William Walkers First Year of Marriage (5 page)

Father-of-the-bride walked out on mother-of-the-bride six months ago for glamorous and youthful secretary. Mother mutters and scoffs through all fatherly marital advice. Father finishes with ‘…and in short, Tony, I would advise you to ignore all my advice. I married her, after all, which shows how little I know. So please, can you all be upstanding…?’ Chaos and stormings-out from then on. Brilliant. 1/10.

They just clung to each other, revolving slowly like chickens on a supermarket rotisserie to the tune of bloody ‘Angels’ by bloody Robbie Williams. Nasty. 4/10. TOTAL 9/40. A new last place, but for all the right reasons.

Phoned Johnson about the inalienable rights thing. He says men lose all inalienable rights such as having a hot bath on a Friday the moment they say ‘I do.’ That’s the unwritten law, it’s just that women are too smart to point it out explicitly in case men notice and rebel. So they sneak in all the restrictions over the first year of marriage. Before you know it, you’re a house-trained husband, unable to recall whether the things you do, such as having a cold shower on a Friday, are your own idea or part of the new regime.

I suggest that I quite like having someone caring enough to challenge my inalienable rights. Goat’s milk is, after all, better for you than cow’s milk.

It won’t stop at goat’s milk, warns Johnson.

Went to bed with the papers, a cup of tea (goat’s milk, no sugar) and my wife at 10 p.m. Used to go clubbing on a Sunday. Well, once or twice. Now, I’m only a few notches off slippers at seven. Very happy.

Until I had another nightmare.

Isabel and I have somehow agreed to go to Saskia’s wedding reception (we weren’t invited to the service). Only we’ve been seated on different tables. I’m on the top table, in between Saskia, who is wearing nothing but stockings and suspenders, and her groom. Isabel is crammed onto a small table at the back with seven octogenarians: she’s the only one without an ear trumpet or a Zimmer frame. I try to move her cutlery onto our table, but the food starts to arrive: everywhere I step, I block whole squads of waitresses with their huge platters of lobster and inexplicable jelly towers.

The chaos is unimaginable; they fall over like dominoes and it’s all my fault. I just stand in the middle holding a knife, a fork and Isabel’s place name. The head chef, who is Gordon Ramsay, effs and blinds his way out of the kitchen, and starts bludgeoning me with one of the ruined crustaceans. Isabel is being held down by the octogenarians and only Saskia, standing dominatrix-style over everything, can help.

I wake up to find Isabel looking straight at me, an expression of utter disbelief on her face. Someone is shouting ‘Saskia, Saskia, Saskia’ and it only takes a few bleary seconds to realise that it’s me.

In the cold light of day, it wasn’t an easy dream to explain.

‘No, darling, I wasn’t shouting Saskia, Saskia, Saskia in a sexual way. I wanted Saskia to save you, darling, from the octogenarians that were pinning you down.’

Even without mentioning the stockings and suspenders, it sounded like a sex dream, only an incredibly perverted one involving ear trumpets. By the time we both left for work, I think I’d succeeded in convincing Isabel that I wasn’t still obsessed with Saskia; unfortunately, I think I’d made her believe I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown instead.

The relationship was in terminal decline anyway. It was that last three-year one, the one where you know it’s your final practice run before you meet the woman you’re going to marry. It’s as much about timing as anything. You’re slightly too young to propose like you have to when you’re in your late twenties, slightly too old to walk away easily like you could when you were younger, so you just carry on going out aimlessly, waiting for something dreadful to happen.

Saskia was the dreadful thing that happened. I was at a party; she was also at the party; Elizabeth wasn’t because she was at another party with other friends doing other things. And it’s not every day that the sexiest girl at a party asks me if I’d like to go somewhere—pause for double meaning to become lip-quiveringly obvious—quieter. I knew the right and honourable answer was no, but Elizabeth and I were in the doldrums. We were sick of each other. And Saskia was beautiful. So I said something cool but contradictory like, ‘Sure, this place is dead anyway,’ and before I could catch my breath we were having sex in Hyde Park.

