Authors: David Nobbs
‘Until you met Jane, I thought you loved me.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘You never suspected?’
‘I think I was a pretty immature and stupid young man.’ There was a pause, during which the cricketers got into the lift. ‘I hoped you might think of denying that.’
‘I did think of denying it,’ said Liz. ‘You almost broke my heart. I sometimes wondered if I married Laurence because he was your friend and I hoped I might still see you. So you see I’ve at least half loved you for … more years than I care to think of.’
‘So the reason for your …’ Neville couldn’t think of a sufficiently tactful word, so he just stopped.
‘Peccadilloes?’ prompted Liz. ‘Amours? Sordid liaisons?’
‘No! Good Lord, no! Well … your … er … affairs.’
‘… is that I’ve been terribly unhappy for many years and only stayed with Laurence because I felt I owed it to the children? Yes.’
‘Good Lord! But this is …’ Again, Neville stopped.
‘Dreadful? Wonderful?’
‘I don’t know. One or the other.’
‘So … I … this is rather delicate, Neville, but I’ve started, so
I’ll finish. Our next contestant is Liz Rodenhurst, whose specialized subject is botched lives.’
‘What is rather delicate?’
‘Well … I know how much you and Jane wanted children … happy and fulfilled though you were, I hasten to … and I thought, “Well … I am about to have a child who has no father.” I thought … “Well … is it meant?”’
‘Good Lord! Good Lord! All I can say is … good Lord!’
‘So it would appear. Anyway, the whole thing astounds you and we should probably forget all about it.’
Four male Japanese tourists entered the foyer and wandered towards the lifts. They were festooned with cameras. They looked sad, perhaps because of the vile weather, perhaps because of the absence of Japanese women or perhaps because they had found nothing worth photographing.
‘Now,’ said Liz. ‘What is this other matter that you want to raise with me?’
‘Ah! Well … Laurence has asked me to ask you to go back to him. Will you?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Well, I’ve done what I promised. No, I haven’t. I said I’d plead. Liz, I beg of you … think of your marriage vows. Think of your husband, my friend, alone in that draughty great house … well, not draughty, I wouldn’t want you to think I was ever cold when I … think of all the years you’ve spent together, the memories you share, your children who both love you both. Reconsider this decision. Give Laurence one more chance, I beg of you. Will you do it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Marry me, then.’
‘Yes. Neville, are you serious?’
‘Yes, I … I honestly think I am! Good Lord! Good Lord! You see, Liz, I … I did at least half love you before I met Jane, although I was too shy and stupid to see that you half loved me, so … yes, I honestly think I am. Do you really mean “yes”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good Lord!’
They kissed. They were utterly unaware of the tinkling of the piped music and the fountain.
The younger element were happily dancing to the music of The Crabs, which seemed to Laurence to be harsh, repetitive, mechanical, joyless and boring. The group consisted of five tall, pale young men with hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks, tight trousers, and highlights in their hair. Their records were frequently played on Radio Gadd. All their movements were sideways, but despite this gimmick they had yet to break through nationally.
The cynical Elvis Simcock was dancing with Denise Saltmarsh, who was still wearing her winner’s sash and crown. Simon Rodenhurst was watching, transfixed with admiration.
The dance ended.
‘Thanks,’ said Denise Saltmarsh.
Elvis gulped.
‘Can I … er … take you out to dinner some time?’ he said.
‘Sorry, I’d have liked to, but … you know how it is.’
Denise Saltmarsh moved off, and Elvis returned to Simon rather sadly. He realized that he was sadder because he had asked her than because she had refused. He had asked her because she was Miss Frozen Chicken (UK), not because he liked her.
‘Fantastic!’ said Simon. ‘Dancing with Miss Frozen Chicken (UK)!’
Oh Elvis! Is that why you did it? To impress Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch? Would Jean-Paul Sartre ever have asked Miss Salade Niçoise of 1937 out, just to impress a young estate agent?
‘I even asked her out.’ Why tell him?
‘Amazing! What a nerve!’
‘She turned me down. How many women have you had, Simon?’
‘Well … I haven’t counted.’
‘As few as that!’
‘I’m a professional man in a small town, Elvis. I have to be discreet. Opportunities are rare.’
‘Give over! There must be times when you’re showing a lady client round a house, you’re in the commodious, handsomely proportioned master bedroom with five power points and luxury bathroom en suite, and you’re tempted to remove her spacious knickers, fling her on the bed, and make mad, passionate
love to her.’
‘That sort of thing doesn’t happen at Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.’ Simon sighed. ‘I wish I was clever enough not to have to worry about toeing the line.’
‘The problem of identity which most people suffer from isn’t the trendy one of not knowing who they are, but the much more mundane one of knowing only too well who they are and not liking it,’ said Elvis.
‘Bit deep for me,’ said Simon.
‘Exactly!’ said Elvis.
The Crabs, who’d been deep in consultation in an effort to pretend that their programme was spontaneous, sidled sideways to their instruments and launched themselves into a number which sounded identical to, but louder than, their previous effort.
‘I’m going to take you in hand, Simon,’ shouted Elvis. ‘I’m going to transform your life. I’m going to open up uncharted seas.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Simon, but Elvis didn’t hear.
Elvis walked away, giving a last glare at The Crabs. They were the kind of talentless apes who gave genuine modern popular music a bad name.
To judge from Laurence’s expression, as Neville Badger approached him warily, modern popular music was definitely being given a bad name. Laurence tried to read, on Neville’s face, evidence of how well his diplomatic mission had succeeded.
‘So you … er … you had a chat with Liz, did you?’ he asked, fighting against the music of The Crabs.
‘Yes, I … er … I did … yes.’
