Turning Forty Page 11

  As the date gets closer, I’m feeling more optimistic. I emerge from my room, even take myself out for a run and on the day he’s coming up I resolve that this night out will mark the end of me thinking about Ginny. This will be the weekend when I rid her from my head and heart for good. I’ll go out with my old mate, maybe meet someone new and that will be it. I will have officially moved on from my past.

  In preparation I take myself up to the high street for a haircut (same as always: short all over) and to Superdrug to replenish my toiletries. I narrowly manage to avoid an encounter in WHSmith with Alice O’Conner (then, the girl most likely to get her elder brother Gary to punch your lights out for no good reason; now, harassed mother of three).

  Feeling that the high street is no longer a safe place for me I head home past Peacocks and am stopped in my tracks by a group of three glamorous teenage girls – all lipstick and shopping bags – coming out of the shop. One of them is Gershwin’s daughter, Charlotte.

  I’ve known Charlotte since she was a baby so it’s hard to think of her as anything else but seeing her, oblivious of the leers of a passing group of teenage boys, it’s clear that she is anything but. She doesn’t look older than her biological age or anything – she looks and dresses like a fourteen-year-old girl – no, the shocking thing is that she looks like the kind of fourteen-year-old girl for whom any teenage boy would willingly lay down his life if she asked him. It isn’t just her curls of dark brown hair, her flawless skin, or her cooler-than-thou sense of style. It’s the fact that it is all contained in one perfectly formed single entity. On Gershwin’s behalf I want to protect this beautiful girl with her whole life in front of her by locating a sufficiently hefty stick with which to fend off the youths who would inevitably swarm around her if left unattended.

  ‘You do know that I’m going to have to have a word with your dad about locking you up, don’t you?’ I joke as I throw menacing glances in the boys’ direction. ‘Either that, or lock up every single boy between the ages of thirteen and eighteen.’

  ‘You’re so embarrassing,’ she says, throwing her arms round me. ‘When did you get back from London?’

  ‘I’ve actually been here a while but I’ve been a bit busy.’ I look down at the vast array of shopping bags clutched in her hands. ‘You’re flush, aren’t you? What’s the occasion? I haven’t missed another one of your birthdays, have I?’

  She laughs and shakes her head. ‘No, not this time. Dad gave me some money and told me to spend it how I wanted.’

  That didn’t sound like the Gershwin I knew. ‘Your dad gave you money just like that? I bet you nagged him to death for it.’

  ‘Didn’t have to this time. He’s so happy that I reckon he would’ve given me a Chanel handbag if I’d asked for one.’

  ‘Really? Last time I saw your dad he was a right misery.’

  ‘That was because he’d fallen out with his girlfriend,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Thankfully they’re back together now so everything’s sorted.’

  This didn’t make any sense. ‘Since when did your dad have a girlfriend?’

  ‘He’s had one for ages. Before the split they were even living together.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘This is weird. I saw your dad only a little while ago and he never said a word about any girlfriend.’

  Charlotte shrugs. ‘Maybe he was too down to talk about it. You know what Dad’s like – it’s impossible to get anything out of him when he’s in a mood.’

  ‘So who is she, this woman? Is she nice?’

  ‘Maybe this is something you need to talk to Dad about,’ says Charlotte. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. And I can’t imagine any reason there would be.’

  ‘It’s Ginny,’ she says. ‘I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew.’

  19

  ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell you,’ says Zoe. She pushes the tin of biscuits on the table in my direction. ‘You wait till I see him, I’ll give him a right earful . . . treating you like that and dropping Charlotte in it too! What was he thinking?’

  Having accepted Charlotte’s offer to ‘come back to mine and talk to Mum’ I’m now sitting at Gershwin’s ex-wife’s kitchen table having just had confirmation of everything that my goddaughter had told me. Ginny’s mysterious ex, the one she told me she missed ‘every single day’, is none other than my best friend.

