William Walkers First Year of Marriage

by Rudd, Matt

The one who isn’t asking the questions writes something down in his notebook.

  ‘And you were overheard making threats?’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, it was just because she was making such a meal out of the death of her goldfish.’

  ‘Her goldfish?’

  ‘Yes, she went on and on about it so much, I thought she was talking about her husband who I didn’t know at the time was already dead and when it turned out all the fuss was about the goldfish, I just muttered something about how I was surprised it wasn’t her husband. If I’d been her husband, I’d have killed myself by now. Or her. It was just a joke.’

  Neither of them is laughing.

  ‘Right, sir. That will be all for now. Not planning on leaving the country, are we, sir?’

  Still not laughing. Isabel finds it funny though. CCs me in on a group email to all her friends headed, ‘I married an axe-murderer.’

  Thursday 14 July

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off that you repeatedly expressed the desire to crush Sandra with furniture, sir.’

  ‘I just said I wished a piano would fall on her head. It’s different.’

  ‘How is it different, sir?’

  ‘Well, crushing someone with furniture is quite, well, serious, whereas wishing a piano would fall on someone’s head is just, well, like a cartoon. And anyway, who told you that?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to divulge sources, sir. Can you tell me where you were at around 8.30 p.m. on Saturday night?’

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘Alone, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘Unusually, yes.’

  ‘That’s all for now, sir.’

  Isabel says she might have told a few friends about the piano but only because she thought it was quite funny. And not when she knew Sandra was dead and that I was a suspect. Which she also found funny. But together, perhaps, she realises they might not be that funny. She is adamant that none of her friends would snitch. It’s much more likely to be someone at the office: maybe the managing editor had a report about the piano death wish too? I’m not so adamant. Although no one sees it but me, Isabel does have one friend who has something to gain from getting me locked up for the rest of my life.

  Friday 15 July

  Toxicology results show it was the lamb that killed Sandra. A freak build-up of mercury. Total accident. No apology from the police who still can’t accept that wishing someone might be squashed by a piano doesn’t count.

  Back from work, Isabel late at hers so, if I’m lucky, I have time for an illicit but well-earned hot bath and whisky. The least I deserve after being ruled out of a murder inquiry. I’m not lucky. The car has been stolen. The bath is obviously out of the question. Who would steal an M-reg Vauxhall Corsa with 89,892 miles on the clock? Why didn’t they steal the BMW parked next to it? I call the police and it turns out Islington council has stolen it. I phone the number they give me.

  ‘Car pound.’

  ‘I think you have stolen my car.’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘M-seven-three-nine DGH.’

  ‘M?’

  ‘M-seven-three-nine D—’

  ‘M-seven…’

  Ten minutes later…

  ‘Yeah, mate, towed at half four.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Got a ticket at half three, dinnit.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  Tap, tap, tap…I can tell he’s typing with one finger.

  ‘Yellar line, wunnit.’

  ‘No, it was in a residential bay.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, sez ere it was on a yella. Three inches on a yella to be precise.’

  ‘But why did you tow it? You could have left it with a ticket.’

  ‘Can’t say no more than that, mate. If you have a problem wivit, you can appeal, but you’ll have to pay double the charge.’

  ‘What’s the charge?’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Forty quid…’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘…plus two-eighty for the tow.’

  ‘Where is my car?’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Clifton Street, EC-one.’

  ‘But that’s miles away. That’s in the city. Why’d you tow it all the way over there?’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry about it now, mate, it’s closed till tomora.’

  ‘But I’m going to a wedding tomorrow.’

  ‘Shouldavethordabatthatwhenyaparkedonayellashouldnya?’

  Saturday 16 July

  I arrive at eight on the dot to collect the stolen car. I still have to wait for forty minutes in a waiting room full of people who all look as furious as me. Then, I pay a man behind a sensibly bulletproofed glass partition surrounded by signs saying, ‘We will not tolerate abuse of our staff.’ He only accepts cash which means I get to see the huge amount of money I’m losing in the flesh. As I leave the building, I swear that from now on I will never be nice to traffic wardens ever again.

  Went to look at the house in Isabel’s parents’ village on route to Francesca’s wedding. We have all of five minutes because of the towing.

  Pros: it is the same price as our tiny box but is a house, yes, a house, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms and, saints alive, a garden. We will be able to sit outside in real sunshine surrounded by real plants and real grass, breathing real air. It is also not in Finsbury Park: the biggest threat to personal safety will be a twisted ankle on the cobbled pavements. And you can park wherever you damn well like.

  Cons: it is an hour’s train from work but three minutes from the in-laws.

  Probably best to wait till someone shows some interest in our flat before we decide to make an offer.

  The wedding

  This is the wedding of people we didn’t invite to ours so I don’t know why we have to go to theirs. Isabel’s university friend Francesca, whom I’ve only met twice, is marrying Archie, a banker I’ve never met at all but who is friends with Alex so he must be an arse. Even if he isn’t, I hate going to weddings where I don’t know anyone. Worse still, both have recently rediscovered Jesus. Properly. They’re not even just putting it on so they can get married in a church.

