Eventually, of course, my braces ping off and Alice breaks the embrace, and smiles at me with the corners of her mouth turned down, the kind of rueful smile mums give to tearful kids in TV commercials. I'm starting to get pretty uncomfortable now, so I say, “Sorry about that. I usually don't start crying until much later in the evening.”

  “Shall we go?”

  But I don't want to go yet. “You don't want dessert? Or coffee or anything?”

  “No, I'm all right.”

  “They've got profiteroles? Death by chocolate … ?”

  “No, really, I'm stuffed,” and from somewhere in the folds of the puffball dress she produces the world's smallest handbag, and goes to open it.

  “Hey, I'm paying!” I say.

  And so I pay the bill, which is actually pretty reasonable in the end, thanks to me having a complete mental breakdown instead of dessert, and we head out.

  On the way back to her digs, we change the subject, and talk about books, how we both hate D. H. Lawrence and which Thomas Hardy we prefer; I'm Jude the Obscure, she's Far from the Madding Crowd. It's a mild late-November evening, and the streets are damp despite the fact that there's been no rain. She suggests we take the scenic route back, and so we stomp up the hill that overlooks the city, breathing a little heavily, because of the exertion and the conversation, which never falters. The sound of the cars on the city streets gets fainter and the only noise apart from our voices is the wind in the trees and the whoosh of her satin ball gown. Halfway up the hill she slips her arm through mine, and gives it a little squeeze, and rests her head on my shoulder. The last person to take me by the arm like that was my mum, on the way home after seeing my Jesus in Godspell. She had just watched me being crucified, of course, which is bound to have an emotional effect on a mother, but I remember even then that it made me feel a little strange, partly proud, partly deeply embarrassed, like I was her proper-little-soldier or something. Alice taking my arm feels no less self-conscious, as if it's something she picked up from a TV costume drama, but it's nice too, and I feel warmer and a good two inches taller.

  At the top of the hill we sit on a bench, and she nestles her hip against mine so that we sit snugly in the corner, and even though I can feel the damp soaking through my slacks, and know they'll be streaked with algae, I don't mind. In fact I wouldn't mind if we stayed here forever, looking at the city beneath us, and the lights of the motorway winding off into the countryside.

  “I've just realized, I haven't wished you happy birthday yet.”

  “Oh, that's okay …”

  “Happy birthday, though …”

  “Oh, thank you, same to you.”

  “Except it's not my birthday,” she says.

  “No, of course not. Sorry.”

  “And I haven't got you a present, either.…”

  “That's okay. Tonight was a present.”

  We stop talking, and I contemplate pointing out some of the constellations, like they do in films. I've learned them off by heart for just such an occasion, but it's too cloudy, so instead I wonder if it's dark enough for me to kiss her, or if she's drunk enough to let me.

  “Brian, what are you doing at Christmas?”

  “Um, don't know …”

  “D'you want to come and stay?”

  “Where?”

  “With me.”

  “In London?”

  “No, we've got a little cottage in Suffolk. You can meet Rose and Mi chael.”

  “Who are Rose and Michael?”

  “My parents!”

  “Right! Well, I'd love to, but I don't want to leave Mum alone …”

  “Of course not, but you could come after Christmas, the day after Boxing Day or something. And my parents pretty much keep themselves to themselves, so it would just be me and you most of the time”—she thinks I need persuading—“we can just hang out and walk and read and talk and stuff.…”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Fantastic! It's a deal, then. I'm cold now. Let's go home.”

  It's gone midnight when we get back to her halls of residence, but there are still a few people padding to and fro along the parquet corridors, the swots and the insomniacs and the stoners. They all say “Hello, Alice” and then glance at me skeptically, but I don't really mind. I'm too busy thinking about how we say good-bye, the mechanics of it. At her door, she says, “I'd better go straight to bed, I've got a nine-fifteen lecture.”

  “Right. On … ?”

  “‘Stanislavsky and Brecht, the Great Divide, question mark.’”

  “Right, because they're not actually that different in many ways, though people tend to think that their philosophies are mutually exclu—”

  “Actually, Brian, I really ought to go to bed.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks for agreeing to come out with me.”

  “Brian—I didn't agree to. I wanted to,” and she leans forward very quickly and kisses me just near my ear. It's pretty quick, like a cobra strike, and my reflexes aren't really up to it, so I just have time to make that smacking noise with my mouth too loud in her ear, and then the door's closed and she's gone.

  And, once again, I'm walking up the gravel driveway, on my way home. So it was okay in the end. I think it was okay. I've been invited to a cottage, and I think she finds me “interesting” now, even if “interesting” wasn't really what I was going for. I'm a little uncomfortable about the reasons why, but still …

  “Oi, Jackson!”

  I look around.

  “Sorry, I mean Brian. Brian, up here …” It's Rebecca, leaning out of the first-floor window, ready for bed in a long black T-shirt. “

  So, how'd it go, lover boy?”

  “Oh, you know. All right.”

  “So is love in the air?”

  “Not ‘love.’ ‘Like.’”

  “‘Like' is in the air. I thought so. I sensed it. Like is in the air. Well done, Brian. And you hang in there, pal.”

  On the way home I go to the all-night garage and treat myself to a Twix and a can of 7UP with
the money I saved by bursting into tears. When I get home to Richmond House it's nearly two o'clock. There are three handwritten notes pinned to my door.

  7:30 Brian—your Mum rang.

  10:45 Spencer rang. Says he's “bored out of his skull.” He's at the petrol station all night. Call him.

  Brian, can you please not use my Apri without asking?

  17

  QUESTION: What precisely does Dorothy Gale have to do to return to Kansas?

  ANSWER: Click her heels three times, whilst saying, “There's no place like home.”

  Mum's still out at Woolworth's when I let myself in, so I make a mug of tea, flop on the sofa, pick up a pen and methodically mark up my Christmas television viewing in the bumper edition of the Radio Times. I feel completely exhausted, which unfortunately owes more to Josh and Mar-cus's home brew than any academic fervor. The last few weeks of term have passed by in a blur of sparsely populated parties in strangers' houses, or drinking games in the kitchen with Josh and Marcus's pals: big, burly sporty boys, and hearty, perma-tanned girls from the lacrosse team, all with their shirt collars turned up, all doing French, all from the home counties, and all with the same flicked-back blond hair. I've made up a pretty good joke about this kind of girl, i.e. that they're all from Surrey-with-a-fringe-on-top, but unfortunately have no one to tell it to.

  Anyway, whatever else they teach them at those private schools, they certainly know how to drink. I feel poisoned and gray and malnourished, and glad to get home, lie on the sofa, watch telly. There's nothing good on this afternoon, just some Western, so my eyes wander up to the school photo of me on top of the telly, taken just before Dad died. Is there anything more grisly and joyless than an old school photo? They say the camera adds five pounds, but here it seems to have been added exclusively to my acne. I look positively medieval, like a plague victim, all gums and boils, and I wonder what Mum gets out of it, having me grimacing out at her while she's trying to watch the telly.