Which meant of course that it fell to poor, long-suffering Bernard to cover for him. He’d willingly agreed to do it of course, all for one and all that, but now was vaguely starting to regret it somewhat. Mainly because taking over Jasper’s students in addition to his own meant not only having to prepare at short notice an in-depth tutorial on Italian Etruscan art in the second century B.C. – which had never been Bernard’s strongest subject – but also having to correct a grand total of thirty-seven undergraduate essays on the subject too. True to his word though, this was exactly what Bernard was now attempting to do, holed up in his tiny, wood-panelled office on the third floor of the college’s Art History department.
‘No wonder our course tutor is single, he actually looks like a vole’ was one comment scribbled across an essay by a fresher student. Despite himself, Bernard couldn’t help smiling a little, because this was indeed a highly accurate description of Jasper.
‘I’m only here because I couldn’t get the points to get into law’, was scrawled across another, which Bernard instantly marked with a D and tossed to one side. ‘Why am I writing an essay on this boring crap when I could be outside in the sunshine playing football?’ another fresher had scribbled across the back page of his offering, and for a split second, Bernard could actually empathise with the poor chap. It was well past seven in the evening and here he was still cooped up in this stuffy little room, effectively doing a colleague’s work for him, while it felt that the rest of the world had all gone out to play.
From the window directly behind his desk, Bernard could clearly hear the thwacking noise of a cricket bat pummelling a ball and envied the spectators, all stretched happily on the lawns outside, sipping strange-coloured cocktails and looking utterly at peace with the world. Then his thoughts turned to the talk at his club tonight that in all likelihood he’d now have to miss, which was particularly vexing as it was one he’d been looking forward to as well.
It was to be given by a noted TV historian who Bernard greatly admired on the subject of the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. Quite his favourite subject too. However, there was no option now but to forgo that pleasure, he thought, feeling distinctly peeved about the whole thing. Just then, his phone rang and, glad of the distraction, he answered right away.
‘Hello, sweetie, it’s Mother,’ said Beatrice to the recognisable background noise of ice clinking in a glass she was whirling around with her free hand.
‘Hello, Mummy, how are you?’ said Bernard. ‘I can’t talk for long, I’m afraid, I’m still stuck in work.’
‘Oh how very annoying for you. I thought you were going to hear Dr David Harrison speak at the club tonight? I know your father is already on his way there, he’s greatly looking forward to it.’
‘Duty calls, I’m afraid.’
‘Well as a matter of fact,’ Beatrice went on, pausing to take a gulp of her G&T. ‘Duty is precisely the reason why I’m calling you.’
‘Oh, really?’ Bernard asked, utterly at a loss.
‘It’s about this accursed evening that’s been planned for Saturday night. At Tess’s family’s house, you know, darling.’
‘Oh,’ said Bernard, actually glad of the reminder himself. He’d been so bogged down in work, he’d temporarily forgotten all about it and for some reason Tess hadn’t mentioned it much either. But then Tess had been so caught up with jury service that she appeared to have time for little else these days. And being brutally honest, the way Bernard felt just now, if she’d decided to call off Saturday night, he’d have raised absolutely no arguments whatsoever with her.
A ‘sten night’ apparently such gatherings were called, which was an Americanism that Bernard personally loathed, but of course he’d said nothing. Tess had reassured him the idea was that all close wedding guests came together for a lovely informal celebratory party, just weeks away from the wedding.
Back when the idea was first mooted some months ago, she’d been the driving force behind the whole idea, as it meant guests would already have met before the wedding, thereby eliminating the need for stilted small talk with complete strangers on the big day. And considering that the idea of an actual stag night was complete anathema to Bernard, he’d been prepared to go along with just about anything that meant he could side-step that ghastly tradition of grooms-to-be being handcuffed to lampposts in Temple Bar. Although somehow the idea of any of his friends from the club or from the college ever setting foot in Temple Bar almost made him smile at the sheer ridiculousness of it.
