I call Isabel’s mobile but it’s off.
I call her father but he can’t remember where she was going. ‘Something with too many “ll”s in it,’ he offers eventually. ‘You know what those Welsh are like. They love their “ll”s.’
I call Alex and he says, ‘Sorry, I thought she wasn’t going until tomorrow.’ I promise him a slow and unnatural death involving a tile-cutting machine, a litre of nail-polish remover and a thousand unsterilised drawing pins.
And then I decide to get a train to Snowdonia.
‘Welcome to National Rail Enquiries. Please press one to speak to an adviser or hold for our simple and fast automated train-tracker service.’
I press one and get put through to the simple and fast automated train-tracker service. I then waste ten minutes battling with the train-tracker service’s ruthless and unremitting requirements.
‘Which station are you travelling to?’
‘One in Snowdonia.’
‘Did you say Solihull?’
‘No.’
‘Which station are you travelling to?’
‘Anything in northern Wales will do. I just want a rough—’
‘Did you say Andover?’
I throw my mobile in the bin in fury, put some pants in a day sack (the one Isabel bought me when my back hurt, sniff ) in fury, and march out of the house in fury. I take the train to London and a taxi into a traffic jam. Why did I ever think a taxi would be quicker than the Tube? So I take the Tube into a Tube traffic jam (due to an ‘incident’ at South Kensington). I run and stand behind some tourists on an escalator and run and stand behind some more tourists on the escalator and run and…‘Can’t you read? Look—stand to the right! It says it right there.’ And the elderly Japanese couple look terrified and hold out their wallets and I apologise but they don’t understand, and I run again and I arrive at Paddington.
And there’s a man in a blue cap standing behind that standard-issue lucky-for-him bulletproof glass.
‘I need to get to Snowdonia.’
‘Where’s that then?’
‘It’s a national park. In north Wales.’
‘Right, sir. You’ll need Euston.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘’Fraid not. Train to Birmingham, then…dunno. They’ll tell you at Euston.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘’Fraid not.’
So I get the Tube to Euston and I’m feeling a bit light-headed because my stomach had been expecting kippers and eggs Benedict cooked by a loving wife and it got absolutely nothing. As we grind through Edgware Road, Baker Street and so bloody on and so bloody forth, my head starts throbbing and then I notice it isn’t my head, it’s the chap three seats down listening to his i-eff-ing-Pod on standard what-is-the-world-coming-to maximum.
‘Turn that bloody thing down,’ I scream, causing a mother sitting opposite to wrap her arms protectively around her toddler.
The iPod-er looks at me aggressively.
‘NOW!’ Like I’m the Terminator only without any muscles or robot technology or Austrian accent.
‘Sorry.’ I win. I win. I win. I am a man. I have stood up against the hoodies. Isabel will be so proud. Except this hoodie is about eight and Isabel has gone. I am not a man. I am a bully. And I am a divorcé-to-be.
At Euston now. I run and run and smile at tourists and run and fight my way through a surprisingly large number of people, all of whom seem to be standing around looking annoyed.
And there’s a man in a blue cap standing behind that standard-issue bulletproof glass. And I say, ‘A ticket to Snowdonia, please.’
And he says, ‘Snowdonia?’
And I say, ‘Yes, apparently I need to go to Birmingham and change.’
And he says, ‘There’s no trains to Birmingham this morning, mate. Engineering works overran again. You should’ve called National Rail Enquiries.’
Police cells are
less
comfortable than your own bed but
more
comfortable than a friend’s sofa. Next time, though, I’ll take one of those aeroplane eye masks and some earplugs to keep out the bright lights and screamed profanities. They are not handed out on check-in.
Step one:
I called the smartarse behind the bulletproof glass a wanker.
Step two:
I waited in the railway bar for the afternoon train to Snowdonia.
Step three:
I drank five pints.
Step four:
I returned to the bulletproof glass ticket booth.
Step five:
‘I’m sorry, sir, all the trains are now full. You should have made a reservation this morning. I can get you a first-class open return leaving at 5.27 a.m. tomorrow. It will cost £457.’