It was a seedy, torrid affair, and one conducted largely outdoors because we had nowhere indoors to go. My flat was usually out of the question because of Elizabeth. Saskia’s flat was always out of the question because it was owned by a forty-year-old stockbroker she had been having an affair with but who, in an effort to avoid hefty alimony, was now trying to rebuild his marriage. I thought
this was all incredibly exciting but entirely unsustainable. Apart from all the obvious reasons why being a philandering, cheating, good-for-nothing two-timer is inadvisable, there’s the sheer stress of it all. Lying and cheating is exhausting. Besides, Saskia and I had nothing in common and we both knew it. A month after we met, I told her we had to stop meeting in public parks like this; she said fine, kissed me goodbye and went to live in New York. But not before she phoned Elizabeth and told her I was a cheating bastard.

I suppose I should have been grateful. I was too pathetic to be honest and tell Elizabeth it was over. Saskia saved me the trouble. Without Saskia, I might never have met Isabel. In many ways, Isabel should be grateful.

Another flat viewing but the husband said he wouldn’t feel happy letting his wife walk home on her own at night. What an idiot. Arthur Arsehole said he’d explained about how the area was colourful rather than dangerous but they were going to look at smaller properties in Chiswick instead.

Wednesday 22 June

I was right. Isabel does think I’m having a nervous breakdown. She says she’s spoken to Astrid, her yoga teacher, and Astrid says men benefit from her type of yoga even more than women and that I should come to the next class. Which is tonight.

I’m just trying to choose the most appropriate form of dismissive laugh when Isabel says, ‘Please come, it would make me happy,’ which is blackmail.

In a small, sweaty room above a holistic healing shop in Holborn, nine women and one man, all in Lycra, spread their mats as Astrid spreads her crystals, while I bite my nails.

I don’t have a mat so I have to borrow one from a cupboard. The only place left to unroll my mat—which is pink and smells of sweat—is right behind the man in Lycra. The next hour seems like four or five. There are the boring positions (‘Put your arms in the air…stretch a bit…hold it…hold it…feel the energy…’), the impossible positions (‘Put your leg over your arm…put the other leg round the other arm…spread all your toes…hold it…hold it…keep breathing, William…’), and the disgusting positions—which are all of them when you have a man in Lycra blocking your view. A man who laughs happily every time he lets one off. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to blot out the downward-facing dog.

‘Thanks, guys. Great session. And remember, don’t walk on the Earth, walk with the Earth. See you all next week.’

No.

It gets worse. Message from Alex when we get back to the flat.

‘Hi, guys. Almost two months married. Hope it’s all sweetness and light over there.’

[Wanker.]

‘Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue but I’ve got a friend who does marketing for Ferrari. You know, the racing team.’

[Wanker.]

‘Anyway, he’s hosting a race day down at Brands Hatch on Saturday. You’re probably too blissfully married to spend a day apart but I wondered if William might be free? And perhaps Andy? For a bit of a race. Be good to hang out with my best mate’s new hubby.’

[Wanker—but it is Ferrari.]

So let me just explain how it happened.

We arrived at Brands Hatch and it turned out they wouldn’t let us into the actual Formula One cars. We were in buggies, which was still cool. Andy had fallen for Alex’s pretend friendliness, hook, line and sinker. As we watched the safety demonstration, they were all jokey and matey and laughey.

But I was onto him. I could tell from his feigned interest in my week, from his relentlessly inquisitive chattiness, from his horrible chiselled jaw line, that today was all about humiliation. I got the girl so he had to show he was a better racing driver. Well, life doesn’t work like that, buster.

We had a few practice laps. Alex was being all encouraging and non-competitive when Andy was within earshot, but asked me if I always drive like a kerb crawler when he wasn’t. Divide and rule. Clever.

We did some quick laps individually. I was faster than Alex. He pretended to be pleased for me in an I’m-letting-you-win-at-the-moment kind of way.

Then, it was time to race. As we got ready, Alex came over to me and said, ‘Good luck, old boy,’ which he would later claim he said to everyone, just to get us in the spirit.

Six of us lined up, me and some marketing joker at the front, Alex and Andy in the second row, two other marketing jokers behind them.

