Turning Thirty (10 page)

‘I'll do the weekly shop,' said my dad, clutching his car keys nervously. ‘It won't take long.'

‘But Matthew's already offered, Jack,' said my mum. ‘And remember, you've got those shelves to finish. Anyway, it will do Matthew good to get out of the house and do something useful . . . for a change.'

I had a certain nostalgic fondness for the Safeway on King's Heath high street, which was my destination. When Gershwin, Katrina, Ginny, Elliot, Bev and I were seventeen, every big night out had kicked off with a trip there because when you're on a tight budget supermarket alcohol is the most effective way to replicate the sensation of downing several pints of pub-bought lager. So standing by the automatic doors at the side of the store we'd pool our allowances and Saturday-job money and hand it over to Elliot, because he looked oldest. Once inside he'd buy as many bottles of Thunderbird as we could afford and we'd polish them off on the bus into town.

During my trip to Safeway, I encountered Mrs Brockel, from number sixty-five, whom I'd known since I was six; Mr and Mrs Butler, the owners of Butler's newsagent's; Mr Mahoney, who was married to Mrs Mahoney, who was still my old junior school's lollipop lady; Mrs Bates, a friend of my mum and dad who used to look after me and my brothers and sister after school, and Mrs Smith, who went everywhere in her slippers and used to be a dinner lady at my old secondary school. I wasn't surprised to bump into all these people under one roof. Every single one of them came from a generation who believed in being born, growing up, getting married, having kids, getting old and dying, if not on the same spot then somewhere quite near it. They were precisely the sort of people who, even if they won a million pounds on the lottery, wouldn't move out of the area, instead preferring to install the UPVC double-glazed windows they'd always dreamed of and put away the rest for a nice holiday in the near future. It was only my generation, their sons and daughters, who had come up with the not so smart idea of roaming the country in search of a better life. Having said that, I also bumped into several ex-King's Heath Comprehensive schoolmates from my year: Alex Craven (then, the boy most likely to play cricket for England; now, guitarist and part-time drug dealer); Mark Barratt (then, the boy most likely to be a bricklayer; now, MD of his own building firm and owner of a BMW) and Jane Nicholson (then, the girl most likely to become the most beautiful woman in the world; now, part-time sales assistant in Texas Homecare).

As I left the shop with my heavy load and headed for my dad's car I thought about New York, which now seemed a million miles away.

I thought about my job, which now seemed like it never existed.

And then I thought about Elaine – and I still missed her like it was only yesterday.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

Today was Gershwin's birthday.

Today he was thirty.

Today he reached the day he'd thought would never come.

And how did he want to celebrate the birthday of birthdays? With a once-in-a-lifetime hot-air balloon ride? A bunch of mates to go off to Dublin for the weekend? A surprise party? No. Ever since arriving back in Birmingham, Zoë and I had been putting our heads together to come up with ideas to make Gershwin's thirtieth a special one, but a week after we'd booked him a surprise weekend trip to Dublin, he scuppered our plans.

‘This thirtieth birthday thing is just too depressing,' he said on the Monday evening, a week before the planned trip. ‘A guy at work, Steve, was just telling me about his thirtieth. He came home from work last Friday night, expecting a night in front of the telly with his girlfriend, and he opened his front door to discover twenty-five of his closest family and friends in his living room, bags packed, ready to whisk him away to Edinburgh for the weekend! He hated every second of it. Not only did he have to pretend to have a good time on this the most nightmarish of birthdays but on top of all that they wanted to drag out the whole experience for an entire weekend.'

‘They were doing it to torture him,' said Zoë, laughing, but when Gershwin wasn't looking she flashed a look of horror in my direction. ‘Isn't that right, Matt?'

‘Definitely a pure hate thing,' I replied. ‘We'd never do anything like that to you, Gershwin. We'd do something far more devious.'

‘Like a hot-air balloon ride,' said Zoë.

‘Or a surprise party,' I suggested.

‘Or a weekend in Dublin . . .' said Zoë finally.

‘I couldn't think of anything worse,' he said animatedly. ‘These days, Dublin at the weekend is full of nightmare stag and hen parties from England. And as for hot-air balloon rides and surprise parties – no way. All I want on my birthday is me, some good mates and a nice pub that's not too crowded.'

