‘Yes, it’s me, what on earth happened?’
As he comes closer I see the full extent of his injuries. He’s really quite badly beaten up.
‘A driver made an illegal turn and nearly knocked me off my bike, so I told him I was going to show the video from the GoPro on my helmet to the police as evidence . . .’ As he talks, he winces and touches his swollen bottom lip. ‘And he got quite angry and knocked me to the ground and grabbed my helmet from me, most likely because he knew he was in the wrong—’
‘But the police said you were the one to get arrested?’
‘We ended up getting into a bit of a fight and my phone got smashed . . . along with my glasses and his windscreen.’
I listen, my mouth agape; I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You were fighting?’
‘I was defending myself,’ he protests indignantly, ‘there’s a difference. I was a victim of road rage! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell the police—’
‘WANKER!’
He’s interrupted as a large, bald-headed man with a bashed-up face and a bandaged hand is led out of his cell. ‘You better watch out, next time I’ll fucking ’ave you—’ He’s silenced by his wife, a tiny blonde woman, who grabs his elbow and hustles him away.
‘He looks worse than you.’
‘Well, I did play rugby . . . Ouch.’
Edward winces as he tries to smile. When he goes to touch his cheekbone, I notice his knuckles are cut.
‘You were lucky, he could have had a knife,’ I say, feeling both angry and relieved that it’s only a few cuts and bruises.
I glare at Edward and he looks suitably chastened.
‘Anyway, I couldn’t find your glasses, so I brought your contact lenses.’ As I take a pair out of my pocket, he squints at me through one eye. ‘Actually, maybe you just need one,’ I say, putting the other back.
‘Mr Lewis?’
We both turn to see a sergeant standing behind the desk. He’s holding up a ziplock bag; inside there’s a small leather wallet, some keys and a smashed phone.
‘If you’d like to sign here for the rest of your possessions.’
Edward goes over to sign. ‘Thank you, officer.’
‘As the interviewing officer confirmed, you’re going to be released on bail pending further inquiries, so please make sure you’re available to come into the station for any questions during the next few days.’ The sergeant hands him the bag together with his bicycle helmet. ‘Now, how are you getting home?’
‘Well, if you give me my bike back I can cycle.’
The policeman raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you?’
‘I’m a very good cyclist.’
‘When you can see out of both eyes, perhaps,’ he says evenly. ‘And what about Miss Stevens? Is she meant to have a backie?’
The policeman shoots me a look and I stifle a smile. He’s actually rather cute. I also notice he looks about fourteen. Is it just me or are policemen getting younger?
‘C’mon, Edward, let’s get the train,’ I say, looping my arm through his, and before he can argue I lead him out of the station.
‘I can’t believe they want to keep my bike as evidence.’
We’re sitting opposite each other on the South Western train from Waterloo, headed back home. In the bright lights of the carriage, the bruising around Edward’s eye already seems to be turning all kinds of lurid colours.
‘What are they going to do? Fingerprint it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head. He’s still angry about what happened, but I’m not really listening. Something’s been bugging me. ‘Edward, is there something you haven’t told me?’
His expression changes and he looks suddenly shame-faced.
‘Of course. I haven’t even thanked you for coming all this way to get me, have I?’ He rubs his forehead in agitation. ‘I’m so sorry, that’s really terrible of me—’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘It’s not?’ His brow furrows.
‘Edward, what were you doing in town on a Saturday night? Why weren’t you at home in Kent?’
My question seems to catch him out and he hesitates for a moment. ‘I was, but I came up on the train to meet a friend for a drink. He lives in the city.’
I sit back in my seat and eye him doubtfully. ‘But you were on your bike. You told me you leave it in the office at the weekend.’
He looks at me. ‘Would you believe me if I said I had two bikes?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, I wouldn’t either.’ And, dropping his head, he stares at his feet for what feels like the longest time.
Then he tells me.