‘And?’
‘I’m afraid things didn’t go
entirely
to plan. I did … er … I do assure you that I did put your case to her very forcibly …
very
forcibly. I pleaded … begged … but … to no avail.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you, anyway.’
‘Not at all. It was a pleasure. Well, not a pleasure. I … er … I was glad to do it for you.’
‘Tell me honestly, Neville, as a friend …’ Laurence looked away, towards the dancers, as if the answer was really of no great account. ‘… do you think there’s any hope?’
‘Well … as a friend … I have to say …’ Neville Badger also
looked away, towards the dancers. ‘… I’m afraid there isn’t any hope at all.’
Laurence turned his enigmatic, stiffly smiling gaze back on Neville.
‘How can you be so sure?’ he asked.
‘Well … I also have to tell you … also as a friend, I do assure you … that …’ Neville forced himself to meet Laurence’s gaze. ‘… we’re engaged.’
‘What???’
‘Liz is going to ask you for a divorce, and then she’s going to marry me.’
‘You bastard!’
‘I would like to assure you categorically, Laurence, both as a friend and as a lawyer, that I have satisfied myself thoroughly and completely …’
‘I bet you have! You swine!’
A spasm of affronted dignity crossed Neville’s face. ‘… that I have satisfied myself thoroughly and completely that the breakdown of your marriage to Liz was irrevocable, and that I elicited this information without prejudice, without asking leading questions or influencing her decision in any way.’
‘You assured me not three hours ago that you had no knowledge of any relationship between you.’
‘I didn’t then.’
‘And now you’re engaged?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I thought you were my friend!’
Laurence walked off, as angry as Neville had ever seen him.
Neville felt uneasy. He had a vague but pervasive sense of guilt, of betrayal. Oh, Jane, he said silently. I never meant to do this. I wanted to mourn you for ever. He looked up at the ceiling, studded with lights, like a film studio. He tried to conjure up her body, in its finest, tiniest details, the exact length of eyelash, the exact size of thumb. Gone. Replaced by a vague concept of Janeness. He tried to ask it if it approved of his plan to remarry, if it gave him its blessing. It was too diffuse and opaque to answer. Hundreds of miles away, in a flexible multi-purpose function room, people were applauding a fairly untalented group. Here, in the world centre of Janeness, her widower felt sad that he couldn’t
feel sadder, felt ashamed that he couldn’t feel more ashamed, felt a sense of loss at the loss of his sense of loss. There came a vast diffused sadness. Into the sadness stepped a woman, a real woman, alive, precisely defined. She was smiling nervously. It was Rita. He returned the smile with instinctive impeccable manners, and then, feeling guilty because he’d been thinking of Jane, he rewarded her with one of his suavest, warmest, most irresistibly charming smiles.
Encouraged by Neville’s smile, Rita said, ‘I wondered if we could fix a date for that dinner.’
‘Absolutely!’ said Neville enthusiastically. ‘That sounds a marvellous idea. Let’s do that. Rita, I have some news that may be rather a surprise to you. Liz and I are going to be married.’
Rita felt that she died at that moment. Yet there she was, standing there like a lemon, at a table beside a dance floor crowded with chicken executives and guests. She heard herself saying ‘What??’
‘I thought you’d be surprised! I’m rather surprised myself.’
Rita made a conscious effort to recover her social poise. The old impulse to keep up appearances still had some power.
‘Well …’ she said brightly. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ said Neville. ‘Don’t mention it to a soul, will you? I’m telling you in the strictest confidence. There’s still the little matter of Liz’s divorce. But I wanted you to know.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘I rather like you, Rita.’
Rita closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear any more, and it wasn’t possible to close her ears.
‘And I rather fancied you rather liked me,’ said Neville, imagining that he was being the charming doyen of a town’s lawyers, having no idea that he was a wild boar pulling up every flower in Rita’s cottage garden with his disgusting snout. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed our little dinners together. I felt an air of relaxed, undemanding companionship that I’ve only ever had before with male friends. Didn’t you feel it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rita. ‘It was lovely and relaxed and undemanding. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
Rita swung her blue handbag over her shoulder as she set off round the edge of the dance floor. Neville Badger watched her go
with astonishment, which turned to realization and horror.
Rita rushed past Elvis and Simon, who were standing together watching the dancing. Elvis realized that something was wrong, and hurried after her. He caught her up by the doors to the bar.
‘Mum?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
She turned to face him. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I was,’ she said.
‘You what?’
‘I was wrong about something. I’ve just been put right. So I’m not wrong any more, so everything must be all right. Mustn’t it? You’re the philosopher.’
‘Mum!’
‘Your education was a complete waste of money. You’re totally inarticulate.’
‘No. It’s just that … I mean …’
‘“Mum!”’
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you feel like buying your mother a large drink?’
‘Mum!’
Paul was oblivious of all the other people in the bar. Only instinct prevented him from bumping into them as he went in search of the alcohol that would dull his pain. He’d only come back because he couldn’t face being on his own. He needed to reduce the burden of his pain by dramatizing it and sharing it around.
There at the bar, standing out against the dim blur which was all he could see of the rest of the room, was the magnificent long hair of Carol Fordingbridge. She was buying drinks. She was no longer wearing her swimsuit, but a pleasant white dress. White! He wanted to blame her. He wrestled with the impulse to say something really insulting. He also wanted to tell her how lovely she was. He wrestled with this impulse too.
In the end, he compromised. ‘Hello, Carol,’ he said.
She turned towards him.
‘Hello, Paul,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Jenny’s left me. She’s taken Thomas.’
‘You told her!’
‘I had to.’
‘You idiot!’