by Matt Dunn
‘You’re joking. Have you told him what a bad idea that is?’
‘Well, I’ve been trying to, in a roundabout sort of way . . .’
Charlie lets go of my hand. ‘How “roundabout”?’
I realize that it’s probably more of a U-turn than a roundabout. ‘Well, you have to understand that men find talking about this sort of thing difficult.’
‘Why?’ asks Charlie, amazed. ‘Women do it all the time.’
This I know – I’ve read their magazines. I decide to try and condense Mark’s theory and explain.
‘Well, it’s like this, really. Man is traditionally the hunter-gatherer. He’s not biologically designed for monogamy. And, so, if he decides that he’s found a female of the species that he wants to commit to for the rest of his life, and asks her to marry him, thus going against all those millions of years of genetic programming . . . Well, who are we to tell him he’s got it wrong, I suppose? The bottom line is this. You can say what you like about your mates. But commenting about your mate’s choice of mate . . .’
Charlie sits there silently for a few moments, as if she’s carefully considering all I’ve just said, then raises her eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head.
‘Rubbish!’ she says. ‘And anyway – I thought you said she asked him?’
‘Er, yeah . . .’
‘Well surely that makes it all right for you to say something?’
‘Well, okay, he might not have asked her directly, but the fact that he agreed . . .’ I start to protest, weakly, but Charlie folds her arms and fixes me with a stern expression.
‘But you do think he’s doing the wrong thing?’
‘Big time.’
‘And this is your best friend?’
I refill our wine glasses. ‘Yup.’
‘And if you were in the same situation, wouldn’t you want your best friend to tell you?’
For a moment I find myself wishing that Mark were here, so he could hear this. ‘Well, I don’t think I’d allow myself to make that sort of mistake . . . Ouch!’ Charlie kicks me again, much harder this time, before I can say ‘a second time’, which is probably just as well. I don’t really want to go down that road this evening.
I reach down to rub my shin. ‘What was that for?’
‘Don’t be so . . . so self-smug.’
‘Self-smug? What does that mean?’
‘Just that it’s easy to sit here and be black and white about other people’s emotional issues. Don’t assume that if you ever find yourself in the same sort of situation you’ll still be able to apply such clinical judgement.’
‘Ouch, for different reasons.’
She looks at me seriously. ‘Adam, you’ve got to tell him. It could be the biggest mistake he’ll ever make.’
‘But how? You can’t just go up to your best friend and tell him that the woman he’s marrying is a complete bitch who’s going to ruin his life.’
‘Well, if you can’t, who can?’
I surreptitiously move my legs out of Charlie’s range. ‘You? I’ll pay!’
‘That’s not funny. Talk to him. Tell him. Or at least think of something to show him the error of his ways.’
I hold my hands up in defeat. ‘Okay, okay.’
‘Soon!’
‘I promise.’
‘Good.’
Fortunately, just then the waiter arrives with the dessert menu, which I’m pleased to see contains no fish dishes. Charlie ums and ahs for a while until I offer to share something with her, and she chooses ice cream, which we eat in silence for no other reason than the fact that Charlie is demolishing her half at an impressive rate.
‘Sorry,’ she says, noticing my amused expression, and adding, ‘I love ice cream,’ rather unnecessarily. She scoops up the last spoonful and holds it up to my mouth with a mischievous smile. I open wide and she feeds it to me, pausing only to dab a little on the tip of my nose.
We order coffee – she even manages to pronounce espresso properly – and talk for a while, oblivious to the fact that we’re the last people in the restaurant. On my way to the gent’s I suddenly catch sight of the waiter yawning in the corner and realize that, unfortunately, it’s time to go.
When I come back from the toilet, having refused to give the surly attendant any more money, I ask Charlie if she’s ready.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘That was lovely.’
‘I’ll just get the Old Bill then,’ I say, at the same time realizing just how little my little joke is, and I summon the waiter over. He looks at me with a smirk.
‘It’s okay, sir, your wife has already paid,’ he says.
‘My, er . . .’ I’m at a loss for words on two counts, and don’t quite know what to do. I look at Charlie, who’s grinning sheepishly.