He tells me all about how he’s been staying in a cheap hotel in town at the weekends for some months now, ever since he and his wife Sophie split up. And how he’s been too embarrassed and ashamed to admit it to anyone. He tells me how they’d been growing apart for years, ever since the twins were small, and how the skiing trip in the New Year was a last-ditch attempt to try and save their marriage and bring them closer together. But how instead it only served to highlight how far apart they had become.
‘And then at Easter she told me she wanted a divorce,’ he finishes, looking up at me.
‘Oh, Edward, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not. It’s true, at first I was against it. My family doesn’t do divorce. I thought you just stayed in a marriage, whether you were miserable or not, because that’s what married people do. I saw divorce as a failure. But Sophie had the courage I was lacking.’ Rubbing his temples, he sighs. ‘Our marriage was over a long time ago and staying in it wasn’t going to fix anything, it was just going to waste the rest of our lives. I’m grateful to her for having the balls to do something about it.’
‘Have you told the boys?’
He nods. ‘They’re teenagers and more interested in their friends and their phones than what their parents do any more. They seemed pretty unfazed. Sam just asked us what took us so long. I guess we weren’t as good as we thought at hiding it.’
He raises a smile and I think back to my first impression of him when I went to look at his spare room. This happily married man with teenage boys and a gorgeous French wife, a successful career, and homes in London and the country, going off on family ski trips to Verbier. His life seemed so sorted compared to mine.
‘Now it’s a case of telling our family and friends. I’m sure my father will see it as just another way his son has disappointed him.’
‘But people get divorced all the time,’ I say supportively. ‘What’s the statistic? One in three, or is it one in two?’
‘Maybe,’ he shrugs. ‘But statistics don’t stop you feeling like a failure.’
I look at Edward and it’s as if a wall has come down. There’s a vulnerability I’ve never seen in him before. We’re such different people, worlds apart really, but I guess in some ways we’re not that different after all.
‘You need to get some ice on your face.’ I gesture to his eye, which is now almost closed. ‘It’ll help with the swelling.’
‘Christ.’ Catching sight of his reflection in the carriage window, he grimaces. ‘Is that really me?’ Slowly turning his head from side to side, he studies himself. ‘You know, this isn’t quite how I imagined my life was going to turn out . . .’ He looks back to me. ‘Ever get that feeling?’
The train starts to slow as it approaches our station and, as I stand up, I can’t help but smile.
‘All the time.’
Viva España
Note to self: When booking a flight, do not go for the cheapest one thinking, ‘Ooh, it’s fifty quid cheaper! So what if it leaves at 4 a.m. and isn’t from my closest airport? It will be fine!’
It will not be fine.
It will involve blearily stumbling around your bedroom and stubbing your toe in the pitch dark at some godforsaken hour after having had only an hour’s sleep, as you were worried the whole time about sleeping th
rough your alarm (because who wakes up at 1.30 a.m., FFS?). Having to take two trains and a cab to get to the airport, which is miles away and will end up costing a fortune. And you will arrive broken and exhausted and realizing you have actually only saved a fiver.
With a big toe that has now doubled in size and is throbbing like a motherfucker.
Instead, take a leaf from Cricket’s book and fly British Airways from Heathrow at a lovely, civilized hour, arriving refreshed and relaxed into Barcelona airport looking like the kind of traveller you’ve always wanted to be, rather than the bleary-eyed, crumpled one stumbling off a budget airline that you usually are.
We pick up our rental car. We’re only staying here one night as tomorrow we’re heading up the coast. I drive. After living in America I’m used to driving on the right, plus Cricket never got her licence, despite confessing to ‘tootling around in the sixties’ in a Mini which she later crashed into the back of a milk float.
‘I keep meaning to take my test,’ she confesses as we head away from the airport. ‘It’s on my list of things to do.’
