February
By early February, the pros and cons idea was well underway. Some days, I didn't drop any slips of paper in at all, whereas other days I found myself scribbling on every Post-It note or receipt I could find. The only part of the plan that wasn't working was that I couldn't stop myself from going into the drawers to count whether there were more pros or cons. Knowing which side was winning was not part of the agreement. Luckily, I remembered the moneybox the owners had used when I'd worked at The Horse & Cart pub as a student. In order to save a percentage of the tips for staff nights out, they'd bought one shaped like a pig that had to be smashed if you wanted to get the cash out. I bought two of these, tipped the contents of the drawers inside and labelled them up.
Con: £24 for two piggybanks. Daylight robbery.
When you start tracking your life in terms of positives and negatives, the strangest things start to matter. For example, I'd never noticed quite how incredibly irritating people were before. One of the first people to make it into my 'cons' pig was one of those charity do-gooders who ruined a walk down the high street to buy some Lucozade (hangover ritual: stage 3). In Sheffield, in particular, the charity collectors hunt in a pack, forming a deadly zigzagged gauntlet down the main shopping street. My usual tactics were headphones, diagonal steps and feigned ignorance. Unfortunately, on this particular day, my headphones had mysteriously disappeared (most likely into Jay's waxy ears).
'Well hello there, sir! My my, do you look sharp today; are those new trainers?'
This was exactly what I hated most about them. Just be honest: you want my money for charity. That is literally the entire point of this conversation. Do not delay the inevitable request with polite chitchat. Do not try to flatter me by calling me 'Sir' and thus assigning me some kind of authority. I drank three bottles of wine and slept for two hours last night; I do not look, or smell, "sharp". And no, these are not new trainers.
I ignored him and continued walking. He disguised his annoyance with a jovial laugh and jumped back into my path.
'Now sir, with a sharp dress sense like that, you must be…what…a banker? A lawyer?'
Oh yeah, because all the bankers and lawyers I know wear cheap jeans and Converse. I know what you're doing - you're wearing a fucking bright green t-shirt with a charity logo and carrying a collection bucket for Christ's sake!
I moved right. He moved right.
'Did you know that just £2 a month would give a child in Africa clean water to drink?'
I moved left. He moved left. He was smiling so much I could only assume he must be intoxicated. The thick gap between his two front teeth was gawking at me.
'That's right: just £2! I bet a successful guy like you wouldn't even notice that leaving your bank account.'
This guy was seriously getting on my last nerve. I pushed past him and said, 'I'm sorry, I don't speak English.'
'Look buddy, it's pretty rude to downright ignore someone who's just trying to chat.'
Oh, he'd done it now. Enough was enough.
'Pretty rude, is it?' I turned around and started walking back towards him. 'It's funny that you're familiar with the word rude, considering that you spend your day scrounging in the street and pestering poor people who just want to get a bit of shopping done. Actually, while I've got your attention, I was wondering whether you'd like to donate to my charity. It's called the S.B.H.C.: Simon Bramwell Hangover Cure. For just £5 a month, you can learn to stay the fuck out of my way and I can buy myself a couple of packs of bacon. Yeah? How does that sound?' My righteous speech had drawn a crowd. 'Shall I sign you up for direct debit or would you rather I track you down every month for the cash?' His little green-shirted accomplices were approaching, so I bowed graciously to my audience and told him to enjoy the rest of his day.
On my walk back from the shop, I had a clear run through the gauntlet: no need for an encore. That was a pleasant surprise.
Alongside noting down such annoyances, I also tried to give credit to the small things that went well each day (as promised in my agreement). Examples that made it into the 'pros' in the first few weeks were: walking out of work at 3pm, elbowing a few specific kids out of the way so that I could reach the portal to freedom first; getting extra chips from the old bat in the canteen who had a thing for younger men; and managing to make a 'badman' Year 7 cry in front of all his friends. I wouldn't say that the tracking process was necessarily enjoyable, but at least it made my days go quicker. And with 329 left, I needed something to speed them up.
'For God's sake, Jay, since when do we answer the house phone? I thought we unplugged it ages ago?' He shrugged, belched loudly and handed me the receiver.
'Simon? Hello?'
Emma: just what I need.
'Hello? Simon, are you there?'
'Err, yeah. Hey.' I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
'Oh fantastic, I've finally caught you! Honestly, I feel like I call and call and call and no-one ever answers! How've you been?'
Hmm, how have I been? Well, I've been pretty shit. My life is one long, vicious circle of complete tedium. In fact, I'm having such an incredibly crap time, that I've designed a sort of suicide gambling game just to give myself something to get up for every morning. 'Fine.'
'Oh great! It's so nice to hear your voice. Anyway, I'm actually not just calling for a natter; I have something exciting to tell you.'
Of course – I should have guessed. She only ever calls to gloat about her own stupid, perfect life.
'Simon, are you still there?'
'No.'
'Ha, hilarious as ever! Well, as I was saying, I have some news for you…'
Cue her pause for dramatic effect. I reached for my pen and started scribbling.
Con: Listening to conversational carrot-danglers.
