Turning Thirty (26 page)

‘It's not that simple,' she replied.

‘I know,' I conceded. ‘Nothing is any more.' A broad smile spread across my face as a thought entered my head.

‘What?'

‘I'll sound insane.'

‘What's new?'

‘Okay,' I began. ‘I was just thinking that it's like somewhere between the ages of eighteen and thirty you enter the soap-opera era.'

‘You're rambling, Matt,' said Ginny. ‘You've lost me.'

‘Life becomes a soap opera, a never-ending stream of twists, turns and unbelievable scenarios. You know how it is: when you're young life is just so much more obvious. Your little corner of the world is so free of ups and downs that you practically have to invent stuff to worry about. That's why teenagers are so moody – it's got nothing to do with raging hormones, and everything to do with the fact that there's nothing going on in their lives. I look at you, me and Gershwin back then and everything was so simple. Yet here we are, years later and look at us. Gershwin's married with a kid and bored, you're having an affair with a married man, and I'm trying to work out if my ex-girlfriend in the States is the one for me. That's what I mean by being in a soap opera.'

‘I've got a friend back in Brighton,' said Ginny, ‘who doesn't know that his girlfriend is sleeping with his best mate.'

‘You see what I mean?' I said. ‘That could be a plot from either
The Bold and The Beautiful
or
Brookside
.' I thought for a moment. ‘How about this? Just before I left New York some friends of Elaine's found out that they won't be able to have kids even with IVF treatment.'

‘I think I saw something similar on
Home and Away
only last week,' said Ginny, visibly perking up. ‘Okay, here's another one. A friend of mine living in Keele found out last year that her mum had had an affair twenty-eight years ago and her dad isn't her real dad.'

‘That's a classic
Dallas
episode,' I said, and Ginny laughed and seemed like her old self for a moment. ‘Now do you see what I'm saying?' I continued. ‘These are all soap-opera staples: the childless couples, the betrayals of best friends, the he's-not-your-real-dad-this-man-is scenario and they're happening to real people. Now tell me, how did this happen?'

‘I don't want my life to be
EastEnders
,' said Ginny quietly. ‘I just want everything to be normal. I want to be normal.' She pulled herself closer to me.

‘Me too,' I said, as I wrapped my arms around her again. ‘Maybe we should get some better scriptwriters.'

Half an hour later we were back at the house, wandering in and out of the bathroom doing our regular getting-ready-for-bed routine.

‘Are you going to be okay?' I asked, as Ginny came out of the bathroom in her dressing-gown.

‘Yeah, I'll be fine,' she said, and then leant forward to kiss me. Her breath smelt of toothpaste. ‘Thanks for looking after me.'

‘Sleep well. And I'll see you in the morning.'

Ginny was half-way towards her bedroom when she stopped and turned round. ‘Matt?'

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What?' I repeated.

‘Nothing.'

‘Do you want to stand here on the landing all night?'

She smiled. ‘It's nothing. I was just going to ramble, really. I know you're going to think this is a load of New Age nonsense but I believe that things happen for a reason. I think you're back here at home for a reason. I think that you, me and Gershwin are back together to help each other. I really do. I know things look bleak for both of us at the moment but I honestly believe that we'll be okay, because . . . well, when you've got your mates in your corner shouting for you, anything's possible.'

Dear Elaine

Life is getting really weird round here. I discovered last night that Ginny's perfect boyfriend is married. With a kid. She hadn't told anyone at all. I only found out because I bumped into him and his wife by accident. I could just tell from talking to Ginny that, deep inside, she wants to get out of the relationship. She even said that she's accepted that he's never going to leave his wife. She knows there's no future in it. She never gets to see him and yet she won't or rather can't let go. I'm not one to get on my moral high horse (or even a moral low pony if there's one going spare) but this has got to be wrong, surely. Or am I just being an old fart? The worst is that I know he's fine in all this. He gets everything and Ginny gets nothing. I have considered going round to have a ‘talk' with him but Ian's quite a big bloke so I don't fancy my chances much. I did decide, however, that if I were in the Mafia I'd have a contract put out on him and get someone to – as they say in gangster parlance – ‘put a cap in his ass'. I think it's only fair. I'm off to watch
Godfather II
as I'm now in the mood. Let me know how NYC life is, dudette.

love

Matt xxx

Dear Matt

I'm sorry to hear about the situation Ginny has got into. You remember Melissa, my friend from college? You always said there was something weird about her and I said it's because she over-plucks her eyebrows and you said that's why she always looks so surprised. Well, anyway, she was seeing this guy Danny, and he was married too. He completely broke her heart as expected. But the thing about it was that she did it all over again a few years later and that ended badly too. Eventually her mom paid for a therapist for her because she said it would be cheaper than all the long-distance calls she had to make every time Melissa fell apart. Anyway, to cut a long story into a snappy soundbite, the therapist told her she was addicted to bad relationships. When she told me I pretty much agreed straight away because in college she was like a magnet for every loser in town. Knowing this hasn't done her any good, though. I talked to her only last week. She's living with a guy who has cheated on her twice and she's forgiven him both times. I'm not saying it's her fault. But it is sad. On a lighter note, you'll be pleased to know I got a tattoo of the Japanese symbol for love done at the top of my ass. Don't ask me why because I couldn't tell you. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Take it easy,

Elaine xxx

PS This thing with your friend. I know you want to fix it because that's the kind of guy you are. But you can't fix everything. So just try being there for her. If she's half the person you say she is she'll sort it out herself.

