The local pub is only a short walk away, but Mitch, of course, won’t listen to Kate and I and insists he remembers exactly where it is. Twenty minutes later, we’re still walking.
‘I was confused!’ he says. ‘Now I know exactly where we are. The Rat and Reacharound is along this road and to the left.’
‘The pub is called the Rat and Reacharound?’ says Sam.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s just that Mitch can’t remember the name of it, so he always makes up a revolting little nickname.’
‘We’re giving you five minutes,’ says Jake. ‘Then the women are in charge.’
In case of speeding Aston Martins and Porsches arriving unexpectedly, a genuine concern in this particular part of Oxfordshire, we’re walking in twos along the side of a little road. Mitch and Tara first—she keeps looking around and giving Kate and I amusingly worried looks as Mitch strides confidently ahead—Kate and I in the middle, and Sam and Jake behind us. The sunny morning has become a little bit cooler and cloudier, but they’re fluffy kids-drawing clouds that nobody could possibly mind.
After a few more minutes Mitch stops short.
‘Fine. Where do YOU think that the Parrot and Pudenda is, then?’
‘It’s back about 500 metres and then we take the road the other way and then turn left after a wooden sign,’ says Kate
quickly. ‘We walk down a little road behind some trees and we’ll be there in about two minutes.’
She’s right, and we are. The pub is actually called the King’s Arms and it used to be a scabby old place that smelled like beer and urine. On our trips to Eddie’s during university holidays we made ourselves very unpopular with the two old men who drank there quietly every night by being too raucous. There was a threadbare pool table and uncomfortable wooden seats. The two old men didn’t talk to each other, just sat on opposite ends of the bar and stared at us. The landlord told us that they’d had a fight in 1963 and never made up.
Then, a couple of years ago, the landlord sold it to a Londoner looking to move his family to the countryside, and now it’s just delightful. If you hate pubs being gastro-ed, I’m sorry, but you might just tolerate this one if you saw it: they’ve restored the original fireplaces, stripped out the deathly carpets and put in some long handmade tables and comfortable chairs. It still has soul. But now it smells good.
The happiest news of all, Eddie told us a year or so after the refurb, is that the two old men who hadn’t spoken since 1963 bonded over a shared hatred of the new decor and owner, and now sit together happily every night talking about the good old days. So that’s nice.
Mitch stops outside.‘Ah, the Frog and Fisting,’ he sighs happily. ‘Two rules. Girls have to drink beer. And secondly, girls have to drink beer.’
‘Women,’ I say.
‘Whatever.’
The pub is almost empty, with a table of two older couples taking a much-earned break from a day of walking. We set ourselves up next to the fireplace—which has a little fire in it, which is wonderful as even though it’s summer, it’d be depressing to sit next to an empty fireplace—and Jake and Sam go to the bar. I find myself gazing over at them absent-mindedly.
‘Enjoying the view?’ says Mitch. I look quickly at him and at Kate, who was apparently gazing dreamily in the same direction. We both start to laugh, and have to calm ourselves down before they get back with the drinks.
‘This is great,’ says Sam happily. He’s sitting on one side of me, and Tara is on the other. Jake is sitting opposite, and we have a quick but surprisingly painful bumping-knees incident under the table.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Oh, no, my fault, I sat down on your knees, I’m sorry,’ Jake replies quickly.
‘Oh, but my knees were lying in wait, so I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘No no, the fault was all mine. Stupid knees. I curse them.’
‘Calm down, you two…Cheers everyone,’ says Mitch, holding up his pint. We all toast and Jake catches my eye as he clinks my glass. Yikes. Whoops. Rule 3. Obvious flirting.
‘I haven’t been here since that summer right after university…remember?’ says Kate.‘Mitch was so hammered that he started to have a fight with someone in the bathroom. We could hear him arguing and calling someone a tosser, and we were about to go in and sort it out…’
‘No, no, no, didn’t happen,’ interrupts Mitch, putting his arm around Kate’s head to smother her mouth and looking at Tara anxiously.
‘And it turned out he was fighting with himself in the mirror,’ I finish.
‘It was very dark in there and the guy wouldn’t get out of my way,’ says Mitch, as everyone cracks up. ‘I’ve matured a lot since then, anyway, you know.’
‘You did the same thing last Christmas at my parents’ house,’ says Jake.
Mitch turns to Tara. ‘This is a total character assassination,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t believe them. I’m so much better than that.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers back reassuringly. ‘I know.’
‘Let’s talk about someone who isn’t here and can’t defend themselves. Like Tory,’ says Mitch.