'Max is going to have a little sister!'
Pause again here, awaiting my reaction.
'I'm pregnant - again! Isn't it wonderful, Simey? Henry's over the moon, of course. His mum's started knitting little booties and mittens already, bless her. Mum and Dad are coming to visit next weekend, what with it being my birthday anyway, and Ellie is planning me another gorrrrrgeous baby shower. Obviously, that won't be happening for months yet but with how enthusiastic Ellie is, I wouldn't be surprised if she had started organising it already! That is, if she can tear herself away from that new hunk of hers. Luno, I think she said his name was. I don't know where she meets these…Simon, are you still there?'
I really wasn't listening; I was too busy scrawling and trying to erase my own memory.
Con: Ellie. No need to re-live that nightmare.
'Mmm.'
'Well, Mum suggested that you could come and visit with them next weekend? Her and Dad are coming down on the Saturday with it being my birthday on the Thursday. I know how busy you are, and I know that you often have work to do at the weekend but-'
Since I couldn't care less about my job, I never have work to do at the weekends. But my family don't need to know that.
'-well, I thought maybe just one day off won't do any harm! So, you'll come then? For my birthday? Max would love to see his Uncle Si again – he was so terribly disappointed that you couldn't make it for Christmas.'
'Mmm. Maybe. Listen, there's someone at the door. I've got to go.'
'Oh, OK. Call me?'
'Yeah, I will.' Only at a time I can be certain you're not in.
Conversations with my sister were always challenging. It was like walking a tightrope over a big, burning volcano of stories about her brilliant job and other, equally mind-numbing stories about her perfect child. All of her Brady bunch anecdotes would be swirling around beneath me, and just showing the slightest bit of interest in one topic would cause an eruption. A few months ago (during another unfortunate episode of Jay forgetting our rule to leave the house phone unplugged), I made the mistake of asking how Max was. Christ, I was only trying to fill the silence; I wasn't actually asking. Next minute, BOOM: Max lava everywhere. After half an hour of wittering, she actually put him on the phone. Him! On the phone! Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a two-year-old?
Max: 'Unka Sigh!'
Me: 'Mmm, indeed. Hello, Max.'
Max: 'Dost!'
Me: 'Pardon me?'
Max: 'I li dost.'
Me: 'I literally can't understand a word you're saying.'
Max: 'I din miwk.'
Me: 'Riiiiight. Could you put your mother back on please?'
Max: 'Miwk! Miwk!'
At that point, I hung up. Parents really shouldn't force you to converse with their children until they can hold an actual discussion. Although he'd now reached three, I doubted Max had yet developed any intellectual opinions worth hearing, so I avoided phone calls with both him and his insufferable parents like the Plague.
Emma had always had this idea that us being siblings somehow tied us together past childhood, despite the fact that we had nothing in common. She seemed to want to be in contact 24/7 and was always trying to 'help me out', offering me money, trying to visit. She was pretty hard work. When I was at University, she'd even tried to set me up with Ellie, her best friend. Emma and Ellie met when they started primary school, aged 4, and had remained inseparable ever since (despite the fact that Ellie's life had taken a rather different route than Emma's). Emma had travelled the world during a gap year; attended Newcastle University, attaining a 1st class degree in Law; and then finally moved to London to pursue a successful career in environmental law. Ellie, on the other hand, attended the University of Derby studying one of those courses that had a really vague name with something like 'Management' or 'Skills' at the end. In other words, one of those utterly pointless 'degrees' that lead absolutely nowhere and just exist so that stupid people can go to University too. Whatever the name of it was, the course was all a bit too much for Ellie; she discovered MDMA and all-night raves and scraped through with a 3rd. She moved on to live in a bedsit in Swindon and paid her rent by doing bar-work and taking temporary promotional jobs. That I had remembered any of this was a miracle, since the details of her life were of absolutely no interest to me; however, it was deemed necessary by Emma that I was up-to-date before my 'big night'.
Emma instructed me to be sensitive with Ellie, since, at the time, she'd just been dumped by her boyfriend of 7 months: Snake. I could have saved her a lot of suffering by pointing out right at the beginning of that relationship that anyone called 'Snake' was clearly going to be a total psychopath. Anyway, I refused to call, or to take any active part in the planning process (since I wasn't looking for a daft liability to be my girlfriend and had actually been deadly serious when I told Emma 'NO'), so Emma planned the entire thing. To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. Firstly, I was late. To say that I was late by accident would be a lie. Secondly, the restaurant was practically empty. It was one of those gastro-pubs that had been recently renovated and tried desperately to be unique and trendy whilst actually just falling into the same traps as all the others: open kitchen; big, squashy sofas around the fire; and quirky, mass-produced artwork on the walls. The first thing Ellie did was to ask the waiter what the vegan options were. I wanted to push over the table and run at that very moment. Vegans were, in my mind, people who were so incredibly egotistical that they thought what they, as an individual, ate would have some kind of miraculous effect on the planet's ecosystems. They were even worse than vegetarians. She noticed the way I rolled my eyes when she ordered, but I had no desire to impress her. Or anyone else, for that matter.
