Turning Thirty (19 page)

Dear Matt

This is just a quick note to find out how you're keeping. I've been really worried about you since your news. I know you don't like me worrying but I can't help it. I just want to know that you're okay. News this side of the pond is pretty mundane. Work is a bit of a bind (but, hey, when isn't it?). Sara is still sleeping on the Sofa from Hell (incidentally she hasn't mentioned how uncomfortable it is, which either means that she's being really polite or has a spine made of steel), and my parents are talking about coming to see me. I broke the news to them that we'd split up and my dad was so happy he was like a game-show contestant. Did I ever tell you the reason why my dad never liked you? It was because you're English. My dad never has anything good to say about the English. He says, and I quote, ‘They all act like they've got flagpoles shoved up their butts.' Truth is, he's never liked any of my boyfriends. That's what dads do best, I guess – hate their daughters' boyfriends. Well, gotta go and do some work now (or at least pretend to).

take it easy

love always

Elaine xxx

Dear Elaine

Glad to hear you're okay, dudette, and that the Sofa from Hell hasn't crippled Sara and that your dad still hates me. All that aside, thanks for the rest of the contents of your last e-mail and for the phone call the other day. I'm honestly okay. Really I am. Gershwin, Ginny and I went to see where Elliot was buried today, which was strange and not in the least bit comforting. I have no idea what we thought we'd achieve by doing it. It's weird how in times of crisis when you're not sure how to act the most natural thing to do is to act like you're in a TV drama! Fortunately we snapped out of it pretty quickly and ended up retiring to the local pub. I feel like today has been a turning-point for the three of us. I think we're going to be proper mates again and this makes me feel good. Anyway, you take it easy yourself and try not to get too stressed when your folks come to stay.

Love

Matt xxx

True to our word, Ginny and I kept in touch. It started out with the odd trip down to the Kings Arms in time for last orders, with Gershwin tagging along whenever he could make it, progressed to trips to the cinema and mid-week meals out before finally moving on to that special point in friendship: the dropping round to each other's house for no reason other than the desire for company, coffee and the occasional cigarette. Sometimes Ian came out with us, sometimes Zoë came too, but for the most part it was just the three of us and, while I hesitate to say it, it really was just like old times.

On the Tuesday evening, nearly three weeks into our newly reinstated friendship, the three of us were in the lounge of the Kings Arms, spending some quality time together (well, actually, I was moaning about living with my parents, Ginny was moaning about work, and Gershwin was moaning about life
and
work) when they announced that ‘Rock Around the Pop' – the Kings Arms' regular Tuesday night quiz – was about to begin. This was the second week in a row that we'd been and we loved every second of it. There's something wonderfully comforting about the Great British Pub Pop Quiz. It was cool to be vindicated: to know that there was indeed a point in knowing which year the Sex Pistols had signed their deal with EMI, and a good reason to be able to name all five members of Musical Youth; it was fantastic to have Ginny
and
Gershwin look at me in awe in the what-lyric-comes-next round when I could recite not just a line but all of Wham!'s ‘Club Tropicana'. It was a real bonding moment for us. My speciality was hits of the eighties, Ginny was spot on almost every time on current music and Gershwin excelled at everything else. We were like a well-oiled pop-music-trivia machine.

Half-way through the quiz, when Gershwin and I were hunched over Ginny's shoulders watching her scribble down the answers in her role as holder of the pencil, Ian turned up unexpectedly. I suddenly felt guilty. From the moment that I'd thought about kissing her on the day when we'd sat on her doorstep, it had become harder and harder to stop thinking about Ginny in ‘that way'. This disappointed me because, at the age of nearly thirty, I was hoping that I'd somehow gained control of my ‘dark' side, and the thought of being obsessed with another man's girlfriend depressed me. Worse still, I liked the idea that, after all this time, Ginny and I could just be friends without leaping all over each other. Having a platonic friendship with an ex-girlfriend/not girlfriend just seemed the sort of thing a nearly thirty-year-old man should be able to do. It didn't help knowing that it was only me who was battling with temptation either. Although affectionate, Ginny hadn't given me the slightest indication that she wanted anything to happen. And why would she? Unlike me, Ginny was in possession of the turning-thirty Holy Grails: a decent job, her own home and a relationship that had a future.

‘Hi,' said Ginny, standing up to kiss him. ‘This is a nice surprise.'

‘Good,' he said, returning her kiss. He turned and looked at me and Gershwin. ‘All right, lads?'

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?' asked Ginny, pulling up a chair for Ian.

‘Bad news, I'm afraid,' he said, sitting down.

Ginny tutted loudly. It was odd seeing her go into girlfriend mode like that. As she'd always been more friend than girlfriend when I'd been involved with her I'd never had to suffer that with her, and judging by the grim look on her face she did it very well.

‘I'm off to the bar,' said Gershwin, as he and I exchanged schoolboy smirks of the I-wouldn't-like-to-be-him-right-now variety. ‘Can I get you a drink, Ian?' he asked, as he stood up.

‘I'd love one,' said Ian, ‘but I can't stay out long – too much work to finish off.'

‘Oh, great,' snapped Ginny.

‘Look, I'm sorry, babe,' said Ian. ‘I'll make it up to you soon.'

‘You haven't even told me what the bad news is yet,' said Ginny.

‘Er . . .' interrupted Gershwin, embarrassed. ‘Same again, Ginny?'

