“Oh, now you’re talking,” said Matt, taking the glass from Oscar’s outstretched hand. He’d found the remote and put on the TV.
“I love basketball. American sports are so much more exciting, don’t you think? They take themselves so seriously.”
There then followed a question and answer session regarding all manner of sports ranging from darts to ice hockey, snooker to potholing.
“OK. Who won the 1999 Davis Cup?” Matt asked
“Oh, that’s easy. Australia.”
“OK,” Matt conceded, “Well, who are the only women to have ever won the Grand Slam?”
Oscar liked tennis and had religiously watched Wimbledon since boyhood. He knew Steffi Graff had won Wimbledon in 1998 and he was sure only one other woman had won all four major tournaments in the same year, but what was her name? Damn!
“Have to hurry you,” Matt said annoyingly, toying with his remaining chips.
“Damn. I know this. Her name was Connolly, Marjorie, Miriam, no, no, Maureen Connolly. In the fifties.”
“Well done. Which year?”
“Dunno. Fifty four, fifty five?”
“Nearly. Fifty three. So, only one woman has won it?”
“No. Two. Steffi Graff in ninety eight.”
“Correct,” Matt acknowledged.
Matt’s tone meant there was at least one other. Oscar racked his brain, nope; no-one came to mind. Sixties, nope, seventies, didn’t think so, eighties, no way, nineties definitely not, all the way up to present day, no.
“In the seventies?” he hazarded a guess.
“What year?
“I don’t know,” Oscar spat out exasperated. “But it is the seventies?”
“Yip.”
“Gimme a clue.”
“It’s a big clue, but the only one I can think of,” said Matt. “Her surname was double barrelled.”
“Oh, oh, I know this. Margaret, damn, it was early seventies.”
Matt nodded vigorously.
“Nope. It’s not coming to me. Oh! Court something.”
“Nearly,” Matt egged him on, “but it’s something Court, not Court something.”
Realisation dawned and Oscar jumped up, whisky spilling over the edge of his glass, “Margaret Smith Court!”
“Correct!”
“OK, my turn,” Oscar started, “who won the Monaco Grand Prix in 1977?”
“Em, jeez you’re going back a bit. I like Formula One, but it’s not something I’m up on.”
“Too bad. Anyway, you chose the seventies for the last question, so it’s your own fault.”
“Was it us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it a British team that won?”
“I’m thinking driver, not team,” Oscar clarified.
“OK, was he English?”
“No, but he spoke English.”
“Well or badly?”
“Native tongue.”
“Oh, oh, that South African dude, Jamie….”
“No.”
“No, not Jamie, Jody, Jody Scheckter,” Matt announced triumphantly.
“Might’ve been,” replied Oscar.
“It was. He won it the year after Niki Lauda.”
“Yes, you’re right, but did you know that Niki won it the year before that too?”
“Yup.”
They covered more sports than they were even aware they knew of. Whisky glasses were filled and re-filled, until Oscar woke up, glass in hand, lying on some scatter cushions. They were a tad wet, from the whisky which had sloshed out of his glass. He looked at the display on the DVD player. It seemed to be mocking him in its brightness. He didn’t feel too bright himself. As he got up, he almost fell over the prone form of Matt, who was lying arms out as if making a snow angel. He was snoring his head off. The room stank of stale booze. It was half past five. Oscar had to go to work in under two hours. What to do with Matt?
Deciding to forget about Matt temporarily, Oscar shuffled into the ensuite. Turning on the power shower, he searched for a fluffy bath sheet to dry himself when he got back out, if he ever got back out.
Oscar tried to bring himself back to life. Now he remembered why he didn’t do alcohol. He couldn’t handle it. He flew out of the shower cubicle and hurled down the toilet pan. Sinking to his knees, he threw up, again and again, until nothing remained of last night’s greasy fish supper. He felt like shit. Back in the shower, he tried to put his brain into work mode, but it wouldn’t go. It was melted. His tongue felt like pond algae. He wanted to brush his teeth, but felt so nauseous; he honestly thought he’d throw up again. After about half an hour, he decided he had to get out of the shower. He stumbled around the bedroom, really having to concentrate to remember what he was doing. Why was he in his sock drawer? He already had socks on. Oh, he meant to go into the wardrobe to look for a tie. He put back the t-shirt that he had pulled out.