  The service

  Most weddings I’ve been to, mine included, are presided over by vicars harbouring resentment at the transient congregation. There is no such resentment from Reverend Adams. He knows Francesca and Archie: indeed, he was instrumental in their return to the flock. So he glows with pride and waxes lyrical: his vocation isn’t pointless, there is a God. Two hours later, we escape. 1/10.

  The meal

  In an enormous marquee in the grounds of a castle. Clearly Christians don’t have to renounce all worldly wealth. Food posh but horrible: overcooked lobster for starters; grey beans, grey beef, grey carrots, cold, all cold, for mains. Then profiteroles. I hate profiteroles.

  Because we’re C-list friends, we get the table with the vicar, his wife and four more of the vicar’s flock. The wife is a pneumatic blonde who, as she explained even before we’d picked through the lobster, had been a porn star before meeting Roger. ‘I was in a dark, dark place back then, but Roger and the Lord Jesus Christ found me and saved me, praise them both. Have you found the Lord, William?’ There’s nothing more unappetising at dinner than an ex-porn star trying to convert you. 4/10.

  The speeches

  A confessional approach taken by Archie, who regretted his time as a banker, regretted his wild ways at university, regretted turning away from God as a teenager, regretted pretty much anything and everything. Clearly someone had got to the best man: not a single inappropriate joke. 2/10.

  The first dance

  Robbie Williams again, courtesy of the chamber orchestra. Shoot me. 2/10.

  TOTAL 9/40. Plus one for the fireworks.

  Sunday 17 July

  Alex sits next to me rather than Isabel at the wedding breakfast, no doubt to demonstrate how hard he is trying to get on with me despite my continued unreasonableness and his broken arm.r />
  ‘How’s the arm?’

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘Pretty quick, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, the mending.’

  ‘I took arnica—and it’s still very sore.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So sorry about all that nastiness with the police.’

  ‘It wasn’t nastiness. It was just routine inquiries.’

  ‘Listen, as soon as my arm’s fully better, do you fancy playing squash?’

  ‘Err, sure.’

  ‘Is it safe, you two trying another sport?’ asks Isabel.

  ‘No chicanes in a squash court,’ replies Alex, and we all laugh.

  What a cock.

  Tuesday 19 July

  Guilt plus disgust today. Guilt because everyone in the office except me has been invited to Sandra’s funeral. I have to stay and answer the phones. Disgust because a new survey has revealed that toilet seats in offices are twenty times cleaner than keyboards. Apparently, it would be more hygienic to eat your sandwich off the bog than off your desk. While I decided not to take this advice literally, I decided to eat my lunch in the park, assuming perhaps wrongly that a park is cleaner than a toilet. I don’t know where this leaves the debate about which part of the toilet door handle is best to use.

  Wednesday 20 July

  This really is turning into another bad week.

  ‘Hi, Will. Long time no speak. Can’t believe you’re not at Cat World any more. Who will taste the new rabbit flavour now you’ve gone? Anyway, New York is great but I’m coming back for a week in August. It gets so damned hot here. Even when I’m completely naked, I can’t sleep. Wondered if you wanted to catch up on old times?’

  How did Saskia, the Destroyer of Relationships, get my email address? Johnson just stares at the screen for about twenty minutes. Then he says don’t reply. Then he says reply. Then he says, no don’t reply. He keeps doing this for another twenty minutes. Because it is the perfect email dilemma. If I reply, I am communicating with the Destroyer of Relationships, which we both agree is a bad thing. If I don’t reply, and shut it down, she might try to make further contact when she comes back to London.

  I decide not to reply.

  Thursday 21 July

  No further emails from DofR so potentially in clear.

  Might turn out to be a good week after all.

  Except then Isabel calls to say Alex has finished with his Moroccan girlfriend. He needs a shoulder to cry on. Obviously it has to be Isabel’s shoulder. Do I mind if she cancels our dinner?

  ‘No, darling. I hope he’s okay,’ I hear myself lying.

  Johnson has already left so I call Andy and endure a whole hour of pub time listening to how amazing his new life in Kenya will be before I can tell him about Saskia.

  ‘Ignore it,’ he advises before continuing on about Kenya for another hour until I can mention Alex.

  ‘Listen, he’s a nice guy. I like him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s a nice guy, man.’

  ‘You know you actually said “man” then?’

  ‘Well, I think you should give him a break. You’re obsessing about nothing. He’s done all that stuff for your wedding, he invites us racing, you drive him off the road.’

  ‘He was trying to kill me.’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t. You’re the husband of his best friend. He loves you, man.’

  ‘You said it again.’

  ‘And now he’s going through a difficult time. I know what heartbreak feels like, believe me.This life is a rollercoaster: there are highs as well as lows.’

  ‘There are loop-the-loops?’

  ‘There are loop-the-loops.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  This is how the conversation goes when she gets back (late) from the cocktail bar he chose to do his shoulder-crying in.

  ‘Hi, darling.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘He was in a bad way, poor lamb. She meant a lot to him.’