‘It’s a thank you for rescuing me earlier.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. You were a real gentleman then, so be a gentleman now and don’t argue.’
The waiter is still hovering. I can tell he’s amused by my discomfort, and he raises one eyebrow before strolling away nonchalantly.
We leave the restaurant and walk to where I’ve parked the Impresser – I had no qualms about driving this evening, and I’ve been careful about how much wine I’ve had – and I blip the remote and open Charlie’s door for her. I drive her home and double park outside her building, my engine running, and the Impresser ticking over quietly too. And when I thank her for a great evening, and find myself nervously asking if I can see her again, she leans across and answers me with one of those kisses that is too short to be an invitation upstairs but too long to be a no. She gets out of the car and I watch to make sure she gets into her flat safely, waiting a few extra seconds until a light comes on upstairs.
On the way back to my flat I take a diversion down Nick’s road, Charlie’s words ringing in my ears. The Ferrari is parked outside his building, but it’s late, and Sandra’s bound to be there too, so I decide not to go up. Charlie’s right, of course. I do need to have that conversation with him soon, or at least work out a way to get him thinking about things a little more seriously than he seems to be doing.
When I get back home, my answerphone light is flashing. Rushing over to the machine I stab at the button, hoping it’ll be Charlie, but instead Mark’s voice comes booming out, wondering whether his, sorry, Cosmo’s theory is true. There’s a second message, from my mother, chastising me for not telling her that Nick’s getting married. Apparently Nick’s mum had gone round to tell her the ‘good’ news this morning, and she’s decided to take the opportunity to launch into one of her ‘When are you going to think about settling down’ speeches. My mother loves answerphones, because it’s the one chance she gets to talk and talk without being interrupted by my father. I listen as far as the point when she starts lecturing me about the stag night, telling me that she hopes we’re not going to end up in one of those clubs with those ‘laptop dancers’, before the tape runs out.
Smiling, I hit ‘delete’ and stroll through to the kitchen. Laptop dancers! I haven’t even thought about the stag night, as I’ve been kind of hoping things won’t get that far. But then I stop dead. That gives me an idea . . .
Chapter 9
Draining his glass, Nick burps loudly and slams it back down on the table, causing a few of the tattooed drinkers near us to swivel their skin-heads around to look in our direction – a remarkable feat considering most of them seem to have no necks. Fortunately, when they see there’s no trouble they resume talking to their husbands and boyfriends.
The pub is one of those places where the ceiling, walls and floor are all the same dark brown colour, more a result of years of cigarette smoke rising up and beer dripping down than the application of any decorator’s brush. It stands alone at the end of the Fulham Road, a beacon of resistance against the spritzer and sun-dried tomato set, sticking two nicotine-stained fingers defiantly up at the gentrification of the surrounding streets.
It’s Wednesday evening
, and we’re off to see Fulham play Manchester United. Like so many other non-Mancunians, Nick has recently converted to Unitedism, and has managed to get us tickets at the last minute thanks to his new invitation only – as he takes great pride in explaining – credit card. It was this or front-row seats for a Mick Jagger concert in Hyde Park, apparently, but Nick had quickly decided on the football.
‘If I want to see a bunch of old stones in a field, I’ll just head down to Salisbury Plain,’ he’d said.
Like every drinking establishment near the ground this evening, our pub is packed with football supporters, all standing round drinking in groups of three or four, waiting to make their way down to the ground in time for kick-off. Even though we’re only a mile or so down the road, we’re feeling a bit out of our ‘patch’ here, and we’ve tried to roughen our accents accordingly. Worryingly, we’re the only drinkers to have bothered with a table, which I’m sure marks us out as soft Chelsea nancy boys.
We’re waiting for the constantly late Mark, and meanwhile I’m telling Nick about my night out with Charlie. He, of course, is only interested in whether I slept with her or not, and when I answer in the negative, he just laughs.
‘Loser!’ he says. ‘And speaking of losers . . .’
