William Walkers First Year of Marriage (7 page)

Step three:
leave the flat and walk down the street to the curry house. It is the walk of a free man. Nelson Mandela had his Long Walk to Freedom. I have my Short Walk to Memories of Bengal. Put vegetables and leftover quiche (evidence) in bin between flat and curry house.

Step four:
video store adjacent to curry house. To kill time while waiting for chicken madras (‘hot like in the olden days, sir?’), nip in. Plan is to rent one film with explosions and car chases, but they have a Rent Two, Get One Free offer and it’s only 7.45 p.m. So I rent two films with explosions and car chases and a PlayStation zombie shoot ‘em up.

Step five:
I have absolutely no idea how it got to 4 a.m. Still playing zombie shoot ‘em up. Still haven’t switched the light on. Have escaped the underworld prison and am in the zoo, fighting zombie elephants. Have finished all the beers and almost all the whisky. Definitely don’t want any more to drink but because I am free, free as a bird, I have another one anyway.

Step six:
room spin. I love Isabel so much. I love her. I love her. I love her. I don’t want to be alone any more. This sofa is comfortable. I might just lie down for a minute before going to bed.

Doorbell. Then, a second later, a key in the door. Then, another second later, Arthur Arsehole and two blond people (in trouser suits even though it’s Saturday) standing in my living room. I am still lying in my living room in my clothes from yesterday. Shoes and everything. As I struggle to sit upright, I follow the trouser-suited gaze over beer cans, curry trays and other squalid bachelor detritus. From the look on their executively blond faces, it could have been tin foil, teaspoons and encrusted heroin resin. Or a leper colony.

I smile nervously.

They smile nervously.

I apologise.

They mutter no, no, noes.

Arthur Arsehole looks as furious as an estate agent can look.

The aroma of leftover madras and stale beer is not as effective a sales tool as freshly baked bread. Still, the blonds go through the motions: they point at our stainless-steel cooker hood, caress our heated towel rail and tape-measure our bedroom. Meanwhile, I struggle to tidy myself and my living room up.

It is as the church bells across the road ring a painful 10 a.m. that the shock of unexpected expected guests subsides enough for me to notice that I have a dreadful, dreadful hangover. Beer then wine, fine. Beer then whisky then beer then whisky then whisky, then beer, whisky, whisky, whisky, Drambuie, Pernod—not a chance.

The sudden onset of pain and nausea is almost unprecedented. My head throbs so alarmingly that I have to check to see if the throbbing is visible in a mirror. If I lie back on the sofa, it subsides slightly, but then comes the urge to vomit so I must sit up again. By the time the blonds return from their tour, I am considering gouging my own eyes out with the coffee spoon. As they mutter goodbyes, I stand up and try to apologise to them again. This sudden movement coincides with a full-frontal waft of Arsehole’s aftershave, and I have no option but to retch. I throw up mostly in my mouth, a tiny bit on one of the trouser suits. They leave. I throw up again.

It takes three hours to recover enough to become mobile. During this time, I develop a surprisingly ferocious self-loathing. Without Isabel, I am a sad, lonely man who gets drunk pointlessly and still plays computer games at the age of twenty-nine and thirteen-fourteenths. I eat junk food and fail to ablute properly. If I was American, I would live in an Appalachian trailer park, shout ‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry’ at the television and cultivate maggots in the folds of my stomach.

As I lie in a foetal position, clinging desperately to the base of the toilet, I hatch an extensive plan to restore my self-respect. The minute, the very minute, that I feel better, I shall shower and
change and clean the flat and go for a run and write a letter to my godmother and start reading Dickens and go out and buy a present for my sister and change the Hoover bag and stick the bit that’s fallen off my backgammon board back on.

Sadly, the very minute comes at the same time I remember I haven’t watched the second movie. And a small voice says, ‘Why don’t you just watch the film, my precious? Isabel won’t know. There’s still time to tidy.’ And then it says, ‘Bloody Mary will help, my precious. Drinking in the daytime is good. Write letter to godmother another day, my precious. Play more computer. Play more. Play more.’

