Young Wives' Tales (30 page)

Bollocks, frankly.

‘Can’t we just have a quiet drink?’he asks.

I’m about to say no, definitely not, but then I take a moment to think about the question. In fact, a quiet drink might be OK. I can see the appeal. I’m not sure if I want to cop off with anyone tonight either. Not
anyone
.

Oh crap, I’m not saying I want to cop off with
someone
, am I? A specific and significant someone? Oh disaster. Bloody, bloody Connie. How the fuck has that stuff kicked off again? It was maddening enough the first time round.

‘OK, mate,’I agree. ‘A quiet night it is.’He looks relieved.

I go to the bar and buy in the drinks. I even order him the orange juice he asks for and I don’t think about
spiking it. When I return to our table I notice that despite being a wet blanket in terms of chatting up babes at the bar, Craig isn’t down or depressed. He is distracted, yes, but he’s not crying into his beer; he is in fact bright, agitated and excited.

‘What’s up?’I ask finally.

‘Nothing.’Craig blushes, which, sadly for him, clearly indicates that something or other certainly is up. My money is that it’s a bird. If it was work that was concerning him he’d let me know. He’s no shame about boring me rigid about school and yet he’s being coy, there has to be a lady involved. It’s only fair that he spills.

‘You can tell me.’I smile, wanting him to trust me.

‘No, I probably can’t.’

‘I’m the soul of discretion.’

‘No, you are a foghorn.’

‘I’ll understand.’

‘Get real.’

‘Mate, I’m offended.’I try to look very wounded. I am in fact a tiny bit wounded. It’s not like I’m a total emotional cripple, is it? I might be able to relate. ‘Who is she?’

He relents a fraction, as he’s an utter soft touch and can’t bear offending anyone, even a worthless bastard like me.

‘She’s nobody to me, yet. But I just think there is the tiniest possibility that she might be someone quite special and I don’t want to tell you anything for now.’

‘You think I’ll jinx it?’

‘No, but you’ll spoil it.’

‘Have you shagged her?’

‘No!’

‘Snogged her?’

‘No.’

‘Been out with her?’

‘No.’

‘Well, in truth, mate, there’s not much to tell, is there?’Craig glares at me. I take a sip of my pint and then call his bluff. ‘Oh, I get it. She’s married.’

‘No!’He nearly chokes on his orange juice and indignation.

‘But unavailable, am I right?’

‘Yes, sort of.’

‘Has she slapped you back?’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘Because?’I wait, but Craig refuses to illuminate. I nurse my pint for an indeterminate amount of time until he splutters.

‘She hasn’t slapped me back because I haven’t made my feelings clear. You wouldn’t understand. It’s nothing concrete. It’s someone I’ve known for a while and long since admired. It just struck me recently that maybe there might be something there. You know? She might be open to…Well, she might not think that it’s a completely ridiculous idea…Oh, but it’s impossible.’

I try not to laugh at the fact that my mate sounds like a teenage girl.

‘Why is it impossible?’

‘She’s a mum at school. A single mum,’he adds hastily. ‘But if I get it wrong and she doesn’t, you know…’

‘Fancy you?’I prompt.

Craig splits hairs. ‘If she doesn’t respond kindly, then I’m going to look like a total idiot. An unprofessional total idiot.’

Craig downs his orange juice in an attempt to hide his blush. I’m unsure whether he’s turned scarlet through agitation, frustration or embarrassment. I know he’s expecting me to take a pop but I can’t. There’s something quite endearing about his shy foray through life. I wish I could be so ingenuous.

We sit silently once again. I’m nursing my pint and Craig is nursing his empty glass. Suddenly, it strikes me that we are a bit fucking sad, two studs like us and we can’t get any decent action between us. I mean decent. Obviously I get a fair amount of sex, as much as I want. But somehow that in itself has turned into a problem. Getting a shag is not an issue for me, the way it is for Craig. I’m not hampered by restrictive moral codes. Every hole is a goal. Problem is, recently, I’ve noticed that the instant the woman makes herself available, the thrill bursts. The thrill is in the chase and no one is running any more. Well, almost no one.