I follow his gaze to where Mark has just appeared through the pub doorway. He’s still wearing his suit, having come straight from the office, and is somewhat self-consciously looking around, trying to spot us. I wave him over to the table.
‘Sorry, boys . . .’ Mark starts to explain, but Nick cuts him off with a shake of his head, not wanting to get into another discussion about the intricacies of West London’s bus routes. It’s Mark’s round, we decide democratically – and mainly due to his lateness – so he goes off to get the drinks, and I follow to give him a hand. We get served surprisingly quickly given the amount of people crammed together at the bar, and I look around surreptitiously to check we haven’t pushed in front of some thirsty hooligan looking for a pre-match scrap.
There’s still half an hour before the game starts, so Mark orders us two pints each, mainly because he doesn’t fancy a return trip to the bar. When he tries to pay with a fifty-pound note, the mountainous barmaid, who has run out of fivers, tells him to sit down and she’ll bring his change over to the table. He looks uneasy at the thought of leaving so much of his money in someone else’s hands, but is even more uncomfortable at the thought of waiting at the bar on his own, so he sits back down with us and settles for glancing anxiously in her direction every few minutes.
She does as good a job of ignoring him now as she did in serving him earlier, and we’ve nearly finished our drinks by the time she appears with a cheerful ‘I bet you thought I’d forgotten you, love.’ As she’s about to give him his change, she suddenly scrunches up her face, takes a deep breath and lets out a massive sneeze, which she just about manages to cover with her hand. The hand still holding Mark’s money.
‘Ooh! Bless me!’ she cries, handing Mark back the now soggy notes, and he can’t help grimacing as he takes them. We watch in horror as she waddles back behind the bar, pausing only to wipe her hand on a tea towel, which she then uses to dry the clean glasses from the dishwasher.
Mark removes a packet of tissues from his inside pocket and carefully cleans each note before putting them back in his wallet.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘She must be really hot stuff between the sheets.’ Nick and I shudder simultaneously. ‘Speaking of which . . .’ he continues, looking at me and raising one eyebrow, but before I can answer Nick leans across the table, pulling up his cuff to expose his watch and tapping the dial.
I peer closely at the gleaming lump of metal fastened round Nick’s wrist. ‘Are you telling us we should get a move on, or showing off yet another new and ridiculously expensive watch?’
Nick shakes his head disdainfully. ‘Much as I’d like to sit here discussing your sexual exploits . . .’
‘I would actually like to sit here discussing Adam’s sexual exploits,’ interjects Mark. ‘I am a married man you know. The last woman I slept with will probably be the last woman I ever sleep with, if you see what I mean, so hearing about Adam’s adventures is the closest I have to any sort of varied sex life.’
Nick ignores him and stands up. ‘Time, gentlemen, please,’ he announces, and strolls out through the doorway. As Mark heads for the toilets, his bladder struggling with the early drinking pace, I follow Nick outside, where he’s doing a bad job of trying to look inconspicuous amongst the crowds, whose shirts proclaim their allegiance to their preferred players. By the same token, Nick’s favourites would appear to be the Italian defensive pairing of Dolce & Gabbana.
After a couple of minutes, a relieved Mark emerges, and we follow the throng down towards Craven Cottage and into Fulham’s ground. We squeeze through the turnstiles, find our seats in the stands (as if that makes sense) and wait for the game to start.
We’re sitting right next to the pitch. Nick has as usual managed to get hold of the most expensive tickets, made a big deal about how much they would have cost, and then made an even bigger deal about refusing our offers to pay him back for them. Mark’s obviously excited to be here, partly because we actually know him to be a true Fulham fan but also because, given the control Julia normally keeps on their household budget, we know this is something he wouldn’t normally get a chance to do.
‘Should be an enjoyable game,’ he says, watching the pitch intently. I don’t like to remind him that, given the respective league table positions of the two teams, it’s probably only the opposition fans who are likely to ‘enjoy’ tonight’s game.
As the Fulham players run out on to the field, the crowd erupts into song. When Mark joins in at the top of his voice, word if not note-perfect, Nick and I shrink down in our seats. Mercifully, the whistle soon blows, and Fulham immediately hoof the ball towards the United end, and straight out of play.
