by Dunn, Matt
‘Anyone I know?’ I ask, watching her closely for any sign of guilt.
Sam nods distractedly as she picks up some loose change from the table. ‘Yup.’
‘Do you want to give me a name?’ I say, before I’ve even given her a chance to tell me.
‘Calm down, Edward.’ Sam stuffs the change into her pocket, then zips up her coat. ‘It’s just Madeleine.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to rein in my suspicious mind. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’ I stop speaking, because we both know that’s exactly what it sounds like I’m doing. ‘Can I start again? How was your day?’
As Sam shrugs, then proceeds to tell me, I force myself to smile and nod, but I can’t help zoning out a little – what Dan would call a ‘nonversation’ – while I try to work out whether there’s anything sinister going on. She’s dressed in her usual off-duty uniform of tight-fitting jeans and a plain white T-shirt and, as sexy as I think she looks, it’s hardly the gear you’d dress up in to meet a potential lover. Or is it? I mean, if you’re off to an assignation, it’s not what you’re wearing that matters, because you soon won’t be wearing anyth . . .
‘Edward?’
‘Yes?’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
Bollocks. Sam’s just asked me something and I haven’t heard a word of it because I’ve been too busy letting my imagination run away with me. ‘Oh. Er . . . Yes?’
‘Yes what?’
‘Your question. The answer’s yes.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘So we’re having “yes” for dinner, are we? Is this a taste of what married life’s going to be like?’
‘Sorry, dear.’ I grin sheepishly back up at her. ‘I . . . er . . . thought you’d asked me if I’d made dinner. Not what I’d made.’
I pick the remote control up and switch on the TV, congratulating myself on my good recovery, but Sam’s having none of it.
‘Well, what have you made? And when did this miracle take place, exactly? While I was in the shower?’
‘Oh. Right. Actually, when I say “made”, what I mean is, I’ve got all the ingredients.’
‘For?’
‘I though I’d surprise you.’
‘By cooking something edible for once?’ she says, stroking my hair affectionately so I know she’s making a joke.
‘No. I mean, yes. It’s . . . I thought we’d have pasta. In a tomato-ey sauce. With maybe minced meat in it. Oh, and some herbs,’ I add, as if that makes all the difference.
‘Spaghetti Bolognese.’ Sam makes a face. ‘That is a surprise.’
‘It’s my speciality,’ I say, a little hurt.
‘How could I forget?’ Sam licks her lips and pats her stomach exaggeratedly. ‘I can taste it already. See you in a couple of hours.’
‘But . . .’ As Sam looks at me expectantly, I shake my head in disgust at myself. What am I playing at? Am I going to feel jumpy every time she leaves the house, even if it’s only to get a pint of milk from the corner shop? ‘I mean, do you want me to come with you? I could help.’
Sam laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’
I get suddenly suspicious. ‘Why not? It’s my wedding too.’
‘Yes, but it’s my wedding dress,’ she says, producing a surprisingly well-thumbed copy of What Bride? from her bag. ‘And that’s the one thing you’re not allowed anywhere near. Apart from me, on the morning before the wedding, of course.’
‘I thought you weren’t wearing a . . . I mean, didn’t want to do the whole dress thing?’
‘I don’t. But I’ve got to wear something. Unless you’d prefer me to get married in just my underwear?’
‘Well . . .’ I smile to myself, picturing the look on Dan’s face, then feel suddenly guilty. Even though she doesn’t want a big wedding, this kind of stuff might still be important to Sam, and I don’t want to sound like I’m interfering. ‘I mean, no. Of course not. Sorry.’ I glance towards the TV, where the build-up to football match I’ve been looking forward to has already started. ‘I just thought you might want to spend the evening here. With me. There’s a good game on.’
‘Ooh,’ says Sam. ‘As enticing as that sounds . . .’
‘We could switch it off,’ I suggest, reluctantly. ‘There might be something else on the other side.’
‘That’s okay,’ says Sam. ‘Besides, I haven’t seen Madeleine for a while. And I need to give her her maid of honour present.’