  ‘I mean . . . how did it even happen?’ I refuse Zoe’s offer of biscuits and concentrate on the mug of tea in my hands. I’d never have put Ginny and Gershwin together in a million years. ‘Did they always fancy each other?’

  Zoe pulls her chair up closer to the table. ‘The first I heard of it was about a year ago when Charlotte told me that he and Ginny took her to the theatre to see a play that one of Ginny’s friends was in. Charlotte said that the whole time they were there her dad kept acting really odd and making comments about how he and Ginny were just good friends. The first thing that Charlotte said the minute she walked through the front door was: ‘I think Dad’s seeing Ginny.’

  ‘So when did he tell you what was going on?’

  ‘It must have been a week or two later. He dropped off Charlotte after a weekend at his and just came out with it. I’d long since stopped caring what he got up to but as it happened I’d always really liked Ginny – she’s a lovely girl – and so I was pleased that at least Charlotte would be able to get on with her. But I told him at the time: “Look, I’m glad you’re moving on and everything but have you spoken to Matt about it?” because, you know, I knew you and Ginny had history.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  Zoe shrugs and rolls her eyes. ‘You know what he’s like. He was all, yeah, yeah, yeah . . . Matt’s married, he’s fine about it so I just assumed that he’d get round to telling you in his own time.’

  ‘And this was when exactly?’

  ‘About ten months ago although I’m guessing they’d been together a while if he was bothering to tell me.’

  ‘And they lived together?’

  ‘At Gershwin’s place. I don’t think it was official, mind you, but she was always round there whenever I picked up Charlotte and I did notice a few items that Gershwin hadn’t had a hand in buying if you know what I mean.’

  ‘And what about their engagement?’

  ‘Well, that’s where it gets tricky because he didn’t talk to me directly about it. From what I can gather from Charlotte, around the beginning of August he started asking how she felt about the idea of him getting married again and dropping hints that he was about to propose to Ginny. Then a few weeks later it was all over.’

  ‘But you don’t know why.’

  Zoe pulls a face as if to say: ‘Beats me,’ and leans back in her chair. ‘Maybe she came to her senses. But Charlotte will vouch for this: he was a right misery from the moment they broke up. If he wasn’t yelling at Charlotte over the smallest thing he was trying to pick a fight with me. He was gutted when they split and he didn’t care who knew it.’

  ‘And now they’re back together?’

  ‘About a week ago he took Charlotte for dinner and when they turned up at the restaurant Ginny was there and they were all over each other.’

  The words ‘all over each other’ flash up in my head like one of those roadside signs warning you that you’re going over thirty. How could she possibly have gone from wanting to go travelling with me to being ‘all over’ my best friend? I want to ask Zoe more but Charlotte bursts in with a typical rush of teenage energy, wearing the outfit that she’s just bought.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘A party at my friend’s house.’

  ‘Well in that case I think it’s great.’ She twirls in the middle of the kitchen in a sparkly silver dress, black leggings and silver plimsolls: the very definition of a party outfit. ‘You’ll definitely have all the boys af
ter you looking like that.’

  ‘Yuck,’ she replies, but she’s grinning with so much pride that all I can see are teeth.

  ‘Matt and I are still talking,’ says Zoe, ‘so as lovely as you are would you mind taking your little fashion parade elsewhere?’

  ‘I’m going to go and show Jimmy,’ she says, heading through the back door into the garden to show Zoe’s partner.

  ‘I should probably go.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Jimmy’s fine with you being here.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I reply, even though it is a bit weird seeing her doing the domestic thing with this nice enough guy who isn’t Gershwin. ‘It’s getting late and I feel like I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ she says, ‘I know how much of a shock this must be even if you and Ginny haven’t been together in a long time.’

  Now is not the time to tell her about my more recent interactions with Ginny. ‘I just wish he’d told me.’

  ‘And Ginny didn’t mention it either?’ Zoe looks thoroughly exasperated on my behalf. ‘That pair are both as bad as each other.’