It was a good while before he felt presentable. On the way back to the lounge, he fell over one of Matt’s shoes. How on earth did it get into the hall? Then he remembered they had been bowling with shoes and empty beer cans. They only had eight pins though, as they had mainly drunk whisky, but that didn’t ruin their enjoyment. He looked around the detritus in the living room and at Matt, who hadn’t moved a muscle. He left him a note and a spare key, saying “Matt, pls put through letter box when you leave. I’ve got to get to work. Feel free to have a shower and some brekky. Good catching up. Oscar.”
With any luck the walk to the pub would wake him up.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Fortunately the morning sped past. Oscar’s team sensed he needed time to himself. He was just starting to feel better around lunchtime, when his mobile rang. Gaby.
“Hi honey. How are you?”
“Don’t you hi honey me! What the fuck is going on?”
“What do you mean?” Oscar asked, surprised at her attack.
“I come home early….”
Oscar didn’t hear the end of the sentence. He knew this couldn’t be good. The lounge was a mess. He hadn’t cleared up, because Matt was still asleep.
“Honey, I can explain.”
“Explain! Explain why there’s some guy I’ve never met, in my shower?”
Ah. Timing wasn’t the best for the shower, Matt. “That was Matt.”
“Matt who? What the fuck is he doing in my shower?”
“He’s a mate. I hadn’t seen him for ages.”
Gaby didn’t let him finish, “So, you haven’t seen him for ages and I find him in our shower! Oh and since I thought it was you, I opened the cubicle to surprise you. Instead, some other guy’s tadger was looking out at me. And for the record,” Gaby yelled, “it was far bigger than yours.”
Ouch! Take that one on the chin, Oscar, she’s just angry.
“I wasn’t expecting you back early,” came his lame response.
“Oh, so when the cat’s away, the mouse will play, is it?”
“We just had a few beers,” Oscar continued.
“Eight to be precise and a full bottle of whisky.”
“Well now, that’s not fair, Gaby, there was a little out of it already.”
“I don’t care,” she roared. “And you left this guy in our house? Someone you haven’t seen for ages? He could have robbed the place.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“You let me walk in on a complete stranger, in my own bloody shower, in my own damn house!”
“Well, yes, now you put it like that, I can understand why you are upset,” conceded Oscar.
“Understand why I’m upset? You had better believe I’m upset. The whole house stinks of stale alcohol and sweaty men. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“Are you gay?”
“Am I what?” Oscar spluttered.
“Gay, you know, homosexual, batting for the other side, lover of men,” Gaby continued.
“No, no, no and no! Are you crazy?” Oscar was emphatic
and then realised he shouldn’t have said crazy.
“Crazy? Yes, that’s me, crazy bitch. I’m not the one who gives our spare key to a total stranger. Anyway, I might be mad, in fact you can bet I’m mad, but I’m not crazy.”
She was sounding crazier with every passing second, Oscar thought.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Oscar was penitent.
“Sorry is not going to cut it, Oscar. I am sick of this. You don’t spend any time with me, but you can go out and get hammered the second I am away. You don’t take time off your precious work for me.”
“Well, I didn’t take time off work. I met Matt at the gym and then we went for a few beers and…”
“I don’t care.”
She was being irrational now. Here was he, trying to make amends and he still couldn’t see what was so bad. If she actually stopped and thought about it, her walking in on a total stranger in the shower was actually quite funny. In the past she would have thought that was hysterical. He didn’t know what to say, so he let the silence hang between them whilst he thought of something intelligent or Gaby hit him with another tirade. Nothing. Then the phone was slammed down. Not good. Oscar called Gaby’s number. Voicemail. He tried again, voicemail. On the third attempt, he left a message.