‘So what’s the problem with Saturday, Mummy?’ Bernard asked.
‘Oh, darling. There isn’t really a problem per se, except that I’ve only just had a good look at the invitation and it seems the whole affair is to be hosted by the Taylors, at their home and … well …’
‘Yes?’ said Bernard, correctly anticipating exactly what she was about to say.
‘Well do your father and I really need to be there, dearest? Tess is a very sweet girl, you know, but as for the rest of her family … let’s just say that Daddy and I feel there isn’t really much common ground between us. If you know what I mean.’
As it happened, Bernard knew exactly what she meant, but ever loyal, he said nothing.
‘And you know, all your mutual friends will be there too, so it’s hardly like you’ll miss a pair of old codgers like us, now is it?’
‘I completely understand,’ said Bernard kindly. ‘But you know—’
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Beatrice, sounding infinitely relieved. ‘To be perfectly honest, I was actually starting to dread the whole ghastly idea. I know I mustn’t say anything unkind about your in-laws-to-be, but it’s such a dreary chore finding anything to discuss with them, isn’t it? Do you know that Tess’s father actually told me that he’d only ever read one book in his whole life? A thriller of some sort. And he claimed it was so good that he never bothered reading any other, as it couldn’t possibly match up. I mean really, what does one even say to that? I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘Of course I understand how you feel,’ said Bernard, aware that he was treading a particularly fine line here. ‘But really, you and Dad need only appear at the party for about an hour or so. Now that’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘Hmm,’ said Beatrice doubtfully. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s just the Taylors will have gone to considerable trouble and the last thing we’d want would be to appear rude. Duty calls and all that.’
‘Duty,’ she groaned, like he’d just played his trump card. ‘That bloody word gives me heartburn.’
‘But for now I’m afraid I really must get back to work, Mummy,’ said Bernard. ‘One hour of your time, Mummy, that’s all, then you can consider yourself fully excused from Saturday evening.’
‘Well if we really must,’ Beatrice sighed resignedly. ‘I suppose we’ll just offer it up and do it for you, sweetheart.’
‘Good. I know they’ll appreciate it.’
‘Well, if we must, we must. Alright then, big hugs and see you for dinner before the weekend. I’ve got some boiled tripe in, your absolute favourite.’
Bernard hung up, dearly wishing that he could miraculously back out of Saturday himself. Not that Tess’s friends weren’t absolutely delightful. It’s just that they were all so very young and so full of energy, with their constant stream of chatter about TV shows he’d never heard of and bands with names that sounded borderline obscene to him. They were always talking about clubs and bars that were alien to him and which they’d all doubtless head off to after Saturday’s party.
His own tight little group of chums, on the other hand, he knew would be perfectly polite to everyone at this sten night, then as soon as would be deemed acceptable, would want to leave the party nice and early to go back to the club for a lovely gentle nightcap. And Bernard knew exactly which group he’d far prefer to be with.
Suddenly aware that he was feeling quite peckish, he checked his watch and realised he hadn’t eaten since a light snack a
t teatime. There was a brown paper lunch bag on the sideboard opposite him; one Tess had very thoughtfully put a packed meal into a few days previously. Most kind of her and all that, but Bernard had taken one peek inside and decided he’d far prefer to sneak off to McDonald’s for a Quarter Pounder with cheese – a snack which he was becoming increasingly partial to these days.
So much so that Tess had begun to notice. Already on more than one occasion she’d remarked that for someone who was trying to lose weight, he was seriously starting to pile on the pounds again.
‘Bernard,’ she’d said to him just a few weeks back. ‘Are you starting to fasten your belt a notch wider these days, by any chance?’
‘What? Oh, no, no, good God absolutely not!’ he’d automatically lied, the guilt flooding over him almost overwhelming. ‘Doubtless just a little … erm … water retention, that’s all.’