Zoë and I exchanged glances once more, and while Gershwin wasn't looking she mouthed despondently, ‘Cancel it – I'll do the rest.'

So the pub it was, the only twist in the tale being that the pub we selected at which to spend the evening was the Kings Arms in Moseley, the old stomping-ground of Gershwin's and my youth.

The Kings Arms was reasonably busy, considering it was only Wednesday night and there was quite a lot of decent television on, as my mum had pointed out while I was getting ready to go out. The place had barely changed since I'd last been there on Christmas Eve five years ago – that night the annual get-together had consisted of Gershwin, Zoë, me and, for roughly ten minutes, Pete, because he was spending the majority of Christmas Eve with his girlfriend's parents in Derby. The pub's tastefully nicotine-stained flock wallpaper was still hanging on for dear life, as were most of the bar staff. However, they had added a concrete beer garden since my last visit, and the toilets had had a major refurbishment too. Yet the place still retained the warmth of a proper English pub: it was a place to sit back, relax, and talk to your fellow human beings, rather than being pummelled to death by flashing lights and constant chart hits. In New York Elaine always insisted on dragging me to the kind of drinking establishments that she and her we-work-in-PR mates inhabited, which invariably meant ridiculously hard-to-find bars with overpriced bottled beers, loud music and nowhere to sit. My knees ached just thinking about it.

The lounge at the back of the pub, which in the old days was where the old gang always sat, was occupied by groups of laid-back thirty-people, chatting, smoking and generally being at ease with themselves. Some I even vaguely recognised from the old days, but not enough to talk to them. Right at the back of the lounge, though, in the far corner, were Gershwin, Zoë and the birthday boy's group of friends, most of whom I didn't know. Zoë had managed to get together most of Gershwin's mates, work and otherwise. Over the course of the first half-hour I was introduced to Davina and Tom (friends of Zoë who were now friends of Gershwin), Christina and Joel (Christina was a friend of Gershwin from work), Neil and Sarah (Neil was apparently a friend of Gershwin from five-a-side football) and Dom and Polly (who were friends of Christina and Joel and were now close friends of Zoë and Gershwin). They all seemed nice enough people, really, but I didn't feel relaxed because I was the only single person in the group. It wouldn't have bothered me so much but a couple of times during the evening I tried to interject a reasonably interesting anecdote into the conversation and suddenly the discussion would veer elsewhere. Under normal circumstances – i.e. when you've actually
got
a girlfriend with you – it's possible to continue your anecdote without fear of looking (a) stupid, (b) boring or (c) both, because you know at least one person will be polite enough to listen. But as I sat there, open-mouthed, half-arsed anecdote still dribbling from my lips, I suddenly felt incredibly alone. I wasn't good at talking to new people at the best of times – large groups of new people were my worst nightmare. I think that was one of the things that attracted me to Elaine – the way that she wasn't in the least bit fazed or intimidated by the new: she could go to a party and not know anyone, but within half an hour she'd have a circle of people hanging on her every word. I think that's why I liked the idea of old friends so much – they're the only people who don't turn every conversation into a popularity contest or a marathon of monologues.

I was listening to Christina and Joel, whose anecdote, delivered in couple stereo, was about a mammoth gas bill they'd just received, when I tired of being the odd man out and volunteered to get a round in. I wanted to be alone at the bar to feel sorry for myself. I nudged Gershwin and asked him what he wanted to drink then went round the table.

Leaning against the bar, heavy of heart and trying to recall whether Davina had asked for a gin and tonic or a vodka and tonic, I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned round.

‘Matt Beckford?' said a woman.

‘Ginny Pascoe?'

‘Matt bloody Beckford!' she cried, wrapping her arms around me.

‘Ginny bloody Pascoe!' I shouted, hugging her back. ‘Wow. This
is
a surprise!'

The last time I'd seen Ginny was at Gershwin's wedding nearly six years ago, and then we hadn't seen each other for about six months. The conversation that took place a little after midnight in the unlit car park of the Grosvenor Country Hotel, Hagley, went something like this: