Authors: R J Gould
“You were the only one who checked if I was OK when you
saw me crying in the playground.”
“I didn’t like to see you hurt. I thought you were nice,
too. I wish I’d been bold enough to act on it, to ask you out. All these years
wasted.”
“No, not wasted. For a start if we’d got together then
there wouldn’t be Andy, Kay, Rachel or Sam. And it might have only lasted for a
week like most of the other school pairings.”
“I suppose you’re right. Here’s an odd question. You’ve talked
about relationships after Roland and I’m sort of nosey about who and what they
were like.”
“That’s a bit weird. Well, I’m not going to allocate a
score out of ten for each lover.”
“A pity, I was hoping to produce a list.”
“Until you I’ve not been great at choosing. I hope you
realise I feel very secure with you. And don’t worry, you’re sexy too.”
“Who were you with before me, before the reunion?”
“Jesus, you really are a creep after all!”
Jan had lasted a little over six months. The relationship
ended when Bridget discovered he was married. The day they met she’d taken the
morning off work to catch the Rothko exhibition at the Tate Modern. She’d been
meaning to go for months but had left it until the final day. To avoid the
crowds she made sure she was one of the first in and as a result was able to
stand well back from the giant canvases to appreciate the colour and movement
in them.
“Magnificent,” exclaimed a deep voice behind her.
“It is rather,” she agreed.
“I’ve never been able to articulate how an abstract shape
can take on such a vibrant form. His colours flow like a river.” The accent was
Nordic or Germanic, the grammar and intonation perfect, even over-perfect, the
comment surpassing pretentiousness. “And these blocks of colour have become a
breakthrough art form. A hundred years ago people would have laughed at them. Don’t
you agree?”
“I can’t say, I wasn’t around then,” Bridget replied with
deliberate detachment to waylay corny chat up lines that she had grown
accustomed to. She turned to face a tall thin man with a narrow attractive face
and sharp eyes. His honey-coloured hair was unfashionably long, but it suited
him. They trekked round the galleries together. He was a smooth talker,
interspersing details of his life with observations on the art before them.
She’d got it wrong, Jan was neither German nor
Scandinavian. He was a Dutch businessman who regularly came to London to sell
his company’s graphic art software. Whenever possible during these trips he
took in a gallery. Had she been to Holland? Only to Amsterdam? The Rijksmuseum
and the Van Gogh were all well and good but she should visit The Hague to see
the Mondrians in the Gemeentemuseum. Surely Rothko was influenced by Mondrian.
His knowledge of art equalled hers and conversation flowed.
Having coffee together seemed a natural thing to do. Then at his request they
walked over the footbridge to St Pauls, taking lunch at a restaurant near the
old Billingsgate Market that one of his work associates had recommended. Jan
was polite, unthreatening, not at all pushy and yes, she had to admit it, good
looking.
“You work in an art gallery, how wonderful. I’d love to
see what you sell. May I meet you when I’m next in London?”
Bridget agreed to exchange numbers. Two weeks later they
were together again. He collected her at the gallery ahead of an evening meal
and theatre performance. His impeccable gentlemanly behaviour continued over
his next three visits, on each occasion ending with no more than a snappy kiss
on each cheek. But the next time round there was an offer of a stay at his
hotel and she accepted.
“God this is sounding like a confession, David. Why the
hell am I telling you any of this? Well I’m not embarrassed to admit I enjoy
male company and I was more than ready for a new relationship.”
“We all have pasts though in terms of relationships mine
consist of little beyond Jane. I’m not judgemental, I’m interested in hearing
about you. It’s what’s made you who you are.”
Bridget continued. Four months into the affair Jan
invited her for a weekend in Amsterdam. Without embarrassment or remorse he
came out with it. His wife and children would be away visiting her parents in
Brabant so it would be a perfect opportunity.
“Wife? You didn’t tell me you’re married.”
“I haven’t told you I’m not, you’ve never asked.”
“I’m just your bit on the side then.”
“Have you enjoyed our time together?”
“Yes.”