‘You mean one of those bucket lists?’ I pull down my sun visor and peer through the windscreen for signs to the city centre and the motorway. Cricket’s supposed to be in charge of directions, but I’m pretty sure her eyes are closed behind those sunglasses.
‘Oh, I don’t believe in those. My life’s been memorable enough – I don’t need to be jumping out of planes and swimming with dolphins.’
‘It doesn’t need to be that, it can be anything.’
But she shakes her head firmly. ‘I’ve always found that the best experiences in life are the ones you didn’t plan, the ones you stumble across and they just happen . . . I remember Monty and I throwing this impromptu dinner party after the theatre one night. Everyone came back to the house, and I fried up eggs with onions and potatoes because it was all we had— You missed the turning!’
‘Damn!’
The story of my life. It’s too late to turn and I sail right past, going in the opposite direction.
‘Never mind, we can go a different way.’
‘We can?’
‘Yes,’ she nods, looking at the map, ‘take the next exit.’
Indicating, I come off the roundabout.
‘It’s a bit of a detour, but it’s not like we’re in any rush, is it?’ She shoots me a sideways smile. ‘It’s the scenic route.’
I turn down a smaller, winding road. ‘So, was it a good dinner party?’
‘Probably the best one we ever had,’ she nods, ‘and yet we had no wine and the house was such a mess. We ended up sitting on beanbags in the garden and polishing off the leftover port from Christmas . . .’ She smiles at the memory. ‘You know, it never looks like you want it to, your hair’s never perfect and it’ll probably rain, but it doesn’t matter. Those are your good old days. It’s those times you always remember . . .’
Cricket trails off, lost in thought, and for a little while neither of us speaks. I keep driving, the buildings giving way to greenery as the road climbs higher and higher.
‘Wow, look—’ I gesture.
Ahead of us is the most spectacular view. A swathe of forest falls beneath us, leading to the city of Barcelona, which stretches its fingers into the sea, as if trying to reach the horizon beyond. I slow down and we marvel at the scene. Bathed in sunshine, it lies there, waiting for us.
I’m glad I missed the turning.
Barcelona
Normally the only thing that motivates me to get out of bed comes hand-roasted from Guatemala, but this morning I can hardly wait to jump up, draw back the curtains in my hotel room and let the bright Spanish sunshine stream in.
Following a scenic detour through the stunning Serra de Collserola national park that sits above the city, it was mid-afternoon yesterday by the time we finally made it to the hotel and, after checking in, we both crashed out for a couple of hours. When I woke up I was keen to explore, but after getting no answer from Cricket’s room, I left her sleeping and went off by myself.
I’ve been to Barcelona a couple of times, and each time I visit I love it more. On my wander yesterday I stayed away from Las Ramblas, the main tourist thoroughfare, and instead weaved my way through the myriad backstreets. I love a city you can walk around, and in my wanderings I lost all track of time. It was still pressure-cooker hot and minutes melted into hours as late afternoon gave way to evening. I arrived back at the hotel to discover it was almost 8 p.m., and found Cricket sitting in the bar.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone for so long!’ Apologizing, I slid into the seat next to her. ‘I didn’t realize it was so late.’
But she dismissed me. ‘This isn’t late, this is Barcelona. The evening’s just getting started. Now, what are you drinking?’
Rioja. Two Negronis. And a jug of sangria, as it turned out, thus throwing – nay, hurling – my attempts at a healthy regime out of the window, as I’m pretty sure that’s well over the recommended number of units. But hey ho, Viva España! Which is basically the Sod This approach to life, but in a Spanish accent.
Much fun it was too, as it also involved staying up with Cricket into the early hours, eating lots of delicious tapas and watching street performers dance the flamenco, while plotting how I could move to Barcelona.
Before remembering fucking Brexit and needing more sangria.
