Usually on a Saturday, I do all my chores and go out for a run or a bike ride. I have a list of jobs that need doing every day, every week and every month. It’s laminated – Mum did that at work for me – so I can cross them off with a water-soluble pen every time I do them, and then rub the whole thing off and start again. Chores in the morning, small lunch if I feel like it, then exercise in the afternoon. Some Saturdays I’ll go out for a drink and then a club with Chrissie and Susan in the evening. Susan doesn’t work at Horizon but we were all at secondary school together and we’ve managed to keep in touch. Yes, I knew Chrissie before we started at Horizon together. We’ve known each other since we were about six. At primary school we weren’t really friends but then at secondary school we got together with Susan and Sarah and became The Fruity Four. Chrissie was a lot thinner in those days.
Sarah doesn’t come out with us on Saturday nights. You’ll meet Sarah very soon.
This particular Saturday my rock-solid routine has crumbled to dust. I can’t concentrate on anything. I didn’t even get the list out of the drawer. If Mum had come round and said, ‘Rachel, why aren’t you working through your list?’ I would have said, ‘Who are you?’ You see how already Nick Maxwell is starting to screw up my beautiful, organized, productive life? The seeds had already been sown. As you know.
Let’s move forward a couple of hours. Here I am still, on the sofa, flicking through a magazine in my PJs. It’s now eleven thirty and the phone is still maddeningly, sickeningly silent. I’ve even got it on the sofa next to me, just in case I wouldn’t hear it from the coffee table in front of me. The thoughts going through my head are utterly mad, although I look quite sane and peaceful sitting there. I’m thinking things like, Can’t go out for bike ride, might be blinded by the sun and veer into the path of an oncoming bus, and, Can’t push the Hoover round, might dislodge the floorboards, fall in the ensuing hole and break my ankle. I’m in denial, basically. I really don’t want to admit to myself that I am still sitting in my PJs at eleven thirty, not doing chores or carrying out my time-honoured Saturday routine because I am doing nothing other than wait for a call from Nick. I don’t want to admit that I am waiting by the phone; that I’m making no sound in case the phone rings and I don’t hear it; that I’m not even dressed so I don’t have to do my hair twice. It would be unthinkable to admit to myself that I have become one of the sad skinnies that Chrissie introduces me to, who wait for weeks for me to return their calls. I cannot admit that for the first time in my life, someone else is in control.
Christ, did you see me jump then when the phone started ringing? I look like I’ve just woken up on Christmas morning and Santa has left me the thing I’ve been yearning for for years, and is now on the phone to tell me how great I am. So why don’t I answer it, you’re wondering? Well, I do intend to answer; I just have to get ready first. I’m sliding down in my seat to make me feel sexy; no one looks sexy sitting rigidly upright like a doctor’s receptionist. I’ve half closed my eyes, fluffed up my hair and licked my lips, even though no one can see me. The point is that I can picture what I look like, and that helps me to feel sexy. And no doubt Nick on the other end of the phone is trying to imagine what I look like at this end, so it would be totally wrong for me to look like a bag lady.
Finally I’m ready. I reach for the phone, then snatch my hand back suddenly. Don’t answer it straight away! Never, ever answer a phone until it’s rung at least . . . oh fuck it. ‘Hello?’ I say throatily, trying to sound like I’m wearing a black négligée.
‘Have you got a cold?’
This is not Nick. It is a woman’s voice, but not Mum. I ponder for a few seconds, then I hear the sound of shrieking in the background and I realize suddenly, with plummeting heart and sinking spirits, that this is Sarah. The one who doesn’t come out on Saturdays any more.
‘Hi, Sarah. Why do you say that?’
‘You sound funny. Got a sore throat?’
I hoist myself up in the seat again. ‘No, no, I’m fine. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Jakey’s had a bit of a cold the last couple of days, running a temperature of 38.5 for most of Thursday night, but he seems to have perked up a lot this morning. Can you hear him? He’s been marauding round the house since about six o’clock this morning so I’m totally shattered. He always gets a bit hyper when he’s feeling better after being poorly.’
