Turning Thirty

by Mike Gayle

  Ginny chuckled and draped her left arm around me, her right around Gershwin. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, boys. I think if this is going to work I’m just going to be me. I’d like the company though, but only if we go as ourselves. I’ll let her humiliate me in front of all her trendy friends one last time, then I’ll head to the bathroom, have a good cry, compose myself, say my goodbyes and never see them again. What do you say? Next weekend, are you up for it?’

  ‘All for one and one for all,’ said Gershwin, cheerily.

  ‘I’m there like a rocket,’ I added, getting into the spirit of things.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ said Ginny, holding her untouched vodka up to her eyeline as if about to down it in one. ‘London, here we come.’

  forty-eight

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  New beginnings

  Dear Matt

  I have a confession to make. Sara and I had another big night out after work on Friday. We just spent the whole night drinking and laughing – it was really good. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I met a guy. The inevitable happened. I’m not seeing him again.

  love

  Elaine xxxx

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  Where are U?

  Matt

  It’s been a day and a half since my big news. Where are U? Mail me back so that I can rest assured that you haven’t gone weird on me over this.

  Elaine xxx

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  Where are u 2?

  Matt, if you’re not e-mailing me because of what I’ve told you then . . . then . . . then you’re not the person I thought you were.

  Elaine xxx

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  Why I’ve had it with men.

  Read . . . my . . . e-mail . . . carefully . . . GET OVER IT, YOU ASSHOLE!

  Love

  Elaine xxx

  forty-nine

  We arrived in London early on Saturday morning. For a few days beforehand it was touch and go as to whether Gershwin was going to be able to come to the party because it clashed with a prearranged visit to Zoë’s parents’ for the weekend. However, he managed to negotiate his way out of it, with a promise to up his contribution to household duties from 20 per cent to the golden 50 per cent of perfect married life and a weekend away for the two of them ‘somewhere nice’.

  For me, though, the party had become the focal point of my life. The prospect of doing something different that involved new people in new surroundings appealed to me mainly, I suspect, because I’d spent the majority of the week helping my dad clear out the garage, running supermarket errands for my mum and generally dealing with Elaine’s e-mailed news that she was moving on and seeing other people. She was right to move on. The more we dragged things out, the worse it would be. Of course, I would have been happier if I had moved on (something with Ginny, perhaps?) but that’s the way it goes. That’s why I decided not to reply to her e-mail right away. I didn’t want to say anything stupid that I might regret later.

  The first thing we did was check into our hotel, the Rembrandt Court just off Oxford Street. Ginny’s friend Adele had said we could crash on her floor or sofa, but with the memory fresh in my mind of my time on the Sofa from Hell, I put forward the proposal that we stay in a hotel. Ginny, however, didn’t like the idea of spending her hard-earned on something as decadent as that. In the end we compromised: Gershwin and I booked a twin room and offered Ginny the sofa, should there be one.

  ‘You are joking?’ said Ginny, when we suggested this.

  ‘No,’ we’d lied in unison.

  Bags unpacked, we raided the mini-bar for ludicrously expensive peanuts and soft drinks, before hitting the streets of London determined to spend the next few hours acting like proper tourists. Although I’d lived in London for a good five years after graduating, I’d never really done any of the touristy things you’re supposed to do there and now I decided was as good a time as any. We started off with a walk along the river on the South Bank, where we became tangled up in a gaggle of skate-boarding youths and Gershwin gave a kid a pound for a quick go on his board. Next we had a scout round the National Portrait Gallery, where Ginny bought a postcard of Audrey Hepburn for Ian – who was now back in her good books.

  After that we went to Trafalgar Square and ate ice-cream, and Ginny got into conversation with an old homeless guy who insisted that there was a government conspiracy to steal the pigeons. Finally, we ended up near Carnaby Street in a bar that had been my after-work bar of choice. We sat there for hours, drinking vodka, flicking through the weekend papers and laughing at twentysomething trendy student types with stupid haircuts and silly footwear. It was early evening by the time we got back to the hotel and we were all so drunk, unfocused and knackered that, without even discussing it, we collapsed on to the beds and napped like four-year-olds. At eight o’clock we woke up, showered and got ready for Adele’s party. By a quarter to nine we were ready to go.

  We got as far as the hotel lobby when Ginny stopped suddenly. ‘Do you know what? I don’t think I can be bothered to go all the way to Belsize Park for a party I know I’ll hate just to snub people I already know I don’t like and make some point I can’t even be bothered to make.’

  ‘I’m so glad you said that,’ said Gershwin, ‘because I think we should stay here too. I’m still incredibly drunk, I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, and that bed upstairs was really comfortable. Can’t we just phone up this Adele person and be rude to her down the phone?’