I was ahead for the whole of the first lap, but on the second lap Andy and Alex overtook the marketing joker and began to challenge me for the lead. Then Andy, mistiming a corner, spun out, taking the marketing joker with him. At that point, Alex changed. When everyone was watching, he was the consummate gentleman
driver. Now, out on our own, he was driving like a maniac. As we began the final lap, he drove up my inside and, rather than take the first corner, just sort of steered us wider and wider. I missed a head-on collision with three hundred tyres only by braking and going around the back of them.

Alex should have been well gone. But he wasn’t. He was waiting for me to catch up again. As we went through the back of the course I tried to overtake but he charged me again. I ended up ahead but he started ramming me from behind.

I looked back and saw only the dead eyes of a psychotic maniac.

Into the final corner, I had the edge. I can’t remember exactly what happened, except that I crossed the line first.

Andy, on his way back to the pits, saw it all. He claimed I rammed Alex off the road. I remember Alex trying to ram me but losing control. Either way, I only noticed he had rolled his buggy once I’d crossed the line.

Back so soon at Alex’s horrible maisonette, dropping off some grapes.

‘Sorry about the arm, Alex,’ I offer warmly.

‘Don’t worry, William. It was an accident. And it’s only a fracture,’ he replies. You would think he might apologise himself for trying to kill me, but then everyone else in the room might actually believe me.

‘William is like a toddler, Alex. He can’t just play nicely,’ says Isabel unhelpfully.

‘Great day though, mate. Thanks again,’ says Andy, traitorously.

Andy thinks Alex is great. Isabel thinks Alex is brave. I know Alex is a psycho. I know he probably has a rocking chair and a wig hidden somewhere around the flat.

At least tomorrow is the start of another day.

Start of another day already ruined by half eight in the morning when Arthur Arsehole calls. A lot of interest in the flat. Sixteen hits on the website alone. But it’s a bad time for the market. Tells me to keep my pecker up, Willy. I tell him I’ll smash his face in if he ever calls me Willy ever again ever or makes any reference to my pecker whatsoever. But only after he’s hung up.

Andy has been around to Alex’s again to help make him dinner. ‘What’s the point in arguing? Alex is a nice guy,’ he tells me. ‘You’re a ridiculous hippy,’ I reply. Of course, he always has been a ridiculous hippy. The first time we met, in Freshers’ Week at university, his hair was down to his shoulders, his trousers were stripy and he smelt. Since then, he has learned to wash, bought new clothes and cut his hair, but the hippy still lurks within.

And you can never rely on a hippy to understand that an evil maniac is trying to ruin your marriage.

The only reason I went back to Astrid’s sweaty room in Holborn is because of the whole Alex buggy-crash debacle. I suspect Alex, with his broken arm, is winning the charm offensive. I need to be seen in Lycra again, just so Isabel will stop giving me that look every time anyone mentions the race.

It is just as sweaty as last week but I make sure we get there early and that I bagsy a place right at the front. This means I get told off
by Astrid for yawning but sweaty Lycra guy has to spend the whole lesson staring at my clenched buttocks and not vice versa.

I think he likes it.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Isabel sent straight from doctor’s appointment to hospital. Something gynaecological. Something about an operation…

She called me from the hospital, sounded very shaky. Couldn’t talk because mobiles are banned and she’d run out of coins. Just starting to explain what was wrong when the beeps started. Cut off saying, ‘Hopefully the doctor will…’ beep, beep, beep.

Took ages to get from work to the hospital because of the sodding Northern Line. Absolutely the worst hour of my life. I love her so much. Realised by King’s Cross that if I lost her I would never recover. Wouldn’t want to. Realised by Camden Town that I even loved her for her goat’s milk and her ridiculous yoga. Promised by Archway I would never argue with her again.

Three a.m. now. She has a Bartholin’s cyst, which means her bits, or more specifically one bit, has swollen like an orang-utan’s bottom. They wheeled her away an hour ago just like they do in
Casualty
, which was dreadful. Wanted to follow her through the flappy doors but the big, scary nurse-bitch wouldn’t let me. Nice little nurse has let me stay in the ward with the groaning old ladies. One is on morphine, in and out of consciousness, muttering wildly.

Will buy Isabel an enormous bunch of flowers tomorrow.