  Three things are incredibly irritating in just these two sentences. One: if he was in a bad way, why did he choose a romantic cocktail bar to be in a bad way in? Two: poor lamb? Why is she saying ‘poor lamb’? It’s only one step away from ‘sweetheart’. Three: if the Moroccan girlfriend meant a lot to Alex, why did he dump her?

  I go with the last point.

  ‘If she meant a lot to him, why did he dump her?’

  ‘Because he knew he wasn’t right for her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Because he knew he wasn’t right for her.’

  ‘You mean he knew she wasn’t right for him?’

  ‘No. She was right for him. He loved her but he knew she could find greater happiness with someone else. He released her.’

  ‘That’s one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard. Are you drunk?’

  ‘We did have quite a few cocktails. Great bar. I’m going to take you there.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Don’t believe what?’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘My problem is Alex. He is a slimy sleaze-bag. He’s got slimy hair and a slimy job and a slimy flat in a slimy street. He lives in Slimeville, County Slime, the United Kingdom of Slime. He dumped her because he’s a philandering slime-bag, and he grassed me up to the police for a crime I didn’t commit. He’s a bastard.’

  ‘Blimey. Is that all?’

  ‘No, I don’t trust him. I don’t want you seeing him any more.’

  It just came out like that and immediately I knew that I had crossed the line. I had issued a diktat. I should have stopped at slimy sleaze-bag. Or a bit before that. But I’d let it all build up for so long…and it had all come out in one misjudged rant. And ordering my wife not to see another man? That was proper Victorian stuff. I had pressed the red button, released the irreversible long-range missiles, dropped the hand grenade in the wrong hole. Why do arguments have a habit of doing that?

  EXPLOSION. ‘You don’t trust him? What about trusting me?’ Door slam. Silence except for the sound of a small voice in my head saying, ‘You idiot, this isn’t a soap opera. Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?’

  Then the door opens again.

  SPEECH. Along the lines of: ‘William, I love you very much. You are the man of my dreams, the first person I can call my soul mate. But you are also a dickhead. Alex and I have been friends since we were kids. He has been generous and loving and supportive all my life. I know he has a habit of irritating anyone I’m having a relationship with, but he’s also been there when I’ve been badly treated. And I’ve been there for him when he’s been in trouble. He is a friend and I’m not going to get rid of him because of your paranoia. You need to stop trying to control me.’

  To which I say something along the lines of, ‘But you’re trying to control me. You won’t even let me have sugar in my tea.’

  To which she shouts, ‘Me controlling your tea is not the same as you controlling who I’m friends with.’

  Another door slam.

  The Marmite Argument was nothing. The Lost Passport Argument was a mere bagatelle. As a hairline crack cuts its way from the top of the door to the ceiling, I am left in the smoking aftermath of what I now realise was the First Really Proper Argument of My Marriage. And surprise, surprise, it was entirely Alex’s fault. And maybe mine a bit as well.

  Friday 22 July

  Never go to sleep on an argument, said some blue-stockinged spinster who’s obviously never had a proper late-night argument before. It is perfectly good advice if you have all your arguments in the morning. With a 10 a.m. argument, there’s plenty of time to huff about, cool off, apologise a thousand times, buy flowers (no carnations, no roses), make a self-deprecating joke, then apologise another thousand times and be back in the good books before bedtime.

  With an 11 p.m. argument, there simply isn’t time. Isabel and I just lay there in moonlit silence, me wishing I hadn’
t said the bit about the not trusting, her probably plotting divorce and elopement. The only ice-breaking option I had was the pretend half-asleep roll to leave one of my arms draping over one of her arms. When I tried it, it was parried with the classic half-asleep cold shoulder. In the same manoeuvre, I lost any hope of same-day reconciliation and the duvet.

  This morning, she left without speaking to me, which is a first. So I decide I would have left without speaking to her if I’d had the chance and storm off to work, collecting a really sugary latte on the way in.

  Johnson still thinks Alex is evil, even if Andy has fallen for his lies. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a smarmy bastard.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s the sort of person that gives men a bad name.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I told you marriage was a nightmare.’

  Hang on.

  So then there’s another email from Saskia.

  ‘Hi, sweetie. Have I got the right email address or is this some other big Willy? Would be great to hear from you, even if you’re the wrong William. I need an Englishman again, after all these Yanks. Only joking. Can’t wait to catch up.’

  And I’m all upset and confused and irrational so, without thinking, I type, ‘Sorry, been away. How are ya?’

  And without thinking, I hit send.

  And with thinking, I try to stop it by closing my email, switching my computer off, throwing the keyboard in the bin, hiding the bin under the desk, closing my eyes tightly, praying a bit. But it is too late: I have made contact with the Destroyer.

  ‘Ahhh, there you are! Missed you. What are you wearing? Guess what I’m wearing?’

  I email Isabel, wanting everything to be all right again. No answer. I call her on her mobile. No answer. I get home and my cheery greeting goes unanswered. She’s cooking angrily. I feel sorry for the shitake mushrooms which are being diced to smithereens.