It’s 4 p.m. and the doorbell goes again, and it’s Arthur Arsehole, amazed that I’m still loitering, gobsmacked that the flat is still looking like a Glaswegian squat. He has in tow a nice couple who smile and introduce themselves. I stand and stumble on legs shot through with pins and needles. I offer a gnarled and clammy gamer’s claw. They umm and aahh their way around the mess: ‘Umm, you’ve reached level forty-seven. Aahh, we’re not buying a flat from someone who drinks vodka in the daytime.’

Andy calls. He’s back in the country. Am I free for a couple of beers? No, I explain through tears of anguish. I must stay in and tidy.

I stay in and play the zombie game. I am horrendous.

Isabel returned today. We had a lovely evening watching her programmes and eating vegetables. I didn’t even flinch when she mentioned that her mother had found a suitable house for us in her village. And that we could have a look at it on the way to Francesca’s wedding next Saturday.

All I said was, ‘But I thought you weren’t sure about moving out of London just yet.’

And all she said was, ‘I know, but it does look very spacious. And you’re right about growing vegetables. It would be marvellous.’

And all I then said was, ‘Okay, not a hundred per cent on your mum’s village but worth having a look.’

And all she said, ‘So how did the viewings go?’

And all I said was, ‘Fine.’

Playing PlayStation

Behaving like a bachelor in any way whatsoever

Wearing jeans

Waking up on a sofa at 3 a.m. in a dark room lit by a flickering TV

Wearing the same underpants two days running

Only ever eating anything green when someone forces me to.

Another bad start to another week. It was Isabel’s turn to make breakfast, which means soggy cereal. What she does is go into the kitchen, get the bowls out, pour the cereal in, pour the milk in, then put the kettle on, wait for it to boil and make the tea. The proper way to do it is to go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, do whatever you like while you wait for it to boil
except pour the milk in
, and then, right at the end, pour the milk in.

I hate soggy cereal. She loves it.

When I complain, she gets angry: ‘I’ve got up and made breakfast and brought it to you in bed and all you can do is complain.’ When I say I’m only saying so for next time and that I hardly think
it’s worth enduring a lifetime of soggy cereal just to avoid a minor altercation, she says there isn’t going to be a next time and that I can get my own damn breakfast.

Then, like a stupid wildebeest that climbs into the river right next to that big crocodile-shaped log, I say, ‘You don’t do toast right either.’

A flash of powerful jaws, a crunching death roll, a last desperate antelopian gasp for air and I’m dragged to my death in the Zambezi that is my marriage.

This seems unfair. I have, after all, been bent to Isabel’s will on tea (goat’s milk, no sugar) and baths (none, especially hot ones, except if she’s in a good mood on a Friday). Surely I can lay down some rules on breakfast?

2 x slice of white bread, one day past sell-by date

Butter, must be pre-softened

Marmite

Place the bread in the toaster. Start the toaster. Get butter ready. Get Marmite ready. Get ready. The split second the toaster pops,
Go! Go! Go!
Semi-spread butter for both pieces on first piece, then place second piece on top of first piece to create bread furnace. Count to four. Remove second piece. Spread melted butter on both pieces. Then the Marmite: not too much, not too little. Race to bedroom and eat.

This whole process should take no more than twenty seconds. Your butter-knife movements must be Zorro-like. If there is any delay once the toast has popped, discard cold, hard, useless, horrible toast and repeat as above.

No sign of Sandra at work. Her desk is empty; her phone is in its cradle. I’m hoping the lamb was off.

Pub with Johnson and Andy for advice on toast stand-off.

Johnson understands the toast thing. He says Ali used to add fish sauce at the last minute to stir-fries so the whole thing tasted of the floor of a shabby fishmonger. When he finally plucked up the courage to complain, she came right back at him with overcooked poached eggs. In his defence, he said he couldn’t stand any clear bits in an egg, not since Edwina Currie. She said a yolk had to be runny and she’d risk clear bits.

Then things began to snowball.

He said he liked the skin left on cucumber. She said she’d prefer her Sunday omelette with less cheese. He said capers don’t go with chicken. She said oranges don’t go with beef. He said that only happened because the butcher didn’t have any duck. She said she didn’t like pepperoni on her pizza. He said fine, we’ll just have different pizzas. So she got a pen and a piece of paper.