I’m suddenly suspicious again. Sam saw Madeleine on Wednesday, although she doesn’t know I know this, because with everything else that’s been going on, I’d forgotten to mention that I bumped into Madeleine on the way back from work yesterday, and Madeleine had told me how chuffed she was with the earrings Sam was giving her, and how she was going to be the best maid of honour ever. And while at the time I thought that was funny, because, given what I’ve heard about Madeleine from Dan after he drove her home the other night, she doesn’t actually have that much honour, right now, I don’t find it amusing at all.
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ Tomorrow is Sam’s hen night. Where, presumably, she’ll be seeing Madeleine anyway.
‘Er . . . No,’ says Sam, matter-of-factly.
‘Did you want a lift?’ I say, in a desperate attempt to find out where she’s really going.
‘No thanks,’ says Sam, standing on tiptoe to kiss me, before picking her keys up from the coffee table. ‘It’s just round the corner. You enjoy your game.’
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I’m on my feet. What to do? I could phone Madeleine to check Sam’s alibi, of course, but that might seem a little suspicious if she tells Sam I’ve called. Or I could run after Sam and tell her she’s forgotten something – but what? That she’s getting married and shouldn’t be sneaking around behind my back, perhaps.
Or . . . I could take Dan’s advice and follow her. Sam’s said she’s going just round the corner and, as I peer out through the window, her car’s still outside, which means it must be within walking distance. It’s twenty-five past six, so presumably, and knowing Sam’s penchant for punctuality, she’s meeting Madeleine – or whoever – at half past. All I need to do is work out where is within five minutes’ walking distance from here.
I know it’s dishonest, and I really don’t want to do it, but I still can’t stop myself from pulling my jacket off the coat rack and heading out after her, promising myself at the same time that if what she says turns out to be true, it’ll put an end to all of this nonsense once and for all.
Given that Sam’s a faster walker than me, I set my watch for six minutes and start walking, but after only four I’ve already reached Western Road, and from what I can see, there are approximately ten pubs and three cafés that might conceivably be within five minutes of our flat.
I stand helplessly, wondering where on earth to start, and am on the verge of giving up when I spy Madeleine’s car parked outside the Cooper’s Arms. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I tell myself I’m just being stupid, turn round, and start walking back towards my flat – and away from my fears – when it occurs to me I should actually check. I mean, while it looks like Madeleine’s car, there are rather a lot of Beetles in Brighton – plus, she might have sold it. Though whether the buyer would have kept the ‘Homoeopaths Do It In Small Doses’ sticker on the rear windscreen is questionable.
I creep back along the pavement towards the pub, ready to duck behind a lamp post in case Madeleine or Sam come out unexpectedly and catch me, then realize I’d feel a lot better if I had an alibi for being here – which the Tesco Metro round the corner might well provide me with - so I nip in and buy a tube of sour-cream-and-chive-flavoured Pringles. Of course, now I’m running the risk of getting into even more trouble if Sam catches me with a packet of Pringles before dinner, although in my defence, at least I’ve bought Lites. Better that than be caught following her, I suppose.
Brandishing the Pringles like a relay runner’s baton, I hurry back round the corner, relieved to
see Madeleine’s car hasn’t moved, and walk nervously towards the Cooper’s Arms. Then I encounter my first real problem. Obviously I can’t simply stick my head in through the door and try to spot her in case she spots me, but the pub’s got these strange little glass windows, most of which are impossible to see through due to a circular ripple effect, so I can’t just look through the window either. There is one normal pane – evidently where one of the originals has been broken and replaced by plain glass – but it’s a little bit higher than is comfortable for me to reach.
I peer up and down the street, keen to get this sordid incident over and done with, then notice an old wooden crate in the alleyway at the side of the pub. For a second, I think maybe I could use that to stand on, but I don’t really want to pick it up because departing drinkers have a habit of using that alleyway as a toilet when the pub’s shut.
I stand there for a moment or two considering my options. The most sensible one, of course, is to accept that Sam’s telling me the truth and just go home. But if I do that, I know I’ll be wondering for the rest of the evening – and maybe for the rest of my life. I’ve got to check. But how?