I’m losing interest in this conversation at an inverse proportion to the length of time it goes on for. That’s an expression I learnt from M and M. It means that something is decreasing at the same rate that something else is increasing. I glance around for something else to occupy me, then spot the magazine that I put down when the phone rang and begin leafing through it again.
Sarah McCarthy, née Lincoln, is the fourth member of the Fruity Four. Me, Sarah, Chrissie and Susan. We did everything together back then – the vomiting, the hangovers, the VD – Virginity Donations (‘We didn’t lose it, we gave it away!’). In those days, me, Chrissie and Susan pretty much relied on Sarah to come up with the ideas. She was the one who suggested that we run topless through the town centre one night, a terrifying but exhilarating experience that had nearly landed us all in the back of a police car. Sarah was the first of us to part with her virginity, choosing the romantic setting of up against my front door for this landmark moment in her life, while I stood unfortunately not quite out of earshot staring at the garden, terrified that my parents would wake up. Sarah could carry on drinking long after everyone else was throwing up on someone’s lawn. Sarah introduced us to pot. But then, only a year after leaving school, Sarah met Glenn McCarthy, a civil servant with a Cavalier, and everything changed. Sarah couldn’t come to the pub, she was meeting Glenn. She couldn’t sleep over, Glenn was expecting her. She couldn’t go away to Butlins for a girls’ weekend, Glenn wanted to look at a house. She started saving hard for a deposit and tasteful tableware and then the unthinkable happened: they got married. I remember the day with bitter regret. A sad day for friendship, that had been. I wore black (well, very dark navy: black is so draining). Chrissie got hold of some pot and brought it to the reception and she, Susan and I got high in the marquee then threw up on the grass. It was the end of an era. We were all just eighteen.
A year later Sarah was so excited and happy to announce over a speedy non-alcoholic drink after work that they were expecting their first child. If I’d thought Sarah as a prospective bride was bad, Sarah pregnant was a hundred times worse. Now we got, ‘I can’t come out tonight, I’m too sick,’ then, ‘I’m too tired,’ followed by, ‘I’m too fat,’ and inevitably, ‘I’m too sick, tired and fat.’ For old times’ sake, we all continued including her in the arrangements, even though we knew she probably wouldn’t come. And even if she did she was all ‘You’re not smoking that near me, it’s toxic, blah blah blah’. When the baby finally arrived, we all felt the anticlimax of a long-expected event simply happening, as expected. Like after Tuesday, you know it’s going to be Wednesday. We weren’t excited or thrilled, in spite of what we claimed on the ward. Susan even said, ‘Fucking hell,’ later in the car park as she ground her butt out under one of her mules.
That was five or six years ago and she’s never been out with us since. And once the Fruity Four were down to three, we found that our group couldn’t easily support the change and our evening revelries tailed off from weekly to fortnightly to monthly. Now I can’t even remember the last time I got together with the other two for a night out. Chrissie’s changed a lot over the years, of course, and isn’t as fruity as she used to be. At least not in a good way. She does tend to look literally like fruit now. And Susan’s always starting some serious, long-term relationship or other, which seems to make her less keen on wearing the tight tops and trousers she’s always looked so good in. At least in public.
Oh God, the phone’s gone silent. You can tell because of the look of panic on my face. This means that Sarah is waiting for an answer or a comment or something and I can’t g
ive it because I haven’t been listening. I improvise.
‘Oh, sorry, Sarah, what was that? Cosmo just knocked the phone out of my hand.’
‘Again? He’s always doing that. Sounds to me like he craves your attention too much.’ There’s a pause, then Sarah’s voice becomes muffled and distant. ‘No, not now, Jakey, Mummy’s on the phone. I said wait a minute. Just a minute, will you?’
‘Everything all right, Sarah?’
‘Yes, yes, just Jake. He can’t bear it when I’m on the phone. Always picks that very moment to need the loo or sneeze all over himself or want a drink or something.’
‘Oh.’ I really hate it when mums speaking to their children refer to themselves as ‘Mummy’.
‘Anyway, are you coming or not? I need to know the numbers.’
‘Coming?’ Hmm, my left middle fingernail could do with touching up a bit.