‘No, thanks. I'll have a double vodka and tonic, if that's okay.'

She'd been nursing half a cider all night.

‘No problem,' replied Gershwin, exiting rapidly.

I stood up and gabbled, ‘Better go give the old man a hand with the drinks, eh?' in Ginny's direction, waved at Ian and disappeared after Gershwin.

‘What do you think that was about?' I asked my companion, as we reached the safety of the bar.

‘Dunno, mate, but whatever it is he's definitely in trouble.'

By the time we returned Ian had gone and Ginny was fuming in a way that only a woman wronged by her boyfriend can.

‘Where's Ian?' I asked. ‘He can't have gone already?'

‘He's gone all right.'

‘Lovers' tiff?' asked Gershwin.

‘You could say that,' said Ginny tersely. ‘Every year my old college friend Adele throws a birthday party in her flat in Belsize Park. It's always really fabulous and everyone who went to college with us turns up.'

‘So?' I asked.

‘
So
,' began Ginny, throwing a hard stare in my direction, ‘every year I go just to meet up with everybody and every year I feel like crap because they've all got these fabulous lives. Adele works in an art gallery and has this semi-delinquent toff boyfriend who's loaded. Her best friend number one, Liz, is an art director at some swanky advertising agency in Soho, has got a boyfriend who's a TV presenter and drives a big black sporty-type car—'

‘Ferrari or Porsche?' asked Gershwin, unwisely.

‘I don't know!' snapped Ginny. ‘That's hardly the point, is it?' She exhaled deeply. ‘Sorry, Gershwin. Where was I? Oh, that's it – and then there's Adele's best friend number two, Penny, who's married to a banker, has two gorgeous kids, a house in West London and a cottage in Cornwall, and on top of all that she had a show of her paintings at the Serpentine last summer. Finally there's me.'

‘Do you actually like these people?' I asked.

‘Can't stand them. Couldn't stand them at university either.'

‘So why are you going?'

‘Because if I don't it would be like admitting defeat. They're all so bloody patronising. It's like, “Oh, poor Ginny!” and I just want to shove their sympathy right up their—'

‘Now, now,' interrupted Gershwin, adopting a vicarly tone. ‘That won't do at all.'

‘This year was going to be different. For one, I was going to tell them all what I thought of them, and for the other I was going to take my very handsome boyfriend with me to show off. I asked him about this ages ago and he's been promising me that he'd come and then I get his excuses and I have to go on my own.'

‘Well, if Ian's got to work, he's got to work, hasn't he?' I said, attempting to be the voice of reason.

Ginny wasn't in the mood for reason and glared at me.

‘It's only an idea,' began Gershwin, ‘but we could come with you. Y'know, be your escorts for the evening. Matt could pretend to be a mega-famous music producer and could spend the evening name-dropping superstars.'

I interrupted, ‘And Gershwin could be an airline pilot.'

Ginny attempted to stifle a smirk but failed miserably. ‘I've always quite fancied the idea of a pilot. They're quite sexy, aren't they?'

‘Yes, indeedy,' said Gershwin. ‘And not only have I always wanted to be sexy but I've always wanted to fly a plane. I could make out that I've done a long haul from Singapore just to attend this party with you.'

‘Who would I get to be?' asked Ginny, getting into the mood of our new fantasy-career game. ‘I'm still only a teacher.'

‘That's the beauty of these lies,' I replied sympathetically. ‘You don't get to be anyone but yourself. Gershwin and I are two potential suitors who met you on holiday in Barbados and are vying for your love. It'll be a great laugh. Adele and her trendy mates will be so jealous you've managed to hook up with two eligible young studs like us that she'll hopefully choke with jealousy and die.'

Ginny chuckled and draped her left arm around me, her right around Gershwin. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, boys. I think if this is going to work I'm just going to be me. I'd like the company though, but only if we go as ourselves. I'll let her humiliate me in front of all her trendy friends one last time, then I'll head to the bathroom, have a good cry, compose myself, say my goodbyes and never see them again. What do you say? Next weekend, are you up for it?'

‘All for one and one for all,' said Gershwin, cheerily.

‘I'm there like a rocket,' I added, getting into the spirit of things.

‘That's that, then,' said Ginny, holding her untouched vodka up to her eyeline as if about to down it in one. ‘London, here we come.'

Dear Matt

I have a confession to make. Sara and I had another big night out after work on Friday. We just spent the whole night drinking and laughing – it was really good. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I met a guy. The inevitable happened. I'm not seeing him again.

love

Elaine xxxx

Matt

It's been a day and a half since my big news. Where are U? Mail me back so that I can rest assured that you haven't gone weird on me over this.

Elaine xxx

Matt, if you're not e-mailing me because of what I've told you then . . . then . . . then you're not the person I thought you were.

Elaine xxx

Read . . . my . . . e-mail . . . carefully . . . GET OVER IT, YOU ASSHOLE!

Love

Elaine xxx

We arrived in London early on Saturday morning. For a few days beforehand it was touch and go as to whether Gershwin was going to be able to come to the party because it clashed with a prearranged visit to Zoë's parents' for the weekend. However, he managed to negotiate his way out of it, with a promise to up his contribution to household duties from 20 per cent to the golden 50 per cent of perfect married life and a weekend away for the two of them ‘somewhere nice'.