By the time the first course arrived, we'd covered all of the conversation topics available to us: 1. Emma and 2. How work/University were. Over the excruciating 40 minutes of stilted conversation that followed, she drank a bottle and a half of Merlot alongside her pomegranate salad and sage polenta cake. The wine cost more than my meal, as did her Hippie food, so I refused to pay for anything other than what I had. As far as I was concerned, the need for chivalry ended with the Equal Pay Act of 1970.
On the way home, Ellie shoved her hand down my trousers in the back of the taxi and gave me one of the shittier hand-jobs I've ever received. When we pulled up outside the train station, she asked me whether we had time for coffee back at mine before she was due to catch the last train home. She was slurring her words and doing something with her eye that I think was supposed to resemble a wink. Unfortunately, it made her look like a stroke victim. I declined and held the car door open for her, like a true gent; I'd already ejaculated on the journey home - what was the point of her coming back to mine?
Unfortunately, it turned out that Ellie was so drunk, she never actually made it onto her train. She walked into the station, failed to see the 'Wet Floor' signs and fell hard on the back of her skull. By this point, the taxi had already started to move off and I simply felt it too late to turn back and offer assistance; she had become someone else's problem by that point. Six stitches and one night in A&E later, she was as good as new and ready to catch that train home. Problem solved. Apparently, though, Ellie's accident and consequent bald patch were somehow my fault, so the night had been held against me ever since. And that came from people who didn't even know I'd seen her slip before telling the driver to drive on.
Early February heralded yet another parents' evening: this time, it was really bad news. All Year 10 parents were invited in one Thursday night and I was lucky enough to be teaching not one, but two Year 10 classes. One half of my long night would be spent speaking to parents of students from the top set (10XE), which would involve comments such as: 'Has really engaged with the topic of war poetry'; 'Raised some interesting points about the way in which Lord of the Flies displays a microcosm of adult society'; or, at worst, 'Occasionally caught whispering to her neighbour when she should be listening'. The other half of my night would be spent speaking to parents of students from the bottom set (10XT – the 'XT' there standing for 'Extreme Twats'). These comments would be more along the lines of: 'Has really struggled to stay awake during the topic of war poetry'; 'Raised some interesting points about how my teaching is similar to unrelenting torture'; or, at worst, 'Occasionally caught rolling (often overpriced and poorly crafted) joints and selling them to Year 7 students when sent out into the corridor to calm down'.
Fortunately, the sheer number of appointments I had meant that my evening flew by. I was down to my last couple of consultations when Morgan Fenwick's ugly mug came stomping towards my table. I always scheduled Morgan into the latter section of the evening, as her mum worked as a beauty therapist and the salon was open until 8pm. I had learned to leave a half hour window open for the Fenwicks, as opposed to the usual 10 minutes; we always had a lot to discuss. I knew Morgan's mum inside out, as I had started teaching Morgan in Year 8; since then, I had requested to teach her class each year. They were a mixture of horrible little turds, but I had my reasons.
Morgan and I got off to a bad start from the first lesson in Year 8, as she was under the belief that she was going to be 'Billy Big Balls' of the classroom. Those were the students I despised even more intensely than the rest: ones who failed to realise that they were petty little children of no consequence in an adults' world. During that first lesson, at only the age of 12, Morgan had arrived ten minutes late and then refused to take her bag off the table (her way of instantly asserting her authority over new teachers). I sensed she wasn't a student who would respond to the triviality of the usual school warning system, so I picked her bag up off the desk and threw it out of the nearest open window. Unorthodox? Yes, but at least it shut her up. Unfortunately, the concrete beneath that window broke both her iPhone screen and the mirror she used to apply the fourteenth and fifteenth layers of foundation to her pimpled face throughout the day. I was called into the Head's office two days after the 'incident'. In school, events were always referred to as incidents, regardless of severity – whether you'd forgotten to mark Jordan Schofield's exercise book or strung Hannah Caseley up by her ankles at the front of the classroom for forgetting her homework (something I'd dreamed about but admirably managed to resist thus far), you were always called in to discuss the 'incident'. In this particular case, the meeting was called by the affronted student's mother. Obviously, I knew about the parent meeting in advance, as Morgan took pleasure in telling me that her mum planned to: Slap my "stupid fucking glasses" off my "stupid fucking face". She really was a little charmer.
My meeting with Cheryl Fenwick was a piece of cake. She was a far more attractive specimen than her daughter, which made flirting my way out of trouble pretty painless. Her long, blonde hair fell in curls to just below her breasts and the colour of her lipstick always matched her neat, manicured nails. After the meeting, I asked her if she always looked so superb when she came into school to discuss Morgan. It turned out she did.
Tonight's Cheryl show featured her in a short, black leather dress and heels. Her slim, bronzed legs were bare, despite the cold January temperature outside. I made a move to stand and greet the pair but my erection caught on the edge of the desk, restraining me back to my seated position. Fortunately, Morgan was wearing a pair of patterned leggings that highlighted the deep creases around the tops of her rippling thighs; that image was just the ice-cold shower I needed.