“Well so have I. Isn’t that what’s important?”
“There is such a thing as morality, Jan.”
“Bridget, this is the twenty-first century, not some time
in the distant past when adulterers were stoned or burnt at the stake. I’m at
ease with my twenty-first century morality.”
“Well obviously I’m still stuck in the past.”
Bridget ended the relationship there and then, about
three months before the reunion.
She informed David that was it for the day or possibly
for ever as far as telling him about her past.
They made late morning love.
“Ready for our big outing are you, Andy?” she’d asked as
they’d got into the car.
Rachel and Andy sat in the back as they made their way to
Oxford. The younger children were at friends. “Why are we doing this?” Rachel
asked with dramatic emphasis on the ‘are’ as they turned off the M25 and onto
the M40. Andy had yet to say a word.
David had already told her and was unwilling to go
through the reasoning again.
Bridget showed more resilience. “Look out there. Not a
cloud in the sky, beautiful countryside. And when we get there you’ll love the
architecture. Your dad and I went to Oxford loads when we were your age.”
“Together?”
“No, we didn’t know each other then.”
“I thought you were in the same year at school.”
“Well yes, but we weren’t friends.”
“Actually they hated each other,” Andy joked.
“Andy, you’re alive. I was worried. They probably still hate
each other deep down.”
“No, we don’t,” said Bridget as she stretched across to
kiss David on the cheek.
“Anyway Bridget, you can cut out the crap about this
being a tourist trip to discover our roots. We’re here to be sold the
university.”
“We can include a look, there’s nothing wrong with that
is there?” Bridget replied.
“Well maybe not for Andy, but not much point for a lazy
thicko like me.”
“Lazy yes, thick no.”
“Thanks a million dad. Stick to driving will you.”
There followed some rummaging through her backpack before
Rachel’s iPod and headphones were extracted and activated. She looked across at
Andy playing a nerdy game on his tablet. She reckoned he’d fit in perfectly with
the other eggheads doing computing at Oxford. She turned up the volume to drown
out Bridget and her father’s voices. She hated sitting in the back on a long
journey, it made her feel sick. Her dad knew, but since Bridget had arrived on
the scene there had been an assumption that the front passenger seat was hers.
She looked out the window as they were driving through
the steep chalk cutting at Stokenchurch. It was OK seeing some countryside
while listening to Elbow, the music in harmony with the sheep dotted around the
gentle hills. Cows always stuck together but sheep spread out. Why was that,
she wondered? Her point was proved as they passed a herd of cattle squashed
together in the corner of a field. Some were sitting, did they expect rain or
was that idea as absurd as much else she had picked up from adults over the
years?
They took the motorway exit to Oxford. The decision
makers in the front had opted for Park and Ride. Rachel couldn’t understand why
they didn’t drive into the centre of the city, but she decided not to argue her
case. There would be more important things to contest.
It turned out that she should have argued because Park
and Ride was inappropriately named. It ended up as find a space right on the
outer rim of the jam packed car park. Walk miles to get to the bus stop. Wait. Wait
more. Stand up on the crowded bus. Ride to a place called Headington. Disembark
when the bus breaks down. Wait. Wait more. Wait lots more. Stand squashed like
anything on the replacement bus which surely was illegally overcrowded. (Though
with the benefit of being able to edge up against a dishy bloke with baggy
jeans and a Glastonbury tee shirt). Ride. Stop in traffic jam. Ride. And
finally get off at a bus station that looked like any other bus station, namely
it was full of buses.
Bridget claimed to know Oxford well and marched them off
towards a particular place for lunch. Why they didn’t stop off at one of the
Prets, Starbucks, Café Neros or Costas they passed en route was beyond Rachel’s
understanding, and she made her view known as they trundled up and down roads
because Bridget couldn’t remember exactly where her preference was located. In
addition to the university assignment, Bridget and her father were on a blatant
mission to discover non-mainstream venues to add to their obsessional coffee
bar research.