  I pour the remains of my tea down the sink and wash out the mug and Zoe comes across and briefly touches my arm. ‘I’m so sorry that it didn’t work out for you and Lauren. I know it’s awful right now but I’m living proof that you can get through it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, ‘I really mean that.’

  ‘We only know each other through Gershwin,’ she says, drying my mug on a tea towel. ‘But I’ve always felt that you were my friend too. Do you remember when you volunteered for babysitting duties with Charlotte when I was doing day shifts at the childrens’ hospital?’

  ‘How could I forget being left in charge of an actual three-year-old?’

  ‘Ah, but you loved it didn’t you?’

  ‘Every second.’ I think back to the afternoon we spent listening to Michael Jackson records while bouncing on her parents’ bed. ‘They were good times, the best. I just wish I’d known that back then . . . I would’ve made more of an effort to savour them.’

  Heading home I field texts about arrangements for the night ahead, feeling like I’ve just been in a head-on-collision with a truck. I go over everything I’ve learned this afternoon and combine it with the little that I already know:

  1. Less than a year ago Ginny and Gershwin went from being friends to being lovers.

  2. They both chose to keep their relationship a secret from me.

  3. At some point Gershwin proposed to Ginny.

  4. Three months ago they split up.

  5. And now they’re back together.

  Setting aside the fact that my recent affair with Ginny puts me slap bang in the middle of points 4 and 5, I’m aware that some people might say that my reaction is quite unreasonable. After all, they might argue, it’s been a decade since you and Ginny (albeit briefly) last (sort of) dated. They might add that when Ginny and Gershwin were busy finding each other I was living the high life in London with my wife of six years and that until my arrival in Birmingham neither Ginny nor Gershwin had been aware my marriage had been over for six months. Fortunately for me I DO NOT GIVE A CRAP WHAT THESE PEOPLE THINK ABOUT ANYTHING. I do not care what they think about British foreign policy; the films of Ridley Scott; global warming; or who should win The X-Factor and I certainly don’t care what they think about me being angry with Gershwin and Ginny because here’s the thing: Gershwin is my best mate and that means something. That means we never bad-mouth each other, we always watch each other’s back and we never – absolutely never – sleep with each other’s exes. The very thought of dating one of Gershwin’s exes makes me shudder, even the ones like Amanda Campbell who looked like a miniature version of Beatrice Dalle or Tessa Wyatt who had legs to die for; and let’s not forget Zoe, who is pretty much the definition of a yummy mummy.

  So if I had to describe my overall feelings the closest expression I can come up with is rage – pure rage. I want to punch something. I want to kick something. I want to smash something into a thousand tiny shards. But more than anything, I want it not to be true, because if it isn’t true then I won’t have to face up to the fact that despite everything I still want to be back in Ginny’s arms.

  20

  ‘I thought you were going out?’

  I’m at home watching TV with my parents, having texted Paul that I wouldn’t be out tonight. Tempting as it is to drown my problems I’m not in the right mood to be around anyone. I want to forget everything that’s going on.

  Dragging my eyes away from the TV I look over at Mum and shake my head. ‘Change of plan.’

  ‘What change of plan? Isn’t your friend coming up tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, he is.’

  ‘So why aren’t you going?’

  ‘I’m not in the right mood, Mum, that’s the change of plan.’

  ‘But he’s coming up from London!’ She makes it sound like he’s travelling up from the North Pole by dog sled. ‘Won’t he be disappointed?’

  ‘He’ll be fine, Mum.’

  ‘And you’re not going because you’re not in the “right mood”?’ You can’t leave him high and dry like that! What’s he going to do with himself?’

  I feel every last remaining drop of strength draining from me.

  ‘He’s got other friends, Mum, he won’t even notice that I’m not there.’

  ‘Still,’ she says, ‘it doesn’t feel right leaving him in the lurch like that. If it was me I wouldn’t invite you out again!’