Dear Elaine

You scare me sometimes. I take it for granted that you have the scattiest brain on the planet and then you come out with Oprah-sized nuggets of wisdom like that. Ginny said that when you've got your mates shouting for you in your corner anything's possible. She might've been a bit optimistic about what the power of friends can do – needless to say Ian's still in the picture – but she's right to assume that at least friends do have a power of some description. The time I've spent with Ginny and Gershwin since I've been back home has been the best thing in the world for me. I don't mean that as a slur against you – I'm just trying to say that these people are my history. So I'm going to take your advice – I'm not going to fix!!! But I am going to sort out a surprise for Ginny. Just to let her know that . . . well . . . I'm on her side.

Love

Matt xxx

PS I always tried to fix things with you. Didn't I?

Dear Matt

A surprise is always a great idea. She'll love it.

love

Elaine xxx

PS Yes you did try to fix things but always for the right reasons.

It was a quarter to nine on the following Friday evening, and Ginny and I were standing in her living room discussing her clothing. She had been travelling to and from her room, showing me various combinations of her wardrobe for over half an hour.

‘What do you think of this one?' she asked.

‘Brilliant,' I said, encouragingly, of a long-sleeved black top and black trousers.

‘Better or worse than the last one?'

I couldn't remember the last one. ‘Better,' I pronounced shamelessly.

‘Hmmm,' said Ginny thoughtfully. ‘So it's a casual place that we're going to?'

‘You could say that.'

She looked me up and down. I was wearing my dark blue combat trousers, a dark blue hooded top and black trainers. ‘You're dressed casually.'

‘Am I?' I said, unhelpfully.

‘You know you are,' she said, squinting at me menacingly. She looked me up and down once again. ‘I think this'll be okay,' she mused, ‘
if
where we're going is casual.'

‘Fine, then. That's sorted. We're ready to go.'

‘I'll just be a minute,' she said, then disappeared back upstairs to her bedroom only to reappear at the living-room door five minutes later wearing a sheer black shirt and a pair of jeans. ‘What about this?'

‘I can't believe you've changed again.'

She ignored me. ‘Better or worse than the one before?'

‘Better,' I enthused.

She looked down at her naked feet. ‘Trainers or shoes?'

‘Shoes,' I replied. She flashed me an immediate look of disdain. ‘No, trainers definitely.'

She disappeared once more and, as I expected, returned minutes later wearing another different outfit: a long-sleeved white cotton top, oatmeal-coloured (never let it be said I hadn't learnt anything of the female colour spectrum from Elaine) wide-legged trousers and her Birkenstocks.

‘Good choice,' I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which by now wasn't much.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘Now all I've got to work out is whether I need a jacket.' She twirled around in front of me. ‘Jacket or no jacket?'

‘Jacket,' I replied.

‘But we're getting a taxi, aren't we, so I could go without the jacket? That is, unless where we're going is outside.'

‘It's inside,' I said patiently. ‘So no jacket.'

Ginny's forehead was creased with concentration. I could see that she was wavering. ‘You're right, I don't need a jacket.'

‘Great! Now we're all done.'

‘But don't you think the jacket goes with the Birkenstocks? I think the Birkenstocks
need
the jacket.' She said it as though her footwear was going to suffer from severe depression without the jacket.

‘No.'

‘I think you're right. Has anyone ever told you that you'd make a good woman?'

‘Not this week.'

‘Well, they should've,' she said, as she walked back into the hallway. ‘Every woman should have one of you.'

The plan for the evening had been quite straightforward until Ginny got involved. All I had to do was get her to an Indian restaurant in nearby Sparkbrook called King of the Baltis for nine thirty. The only problem was that by the time we arrived, having had to rush back to her house when she decided that she wanted her jacket after all, it was a quarter to ten and we were late.

‘So this is where we're going,' said Ginny, as the taxi dropped us off at the door to the restaurant. ‘For a curry. Why the secrecy for a simple curry?'

I opened the door for her. ‘You'll see.'

She smiled. ‘You're really enjoying keeping me in the dark, aren't you? You think it makes you appear mysterious, like you're some sort of James Bond figure. Well—' She stopped mid-sentence as the table reserved for ‘the Beckford party of six', which so far seated Bev, Pete, Katrina, Gershwin, stood and cheered at our entrance.

‘I don't know what to say,' she said, beaming. ‘This is so fantastic, Matt. It's been so long since we've all been back together like this – it's amazing. Bev, Pete and Katrina all here. And you organised it.'

I shrugged dismissively. ‘It's like you said,' I began, as I recalled the words of our conversation little over a week ago. ‘“When you've got your mates shouting for you in your corner, anything's possible.” I just wanted you to know that you don't need someone like Ian, not when you've got people around you who . . .' I was overwhelmed by self-consciousness. It all sounded far too cheesy.