Who would have thought there was such a thing as too many willing ladies? Well, Andrea, my ex, said that on a number of occasions, I suppose. And Connie might have said it too. But who’d have thought that
I’d
consider there being such a thing as too many lovely ladies?

Then there’s Craig; out there in the same market but can’t get any. He’s quite handsome in a boyish way. You can look at him and know for a fact that nothing illegal or foreign has ever been shoved up a single orifice. With the new clothes and haircut he’s very marketable. And God love him, here comes the crux, he’s decent. You know, that should count for something. If there was any sense in this world he should be doing better than I am. He deserves to, but of course he’s not. And the reason is – he has no confidence.

Women are harsh, and they can’t see past his glasses and his obsessive interest in antique Royal Doulton matchstick pots. They can’t forgive the fact that Elton John and Diana Ross feature in his CD collection. Christ, what am I talking about? That is his CD collection. Women see his nervous ways and think he’ll fumble with their bra clasp. They watch him carefully chew his food and they assume he lacks the relevant appetites. They judge, dismiss and discard. They miss his decency, his intelligence and his thoughtfulness. They are so bloody stupid – they like bastards. They prefer men like me to men like Craig. If ever there was evidence for female fuckedupness, then that’s it.

I thought it was going to be fairly straightforward – women are always moaning about lack of decent blokes, but they don’t mean
decent
. I’ve watched it, time and time again, over the past few weeks. Women accept the drinks he offers but not the conversation. They slash
him down with a curt glance when he asks them to dance. They shred him up with a smug giggle if he offers to share a cab. And with every sneer, indifferent shrug, rude dismissal, I see Craig’s embryonic confidence shrivel. He’s all but given up. I’ve been doing my best. I’ve tried to introduce him to the ways of treat them mean and keep them keen but I’m beginning to see that it will never work for Craig.

I look at him and his goodness assaults me. In some ways it’s awful being up close to raw goodness if you are a bit of a shit and in other ways it’s quite uplifting and compels you to do the decent thing.

‘But what if she does like you?’I ask.

Craig stays silent. It’s probable that he’s never given any serious consideration to this side of the argument. It’s pitiful really. I probe further. ‘What’s she like?’No man can resist talking about the object of his desire. Not even me, certainly not Craig.

‘She’s caring, honest, sincere and practical.’

I’m desperate to know if she’s a looker but I know it’s not the sort of thing Craig cares about; he might not have noticed.

‘She sounds perfect, mate.’I say this slowly and deliberately so that Craig knows I’m not taking the piss or being glib.

‘You think so?’Craig looks at me and grins hopefully. His whole face is awash with expectancy. It beats me why he still rates my opinion but I’m chuffed that he does.

‘Just your cup of tea. I think you should give it a go.
Why not ask her along to Tom’s wedding? She’ll see you in your posh suit. Women love that.’

‘Maybe. I was thinking that I might try and spend some more time with her as a friend first, you know. Take things slowly. She’s been through quite a lot and I don’t want to scare her off.’

The thought of Craig scaring anyone or anything is highly improbable, but I nod, slap him on the back and say, ‘Sounds like a plan to me, mate. Good luck. Keep me informed.’

And somehow I get the feeling my lessons in love for Craig are at an end.

Neither Hallowe’en nor Guy Fawkes night stand up to close moral inspection. One is a tradition derived from heathen superstition, centred on the premise that ghosts, ghouls and monsters are somehow amusing, rather than morbid or petrifying. The other is celebrating the cruel torture of a man who was simply exercising his democratic right to protest, albeit in a rather dramatic way. Personally, I could live without either event. Auriol, however, is bouncing with excitement about the treasures lying in store for her this week.

Eva has made the sweetest little costume for Auriol. She’s wearing purple and black tights and a purple and orange witch’s dress. It’s covered in sequins and netting so that it looks more fairy-like than witchy. I’d been instructed to buy her a witch’s hat. I’ve seen exquisite ones selling in a card shop in the city, near my office. They cost an astronomical forty-five pounds. Clearly marketed at time-poor/cash-rich parents, but they were made of felt and were covered in hand-stitched silk stars and crescent moons. I spotted them weeks ago
and described them to Eva and Auriol. The cardboard hats sold in most retail outlets were immediately dismissed; Auriol wanted the hand-stitched one. I like it that she recognizes quality and promised to pick one up. Except I forgot. I’ve forgotten every day on the trot since late September, despite frequent reminders. I’ve explained that it’s frightfully busy at work at the moment, it always is. Today was my last chance, as it is actually Hallowe’en. Eva reminded me of the importance of the purchase as I left the house this morning. I promised I’d buy it at lunchtime. Except Mick suggested we try the new sushi restaurant and the hat went out of my head.