‘You think you’re retaining water?’
‘Well, I have been drinking two litres of the confounded stuff a day, as you recommended, my sausage, so there you go!’ he’d answered brightly, hoping that he’d got away with it.
Hauling himself up from his desk, Bernard chanced peeking inside the lunch bag again, just in case there was anything remotely edible in there at all which he could salvage. Two packets of what looked like bird seed, an apple which was starting to rot and a wilting salad made with something called quinoa, and which to Bernard tasted exactly like cardboard.
‘Oh this is just ludicrous,’ he said out loud, packing up the remainder of the essays he’d been correcting and deciding he could always finish them at home later on in the evening. He’d stay up all night if he had too, but right now no grown man could possibly carry on working on an empty stomach.
An hour later, fully back to his usual good humour after the most delightful Chicken McNuggets with fries (large) and a chocolate sundae to follow, Bernard decided to take a gentle stroll as far as his club. The lecture he’d been so looking forward to was long over by now, but still, there was always the temptation of a lovely soothing glass of sherry after such an arduous day.
At the club bar, he bumped into Edgar and Dickie, two old chums of his from his schooldays back at St Gerald’s. Both confirmed bachelors and remarkably contented to be so, Bernard often thought.
‘Ahh now here’s the soon to be condemned man!’ Edgar greeted him warmly with a pat on the back.
‘All ready for the off?’ said Dickie. ‘Not long to go now before you’re entered into the marriage stakes!’
‘Let’s have a little toast to you,’ said Edgar, motioning to the barman, who without even having to be asked, immediately brought over three large sherries.
‘Let’s raise a glass to Bernard’s last few weeks as a stodgy old bachelor like ourselves!’ said Dickie.
‘Yes, absolutely, here’s to what remains of the bachelor life for you!’ said Edgar, clinking glasses.
Well there you have it, Bernard thought, suddenly feeling terribly sorry for himself as he half-heartedly clinked glasses with the boys.
Goodbye to his bachelor life.
Cheers indeed.
TESS
The present
‘So come on then, Tess,’ says Will. ‘You owe me at least one of all these “long stories” that you keep being so secretive about. Can I remind you that I just made you dinner? And OK, so you only picked around the edges of it, but still. Quid pro quo and all that. Now come on, spill.’
We’re sitting out on his balcony, having just finished the last of a gorgeous impromptu penne pasta with garlicky tomatoes and basil that he appeared to rustle up out of a near-empty fridge. It’s one of those rare, beautiful, almost Mediterranean-like spring evenings too. Right beside us the sun is just setting over the Marker Hotel, and the canal water five floors beneath looks so pristine clean and sparkling that you’d be half tempted to chance your arm and jump in for a swim.
I could be absolutely anywhere, I think. This feels exactly like being in the South of France or somewhere exotic like that. This feels like taking a break from all the stresses of the real world. This really feels like holidays.
Will tops up my glass of fizzy water, reaching over to a bottle he’s placed into a cooler beside him. And for my part I gratefully let him, not having felt this relaxed and chilled in I can’t remember how long.
‘So out with it,’ he says, still waiting on an answer, ‘and enough with your secrecy, Greta Garbo. Storytelling is kind of my line of work and I can faithfully promise you, I’m a particularly attentive audience.’
The black eyes are dancing back at me from across the table and I know right well he’s not going to let this go.
‘Alright then,’ I say. ‘Any particular long story you’d like to hear first?’
‘Well, how about why you felt so sick earlier? Sounds like as good a place as any to start.’
‘It’s not what you’re thinking anyway,’ I tell him, rolling my eyes.
‘What was I thinking?’
‘Oh, I dunno. That I could be pregnant maybe? Because let me tell you, I’m one hundred per cent definitely not.’
‘Thought never crossed my mind,’ he says with a tiny smile, folding his arms. ‘So come on then, what brought it all on? Tummy bug maybe?’