I look up at the pane of glass. It’s just above head height, and probably easily reachable if I jump, but knowing my luck, I’ll do it just at the moment Sam’s looking up, and she’ll see me behaving like some demented jack-in-the-box. And Pringles or not, how on earth would I explain that?
Then I have an idea: the Pringles. Or more specifically, the tube they’re in. It’s about the right length, and looks pretty sturdy, so maybe if I’m careful I can balance on one foot on the top of it. It’s a dilemma, because if it works, I’ll be able to see what Sam’s up to, but if it doesn’t, I’ll risk crushing a whole tube of my favourite crisps.
After a moment’s consideration, where I can’t decide whether the end with the plastic cap will be better at the top or on the ground, I carefully stand the tube upside down on the pavement underneath the window and, putting one hand against the wall for support, rest my right foot gingerly on top of the tube. Holding my breath, I gradually increase the downward pressure while wondering, perhaps too late, whether I should nip back into Tesco to exchange them for the full-fat version, in the hope they might be a bit stronger.
Somehow, thankfully, the tube seems to be holding my weight, so I carefully lift my other foot off the ground and, conscious that I need to maintain my weight directly over the tube rather than make any sudden movements, straighten my right leg, using my arms for balance in a Karate Kid-type stance. I’m feeling somewhat precarious, not to mention ridiculous, but luckily it’s a dark evening, and the Coopers Arms is on a side street, so there’s not a lot of passing traffic, although I do have to shoo away an old lady who seems to think I’m one of those street performers who pretend to be statues in front of the shopping centre every Saturday.
Slowly, my eyes draw level with the clear pane of glass. It doesn’t seem to have been cleaned in a while, and initially I struggle to locate Sam through the grime, but eventually I spot her – fortunately with her back to me – sitting at one of the tables. When I crane my neck to the right, rubbing my forehead accidentally against the dirty glass, I can just about identify Madeleine in the seat next to her, and – thanks to the clean patch of glass I can see through having just used my brow as a squeegee – can even make out that they do seem to be poring over the copy of What Bride? Sam showed me earlier.
So there’s my proof. I can’t help feeling stupid, and not just because I’m balancing on a tube of Pringles outside a pub, but because I’ve made the mistake of not trusting my fiancée. What was I thinking? If Sam says she’s coming out to meet Madeleine, then she’s coming out to meet Madeleine.
As I wobble slightly on my perch, I realize that that’s all this was – a little wobble – and I’m just about to see if I can lower myself back to the pavement without crushing what’s now going to be my celebratory tube of Pringles when something occurs to me: neither of them has a drink.
I peer back inside, just in time to see a man – who I assume to be the barman – deposit three glasses of wine on their table. For a moment, I relax again, but then remember the Cooper’s Arms isn’t the kind of establishment offering table service and, besides, although I know from the other night Madeleine likes a drink, even if that was the barman, he surely wouldn’t be putting three glasses down.
Or be sitting down to join them at their table.
Or be picking up the magazine, then nodding approvingly at something Sam’s just shown him.
I get a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach, which sinks even lower when the man looks up from whatever it is he’s been reading. Because as his face creases in confusion at the sight of an eye – my eye – that evidently belongs to a seven-foot tall man staring in through the pub window, I realize it’s a face I recognize from the other day. When it was eating cake with Sam at the café.
Instinctively I duck down – a little too violently for the cardboard tube of wafer-thin potato snacks that’s been somewhat miraculously supporting my weight. There’s a pop, followed by a sickening crunch – fortunately not my ankle bone – as the tube concertinas, enveloping me in a sour-cream-and-chive-smelling cloud as I hit the ground.
I leap to my feet, then run back round the corner onto Western Road, unable to believe what I’ve just seen. How could I have been so blind, so stupid, so ignorant of the fact that my girlfriend, or rather, my fiancée, is having an affair? And what’s more, Madeleine’s in on the whole thing.
Dusting the remains of the Pringles off my trousers, I wipe the dirty smear from my forehead, pick a direction at random, and start walking, trying hard not to cry, but feeling angry at the same time. If Sam really is having an affair, then it won’t be just my crisps that have been crushed.