The food was OK, they all chose a pasta something or
other, but her Diet Coke was lukewarm. Bridget’s reunion with Nellie’s Tea Room
went way over the top in terms of the great delight it appeared to generate.
“Do you know what,” she announced, “I think I might be
sitting on the same chair at the same table as when I was last here more than
ten years ago.”
A flood of sarcastic options emerged for Rachel to
select, but she kept quiet, aware that David was eyeing her with suspicion. She
contemplated whether she would end up saying things like that when she was
older. Near orgasmic ecstasy over a fucking chair. And Bridget wasn’t even old
and was relatively cool. What must go on in the heads of even older people like
the ones sitting opposite them? ‘Look at this teapot, darling. It’s identical
to the one we got as a wedding gift.’ ‘Do you think this is Linguine or
Vermicelli?’ ‘I think you’re incorrect on both counts, sweetheart, I believe it’s
Fedelini.’ It’s just fucking pasta; it all tastes the same so eat it.
Rachel’s anger grew to boiling point. It was a complete
and utter waste of a day and she’d been pretty well forced to come along
because, as her dad had put it, Andy is coming and he’d appreciate you joining
him. His tablet had been keeping him company, he’d got up to about level eight
million on his game and had hardly spoken.
Now they were walking up The High. Bridget had made a
point of telling her that the word Street should be omitted and ‘The’ added. The
sign said High Street, but apparently that was beside the point.
They crossed into Queen Street. “At last, we’ve reached The
Queen,” Rachel tested.
“Yes, Queen Street.”
“Why add ‘street’ and knock off ‘the’. The High lost its
second name, why not this one, too?”
“Because when…” Bridget started before ceasing, with
explanation barely started. There was an abrupt end to the scout-like stride they
had been subjected to, followed by some whispering between David and Bridget as
they watched two sneering men approach.
“What’s the matter? Who are those two fatties?” Rachel
asked.
“Ex-school mates,” Bridget said as the men moved in
position to block their path.
The shorter man spoke. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our
David again.”
“Hello Ben. Hello Bill.”
The taller one, Bill, looked across at Bridget then back
to David. “You’ve managed to hook up with this tasty bit of skirt, you sneaky
bugger.”
“I do have a name, though clearly your brain struggles to
access two bits of information in quick succession,” Bridget stated with a fair
degree of aggression. “Still, a big congratulations for remembering it’s David.”
Some shoppers sensed trouble and were giving the group a
wide berth. David had flashbacks to Ben’s potential for violence and his encounter
with the mugger. He hoped Rachel wasn’t making the same mistake. “Ignore them,
Bridget. Let’s head on.” The men had engaged in Sunday lunchtime drinking and
the smell of beer on their breath highlighted the danger of replicating the evening
in Kitts Yard.
But Bill wouldn’t have it. He stepped in front of
Bridget. “You were a mouthy bitch at the reunion. Maybe bits of skirt shouldn’t
try to be bits of mouth. What d’you reckon, Ben?”
Ben appeared to be in a conciliatory mood. “Let’s go. Come
on, Bill,” he suggested, but Bill was still having none of it.
“Go, why? Let’s join the romantic couple for a Sunday
stroll.”
Rachel and Andy had been ignored like they were a pair of
walkers who only stopped because they happened by chance to be behind Bridget
and David when they were blocked.
The conversation between Bridget and the one called Bill
was getting heated, Bridget accusing Bill of being brain dead and Bill
suggesting she must have had breast implants. David and the one called Ben were
making unsuccessful attempts to separate the antagonists.
Andy stepped forward. “Stop being rude to my mother.”
“Who’a, a knight in shining armour. I’m really scared of
you.” Bill said ahead of giving Andy a shove. Andy held firm.
“I’d rather you didn’t do that.”
“Oh would you rather I didn’t do that,” Bill sneered as
he gave Andy a stronger push.
Ben and David were in the process of suggesting the antagonists
move apart when Andy grabbed hold of Bill and with what looked like very little
effort, deposited him on the pavement. Ben leapt up, furious, his fists
clenched. “I’m goin’ to get you for that, you little bugger.”