‘I can’t believe Fraser brought her,’ I say.
‘That man just wants to be in love,’ says Mitch.
‘Can’t blame him for that,’ says Sam.
‘Yes, but he should pick someone who isn’t such a bike,’ says Mitch.
‘Is she?’ says Sam and Jake in unison.
‘I guessed by her breakfast attire,’ says Tara. ‘And by the way she was making eyes at poor Perry. He was petrified.’
‘Why is it that a girl who sleeps around is a bike, and a guy is just…a guy?’ says Kate. I think she wants to get off the subject of making eyes at Perry.
‘That’s not entirely true,’ I say. ‘I don’t care who she sleeps with, it’s her business, but she makes it ours by always talking about it.’
‘She does seem to do her best to look rather…oversexed all the time,’ admits Kate delicately.
‘Exactly,’ says Mitch and I in unison. ‘And she brags about her exploits in a way that makes
me
blush,’ he adds, glancing at Tara with a wide-eyed innocent look.
‘Yeah, that’s true, too,’ says Kate. ‘Last year she cornered me at a party and began asking if I’d ever considered swinging—I thought she meant swing-dancing, and said yes, and she got thoroughly overexcited and introduced me to her boyfriend.’
Everyone roars with laughter at this.
The conversation, from here, predictably moves to gossipy sex stories, of which Mitch has many. As usual with beer on an empty stomach, I start feeling a bit light-headed after just one pint, and Kate, Tara and I switch to red wine on the second round.
‘I love Malbec,’ says Kate dreamily.
‘I know. And I love that you get change from a tenner for it here. In London…’ Tara shakes her head. ‘I’m thinking about
giving up wine for the rest of the recession. I’ll drink cooking sherry instead.’
‘No mentioning the recession,’ says Mitch. ‘It’s too depressing.’
I glance over at Kate. She has her little worried frowny face back. Oh no, I hope this doesn’t destroy everyone’s blissful weekend-escape feeling.
‘Everything will be fine,’ says Jake. ‘Two of my brothers were caught in the last recession, in the early 90s, right out of university. And they were fine.’
‘Like fuck they were, I remember those years,’ says Mitch. ‘They babysat me constantly to earn extra cash. I swear sometimes my parents were just driving around the block all night and pretending to have a social life. I mean, they’re not that popular. Dad especially.’
‘They credit your parents with keeping them in beer and cigarettes,’ nods Jake. ‘Helped them survive.’
Everyone is silent for a moment, contemplating what we might have to do to survive this recession. We’ve all always had it so easy.
Jake attempts to lighten the mood.
‘One day, sooner than you think, it will be over,’ says Jake. ‘We just have to sit tight and wait.’
Kate looks slightly relieved. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And it can be a good thing…Patrick—my eldest brother—worked as a bartender to earn cash, and volunteered at a charity for six months. Great experience.’
‘And, if you want to be cynical, it looks very worthy on his CV,’ interrupts Mitch.
‘The point is everyone will be absolutely fine,’ says Jake pointedly. Kate looks deeply reassured. I smile at Jake gratefully, and he gives me a barely perceptible wink. I’ve decided that he is, in fact, a very nice person and not like Rick at all.This does not mean I should go out with him. Perhaps we can be friends. Oh shit. Rule 7. No new man friends.
Sam produces a pack of cards, and we start playing poker. The conversation continues in its usual funny, silly way. Mitch’s getting louder and more outrageous every minute. He’s drinking wine with us, whilst also enjoying his beer ‘for propriety’s sake’.
‘Flush!’ I say proudly.
‘That’s not a flush, Minxy,’ says Jake, leaning over me.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say.
‘No, it’s not,’ agrees Mitch. ‘Why are you calling her Minxy?…Oh! I know!’
‘Dash it,’ I say, trying to think of a way to distract Mitch so he doesn’t continue the Minxy route of conversation. ‘I hate poker. I’m going for a fag.’
My ruse works.
‘How I wish you girls wouldn’t smoke,’ says Mitch petulantly. ‘You smell like a betting shop in Birmingham half the time. The other half of the time you smell like angelic flowers.’
Kate and I look at him in astonishment. ‘We don’t really smoke!’ we chorus indignantly.
‘We only smoke when we’re drinking!’ I say.
‘That’s simply not true,’ says Mitch.
‘Or in a crisis,’ adds Kate.
‘Ah, you chicks and your crises,’ sighs Mitch affectionately. ‘Speaking of, I completely forgot to ask about the Botanist Bust-Up!’