  My phone rings. Without looking I have a good enough idea who’s calling and so I let it ring until it stops. The screen says: Missed call: Gershwin. It vibrates again to let me know that I have yet another voicemail (my third of the evening so far).

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

  ‘It’s a text,’ I lie. ‘I’m going to make a brew. Do you want one?’

  Mum nods while Dad simply raises his empty mug without taking his eyes off the TV.

  I swill out the mugs and put the kettle on to boil and as I open a new pack of chocolate digestives the doorbell rings, which sets me on edge. My parents don’t believe in capital punishment but if there’s one crime for which they would back its reintroduction it would be people ringing their doorbell after dark. I’m with them on this one.

  ‘Who’s ringing the doorbell at this time?’ calls Dad.

  ‘Ignore it!’ commands Mum. ‘They’ll soon give up.’

  ‘Matthew!’ calls Dad. ‘Go and see who it is, will you, son?’

  ‘I think we should leave it,’ I yell, knowing who it’s likely to be.

  The doorbell rings again and this is all it takes to get Dad out of his chair and into the hallway. Hiding behind the kitchen door that looks directly out on to the front porch I listen hard and sure enough hear Gershwin’s voice: ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Beckford. Is there any chance that I could speak to Matt?

  ‘Of course!’ Dad yells in my direction: ‘Matthew! It’s your friend Gershwin come to see you!’

  Gershwin is ushered into the living room by Dad. He’s wearing a plain T-shirt, jeans and a jacket: the official smart/casual uniform of men of my generation. Our eyes meet, he gives me a shrug, I swear under my breath and follow him into the living room.

  ‘Look who it is!’ says Mum, greeting Gershwin like he’s long-lost family. ‘How are you, son? Long time no see.’

  I’m used to my parents being over familiar with my friends. Back when we were teenagers they barely acknowledged my friends’ existence. They’d get a quick nod in the hallway on arrival and a ‘shouldn’t you be getting home by now?’ at the end of the day. But for some reason since we all passed the age of twenty-one it’s as if my parents can’t get enough of them. It’s as if the intervening years had turned them all from dossers and layabouts to fully functioning members of the community, which in many ways is true.

  Once Gershwin is settled Mum’s questioning onslaught begins: How is that lovely
daughter? How is work? Where is he living these days? How is he coping with life after the divorce? Does Charlotte get on well with his ex-wife’s new partner? Does he get on with his ex-wife’s new partner? How are his parents? What does he think of Matthew’s situation? And so on and so on until his eyes glaze over. It takes twenty minutes before Gershwin can even begin hinting that he hasn’t got a great deal of time and a further five before Mum cottons on.

  ‘Look at me taking up all your time! I suppose you two will be wanting to get off for a night on the town!’

  ‘Something like that,’ says Gershwin.

  ‘Well don’t be a stranger, will you? You’re always welcome here.’

  Released from my mother’s conversational grip Gershwin says his goodbyes and follows me out of the room. In an instant we shift from being old mates with an audience to would-be enemies lurking in a poorly lit hallway. I look at the face of my old friend and wonder what’s going on in his mind. Had Ginny told him about her and me or was he simply here because he felt bad about being the world’s worst best mate?

  ‘Listen Matt—’

  ‘We’re not doing this here!’ I spit, surprised by my own vehemence. I walk over to the shoe rack, shove my feet into my trainers and take a deep breath before calling out to my parents through the door: ‘Just heading out for a minute . . . won’t be long!’

  ‘Don’t forget your keys!’

  I pick them up off the stairs, open the front door and step outside into the crisp night air.

  We walk down the front path in silence. I have no idea where we’re going but I want to put as much distance as possible between my parents’ house and wherever we decide to have our slanging match.

  ‘It feels like Bonfire Night,’ says Gershwin when we’re halfway down the road. ‘There’s that smell in the air and you get that chill like—’