“Gaby. I’m sorry. I screwed up. I should have made Matt leave this morning, or better still left him at the pub. I’ll be back early to clean up the mess,” Oscar finished.
But, he wasn’t really sure what he was apologising for. He could apologise for her finding Matt in their shower in a compromising position, but not for going out. He had to let his hair down every so often and it’s not as if he was away shagging someone. He’d make it up to her. Flowers or a nice gift, but what? She had everything already. He’d get her a takeaway from Thai Garden. That was her favourite takeaway place. Pity he couldn’t cook, that would have worked wonders. He’d best crack on. Luckily he had no more meetings, just prep for tomorrow’s sales meeting. Boss man was coming up to flex some muscle. He’d work like a fiend, get finished on time and then nip to the supermarket on the way home. He wondered if they sold lilies. They wouldn’t do gifts though, unless he was going to buy her a CD or a book. What was he thinking? The grovelling required in this instance needed more than a ten pound gift. Would Next deliver to the office, he wondered. He had to get these reports finalised. What to do, what to do? Alison. Maybe his sister could help? She would probably be far too busy, but he had to try.
“Ali? It’s me. Where are you?”
“In town? Oh, thank God. I need a favour.”
Five o’clock came and Oscar shot out the door as if pursued by a rottweiler. Alison had dropped off a beautiful chiffon top and complementing ruffle skirt, which he thought Gaby would like and hoped would appease her. It was just the kind of luxurious material she loved. It wasn’t quite Nicole Farhi, but he knew Gaby would appreciate it. It did, however, depend on whether or not she had forgiven him. He called her from the supermarket car park.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to my wife. What have you done with her, you grumpster?” Oscar tried jovial and cheeky.
“Oscar, I’m not in the mood. I am still pissed off at you.”
“I know and I am sorry. Can I make it up to you?”
“That depends,” Gaby said.
“On what?”
“Well, it’s going to cost you,” Gaby was smiling now. He could hear it in her voice.
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m passing Thai Garden and was going to treat us.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?” he teased, knowing she loved them, or scratch that, she liked nice surprises, not nasty surprises, like finding strangers in her shower, starkers.
“OK,” Gaby relented.
“Great, see you shortly.”
Oscar was right on time. He was hardly ever home when he said he would be these days. Work was taking over. He searched for his keys. He didn’t want to ring the bell in case Gaby was relaxing and he disturbed her, altering her earlier peaceable mood. Or better still, perhaps she was luxuriating in a bath of aromatic oils and was intending to make an effort tonight too, like they used to. Who knows where it could lead, thought Oscar, grinning. The house was eerily quiet.
“Gaby,” he called. No answer. He was a little worried now. Had she gone out? Was this her idea of punishment? “Gaby?” He dumped the bags on the marble worktop and moved from room to room. She wasn’t downstairs, so he searched upstairs. She wasn’t in the bath, more’s the pity, he thought. He looked in their bedroom, but drew a blank. Bewildered, he called again. “Gaby! Are you in?”
A slight sound came from the bedroom. Oscar walked back in. He heard a muffled sound again. The door to the ensuite was closed. “Gaby, are you in the toilet?”
“Yes,” came a small voice. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Why didn’t you answer me before?”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You didn’t hear me? I’ve been shouting half the house…” Oscar caught himself. It wouldn’t do to antagonise his wife, not when he was looking for forgiveness.
“Are you OK? You’re not ill, are you?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a sec.”
“OK.”
It was a full ten minutes before his wife appeared in the kitchen. She looked as if she’d been crying.
“You OK?” Oscar put a reassuring arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. “I am sorry you know. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m fine. I just have a bit of a migraine coming on.”
“Oh no, that’s awful. You haven’t had one for ages.”
“I know. I think I’m just a bit stressed.”
“Come here,” and Oscar pulled her to him again. “Let me look after you tonight. Plus, I have a surprise for you. Maybe this will cheer you up. Ta da!” and Oscar pulled out the gift bag.
“What is it?” Gaby enquired.