Auriol was not so much disappointed as furious – there are times when I can see myself in her. She hasn’t forgiven me for deserting her at the ghastly Center Parcs place, despite the fact that I hung in there until Thursday lunchtime. She angrily flung herself on to the settee and told me in no uncertain terms that I was a useless mummy and that I never did anything right and what was the point of a promise if I couldn’t keep to it. All thoughts or observations I’ve had or made, so I didn’t bother arguing. Instead, I left her to Eva and went upstairs to change. I now wish I’d never suggested having a blasted Hallowe’en party. I only did so because it is the sort of thing that Peter expects mothers to do. Bloody Rose setting unworkable precedents again.

I go to my room to shower and change into my Missoni cardi, DKNY jeans and Westwood boots and by the time I come downstairs calm has been restored.
Eva has fashioned a hat out of cardboard and stuck gold stars on to it. It’s a lucky thing that she always keeps the art box full to brimming. The hat is rather quaint and fetching. Aren’t home crafts the new black this year? Connie was excited to receive a knit-your-own scarf kit from M & S, last Christmas.

The table looks wonderful. Eva, Peter and Auriol have carved a plethora of pumpkins. There are at least ten outside, near the door, and ten more artfully arranged around the kitchen. Eva’s made pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie. She’s also made purple jellies with green jelly worms hidden inside them and tiny chocolate cakes shaped like cat faces. Plus, she’s mixed an enormous vat of rather strong punch (under my instruction). I’ve ordered two dozen adorable witch cupcakes from a chi-chi bakery around the corner. They arrive in an enormous wicker basket and while £120 seems a little steep for twenty-four cup cakes, their arrival enchants Auriol. She forgives my forgetfulness over the hat and therefore I consider the cakes priceless. The last thing I want is her moaning to her father about my inadequacies, he’s all too well aware of them as is.

I have the distinct feeling that he didn’t buy into the authenticity of my urgent recall to the office. I sense his disapproval of me, it simmers dangerously. It’s very important that this party goes well. Although I don’t regret my decision to bale out of the holiday, I know that I need to claw back some ground with Peter. All my old tricks involved skimpy knickers. That thought is as alien as my attending the Parents’Association
fund-raising Tupperware party. Hopefully, the party will be seen as an act of reconciliation.

Three or four little girls are deposited by their mothers. I can’t quite remember all the names of the girls, or the mothers. The girls all look alike. They are children of our time – pretty but sulky and demanding. The mothers are all similar too, initially harassed until the drop-off is achieved and then the tension melts from their faces as they anticipate the delight of grabbing a sprog-free coffee. None of us ever thought that such a thing would become a treat.

Eva has agreed to stay to help with the party. I’m paying her double time. She’s invited two of her nanny friends, both of whom have arrived with three more children apiece. Eva informs me that I’ll have to pay her friends for their professional services too. She insists she can’t manage without them. I want to point out that without them, there would be a damn sight less to manage but I can’t risk it. If she takes offence and goes home I’ll have to cancel the party. Instead I usher the three nannies and the three million children into the playroom, where Eva earns her weight in gold by organizing a game of ghostly musical chairs, which is exactly the same as traditional musical chairs except the children get to howl as they run around waiting to claim their seats.

Peter arrives at about the same time as Connie, Luke and the girls. I realize that for him to do this he must have left the office at about four-thirty. I’m grateful that he’s made the effort, and I do know it will have
been an effort – after all, I left at three-thirty and to do so I had to suck my boss’s dick. Just kidding. But I did have to promise to be in the office before 6 a.m. tomorrow.

‘My God, the table looks fantastic!’says Connie. ‘Look at those cakes! They are amazing.’Unfortunately Connie is not pointing to the ones in the wicker basket but rather the cat-shaped ones, which Fran and Auriol have already started to gobble.