'Mr Bramwell,' Cheryl purred, sitting down and brushing her leg against mine under the table. 'We really must stop meeting like this.'
'Indeed,' I replied, my cheeks reddening. Something about this woman had the power to reduce me to a jibbering, horny teenager.
'I hope Morgan's not been waggin' it again?'
'No, no, not at all: in fact, Morgan's made quite an improvement since the last time I saw you.' Total bollocks. I just needed to keep her mother sweet.
'Is that right?' She leaned forward. I felt her hand snaking up my thigh under the cover of the small, faux-wood desk. She had even less patience than usual.
'I can't believe I've done this again,' I said, bringing my hand up to my forehead in mock embarrassment, 'but I've actually left Morgan's exercise book up in my classroom. There are some bits and pieces in there that I'd really love to show you.'
Her right eyebrow arched and she smiled. 'Morgan, wait for me in Reception.'
As I released Cheryl's pert buttocks from their leather prison and bent her over my desk, she informed me that she had a drop-in home appointment to do at half 8, so I had to be quick. Like that was ever an issue.
Pro: Cheryl Fenwick.
Why couldn't all relationships be like this?
That weekend, in order to get to Emma's birthday meal on time, I had to catch the 10:27am Saturday train down to London. When Mum had heard I couldn't make the party because I couldn't afford the train, she'd transferred £100 straight into my bank account. The poverty excuse had worked well in the past, but I was clearly becoming complacent to think that I could recycle it. The return ticket only cost £38. Transferring far too much was Mum's way of backing me into a corner – that way, it would be entirely my own fault if I failed to attend her precious darling's birthday and everyone could spend the evening talking about what a selfish twat I was.
Sheffield station was a 30-minute walk from the flat and I left at 10:15; they could hardly blame me if I happened to miss the train and was therefore unable to make it for the family merriment. Unfortunately for me, the damn thing was delayed and I even had enough time to get a coffee before its departure. At the Starbucks kiosk, I approached the till at the exact time same as a girl with short, blonde hair. In unison, we both tried to order a medium latte. In a film, that exact moment would have been our 'meet cute'. It did help that she was absolutely gorgeous. I gave her my best winning smile and offered for her to go in front.
Pro: Perving on gorgeous girls in public.
She smirked and almost rolled her eyes. It was the look of someone who had been approached by voracious men so many times that it became an insignificant part of her day; that would explain why a reciprocated smile was clearly far too much effort, never mind a 'thank you'. Fuck it. She'd already ruined our potential hot, dirty fling, so why should I be so polite? Anyway, she looked like the type of girl who'd be way too much effort in bed, lying back and expecting me to do all the work.
'Actually, I've changed my mind.' I shoved her shiny, blonde head out of my way with my palm. 'I was here first. Mine's a medium latte.'
I felt pretty proud of myself as I walked away from her scowling face. However, I knew I was going to have to stop being so easily irritated if I was going to have sex with anyone new before I died. Normal girls required far more effort than Cheryl Fenwick. For example, if you bumped into an attractive brunette with DD cups on a night out, you were expected to pretend to care what her name was, where she went to University and what job she had. You were expected to buy her a drink. You were expected to find the fact that she had 3 cats at home adorable. You were expected to look at photos of them and learn their names. You were expected to buy her another large Chardonnay. You were expected to listen to her explain how she'd always had a close relationship with her mum but how it had grown since they lost her dad back in 2007. Then, just when you thought you might have put in enough bullshit to get her back to yours, you found out you not only had to impress her, but also her moronic blonde friend with the fake gold jewellery. You had to pretend to find her stupid friend's lack of common sense absolutely hysterical. You had to pretend that Take That was your favourite band too, and that listening to them didn't make you want to send barbed wire swimming down your ear canals. In essence, you were looking at hours and hours of irrelevant conversation. Spending more money on drinks for her than you'd usually spend on your own weekly food shop. All that effort and for what? One single, solitary shag. I was tired even thinking about it.
I didn't want a relationship (well, labelling the Gisele Bündchen clause as an exception); people in relationships were nauseating. The part I despised most pungently was the little recount of 'how we met' where they giggle and gaze at each other, pretending the story is totally unrehearsed when, in fact, it's choreographed within an inch of its life. The only way I can ever entertain myself during these dry exchanges is to read the subtext myself.
'She was on the other side of the dance-floor when our eyes met across the crowd.' It was 3am and I was scanning the club to see what leftover scraps there were.
'She took my breath away. She looked like an angel.' I went instantly from six to midnight because she was dressed like a slag in a little black dress and looked well up for it.
'And now, I'm the luckiest guy in the world.' One year on, she's put on two stone and we spend every Saturday night watching The X Factor. We haven't had sex for three weeks.
Fast forward a few years and the tears roll down her perfect face as he tells her he's been shagging his secretary and they're buying a house together in St. Tropez. As the salty tears reach her lips, they are spat out like piercing needles. All her beauty melts away; she cries so hard her mouth won't close and she dribbles. Picture that. Go on, picture it. Supposedly, between 40-50% of marriages end in divorce now, so what you're picturing is remarkably common. Take all this into account, and then tell me you still see the point in starting a relationship. So, you see, even if I did get the meet cute and meet the cute girl, the relationship would end in the same way as everyone else's. Disaster. What was the point? Cut to the end: unhappiness. Well, I'm already there. In a way, I win.