It’ll be my hopes and dreams for the future.
7.02 p.m.
I’m sitting on the sofa at Dan’s flat when his voice comes booming in from the hallway.
‘Step away from the stuffed crust.’
As Dan advances towards me, I pick up my can of lager defiantly, then take a couple of quick drags on my Marlboro.
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Come on, mate, I’m serious. You know those things will kill you.’ He’s sweating heavily which, coupled with the way he’s dressed – in a one-size-too-small-to-show-off-his-muscles white football shirt with ‘Davis’ and, predictably, ‘69’ printed on the back – means he’s probably been out training with Fake Madrid, the celebrity five-a-side football team he plays for.
‘So?’ I pick up the half-empty packet of cigarettes, childishly stuffing it up my jumper so Dan can’t take it.
‘I wasn’t talking about the cigarettes,’ he says, reaching down to grab the Pizza Hut box. ‘Do you know how many calories are in one of these?’
I snatch the box back from him, and for a few seconds we engage in a ridiculous tug of war until it rips in two and the pizza falls out – cheese-and pepperoni-side down, of course – onto Dan’s expensive rug.
‘I don’t care,’ I say, picking it up and placing it the right way up on the coffee table, much to Dan’s disgust. He stares at me for a second or two, then walks over to the kitchen to fetch a wet sponge and some Fairy Liquid.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you? And more importantly, how did you get in here?’
I reach into my pocket and remove a bunch of keys. ‘Your spare set, remember? You gave them to me in case of emergencies.’
‘Yeah, but, by “emergency”, I meant if a woman ever locked me in here and refused to let me go until I’d agreed to go on a second date with her,’ he says, kneeling down and dabbing gingerly at the pizza-with-a-slice-missing-shaped stain. ‘Not just because you fancied a pizza and a fag. And have you forgotten you’re supposed to be getting married next weekend? We don’t want you all lardy in your wedding photos.’
‘The wedding’s off,’ I say, slumping back onto the sofa, splashing some lager onto Dan’s suede cu
shions.
Dan pauses, mid-wipe. ‘What? Why?’
I shrug. ‘Sam seems to have decided that for me.’
‘So she finally saw sense, did she?’ Dan gets up off the floor and sits down on the sofa. ‘I suppose it was only a matter of time. What was it? The prospect of being married to you was just too much for her to . . .’
‘No, Dan. My suspicions were right. She’s . . .’ I swallow hard, because I can hardly bring myself to say the words, ‘having an affair.’
For perhaps the first time ever, Dan’s actually speechless. ‘What?’ he says, eventually.
‘Sam’s ha—’
Dan holds his hand up. ‘I didn’t mean “what?”, exactly. I heard you the first time. How do you know?’
‘You know that man I told you about the other day?’
‘The one she had coffee with?’
‘Yup.’
‘The good-looking one?’
‘Thanks, Dan. Yes. The good-looking one. Well, I saw him again. With Sam. Tonight. In a pub.’
As I explain this evening’s events, leaving out the Pringle-balancing, Dan’s eyes widen. ‘You must have got the wrong end of the stick,’ he says, when I’ve finished.
‘Will you please stop using that phrase. And anyway, how else do you explain all that, then?’
‘Er . . .’ Dan thinks for a moment or two. Given the amount of affairs he’s had over the years, if anyone could explain it, it’s him, and the fact that he can’t makes me even more suspicious.
‘Exactly.’ I pick up another slice of pizza, pull a few rug fibres off it, then take a huge bite, washing it down with a mouthful of lager.
‘No.’ Dan turns his attention back to his sponging. ‘Not Sam. She wouldn’t. And besides, even if she would, eating, drinking and smoking yourself into an early grave is hardly going to win her back, is it?’
‘I thought you said she wasn’t having an affair. So why would I need to win her back?’
Dan frowns. ‘Hang on, Ed. You sound like you’re trying to catch me out. Surely it’s her you should be doing that to?’
I throw the half-eaten slice back onto the table and put my head in my hands. ‘What am I going to do, Dan? I can’t marry her now.’