Step six:
I become abusive.
Step seven:
I am asked to leave the concourse.
Step eight:
I go to a pub around the corner and drink some more pints and a whisky.
Step nine:
I decide to sneak onto one of the full trains under cover of darkness.
Steps ten to seventeen:
there isn’t much cover of darkness, I am spotted, I run, there are railway security officials, then police, then an overwhelming urge to vomit, which I do, on a policeman, then detention by angry policeman ‘for my own safety’.
Step eighteen:
I’m Nelson Mandela. In a sense. Actually, in no sense at all.
Still no mobile reception on Isabel’s stupid phone. Stepping out of the police station into the harsh light of another miserable, stinking morning, I decide to go home and sleep. In my own bed. On my own.
I wake at 6 p.m., then fail to go back to sleep until 5 a.m. The emotional upheaval of the weekend has effectively put my body clock onto Australian time.
An alarm bell is ringing. My house is on fire. I am trapped in the upstairs bathroom. Primrose is at the top of the fireman’s ladder, her face pressed against the bathroom window, laughing. But it’s not a fire or an alarm bell. It’s my mobile. It’s Isabel!
It’s not Isabel, it’s Johnson.
‘Where are you? It’s half eleven. It’s press day. The managing editor is going to kill you.’
The managing editor hauls me into his office to tell me that he doesn’t care how many of my grandmothers are dying, he doesn’t care if they’re dropping like octogenarians in a Greek heat wave, I cannot keep turning up late on a press day. From now on, it has to be immediate family members.
I tell him if only.
He tells me he’s serious.
I tell him the reason I was late was because I spent the night in a police cell as research for an article I’m doing on crime in modern Britain.
He tells me I’m lying.
I agree, explaining that I was in the cell on Saturday night.
He says he’s issuing a second formal warning. One more strike and I’m out.
I am not going to lose my job purely because Isabel is having some sort of midlife crisis. I will simply adjust to life as a singleton, get work back on track and wait for Isabel to come crawling back.
I am all alone. I live alone in a house that six months ago represented the hopes and dreams of a married couple. I go to sleep alone in a double bed. I eat breakfast at a table for six. It takes two days to load the dishwasher and four days to have enough clothes to bother putting a wash on. No one shouts at me if I mix colours and whites. No one laughs at me when I make an entirely unamusing joke at someone-on-TV’s expense. No one makes me tea or dinner or happy. Alone, I watch the spring bulbs flowering through the obscured windows of rain-soaked April. I listen to Morrissey. I am depressed.
Wee in the sink
Drink from the tap
Eat pizza for lunch, dinner and breakfast
Lick the knife clean
Lick the plate
Stick the butter knife straight in the marmalade without cleaning it
Watch
Trisha
Try a bra on
Go to bed in clothes
Watch TV the way women hate, flicking from one channel to the
next every few seconds until settling on
World’s Most Terrifying Police Chases
Dance to MTV
Sing
Singstar
power ballads with air guitar accompaniment.
No, I’m not going out. I have to get up early for work. It’s the new me.
No, I’m not going out. I don’t have the energy. But it’s the new me so that’s okay.
I already know alcohol isn’t the answer. I don’t feel like socialising. Walking from empty room to empty room seems to help. Part of the healing process.
The novelty of walking from room to room has worn off. I play myself at Scrabble but it’s tedious arguing with myself. So I just play with myself but that’s also tedious.
I try being the new-new me because it’s boring being the old-new me: I brush my hair; I wear a blazer and smartly pressed shirt; I allow everyone onto the train before me; I smile at everyone at work. The managing editor asks if I’m sickening with something. I say no. He says, ‘Must be some reason you managed to turn up on time.’ Johnson eyes my blazer and says, ‘Women,’ and wanders off, shaking his head.
Then Anastasia tells me I’m to look after a work experience. Do I think I can manage that without throwing (cold) tea at her? I’m the new-new me so I don’t rise to it—and politely accept her order. The workie is absolutely gorgeous. I want to marry her, just as soon as I get a divorce.