There’s a long, exasperated sigh. ‘To Jake’s birthday party. It’s the nineteenth, that’s three weeks today. You’re not going to let me down, are you, Rachel? You are his godmother, you know.’
Yeah, when does she ever let me forget it? Can you believe it, me a godmother? I know, I didn’t think it through. When she had asked me, Jake was three months old and an adorable soft little bundle who smiled and burped and slept in my arms and went straight back to his mum for everything else. Over the years I have observed with horror how he’s morphed into a tall, blond, smart-mouthed, demanding, noisy, disobedient, self-centred boy who seems to do nothing for his mum and dad except stress them out. I have no idea what to say to him or how to interact with him. I am probably the worst godmother that has ever existed. I can’t even remember his birthday, even though this one must be number four or five. I wish I could resign the position, particularly at moments like these when I’m watching a whole Saturday afternoon evaporating before my eyes.
‘Of course I’ll be there, Sarah. What sort of godmother do you think I am?’
‘I know exactly what sort you are, Rachel, and I regret it daily.’
While she is undoubtedly right there, it’s still quite hurtful to hear that she regrets asking me. ‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, look, Rachel, I didn’t mean it. It’s just that . . .’
I’m starting to worry about how this call is clogging up the phone. What if someone else is trying to get through? If he got an engaged tone, would he try again in a few minutes, or would he give up until this evening? Or worse, leave it until tomorrow? I’m glancing at my watch now, acutely aware that this call has already lasted more than five minutes and now looks like it’s going to drag on for another five. If only I’d paid attention at the start of it, maybe she wouldn’t be droning on at such great length now.
‘. . . So they moved him on a level in the end, thank goodness,’ she’s saying. I insert an ‘Uh-huh’, every now and then but I’m up and walking towards the bedroom. I have a plan.
‘I told her he was bored with what they’d given him. It was far too easy for him. I said to her, “He’s bored. How can you expect him to sit still when he’s bored?” She didn’t seem to agree, so I told her . . .’
‘Uh-huh.’
In my bedroom, I’ve found my handbag on my dressing table and got my mobile phone out of it. No new messages; no missed calls. OK, disappointing, but that’s not why I’ve picked it up. Using one hand, I’m scrolling through the menu, looking for ‘Ring tones’. Aha, found it. Select. Now there’s a long list of all the ring tones my phone holds. God, which one have I got it set on at the moment? I can’t remember.
‘. . . work he’s doing is so far above his age group. When you compare it to the other children, there’s no comparison . . .’
‘Uh-huh.’ Doesn’t matter which one the phone is set on. Sarah doesn’t know, or won’t remember, what my phone sounds like. I press something called ‘Ibiza Party’, and it starts playing immediately.
‘. . . just needs to be properly challenged. What’s that noise?’
‘Oh, Sarah, my mobile is ringing. I’m going to have to go. It’s bound to be Mum. If the phone’s engaged when she rings, she always rings the mobile.’ This is actually true.
‘Oh. Have you changed your ring tone then?’
‘Oh, no, no, that’s the one it’s set on for my mum. Listen, what time is Jake’s party?’
‘Three o’clock, for the third time.’
‘Right. And what—?’
‘The nineteenth,’ she cuts in, ‘three weeks today. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t, I promise. Must go. Bye.’
She’s gone. I fling myself face first on to the bed in relief. Oh crap. I’ve agreed to go to Jake’s bloody party in three weeks’ time. Or was it two weeks? I jump up. Must write it on the calendar before I forget. Ninth of August.
There’s a calendar on the kitchen wall just above the kettle, so I can look at it in the morning as I make my breakfast coffee, and make sure I don’t forget any urgent appointments or meetings. For the most part, the days have just got men’s names in them, with times next to them. I’m not promiscuous or anything. I just go out with a lot of different people. All I’m doing is looking for ‘The One’, and now I think I might have found him.
I take the calendar down from the wall and turn the page over to August. Well, it can’t be the ninth because Sarah definitely said it was a precise number of weeks from today, which would make it a Saturday, and the ninth is a Wednesday. Was it the ninth of September, then? I flick over a page. No, that’s a Sunday. What did she say, for heaven’s sake? I turn the pages back and accidentally flick two over, to July. With a smile, I look at yesterday’s date and write in ‘Nick Maxwell, 7 p.m.,’ even though it is already in the past. Looking at yesterday’s date, I notice that there’s a big black cross on it, and the two days before and after it. Oh, hell, that means . . .