‘Yoooouuuuu’re . . . . SHIT!’ shout thirty thousand voices, including Mark, as the United goalkeeper takes the kick.
‘How come you know all these chants?’ I ask him.
‘It’s hardly difficult to learn the words to “You’re Shit!”’ interrupts Nick. ‘Observe – the cultural phenomenon that is the Fulham supporter!’
‘Well, why did you bother coming then?’ asks Mark. ‘Why didn’t you just stay at home and watch it in your posh flat on your posh flat-screen TV with your posh flat-chested girlfriend . . .’ Fortunately this last part is drowned out by a chorus of ‘Ooh, ah, Cantona!’ as the away supporters try to rally their side with memories of past greats.
‘Because I didn’t want to miss seeing your face when my team stuffs yours,’ replies Nick.
‘I didn’t realize they were your team,’ I say to Nick. ‘When did you venture into football club ownership?’
A few minutes later, United break down the wing, the ball is crossed in front of the open Fulham goal . . . and no one in a red shirt gets anywhere near it. ‘Où est Cantona?’ cry the home fans in retaliation.
Mark leans across and digs Nick in the ribs. ‘There’s culture for you!’ he says. ‘Not an O-level between them but they can speak French and be ironic at the same time.’
The rest of the game goes predictably, punctuated by United’s goals and our half-time visit to the bar. With ten minutes to go, and Fulham down four-nil, Andy Wilson, the Fulham striker, is substituted on for his first game since alleged treatment for schizophrenia kept him out of the team. His arrival is greeted with a chorus from the home crowd of ‘There’s only two Andy Wilsons’. We get up and leave before Mark can praise their knowledge of psychiatry.
We walk up the Fulham Palace Road and towards Hammersmith, where I’ve earmarked a couple of venues for tonight’s entertainment, and by some miracle we manage to get a table straight away at one of them. It’s called Lager Than Life, and is one of these themed sports bars where they always have some obscure activity – tonight it seems to be speed rock climbing – showing simultaneo
usly on hundreds of television sets, backed by a thumping musical track that makes any conversation virtually impossible.
We sit down and order drinks, and when they arrive Mark accidentally spills a drop of beer on Nick’s sleeve. He reacts angrily.
‘Jesus, Mark, be careful,’ he shouts, pointing to a little tag hanging off his breast pocket, where we can clearly see who made his shirt. ‘This is a fucking Armani!’
‘Oh sorry, Mr Designer Clothes-horse. Can’t you wash these expensive clothes then?’ replies Mark, sarcastically.
‘Piss off, Oxfam Man!’
‘Piss off yourself. At least my clothes have their labels where they should be. On the inside.’
‘Yeah, ones with your name on, where your mum sewed them.’
‘Children, please!’ I interrupt. ‘This is supposed to be an evening of celebration. As best man I have a number of important responsibilities, not the least of which is the stag night. Tonight we’re going to be checking out a couple of potential venues, and I want you both to be on your best behaviour so we don’t get barred from any we might like to go back to.’
‘Speaking of responsibilities, how’s the speech going?’ asks Mark, looking at me knowingly.
‘Still working on it,’ I say, wondering which one he means.
‘Enough wedding talk,’ orders Nick. ‘I get enough of that from Sandra every bloody day. I’ve only got a month of freedom left, so let’s just have a good, old-fashioned lads’ night out, shall we? Oh, and by the way,’ he adds, tapping his inside pocket. ‘I managed to get hold of our friend Charles, if anyone’s interested later.’ Since he met Sandra, Nick has started to indulge in the occasional class A entertainment, and it’s clear he’s brought some along for the night.
‘I don’t think I know Charles. Is he a friend of Sandra’s?’ asks Mark innocently. Short of carrying a selection of pens and a calculator in his shirt pocket, Mark often displays all the characteristics of his noble profession.
‘Someone I wish she hadn’t introduced him to,’ I mutter. Fortunately Nick doesn’t hear me above the noise of the restaurant.