The train journey was long and arduous, since I ended up sharing a table seat with a man and his young son. It turned out that four-year-old Reuben didn't wish to sit still or to use the colouring book his father had optimistically brought along for him. It turned out Reuben would much rather squirm around in his seat, kick my shins under the table and squeal at the top of his voice every time his father denied his demand for chocolate. Obviously, my first thought was to shove the child's face so full of chocolate that he'd practically choke on it. The second option was to move to a different carriage, but the train was so full that people littered the aisles, clinging on to seat backs and staring longingly at those who had managed to find a place to rest their legs. Aside from Reuben, there was an elderly lady eyeing up the seat I was using for my bag; she rubbed her back as though she was in pain, sighed and cleared her throat constantly. I knew what she was doing, but I needed my bag on the seat. It contained my train snacks. I kindly advised her to purchase some throat sweets for that cough and popped my headphones (which I'd eventually located under a discarded takeaway container in Jay's bedroom) into my ears.
Con: Over-prescribed trains.
By the time I reached Kings Cross, I was in a toxic mood. Emry (that's Emma and Henry – they were so sickeningly inseparable, I now thought of them as one being) lived in a place called Barnes, which was in the same Borough as Richmond. When she first moved there, she started telling everybody that she and Henry had bought a house in Richmond; I took great joy, whenever possible, in pointing out that it was technically over 2 miles away from Richmond and therefore a much, much cheaper property. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I stopped getting invited to their fancy cheese and wine evenings.
The house itself was, although I would never have admitted it to anyone else, fairly decent. Its pale grey body stood proudly back from Station Road, in a long row of neat, terraced houses. From the front, the house boasted colourful window boxes and two large, bay windows; at the back of the house, two glass doors led out onto a wood-panelled patio. The interior décor wasn't exactly to my liking, but then neither were the house's occupants.
I approached the path leading up to the front door half an hour later than instructed – I enjoyed keeping people waiting. Resting its left-hand wheels on the pavement, next to Emma's oversized Range Rover, was Dad's red Alfa Romeo: of course, Mum had made him come in the 'best car'. God forbid anyone should see the T reg. Volvo they kept hidden away in the garage. Immediately, the usual choking anxiety of seeing my family crept up inside my throat. I was genuinely wondering whether I could back away without being seen when the door bounced open.
'Simey! You came! You actually came!' Emma forced her arms around me and squeezed so tightly I thought my arms might form cavities in my ribcage. I could feel the rigidity of the small bump that had already formed under her jumper. Her cashmere jumper, I should note. In the ten years she'd been living in London, all of Emma's ordinary clothes had been slowly replaced by cashmere jumpers, silk blouses and designer suits. She called it her 'maturing sense of style'. I called it Henry's credit card.
Her clothes weren't the only things that had changed over the last decade. Despite the pregnancy swell, even I could see how much skinnier she was and it irritated me that she pretended to find enjoyment in exercise. I, unlike her dearest darling Henry, could still remember her as a lazy teenager, when walking up the stairs was comparable to climbing Mount Snowdon in terms of the effort it took. Sometimes, she would even fall asleep on the sofa after watching Blossom (or one of her other shite T.V. programmes) and I would watch Dad carry her up to her bed. That was the real Emma. This Emma drank breakfast through a straw and talked about how Goji berries and chia seeds had changed her life.
'Come in, come in,' she squealed, motioning for me to enter her little palace of perfection. Despite the fact that I had visited once before, I was still shocked by the sheer amount of beige two people could fit under one roof. I followed the beige runner from the entrance hall into the lounge, where it joined the beige carpet. The enormous living room neighboured the dining room in a trendy, open-plan style. I'd always found the idea of 'open-plan' houses strange; in Victorian times, it was a sign of poverty for a family to pile into one or two rooms. Yet now, that impoverished style was somehow fashionable? Strange.
In the centre of the room, a semi-circle of beige chairs pointed inwards towards a cream, marble fireplace. Normal people tend to centre their furniture around their T.V. screen, but Henry and Emma weren't normal people. They didn't own a T.V., as Henry had been raised to believe that 'televisions hinder important opportunities for learning, exercise and social interaction'. When Henry first told my mother this, she sold all three of the T.V.s her and Dad had at home. What she didn't know was that Dad had bought a small one and assembled it in his shed. He watched football on it most nights when Mum thought he was putting in some extra hours on a new engineering project.
My parents were sitting on one of the plush, beige sofas in the living room and rose awkwardly to greet me as I entered. Mum was wearing her trademark tailored trouser-suit in grey and her lipstick was several shades too dark for her age. Although she had aged well, taking care to remain slim and healthy into her early sixties, her face was stiff from Botox and tell-tale greys were protruding defiantly through her dark, bobbed hair. Dad, on the other hand, had embraced the ageing process much more naturally. The rubber ring around his middle continued to grow and the soft lines around his blazing blue eyes hinted at his kindness. His greys were spreading into his bushy eyebrows and it was clear from the jungle protruding from his nostrils that he had ignored Emma's Christmas gift of a top-of-the-range nose-hair trimmer.