  ‘Good idea, sir,’ I said, content to throw in the towel with the rest of them. ‘You’re both right. I was hoping to pull at this party in the hope that it would make me feel better about the fact that my ex-girlfriend had started seeing other people. But you know what? I can’t be arsed. Let’s go back upstairs, order room service, make that rude phone call to Adele and have a party of our own.’

  I looked at Gershwin, Gershwin looked at Ginny, and Ginny looked at me. All three of us burst out laughing, we did an about-turn and headed back to our room.

  Twenty minutes later we were asleep: Gershwin in his double bed, Ginny in my single and me on the hotel-room Sofa from Hell.

  fifty

  To:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  From:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  Subject:

  A guy in a bar

  Dear Elaine

  Thank you for your many erratic and slightly barmy e-mails. For your information I didn’t e-mail because I didn’t know what to say. I suppose random guys in bars are all part of the moving-on process. Part of me wants to be jealous. I suppose a lot of me. But the rest of me knows that this sort of thing has got to happen, hasn’t it?

  Matt xxx

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  An old friend

  Matt, Your e-mail reminded me of why I fell in love with you. Who else would think like that? You’re so sensitive sometimes I think you must be half girl. Just for the record, besides ‘the other stuff’ (which I know you don’t want me to go into) Random Bar Guy was an awful kisser. Remember that time just after we first met when we got caught in the rain on the way back from Alexandra’s and we ended up kissing in a doorway while we waited from the rain to stop? That was a 11/10 kiss. This guy was a 2/10 at the very best.

  Elaine xxx

  fifty-one

  ‘Matthew!’ called my mum up the stairs. ‘It’s the phone for you!’

  ‘Okay,’ I
called back, from the sanctuary of my bedroom. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Who is it?’

  ‘Gershwin!’

  ‘What does he want?’ I shouted.

  ‘I have no idea,’ yelled my mum. ‘But if you don’t get your backside down here in a minute, you’ll never find out because I’ll put the phone down!’

  It was the Monday after our London trip and I was in bed, still recovering from the booze and the hotel-room Sofa from Hell. Despite all this I’d had every intention of answering the phone and was merely conducting a long-distance shouty conversation with my mum because I knew, from various episodes of my youth, that holding shouty conversations up the stairs with the fruit of her loins really, really annoyed her.

  At the risk of sounding like an ungrateful, selfish human being, I reckoned my mum deserved everything she was getting. I know that sounds a bit harsh, but think about it. Parents, you love them dearly, they bring you into this world, they give you everything you need, and they are usually quite nice to you. But it’s these same people, the people who have done all these wonderful things, who know that their past benevolence towards you gives them the Power: the Power to get under your skin like no one else on earth; the Power to locate every single one of the buttons you keep hidden from the world; and the Power to press all of them at once thereby guaranteeing that you will be enraged by the seemingly innocuous. Parents know exactly what they’re doing. To them it’s like a sport, something to do when they’re bored. And the day when annoying your children to the point of mental frenzy becomes an Olympic event will be the day that my mother steps up on to the podium as the National Anthem plays and collects her gold medal.

  That’s why I was trying to wind her up.

  Revenge.

  Petty, I know. But I considered it self-defence and, anyway, my dad had told me my mum used to do exactly the same to my Gran when she was alive.

  It had started off with minor digs about the general untidiness of my appearance but, as the days passed, her remarks became less and less subtle until one afternoon she had a bit of a hissy fit and the words, ‘You’re not going out until you smarten up your act and tidy up this room,’ left her lips. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My room was spotless. Somehow, through circumstances beyond my control, my life had been reduced to a coming-of-age movie in reverse.

  Although I knew she loved me, I think the novelty of having her twenty-nine-year-oldson living at home was wearing a little thin. At the back of her mind she was seriously worried that I’d get so comfortable I’d never move out.

  As if.

  It wasn’t for ever.

  In fact it would only be six weeks until I’d be going.

  But the way things were heading . . .

  I got the feeling . . .

  That the next six weeks . . .

  Were going to be the longest six weeks of my life . . .

  That was why I was taking so long to answer Gershwin’s call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Er . . . hello,’ said Gershwin.

  ‘All right, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I haven’t disturbed you, have I?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was just annoying my mum. That’s all.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Just checking.’

  ‘So what can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘A favour,’ said Gershwin, carefully.

  ‘How big a favour?’

  ‘About thigh high.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ I replied.

  ‘My mum’s just called to say that she’s got to go to Norwich to look after my aunt, because she’s broken her leg or something. She has no idea how long she’ll be down there, which means she won’t be able to look after Charlotte. The thing is she goes to a nursery class a couple of sessions a week but tomorrow isn’t one of them—’

  ‘You’re asking me to look after her?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘You’d be doing me and Zoë a massive favour,’ said Gershwin. ‘I’ll owe you big-time. You just need to get here for eight thirty when Zoë has to go to work. She’ll give you a list of instructions and stuff like that and then she’ll be back around five.’

