The Old Romantic

by Louise Dean

  When she moaned over breakfast about putting on weight and getting old, Laura asked her a question.

  ‘Will you still love Nick when he’s bald and wrinkly and a fat-guts? Even worse than he is now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ And Laura gave her trademark eye roll to make her point clear.

  Stay in bed and be cheerful, was the advice Nick gave Astrid when he joined her in the bathroom. She’d leant over the sink to brush her teeth and seen the shadow of her long eyelashes in the porcelain and been briefly happy. Then, straightening, she saw in the mirror the bags under her eyes that she knew nothing but a blepharoplasty could mend.

  Chapter 36

  Ed Crozier’s country pile was something of a surprise. It was a 1970s A-shaped home that narrowly avoided being a semi – by about three feet. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a suburban area outside Banbury. It was unbelievably modest for a lawyer of his income.

  ‘Blimey.’ Astrid’s face fell. Her first thought was for her luggage. She’d not taken the label out of the cashmere cardigan; it would be going back on Monday!

  There was a Swingball stuck into the small front lawn, the garage door was perched up above its opening unevenly, and under it was an old Volvo estate with a motto sticker in the back window. They parked up behind it and approached the house via crazy paving leading to a front door that bore a sign with an arrow pointing to the side door. The house number next to it was given in faux-brass adhesive lettering. Astrid felt a surge of nausea.

  They passed round the side of the house, along the fence, taking in the smell of creosote and pine and bad bins. The lantern by the side door was missing its black hat and bulb and was full of dead wasps.

  When Nick pushed the door, there came from the interior the smell of burning toast and the racket of children firing toy guns and shouting. He and Astrid put bright insincere faces into the door space. Two boys were kneeling on the kitchen floor, the linoleum-covered kitchen floor. One was hiding behind a multi-tiered plastic vegetable stand, which scattered dead onion leaves when the kid shook it. When he saw the two of them standing there, he leapt up and screamed ‘Dah!’ and both boys bolted into the hallway beyond.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, turn it down,’ was the cry from upstairs. Charlotte came downstairs in a bathrobe and bare feet. ‘Oh, hi there! Good timing! I’m gagging for a drink!’

  They handed Charlotte their two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, the bunch of white lilies, the Jo Malone gift box, and the truckle of organic stilton, which she thanked them for and left on top of the microwave oven and didn’t bother with further.

  ‘Slush, we call it,’ she said, taking a jug from the fridge along with two highball glasses from the dishwasher and filling them to the brim. She handed them one each. ‘It’s a secret recipe. So secret I can’t remember what the hell’s in it.’ She poured herself one into a tumbler by the sink, touched their glasses with a ‘Cheers’, drank off a good gulp, then dragged herself upstairs, holding on to the rail and leaning and calling for Ed.

  All they could deduce concerning the ‘slush’ was that it was red and contained gin.

  ‘Not quite what I expected,’ Astrid said to the side of her glass.

  ‘No, nor me,’ he replied. ‘Bottoms up.’

  Ed came down after a few minutes, shaking the rafters with his agitated jog. She had seen the drinking-club photo of him in their shed; his waistcoat struggled to hold him even then, but where he’d been perhaps florid, he was now full-on jowls and paunch. His wife followed. They both wore T-shirts, hers with his chambers’ logo on them, his with a large Nike logo on it. He wore cords, she sweatpants.

  Assembled as a four, leaning against kitchen counters, they polished off one pitcher of slush, and then another. Their conversation proceeded from one reliable convention to another, from Marmite to reminiscences along the lines of beef tea, junket and blancmange and on to the ha’penny in the Christmas pudding. There was a brief foray into figgy pudding, a detour made into the outrageous cost of dentistry, and on they went through the various agreeability of sedatives, the merits of laughing gas, some shared experience of helium, and thence to the subject where all middle-class middle-aged folk meet each other in drink – their former use of recreational drugs.

  When they at last sat down at the pine table and ate the sloppy lasagne with huge glasses of warm white wine, they were half-cut and keen, and the two chaps recalled for Astrid’s benefit their meeting.