Dad shook my hand across the mahogany coffee table with both of his and told me that it was good to see me. Mum said, 'Shoes, Simon. It's a cream carpet for goodness' sake.'
'Time for gifts!' Mum announced, beaming and rosy-cheeked after three glasses of Bollinger. She clapped her palms together, as though this motion would send all her little worker bees into action. 'Shall we start with Simon, just in case he decides he's bored of us already and needs to hurry back to Sheffield?'
I clenched my jaw together, smiled and checked my watch for the thousandth time. Did twenty minutes in Emma's living room pass for a family visit? I was supposed to be staying the night but my ticket was for an open return; I wanted the option to leave at any time.
'Simon?' Mum asked again.
Her statement finally dawned on me. 'Time for gifts.' Shit.
'Coo ee! Anyone home?'
Oh shit.
'Simon,' she murmured, shooting a nervous glance at Henry, 'did you leave your gift in the hall?'
I honestly hadn't intended to arrive empty-handed. Honestly. Since I generally avoided all uncomfortable social gatherings like birthdays, engagement parties and Christenings, I seemed to have forgotten the etiquette surrounding such events. Plus, didn't you only have to bring a gift if it was a child's birthday? It seemed a little self-indulgent for someone in their thirties to expect a mountain of presents. Even if I had remembered, what could you buy the girl who had everything? She certainly didn't need another tin of bloody beige Dulux.
Emma sensed the panic on my face and jumped in: 'Simey's here, Mum; I think that's enough of a gift in itself, don't you?'
My mother pursed her lips, as she always did when she felt herself charitable enough to hold back her actual opinion. Max was playing with a toy kitchen set on the floor, so I moved over to join him in order to avoid the present parade.
'Your plate!' Max said, smiling up at me and pointing to one of the blue, plastic plates in his red, plastic cupboard. Lost in my own thoughts, I moved my hand back and forth through the soft, beige fibres of the rug. I was trying to remember whether Mum and Dad had got me anything for my last birthday.
'Dis blue plate!' Max repeated.
I glanced up at the happy little gathering on the sofa. Emma's blue eyes leaked tears as she pored over some little yellow vest things from Mum and Dad. She laid them across her stomach, as though we were supposed to miraculously sense what the unborn foetus would look like wearing them.
'Frying pan!' Max tapped my hand with the silver handle. 'You put duh eggs in duh frying pan, Unka Sigh.'
Emma opened Henry's gift next, shredding the neat, turquoise paper. 'A Tiffany necklace! Oh, Henry darling, I love it!' She kissed his cheek. Jewellery. Real original, Henry.
'Unka Sigh! Beans!' Max waved a fake can of Heinz in front of my face. What does this kid want: a fucking medal? Yes, it's a tin of beans. Congratulations. I can point at objects around the room and label them with the appropriate nouns as well.
'Max? Are you ready to give Mummy her present from you?' Henry called. Henry handed a large, soft package to Max, who neglected to pass it to Emma and ripped it open himself. Seeing that there was nothing of interest inside, Max threw the green scarf to one side. In return, he was smothered in his mother's kisses and thanked over and over again. Were we supposed to assume that Max, at three years of age, had stumbled out of the house, onto the train to Central London and into Selfridges to purchase said item? Or were we to think it romantic that Henry spent double the money on Emma's birthday and then masqueraded one of the presents as Max's? Parenting really was a load of farcical bollocks.
'Can you pass the beef?' I asked, having waited for dinner so long that my stomach was audible. Henry and my mother glanced at each other, sneering and attempting to hold back laughter. 'Please?'
'This dish here? It's called venison,' Henry responded. 'If it is the loin of venison wrapped in pancetta that you desire, then I can indeed be of assistance.'
Patronising wanker.
'Henry, darling!' Emma admonished. 'You must remember that not everyone speaks foodie as fluently as you do.' She mouthed the word 'sorry' across the table at me. Mum started giggling and Henry poured her some more Beaujolais. I felt like pouring the gravy directly over Henry's head. Sorry, not gravy – 'jus'.
'So, son,' Dad began, trying to dissipate the atmosphere and handing a bowl of parsley-infused Lyonnaise potatoes across the table, 'how goes everything up North?' This was a tricky question. Any details of my life that I reported back upon simply rammed more ammunition into my mother's barrel. This was the way in which she saw the minutiae of my life:
Job: Earning about £40,000 less than most other people she knew (including her own daughter). She'd given up asking when I was going to be promoted to Head of Department years ago. My lack of ambition didn't suit her. Instead, she simply told all her well-to-do friends that I had been promoted. In fact, last year I'd apparently been made Deputy Head and was really looking like 'Headship material'. Lucky me.
Home-Life: A fat, hairy, same-sex housemate and an ex-council flat weren't exactly details to parade at a cocktail party either. Instead, she related that I lived alone and Netherthorpe was actually a very 'up-and-coming' area.
Love Life: Indeterminately single. Mum's translation: Beating them off with a stick and just waiting for the right one to come along.
Luckily for me, Max shoved a carrot up his nose at that exact moment, creating such a diversion that my silence went unnoticed.
After dinner, Mum insisted that I help Henry clear the table while she made sure Emma had a rest and Dad kept Max occupied. I didn't really understand what integral part Mum was to play in Emma having a rest, but I decided it was better to keep my mouth shut. I knew better than to argue with my mother.
As I scraped the unwanted morsels of venison loin and sautéed kale into the bin, I couldn't help but wonder what the big deal was with posh food. First of all, I'd never had a meal that tasted better than a full English breakfast after a heavy night out. Second of all, everybody's plate looks like the aftermath of a battlefield massacre at the end of the meal, whether they've had a McDonald's Big Mac meal or a plate of lobster thermidor. Not to mention that it all comes out looking the same in the end anyway.
'So, Henry, been on any jolly fruitful hunts recently?' I probed in order to fill the uncomfortable silence of cutlery scraping on bone china.
'It's drawing towards the end of hunting season, Simon. Surely at least you know that!'
I actually quite enjoyed conversing with Henry. He was so incredibly bland, and had so little sense of humour, that he was oblivious to all forms of mockery.
'Ah, I see.' I clapped my hand on his broad back to imitate a friendly gesture. 'And what about the polo – are you still playing?'
He paused. 'I think you must have me confused with someone else, Simon. I don't play polo. Well, other than when visiting my parents in Berkshire, of course.'
'Of course. My sincere apologies. I must have been thinking of…' Insert ridiculously posh person's name here. This always works. '...Horatio.'
'Oh goodness me! Do you know Horatio? Bloody good chap! Bloody good indeed. Studied with him over at Oxford.'
Sometimes, if I was lucky, and I pushed Henry just enough, I could get him to burst into some kind of collegiate song that made him sound like a proper twat. Here goes.
'What a small world! Remind me, will you, which college branch were you both members of?'
Henry put the tea towel down at once. He cleared his throat and began rhythmically pounding his fist on his chest.
'Pembroke, Pembroke: collegiate of command,
Rising, ruling - all at thy fair hand,
Champions! Champions!
Comes the cry of gleeeeeeee,
Pembroke, Pembroke: we owe all unto thee.
Champions! Champions!
Blessed home have weeeeeeeee.'
Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. That was going in my 'pros' box when I got home.
I was just about ready to bid farewell to my delightful family and jump eagerly on the last train home when Emma suggested we play a game. Since I was aware this could potentially be the last time I ever saw them, I decided to stick around and leave in the morning. Usually, we would be stuck playing: The Sneaky, Snacky Squirrel; Cock-A-Doodle-Moo; or any other shit game highly rated for three-year-olds. Thankfully though, Max was in bed and we could therefore behave like adults and play a game that might actually challenge anyone with an IQ of over 90.
Emma settled on Articulate: the object of the game being to describe a word given to you on a card without using any parts of the word itself. I had played once or twice before at University but (as with every game played at University) I'd played it as a drinking game. I had a feeling that tonight's experience would be somewhat less enjoyable.
Emma picked the teams from a hat: 'Mum…you'll be with…Dad…and…me! So, that leaves us three versus Henry and Simon.'
Of course. I was up first. The word on the card was 'Beirut'. Geography had never been my strongest subject but I thought I'd be polite and have a go. 'Erm, it's a country in the Middle East.'
Henry began guessing instantly: 'Syria? Bahrain? Iran?'
'It's on the coast.'
'Turkey? Egypt? Israel? Kuwait?'
'Mmmm, no, none of those. I'm pretty sure Muslim is one of the main religions there?'
'Time's up!' Dad shouted.
'Where was it?'
'Beirut.'
'Oh bloody Nora, Simon! It's a city for starters, not a country!' Henry rolled his eyes back in his head. 'You could have said: it's the capital city of Lebanon? It extends into the Mediterranean? It underwent major reconstruction following the Lebanese Civil War? The list is practically endless!'
I drove my blunt fingernails hard into my palms until it hurt. If this was to be the last time I would ever see them, I would not rise to the bait. I would remain calm. I would not punch Henry, or anyone else, in the face.
The game moved over to Emma's team and Dad started off. 'It borders Spain. We rented a private villa there in '98.'
'Portugal!' Mum and Emma replied in unison.
'We live in...'
'England?'
'Yes!'
'It's like a hill but bigger. You can trek up if it you're very fit and it's in Tanzania.'
'Mount Kilimanjaro!' Emma screeched just before the timer ran out.
I get Beirut and they get Portugal and England? Give me a fucking break.
It was Henry's turn. I was not feeling optimistic.
'Oh, brilliant,' he said as he turned over the card. 'Very simple this one; it's an allotrope of carbon.' He sat back and smiled at me, as though his job was done.
'What?'
'Probably the most well-known allotrope of carbon, Simon.'
'I don't bloody know. Coal?'
Henry smirked at Emma.
'What the fucking hell's an allotrope?'