By the end of the argument, Johnson and Ali had drawn up an extensive agreement to disagree and now prepared most meals separately. ‘That’s the secret to a happy marriage, mate. Negotiate hard, never give anything away for nothing in return, and don’t whatever you do let them cross the line. My line was fish sauce. Yours is cold Marmite toast.’

Andy doesn’t understand the toast thing. He is now in love and therefore spending the rest of his life with an ambassador’s daughter who lives in Kenya. She is a vegetarian so he is a vegetarian too. Actually, the diet is very healthy. Actually, tofu isn’t that bad at all. Actually, Andy feels a lot better since he became a vegetarian, yesterday. And no, he won’t have any pork scratchings, thanks very much. ‘
That’s
the secret to happy marriage. No red lines. Total harmony. Who cares if your Marmite toast is cold?’

Isabel is asleep when I get home. A note reads: ‘Hi darling. Exhausted after yoga session. Arsehole left message: no luck with weekend viewings because of curry. What curry? Don’t wake me. X’

It’s the first time she’s ever written me a ‘Don’t Wake Me’ note.

Still no Sandra. Just the dull hum of computer radiation, the occasional squawk of the sandwich woman and the hammering and drilling of workmen in the office above. Thank the lord for the killer lamb.

Sandra has been found dead at home with a man called Barry. She had been poisoned. Police are treating the circumstances as suspicious. I know this because the police are waiting to interview me when I arrive at work. The managing editor summons me to his office where two men from CID eye me suspiciously.

‘Routine inquiries at the moment, sir. You’re not under caution. Apparently, you had a problem with this poor widow?’

‘No, not really. She just rabbited on a lot.’

The one who isn’t asking the questions writes something down in his notebook.

‘And you were overheard making threats?’

‘No, no, no, no, no, no, it was just because she was making such a meal out of the death of her goldfish.’

‘Her goldfish?’

‘Yes, she went on and on about it so much, I thought she was talking about her husband who I didn’t know at the time was already dead and when it turned out all the fuss was about the goldfish, I just muttered something about how I was surprised it
wasn’t her husband. If I’d been her husband, I’d have killed myself by now. Or her. It was just a joke.’

Neither of them is laughing.

‘Right, sir. That will be all for now. Not planning on leaving the country, are we, sir?’

Still not laughing. Isabel finds it funny though. CCs me in on a group email to all her friends headed, ‘I married an axe-murderer.’

‘We’ve had a tip-off that you repeatedly expressed the desire to crush Sandra with furniture, sir.’

‘I just said I wished a piano would fall on her head. It’s different.’

‘How is it different, sir?’

‘Well, crushing someone with furniture is quite, well, serious, whereas wishing a piano would fall on someone’s head is just, well, like a cartoon. And anyway, who told you that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to divulge sources, sir. Can you tell me where you were at around 8.30 p.m. on Saturday night?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Alone, I suppose, sir?’

‘Unusually, yes.’

‘That’s all for now, sir.’

Isabel says she might have told a few friends about the piano but only because she thought it was quite funny. And not when she knew Sandra was dead and that I was a suspect. Which she also found funny. But together, perhaps, she realises they might not be that funny. She is adamant that none of her friends would snitch. It’s much more likely to be someone at the office: maybe the managing editor had a report about the piano death wish too? I’m not so adamant. Although no one sees it but me, Isabel does have
one friend who has something to gain from getting me locked up for the rest of my life.

Toxicology results show it was the lamb that killed Sandra. A freak build-up of mercury. Total accident. No apology from the police who still can’t accept that wishing someone might be squashed by a piano doesn’t count.

Back from work, Isabel late at hers so, if I’m lucky, I have time for an illicit but well-earned hot bath and whisky. The least I deserve after being ruled out of a murder inquiry. I’m not lucky. The car has been stolen. The bath is obviously out of the question. Who would steal an M-reg Vauxhall Corsa with 89,892 miles on the clock? Why didn’t they steal the BMW parked next to it? I call the police and it turns out Islington council has stolen it. I phone the number they give me.