I think she likes me. She wants to go for a drink on Friday…her pretext being to find out more about life as a journalist. But who goes for a drink on a Friday if they’re not flirting?
Last ever anger-management class. One final chance to prove my point.
‘Harriet. How have you been this month?’
‘Fine, thanks. I see you’re making notes again.’
‘Yes, Harriet. It helps me to relax.’
Victory isn’t quite so sweet when someone bursts into tears quite so abruptly.
‘It’s Ms Prestwick. And I’ve just about had enough of your nonsense, you despicable man. I’m only trying to help and if you don’t want that help, fine. I’ve had enough. I’ve just had enough.’
‘You’re crying.’
‘Yes. Anger-management people have feelings too.’
‘Really?’
‘I hate working in Penge; I hate spending my life looking after horrid people like you. I trod on my glasses this morning and my husband has run off with the postwoman.’
‘It sounds like you have some issues.’
‘SHUT UP, SCHOFIELD. GO AND THROW ANOTHER BIKE THROUGH A WINDSCREEN.’
Felt like a despicable man for the rest of the day, despite also being the new-new me. No wonder Isabel went to Snowbloodydonia to make walls or whatever. Anything to escape the sort of man who takes pleasure in upsetting people who are trying to help. The sort of man who responds to the blatant sexual flirtation of a work experience young enough to be his daughter (if he lived in a trailer park in Idaho and had become a father at the age of eleven).
Turns out beautiful work-experience people do want to go for a drink on a Friday to find out stuff about careers rather than to have sex. Either that or my sudden lunge scared her. I blame the whisky: I already know alcohol isn’t the answer. I’ve established that. So why was I drinking so much of it? And what am I doing even trying
to kiss someone else? That’s exactly the sort of thing Isabel would expect of me. And Ms Prestwick. I’m even worse than a despicable man. I’m a perverted, lecherous, unfaithful man who can’t even be bothered to change out of his clothes when he goes to bed.
Johnson says it’s completely predictable that I would try to hit on a workie. I feel low right now, as if no one loves me. I explain that this is because no one loves me. He says that’s not true, my mum probably does. Andy agrees with my own conclusion about being perverted and unfaithful and little.
This afternoon, three blasts from my horribly depressing past.
First, Saskia called from New York to ask if I was all right. I said I wasn’t. She said I could always get Isabel back if I wanted. I just had to communicate better. I said she’s in northern Wales, in a place with too many ‘ll’s—communication was well-nigh impossible. And anyway, who was she to be telling me how to conduct a relationship she’d pretty much ruined?
‘You should go and get her,’ replied Saskia.
And I hung up.
Second, I opened the door to find a less-mad-than-usual Primrose standing there gripping a fruitcake in one hand and the unreasonable local policeman in the other.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to apologise.’
‘Oh right.’
‘I was taking the red pills once a day and the blue pills once a week.’
‘So?’
‘It should have been the other way around. Why else would I build a scarecrow made of chicken bones in my garden?’
‘I assumed it was a country tradition.’
‘The constable here—my doting nephew—would also like to say sorry.’
‘Yes,’ said the constable, after an elbow to the ribs. ‘I’m sorry I believed Aunt Primrose. She’s always made fruitcakes but she’s never actually been one. Hahahahahahahaha. Anyway, ahem, not a very nice welcome to the village. So, welcome. And, err, sorry.’
Primrose held out the cake, which I took nervously.
‘Is Isabel around? I think we owe her an apology too.’
‘No, she left me. She’s gone to Wales.’
‘Oh, but she’s such a dear. Why didn’t you go after her?’
Not her as well.
Third, the doorbell goes again. I assume it is Primrose suffering a relapse. But it’s Alex, looking nervous and satisfyingly bruised.
‘What do you want?’ This has become my standard greeting.
‘I want you to get Isabel back.’
‘Fuck off.’
I slam the door, wait three minutes and open it again. He’s still standing there.