I feel Jake and Sam glance up at me and I shoot Mitch a warning look. God, he’s annoying today. ‘No. It’s not a conversation for today. Possibly ever.’
‘Can I have a cigarette, too?’ says Tara quickly, standing up and putting her hand on Mitch’s shoulder. He looks up at her adoringly. Perhaps that’s a secret way of getting him to shut up. I must try it.
‘Of course!’ I say. ‘Come on. Let’s go and have a lovely smelly nicotine cancer stick.’
Kate, Tara and I head outside to a little seating area that must
be wonderful on the few days a year when it’s hot and sunny enough to eat outside. It’s late afternoon now, and getting cold. The fluffy white clouds we saw earlier have had dark grey, angry-looking babies, and they’re taking over the sky. I shiver and zip up Bloomie’s leather jacket.
‘What is the Botanist Bust-Up?’ says Tara. ‘I can see you didn’t want to talk about it inside but…Do you mind if I ask?’
‘Not at all,’ I say, smiling. I really don’t. ‘Um…’ I start, handing Tara a cigarette and lighting it for her.‘I had a drink with a fuckwit ex last week, and he was, yes, a fuckwit, and we had a fight, and I threw a glass of wine in his face.’
‘Fantastic!’ she grins, exhaling quickly. Amateur smoker. ‘Fuckwit ex-boyfriends should have their eyebrows shaved or something, so we can identify them easily and avoid them.’
‘I agree,’ says Kate. ‘But what about when their eyebrows grow back? Then they’ll be mingling in normal society.’
‘Maybe they should have a finger cut off for each woman they’ve messed around,’ I suggest. ‘So you’ll know how mean he is by how many digits are left.’
‘I love that idea,’ says Tara. ‘It would have helped me avoid my ex. He had a rap sheet as long as…’ She stops, searching for the right word.
‘His johnson?’ I suggest.
‘A lot longer than that,’ she says, laughing.
‘So what’s with you and Mitch?’ I’ve been dying to ask, and it finally feels like the appropriate moment.
‘I don’t know…I fear he has his own rap sheet I wouldn’t want to see,’ she says.
‘Not at all,’ says Kate loyally. ‘Mitch hasn’t messed around any girls, per se. He never leads anyone on.’
‘He just avoids…entanglements,’ I agree. It’s the nicest way I can think of for saying he’s a tart. ‘I’ve never seen him act like he is with you, though.’
‘Oh, really?’ she smiles. ‘Um, yes…well, he’s been very…
we’ve been talking a lot over the past few months, for the first time in years.’
‘Why did you guys break up, anyway?’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘I was still at uni, he was working in London…you know. It was a perfectly pleasant break-up. Well, at the time I was miserable, but I’ve gone through enough break-ups since then to know that there are degrees of misery.’
‘Absolutely,’ Kate nods.
‘I’m not over-thinking it, anyway…I’ll just wait and see.’
We finish our cigarettes and head back inside. The boys are in the middle of a very intense conversation, and all look up and around at us guiltily.
‘Gossiping, boys?’ I say disapprovingly.
‘Never,’ says Jake. ‘We were just talking about, um, films.’
‘Yes,’ says Mitch. ‘I was talking about
Terminal Velocity.
Such an epic.’
‘Which one is that again?’ says Kate, sitting down and taking a sip of wine. ‘Those action films all have the same names these days.’
‘Oh, I agree. Like…’ I think for a second and then put on a deep, American-film-voice-over voice. ‘
Final Termination
…followed by the sequel, which is actually a prequel:
Penultimate Obliteration.
’
Jake starts to laugh, and puts on his own American-film voice. ‘What about…
Fatal Demise
, and the sequel,
Incurable Fatality.
’
‘
Sovereign Autonomy
,’ I say, still in my deep American voice-over. ‘Anything you say in the voice works, really.
Conjugal Matrimony.
’
Jake shouts with laughter. ‘
Collateral Repercussion
…is that good? What about…
Imperfect Conjugation
?’
‘
Subliminal Deliberation
,’ I say, almost laughing too hard to put my voice on. ‘
Imaginative Delusion
…’
‘
Confessional Disclosure
,’ says Jake.
‘You two are nuts,’ says Kate.
‘
Unforeseen Revelation
,’ says Jake. ‘
Unassailable Certainty…Implicated Ramifications.
’
I laugh so much at these that I can’t think of any more. Everyone else is just looking at us. Not only are they not talking, but they’re not even laughing. Jake slowly stops laughing, too. There’s total silence.