“Open it and see. It’s a gift for my beautiful wife, to apologise for being a drunken prat and leaving his drunken mate in our shower. Not that I actually left him in the shower, you understand,” Oscar clarified. “More like on the living room floor. Nope, that still doesn’t sound good, does it?”
Gaby had to smile. She opened the gift bag and pulled out its contents. Her face lit up. “Oscar, it’s beautiful,” she gasped.
“There are two items,” Oscar interjected.
“Good. I deserve them,” Gaby shot him a look, but it was one of affection. Good-going thought Oscar. The outfit did the trick. He must remember to buy Alison lunch.
“Well, do I get a kiss?” Oscar feigned hurt.
“Of course.”
“Are you going to just stand there holding them, or are you going to put them on?”
“I might have to find something to go underneath,” Gaby murmured.
“Oh, I like that idea” Oscar said. “On you go. I’ll put the food out.”
“OK.”
Oscar chuckled to himself as Gaby went upstairs. Worked like a charm. Now all he had to do was whet her appetite with the feast he’d picked up at Thai Garden.
“That was lovely,” Gaby enthused, after demolishing the last of her dinner. “I am absolutely stuffed.”
“I could make a joke there, but I’ll wait until later.”
“Ha ha,” Gaby laughed. “You’ll get your chance, but you’ll have to wait. I can’t move an inch.”
“You haven’t drunk much tonight. Are you sure you’re feeling OK?”
“Could I have eaten all of that if I wasn’t feeling OK?”
“Fair point. Do you want coffee?”
“Only if it’s not instant.”
“I’ll make up a cafetiere. The night is young,” he winked at his wife.
Oscar returned with two coffee mugs, sugar and milk on a tray and a steaming cafetiere of Brazilian roast, only to fi
nd his wife absent. Damned woman, he remonstrated gently. She was always disappearing. Sitting down, he picked up a magazine. He didn’t want to switch on the TV, as that would spoil the mood, but he was getting restless doing nothing. He didn’t really do relaxing. Idly he leafed through the F1 magazine. In the past, he followed F1 religiously, even watching the qualifying, which he knew made him a sad git, particularly when it involved staying up until the wee small hours. He hadn’t realised how engrossed he’d become in the magazine, until he noticed he’d read ten pages. Where was Gaby?
“Gaby? Are you OK?”
Standing outside the bathroom door, he could hear retching.
“Gaby, open the door.”
“I’m fine,” said an obviously not fine Gaby.
“Have you been sick?”
Silence, then, “Yes.”
“Oh shit, do you think it was the prawns?” Oscar dreaded to think that his fine idea of putting things right with his wife, had ended up giving her food poisoning.
Oscar put Gaby to bed. She looked green. He brought her some water and propped up her pillows.
“Just you relax. Do you feel up to reading?”
“I think I’ll go to sleep. I’m sorry I spoiled such a lovely evening. Thanks for making the effort.”
“No problem. Just you rest.”
Chapter Thirty
Where did the time go, Oscar wondered? It was weeks since he and Gaby had spent some proper time together. It had been all meetings, viewings, and yet more meetings about meetings. He was so sick of it. More and more he wanted to start out on his own. Maybe he’d run it past Gaby tonight. The clock showed seven o’clock. He really must get going. He’d go home now and see if Gaby was still up. She’d been in bed so early the last few weeks.
“Gaby!” Oscar called. Surely she wasn’t in bed already, it was only seven thirty. No note. Strange. He checked throughout the house, but couldn’t find any sign of her. Where was she? Anyway, now he was home, he’d have a cup of tea and forage in the fridge, see if there was anything he felt like eating. He idly flicked through the TV channels, until he came to Top Gear. That’ll do, he thought, as he ventured into the kitchen, to see what delights the Smeg held. The answer was nothing much. He’d certainly had no time to shop recently. Maybe he could make scrambled eggs, if the eggs were still in date. He wasn’t sure he was hungry enough to find out. There were a couple of wrinkled tomatoes holding the fort in the vegetable tray. Finding a lump of cheese, he decided to have cheese on toast.
Sign of the Times Page 17