‘You have no idea,’ I sigh, taking another sip of water. ‘It’s just all of this wedding stuff is really getting on top of me, the big day is getting closer and closer, there’s still so much to do and … oh God, every time I even think about it, I really do feel physically ill.’
‘Ooo-kay,’ he says thoughtfully, and come to think of it, now that I articulate the thought, it really doesn’t sound great when said aloud: bride-to-be vomits publicly on the street with three weeks to go till the final countdown.
‘Any chance we can change the subject?’ I ask a bit weakly.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you’d like. Subject change. Great. Good idea.’
‘Ask me about something else. Anything else.’
‘Well,’ he says, stretching his long legs out in front of him, ‘you mentioned that you were back living at home again.’
‘And just when I was starting to relax,’ I groan back at him playfully.
He doesn’t say anything to that though and now a silence falls between us, broken only by a gang of giggly women down on Grand Canal Square beneath us, squealing like dolphins as if they’ve just met up and haven’t seen each other in decades.
‘Let me guess, because of … maybe a bit of money trouble?’ he said softly, misinterpreting my thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. I know I certainly have.’
‘Oh now would you just listen to the poor little rich boy,’ I grin back. ‘You’re here living the bachelor boy dream in penthouse luxury, and you expect me to believe that you know what it’s like to be smashed broke?’
‘In fairness, this is all quite recent, you know,’ he says, gesturing around him. ‘I was only able to afford the deposit on a place like this when my books started to sell. Before then, life was very different, I can tell you.’
‘Always great to hear a home grown success story.’
‘Modesty prevails me from describing myself as a success story. And believe me, I know exactly how lucky I’ve been.’
‘So … what was it like for you before your books took off?’
‘How long have you got?’ he says, rolling his head back and running his hands through the dark head of hair. ‘Take it from me, Tess, that until I changed careers, I had more than my fair share of wondering where the next mortgage payment was going to come from.’
‘And what did you work at back in your old life?’
‘I worked for a software development company.’
‘Fancy job.’
‘No, not particularly. I wasn’t very good at it. I certainly wasn’t happy and it came as no surprise to anyone, least of all me, when they eventually let me go.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. ‘That must have been a hor
rendous time for you.’
‘Certainly was. In fact, I often think that’s probably what started to put such a major strain on my marriage. My ex used to say that love goes out the door very quickly once financial pressure creeps in. And she wasn’t wrong there either. I can tell you that from bitter experience.’
Silence while we both digest this for a bit.
‘Although in spite of my romantic history,’ he adds, ‘I’d like to think that I’m not quite that cynical at heart. Even if I do happen to write about death, murder, blood and revenge for a living.’
It’s a strain to keep my mouth buttoned up, but truth be told I’m itching to ask all about the ex-wife and what exactly happened. Call it the Rebecca factor. But Will clams up and very annoyingly doesn’t drip-feed me anything more on the subject.
‘So how did you get in to writing then?’ I ask, steering the chat onto slightly safer ground.
‘Ah, now there’s a question,’ he says with a lazy smile. ‘Where do I start? Chance, fate and sheer good fortune, really. Though like a lot of the best things in life, it didn’t seem quite like that at the time.’
‘What happened?’
‘Excuse me, but aren’t we meant to be talking about you?’
‘You first, you’re the host.’
‘Alright then, you asked for it,’ he says, focusing straight ahead across the balcony and onto the water’s edge beneath.
‘So, about seven years ago just after I lost my job, I found myself stuck at home all day with absolutely nothing to do. And as you can imagine, I was slowly going out of my mind. Audrey – that’s my ex – was only working part-time too, and money was tight as hell for us. Anyway, I started writing short stories, mainly to keep myself sane really.’
Ah. So she’s called Audrey.
‘Jesus, Tess,’ he grins broadly, turning back to face me. ‘I can read you like a book. In fact you, my dear, are easier to read than the front page of The Chronicle.’
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