  ‘He was fiddling with that effing cafetière in the communal kitchen. He had these gold-rimmed dark green coffee cups. Sort of octagonal-shaped. Continental. By God, he’d come prepared. Then he meets a duffer like me, and I wouldn’t know one end of “a press”, as he called it, from another. And! And! There was an espresso machine the next year when we were in digs on Mill Road. If you please! Bloody thing. It dribbled out cold muck. And of course he smoked Marlboro Reds to impress the girls. Do you remember?’ He clasped the side of his old pal’s arm. ‘Do you remember, matey boy, how we watched that bloody Withnail and I over and over again, didn’t we? As if we’d ever end up so sodding arty-farty, or anything remotely close to romantic failures! Look at us. Utterly bloody predictable. Me barrister, you solicitor. What a surprise! Hey, remember old Timmy Taylor? “Hopeless Failure” we called him, right from the start, and that’s the way it worked out. You had to be a complete moron to mess anything up when you’d come through the system like us. All roads lead to Rome. Yes, old Timmy was the only one who screwed up the bar exams, and only a complete twat fails them.’

  He was becoming rather muscle-bound by his expletives, and the use of ‘twat’ seemed momentarily to cause him to seize up. His eyes bulged.

  Charlotte had left the dirty plates on the table and barged from counter to counter in the kitchen. Astrid was astounded that she opened two cans of custard – Tesco’s own label! – with a tin opener, right in front of them, shamelessly, and then microwaved the contents in a jug. Their three boys swooped to claim their portions of crumble and custard. They were clad in pyjama bottoms and hoodies and wellies. She served them each a portion in mismatching bowls.

  There was no cheese course.

  And when Dozie went for another bottle, Charlotte told him to bring the choccy and he did so, tossing it on to the table, and Charlotte broke off great triangles of Toblerone to offer them. As they sat there gnawing, she told them about some of the stranger goings-on at the residential home where she worked.

  Some people become drunk in a moment, as if having a stroke, and of a sudden, Dozie’s eyes lost expression and the lower half of his face lost purpose. His mouth carried on without him.

  ‘Ah! The hangovers were legendary. We used to go and drink Bloodies in Browns on a Sunday. Course it was all new to us, the drinking thing. Pretty much everyone took to it, though. Apart from the Chinese. The damage we did! Remember sleeping on the bench in Parker’s Piece? Setting off the fire alarm on J staircase? Pinning old Jockstrap to the lawn with croquet hoops? What a life. Crashing the John’s ball. This one here put on a wetsuit and swam to it. I walked in the front door with a pair of maracas, claiming to be part of the band. And then there was going to the Joshua Wiley do and just going missing from life for three whole days.’

  ‘If you couldn’t pull at the Joshua Wiley, you were Vic the Virgin.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Charlotte began telling Astrid what a terrible job she’d had to reform Ed from his high table manners and Cambridge pretensions into a normal human being. God gave men and women two ears for different reasons: men used them for balance, but Astrid was listening to two conversations at once. She was paying due courtesy to Charlotte, but more crucially following what the boys were saying, listening out for women’s names.

  ‘Remember Hairy Mary, Nick . . .’

  ‘Who was she?’ Astrid intercepted.

  ‘Oh, nobody.’

  Dozie carried on, sentimental in the droop of his eyes, fervent in the roll of his rhet
oric. ‘What became of them anyway? What became of those cunts we so wanted to be like, the ones with their Eton socks and curls, the ones with their famous daddies and saddle-arsed mummies: accountants, bankers, management consultants? Lawyers. Like us. Well, bugger me. Was that really the pinnacle of achievement, or ambition, or desire? With all those advantages they had over us? Oh, I expect they’ve had a few more gang bangs, more five-star holidays, a sod sight more days at the races, maybe even one or two police cautions.’ He stalled. He closed an eye. ‘But have they got a cunning plan? Have they got a plan at all, mate? Ask yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know. Have they?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Everyone needs an exit strategy, chum.’ Ed leant on his elbows, fixing Nick with all he had in the way of focus. ‘We’ve got no mortgage, she and I, we’ve got no debt. Nothing. We’ve got savings. And I’m going to retire in five years, and spend time with her over there, that drunk there, my wife, yes her, doing whatever the fuck I like.’ He risked a variance of facial expression and hit upon a smile. ‘Or whatever she likes,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘Good for you, mate.’

  ‘Because, because, she is my best friend. Her there. She is a man’s best friend. Not a dog. No, not a dog. The dog’s an animal. The woman’s not an animal, is she? She’s something else. She’s something different. Different to us.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Quite, quite different.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Nick decided it was time for bed; Ed was exceeding himself, and things would only go further downhill. They did.

  ‘And you, mate, you’re my best friend. The best friend a man could have. And a man needs a friend. More than he does a dog. But not as much as he needs a woman.’

  ‘No.’ No.

  ‘No, but almost. You know.’ Ed rested an arm around his shoulders. ‘We go back. You and I. We go back. Loyalty, that’s the thing.’

  Nick yawned and stretched. Astrid looked over at him as he rose. ‘Time for bed,’ he said. ’I’m all done in. How about you, honey?’

  They left the couple à table with a new bottle of wine opened, and took the stairs on all fours like mountain goats, and it was with his face to her backside, halfway up the stairs, that Nick decided to propose.

  They made it to the spare room, after popping their heads in two others, and lay on the guest bed fully clothed, hand in hand.

  ‘There’s been a lot of talk of marriage of late . . .’ he began.

  ‘No, there hasn’t.’

  ‘There has. Certainly there has . . .’

  ‘Who’s been talking about marriage?’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There comes a time in a man’s life . . . I mean . . . let me make it clear first that, although I’ve had a lot to drink, I’m not drunk.’ He rolled off the bed and hit the floor.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He reappeared with his chin on the covers. ‘That was intentional.’

  ‘Nick, I feel a bit sick. I hope I’m not going to throw up. Do you think the bed will be clean?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I hope it’s not crispy. The bed.’ She rolled to face him. They were nose to nose.

  ‘Well, stay on top of the covers then.’

  ‘I’m all for grubby – you know, good for her, and all that – but not when it comes to beds. She should get her roots done. Don’t you think? Did you notice? There’s no excuse for grey these days, none at all. ’

  ‘Astrid, I’m down here for a reason.’

  She offered him her hands to help him up.

  ‘Look, listen to me, just listen a minute. Astrid. I sort of think it might be time for us to get married. And anyway, why not? You know, what with the house and everything, it makes sense, and well, look, anyway, why not? We might as well. It might work out. It does for some people, and we’re pretty steady sort of people, aren’t we, nowadays? I mean, I’m not up for nightclubs and bars any more and neither are you. We’re past all that. We might as well get old together.’

  She rolled away and lay back, head on pillow, feet crossed at the end of the bed, nose in the air.

  ‘Well? Astrid?’

  She put her hands behind her head. ‘All right.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘You’ve taken so long about it, Nick. You should have asked me ages ago. It would have been better if you’d done it in the beginning. More romantic. But still, I suppose you finally got there.’

  ‘I was thinking how you, you’re my best friend . . . we’re best mates, you and I . . . we like the same things to eat, and we like the same programmes, don’t we? Relocation, Relocation, and all that. We like that stuff and . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t make it any worse, Nick.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘What you should say is – Christ, I can’t believe I’m having to tell you this. You should ask me, shouldn’t you? You should say – God, I can’t believe I’m having to spell it out – will you marry me?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Say it then.’

  ‘I will marry you, Astrid.’

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot, you are. Oh, Nick,’ she said, moving her head. ‘It really pongs. The pillow.’

  ‘Pongs! The old man used to say that: Cor, dunnit pong in ’ere?’ he said thickly, lying down beside her, feeling for her hand. ‘We’ll just sleep on top of the covers. We’ve got love to keep us warm.’

  ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 37

  I should have turned the mobile off, was Nick’s first thought that Sunday morning.

  ‘WHERE ARE YOU THEN?’

  ‘What?’

  The electric alarm clock with its red numbers hurt his eyes. 6.15.

  ‘Where are you then?’

  Astrid rolled towards him. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Ken.’

  ‘Oh God, no.’ She rolled back the other way.

  ‘What is it, Dad? Is something wrong?’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t feel right.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  There was a pause, then, ‘I’m lonely.’

  ‘Can we talk about it in a couple of hours’ time?’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Well, if it’s just a matter of feeling a bit down, why do you have to call me at six in the morning?’

  ‘Because I need you.’

  He said nothing. Then came the old man’s querulous voice, and in the background the cry of the seagull.

  ‘You still there, Nick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you then?’

  ‘At a friend’s in Oxfordshire. With Astrid.’

  ‘’Ave you called your mother?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Busy? Busy?’ Nick held the phone at a distance from his ear, recoiling from the noise. ‘Too busy to call your own mother? What’s wrong with ya? Time’s not on my side, sunshine. Now you listen to me, big’ead.’

  ‘Don’t start . . .’

  ‘You call her and you call her now! She’s your mother!’

  ‘I’m not calling anyone at six in the morning.’

  ‘You call her and you tell her you’re coming to see ’er and you tell her we’re all coming to see her, that’s what I need you to do. Now you give me your word you’ll do it. You’ve been nothing but a disappointment. Not so much as a bleeding card on my birthd’y. You might think you’re something, son, but I tell you what . . .’

  He turned the phone off.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ said Astrid. But he wouldn’t sleep again now. This was the way a hangover always got him: guilt.

  It was a matter of seconds before he said, ‘I’ve got to give up drinking.’ Normally he said it around midday. Astrid made no reply.

  ‘I’ve got to start getting some exercise.’ Still she said nothing.

  ‘We’ve got to stop all this.’

&
nbsp; ‘All this what?’

  ‘Fun.’

  ‘Sleep . . .’ she said greedily, ‘sleep now.’

  Maybe getting married will help, he thought, treading down the stairs gingerly.

  He found Ed in the kitchen. Wearing a hotel-issue white bathrobe, he turned to Nick with the faintest smile and said,

  ‘Just the man. Make the coffee, pal. Feel rough as guts.’ He resumed his dinner seat, pushing the plates away from him.

  ‘Can’t bear to look at them now. I said to her, to the missus, Come on, let’s do some shots. And she tricked me. I did mine but she passed out. So, who is it that calls you at six in the morning?’

  ‘My father. Sorry.’

  ‘Ah, Ken,’ said Ed, ruminatively. ‘Poor old Ken.’ He picked at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘To be honest, he’s been a right thorn in my side lately.’ Nick brought over their coffees. With mugs warming their

  cold hands, they sat at the table side by side and squeamishly counted the bottles from last night on the table and on the counters.

  ‘Eight. You?’

  ‘Nine. There’s a dead one in the sink. Two and a half each.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘The girls will have had one and a half each, which means we had three apiece.’

  ‘Just like old times.’

  ‘Hardly. This is high living. It was always spag bol and a two-litre bottle of red.’

  ‘That’s right. Mince fried in canned tomatoes. That was as far as our culinary skills stretched. God, I’d love to spark up a fag now, wouldn’t you?’ Ed sighed. ‘How is your old man then?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen him in years, then he starts calling me out of the blue just before Christmas. Off his rocker. Silly old shit. First of all they’re silent calls, then he starts abusing me, calling me all the names under the sun. Astrid didn’t know what to make of it. I’d sort of avoided the subject of my family, you know. I’d just said to her we didn’t get on, that was all. Anyway, Dave calls me and says the old man’s at death’s door, so I give in and agree to have a sort of family reunion, and we go to meet for lunch at Dave’s and it turns out he’s leaving everything to my brother