And now, less than twelve hours later, we’re all packed up again and setting off in the car to drive north. Cricket is in the passenger seat with Monty’s ashes on her lap. We had a bit of a scare earlier when we couldn’t find them and for a moment I thought our trip had turned into a bad rom-com. Visions of Monty in baggage reclaim going around and around on the conveyor belt, some poor unsuspecting soul taking a look inside, his final resting place ending up being Airport Lost Property . . .
Luckily we discovered the box in the boot of the rental car, but from now on Cricket isn’t taking any chances, and refuses to let him out of her sight.
‘At least this way he gets to take in the view,’ I say brightly, as we leave the city behind us. She was so panicked earlier; it’s my attempt to lighten the mood.
‘I don’t think he’s seeing much, stuck in this cardboard box.’
I suddenly realize how crass that sounded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she cuts me off. ‘You’re being nice and I’m being an arse.’
‘It’s OK. You can be an arse.’
‘No, I can’t.’ She shakes her head firmly. ‘My husband died. It happens. People die all the time. We can’t all go around being arses to people.’
I glance across at her and her eyes meet mine, then fall to her lap and the box resting there.
People talk about scattering ashes all the time. It’s got these dreamy, almost romantic connotations. You imagine peaceful settings and exotic locations, a sprinkling of your soul and spirit. At least, that’s always been my impression, but then I’ve never seen any ashes before now.
Instead, the reality is something resembling a shoebox filled with what looks like about seven pounds of gravel. It’s anything but dreamy and romantic. It’s bizarre and inconceivable and I’m struggling to get my head around it, so I can’t even begin to imagine how Cricket must be feeling.
‘But you’re right, he is here,’ she says after a few moments, ‘but not in this cardboard box.’ She gazes out of the window as we speed along the motorway. ‘I was raised a Catholic but I never shared their belief in the afterlife. I can’t believe in a heaven if I don’t believe in a hell. But he’s in my heart, my memories . . . the conversations I still have with him . . . and that’s sort of an afterlife, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘I think it is.’
‘Monty was a pair of bright black eyes, a sharp comeback and a roaring belly-laugh that would shake his whole body.’ She looks down at the box on her lap. ‘Not these ashes. In fact, thinking about it, I’ve a good mind to throw them out of the window—’
> ‘No!’ Instinctively, my hand shoots out across the gearstick and grabs the box.
‘What is it?’ Cricket almost jumps out of her skin.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘What?’
‘Chuck Monty out of the car,’ I cry, before realizing what I’ve just said.
But Cricket’s unruffled. ‘Oh, I wasn’t going to really,’ she reassures me. ‘We’ve come all this way. And it wouldn’t be very nice for the people behind us,’ she adds, as she glances in her wing mirror.
I check my rear-view; almost touching my bumper is a canary yellow convertible being driven by an old man with a much younger woman sitting beside him. He’s flashing his lights for me to move over.
Cricket and I both look at each other, but I don’t remember which one of us bursts out laughing first. Only that we laugh until our eyes water and our sides hurt, and still we keep on laughing.
A few hours later we find ourselves elevated high above the sea, on a treacherous road that’s twisting and dipping as it hugs the hillside. I grip the steering wheel, my nerves slightly fraught. Until, turning a corner, I see a horseshoe bay and catch my first glimpse of a whitewashed town below, set against the backdrop of glittering blue water. This is our destination for the week. It’s breathtaking.
Spotting a layby, I pull over.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Cricket turns to me.
I shake my head. ‘I just want to take a photo.’
Opening the door, I climb out of the car. Cricket buzzes down her window to watch as I take out my phone to try and capture the magical view beyond. A gust of wind catches my hair, blowing strands across the lens, while the midday sun’s shining right in my eyes; I can’t see properly.
I take the photo anyway. Because this is my life and for the first time in a long, long time, it needs absolutely no filter.
I’m grateful for:
Instagram, so I can post my blurry, silhouetted photo that I shot right into the sun, and show everyone that I do have a life, and it doesn’t just consist of random funny things I see and my landlord’s rescue dog.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 23