A wonderful thought occurs to me. What if I take Nick to Jake’s party with me? I lay the calendar down, still open at July. Yes, that would be perfect. It wouldn’t be a wasted Saturday afternoon after all. In fact, it would be better than if we spent the day alone together because I could show him off to everyone there, and then we could go out somewhere afterwards and imagine what it would be like to be parents, then thank God we aren’t and then have lots of hot sex. What a brilliant plan, and still three weeks to convince him to come along.
Aha, three weeks, that’s it. I pick up the calendar and quickly write ‘Jake’ on 19 August.
Let’s move on a bit again. The day is going by so slowly. By half past eight, I’m really very stressed out. You can see that I’ve showered and got dressed at last. This is because the sudden and horrifying thought occurred to me that Nick might unexpectedly turn up at the door with a huge bouquet of flowers and tickets to something. He would not be impressed with me in my PJs. Well, he would be impressed, but maybe a little put off if it was three o’clock in the afternoon.
I’ve done a few chores but can’t really settle to anything. I’ve watched a bit of an afternoon film, then some quiz programmes, but they’re not holding my interest. I tried reading a magazine on the sun lounger on the terrace while sipping white wine, thinking it would be so sophisticated to be doing that when he phoned. I didn’t have any white wine, just the dregs of a bottle of red, and the lounger cushion was soaking wet so I had to sit directly on the plastic slats. I lasted about three minutes before I was back indoors tipping the revolting contents of the glass down the sink and putting the kettle on.
Mum did ring but I managed to get her off pretty quickly. I usually have at least one meal round there each weekend but today I said I had plans both days. She was not surprised. She tells all her friends how popular I am with the boys. It’s embarrassing.
Tea is two slices of toast. I know it’s a small flat but I really can’t bear to be away from the phone at all, so I take it with me into the kitchen while I make the toast. My mind is buzzing now, all sorts of stupid thoughts whizzing round inside, all of them desperately trying to block out the possibility
that he’s not going to phone today. I wonder whether Sarah will hire a clown like she did before? I suppose I should get Jake a present. But how old is he? Will Glenn’s mysterious brother turn up this time?
You are surprised that I am occupying myself with thoughts of Jake and his upcoming birthday? Me too. But I am desperate. This waiting is a difficult job that I have never had to do before, so I’m really not very good at it.
So here I am, gone ten o’clock and still heard nothing. This cannot be normal. Or is it? Maybe this is what countless women are going through all the time, waiting and waiting for the gorgeous bloke they met the night before to call them up after an amazing and perfect evening. They know that he had a good time. They know that the two of them got on really well because they both laughed and chatted all night. They know that he was definitely attracted to them, from his behaviour. It was romantic, caring, thoughtful. They know that they are the ideal couple, that they will be perfect together, for ever. So why, why, why doesn’t he phone?
When the call does come, I’m brushing my teeth. No, I’m not in the bathroom, I’m there, in the living room. I realized as soon as I’d put the toothbrush in my mouth that I had left the phone so I came back in here to be with it. I’ve waited all day, I am not missing the call because I’m in the other room.
So I’m wearing my orange terry-towelling dressing gown and I’ve got a mouthful of white froth. This is the moment the phone chooses to ring. Look at me, I’m frozen, staring, wide-eyed at the irony of it. The white froth is running down my arm and dripping off my elbow. Distractedly, I wipe my mouth with my arm, only managing to spread more white around my face than I remove. I am transfixed, unable to work out how to go about answering the phone with a mouthful of foam. I know, I know, I could easily spit it out into the kitchen sink, it’s only a few steps away. Look, you can see me glancing that way, thinking about it then rejecting the idea. The phone has rung three times already – if I go to the kitchen, spit and come back again, it might stop before I get there. I consider spitting on to the floor but that’s disgusting. Plus I might lose my deposit on the flat if there’s a nasty white stain on the carpet when I move in with Nick.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 3