  I thought about it: a day spent hanging out with a four-year old versus a day spent winding up my mum. ‘No problem,’ I said confidently. ‘I’ve got nothing else going on anyway. I could do with the diversion.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gershwin. I think he was feeling a bit guilty. ‘I mean, we could book her into a full time nursery if you really don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I’m nearly thirty, I’ve got a degree in computer science, I think I can handle looking after my own goddaughter, thank you very much.’

  fifty-two

  ‘Hi, Matt,’ said Zoë, on opening the door, ‘or should I say Dad-for-the-day?’ She kissed me hello and led me into the living room.

  ‘Hi, Zoë,’ I replied. ‘I’m ready for whatever Charlotte can throw at me – cereal, teddy bears . . . whatever.’

  ‘She’s very well behaved,’ said Zoë. ‘She’ll be an angel for you, won’t you, darling?’ Charlotte had wandered in and was looking at me with a distinctly detached air. She looked up at her mum.

  ‘What do you fancy doing today, Charlotte?’ I asked.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I’ll think of something then, okay?’

  Zoë knelt down next to her. ‘Do you want to go and put your things away in your bedroom, darling?’ Charlotte disappeared down the hallway, leaving Zoë and me on our own. ‘Right,’ she said, handing me a list. ‘There’s loads of food in the fridge and I’ve written down the sort of thing she’d probably like for lunch. She does sometimes change her mind but don’t let her bully you. I’ve written down my number at work and my mobile number, and Gershwin’s work number just in case.’

  I looked down the list. ‘Is she allowed to watch TV?’

  ‘Yes, but only for an hour at a time. Otherwise she gets a bit zombified.’

  Zoë excused herself and went to finish getting ready for work. Standing in the living room I looked at a photo of Gershwin, Zoë and Charlotte on the wall. It was weird seeing that whole mum-dad-kid thing being acted out by people the same age as me. And it was even more strange to equate the Gershwin in the picture, in his role as father and husband, with the Gershwin I’d known as a kid who would light his farts in class.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Zoë, carrying Charlotte to the front door in her arms. She gave her a huge hug and a kiss and set her down on the ground. ‘You be a good girl for your uncle Matt, won’t you?’

  Looking after Charlotte for the first half of the day was easy. At four she was at the kind of age where she pretty much amused herself and all I had to do was deal with the odd request for a drink and make sure she didn’t get up to anything too dangerous. I took her to Mum and Dad’s for lunch, which both my parents enjoyed – in fact, so much that my mum and I were nearly at peace. When I watched my dad talking to her I was surprised by how at ease he was. After lunch, according to the schedule, it was nap time for Charlotte, so I took her back to Gershwin and Zoë’s. When she woke up about an hour later we played a couple of rounds of Hungry Hippo, and watched a bit of TV. At about four o’clock she tired of that, and that was when I realised there was more to this child-raising malarkey than met the eye. Charlotte’s attention span had reduced to approximately ten minutes, and when she needed entertaining she needed it badly. I wandered through the house looking for inspiration.

  Growing up, Gershwin had been fanatical about music and had a vinyl record collection of around a thousand albums. Looking through the flat, however, it was nowhere to be seen, even though he still had a turntable on his hi-fi set-up. He had a few CDs but the death of vinyl and his hurtling into adulthood must have coincided with a loss of interest in music because all his CDs were crap. I’d seen this syndrome before in other friends and it was always the same: people who had been fanatical about m
usic in their teens and early twenties suddenly had no time to listen to it because of work. Then they got married or shacked up with a girlfriend and their record collections were either deported to their parents’ house or removed to the loft because they didn’t fit in with the décor. My guess was that Gershwin had hidden his in the loft because I knew his dad had turned his old bedroom into a study the second that Gershwin had moved out. Realising that this was an opportunity both to educate and entertain Charlotte, I grabbed a chair from Gershwin and Zoë’s bedroom, and used it to manoeuvre myself into their loft while keeping a careful eye on Charlotte – which was difficult. As I rummaged around I got covered in dust and dirt but finally my hunch paid off. Among the debris of his youth – an old Commodore 64 computer still in its box, an Atari games console, several old pairs of trainers, his large collection of Second World War books – were his records. They were packed in neatly labelled boxes that evidently hadn’t been touched in years. I grabbed a box and took it down to show Charlotte.

  ‘Do you know what these are?’ I asked her.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Records,’ I replied.

  ‘What do they do?’ she asked.

  ‘You know what CDs are?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, they’re old-fashioned versions of those.’

  Intrigued, Charlotte attempted to take an album from the box but she couldn’t manage it, so I pulled it out and handed it to her. ‘Do you know who that is?’ I said, pointing to the cover.