'Language, Simon,' Mum reproved.
'Petrol?'
Mum exaggerated a sigh and drowned her disappointment in another mouthful of Henry's precious cognac. Just at the right moment, we were interrupted. Small fists began hammering on the front door and the bell bing-bonged over and over again. Emma ran to answer the door, while Henry fetched more cognac for Mum.
From the hallway, Emma's hushed whispers could be heard. 'Oh my goodness, what a great surprise! I thought you couldn't make it tonight? Oh God, are you all right? What's the matter?'
'So, what was the word, Henry?' Dad ventured. 'I mean, it wasn't just poor Simon struggling with that one; you had me flummoxed too!'
'It was diamond – obviously,' Mum gloated in her finest R.P. accent.
'I think perhaps you and I should be partners next time, Anne.' A slimy smile trailed across Henry's face like a slug.
'Yes, partners…in crime!' Mum added. She and Henry burst into fits of fake laughter. I didn't understand how Dad could stand to see his wife around Henry; he fed her insatiable hunger for affluence and she'd been latched to his ugly teat from day one.
Diamond. Seriously? Was that actually how he explained the word diamond? Erm, how about: you find it on an engagement ring? People measure it in carats? A big, shiny gemstone? _ are forever? There was a brilliant film with DiCaprio in it called Blood _? Any normal-person-clue would have sufficed.
Emma re-entered the room supporting the weight of a small, redheaded girl whose eyes were puffed up as though she was smuggling cotton wool balls under skin.
Ellie. Fantastic. Just when I thought this night couldn't get any worse.
'Simon, hi. Nice to (sniff) see you again.' As she shook my hand in greeting, I flashed back to visions of my white, sticky ejaculate spreading over the backs of her pale, dainty fingers. Be polite, make a token amount of conversation and then leave. Ask about something. A boyfriend – yes, I'm sure Emma mentioned another stupidly named boyfriend.
'Ellie. Yes, how nice it is to see you again. How are things with you and that – Loony, was it?'
'It's' (sniff) 'Luno'. 'And he' (sniff) 'dumped' (sniff) 'meeeeeee!' she wailed.
'Oh well done, Simon – you've gone and upset the poor girl!' Mum shot me a stern glance and pulled Ellie into a protective hug. Upstairs, Max started whimpering. 'And now you've woken Max up too,' she snapped.
I didn't bother explaining that Max probably woke up due to the mentally unstable vegan who arrived at 10pm, banged on the door and howled like a hungry dog at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't bother explaining that they made me feel about two inches tall and I was sick of managing to disappoint them whether I chose to attend their stupid family gatherings or not. I didn't bother explaining that I'd come all this way because I might never see them again. I simply picked up my bag, walked out of the front door and slammed it behind me.
Having grabbed a few hours' sleep on a station bench, I left on the first train home. I returned early Sunday morning to a pile of unopened post and no sign of Jay. I spotted an envelope addressed to him but with a return address that I recognised instantly. Finally, some hard-earned comic relief.
Gold for Cash
P.O. Box 7781
London
W1A 1ET
14/02/13
Dear Mr Phelps,
We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the Abba Gold: Greatest Hits audio CD that you sent to us through the post, due to the fact that it contains no actual gold.
Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.
We hope that this explains the purpose of our company and we look forward to your business in the future, should you have any gold (of the precious metal variety) to sell.
Yours sincerely,
Mr M. Grantham
(Customer Service Representative)
I knocked on his door in order to congratulate him on his latest addition, but there was no answer. In the kitchen, I found a note from him explaining that his mum had taken another turn for the worse and he'd gone to look after her for a few days. There was a p.s. on the note, which read:
Hope you had fun with your fit sister.
Jay had never met my sister but had developed a thing for her after seeing a picture on my phone. He added her on Facebook straight after that; I didn't wish to think about why. He was an only child, so I couldn't even do some revenge-perving on his sister. Jay's dad had died when he was 15, so it'd just been him and his mum since then. And perving on a widow seemed a little wrong. Even by my standards.
I tended to avoid thinking about people like Mrs Phelps whenever possible because it made me feel selfish. There she was, bald head and weak heart, fighting through relentless rounds of Chemotherapy and living life day by day, grateful for every sunrise she witnessed. Then, there was me: young, healthy and ready to die. I wished there was a way for me to swap places with her, for me to give up the life I had no use for and to let her continue on. Although we never talked about it, I knew she meant the world to Jay. On the rare occasion I ventured into his pigsty of a room, I noticed pictures of her hanging everywhere: her on the beach, back when her full head of frizzy, windswept hair was still intact; her smiling at the table of a restaurant; her with her arms around Jay, unable to reach around his vast middle but trying her best to anyway. I'd asked him once, when we were drunk, why he'd cut his dad out of all the photos. It was easier to tackle conversations like that when we were drunk; neither of us wished to be assigned the label of 'pussy' that came along with having emotional conversations when even remotely sober.
'Because I let him down,' he'd replied.
I never asked him what he meant and pretended not to notice the glistening of his eyes. I knew all too well the burden that family friction could bring.
