My Legendary Girlfriend Page 9

  Fortunately for me, my aching head and the Pope, my mother had packed a bottle of paracetamol in one of the boxes scattered around the room. Lacking the motivation to phone Nottingham to see if she could remember exactly where she’d put them, I found what I was looking for, but not before I’d emptied the contents of all four boxes on to the floor. My hand was forced. Now I really would have to tidy the flat.

  I gazed longingly at the translucent brown bottle in my hand. The name on the front, Anthony H. Kelly, was my dad’s. He’d had them prescribed for him when he’d had flu two years ago, which was precisely the last time he’d been ill and the first time in twenty-five years, so he told me, that he’d had a day off work through illness. The bottle was virtually full. That was typical of Dad, he loved to suffer more than I did.

  I popped two paracetamols on my tongue and raced to the kitchen sink. The water which came out of it was brown and had been all week. I let it run – the two tablets now clung to my tongue like magnets – but there was no change. Cursing Mr F. Jamal for all I was worth, and myself for not reporting it to him the day I’d moved in, I managed to convince myself that brown water wasn’t poisonous, but in the end I lacked the courage of my convictions. I was nearly sick as I struggled to swallow the tablets aided only by chalky saliva and a stomach of iron. I could taste their powdery slug-like trail along my oesophagus and into my stomach long after they’d gone to work alleviating my aching head.

  Now that I was in the kitchen it seemed natural to start breakfast. Today, I decided, was not a Honey Nut Loop day. Instead, I opted to create a minor Sugar Puffs mountain in the only clean bowl left in the cupboard. Sat on the bed with my back propped against the back of the sofa, I pulled the duvet over my legs and turned my attention to breakfasting. I’d forgotten the milk and the spoon. Too hungry to wait any longer, I grabbed a handful of Sugar Puffs to satisfy my immediate craving and shoved them in my mouth; they too clung to my tongue like magnets, but they were sugary, satisfying and instantly cheering.

  There were no clean spoons in the cutlery drawer, so the only option was to wash one using the brown tap water. Though, technically speaking, washing in the water was not the same as drinking it, my qualms about its safety remained, so I over-compensated in the cleaning process by using three extra squirts of Fairy Liquid as if it were some kind of germ napalm.

  Opening the fridge door, I searched high and low for the milk. There wasn’t any. It all came back to me. I’d thrown the last of it away yesterday, after pouring at least a quarter of its rancid contents over my Honey Nut Loops. There was no salvage operation. I had been so dispirited that I’d put the whole thing (bowl included) in the bin and had breakfast from the Italian newsagent’s up the road – approximate waiting time for a Mars Bar and a packet of Skips: four minutes. Now I was going to be disappointed again.

  Fully aware that this day was doing its very best to torture me with the constant dripping of small, but perfectly formed disasters, I placed two slices of frozen bread in the toaster. I hovered above the slot until the heating elements glowed orange, as this week’s other little trick had been to pop in a couple of slices of frozen bread, go away for two minutes only to be greeted by – cue fanfare – frozen bread, because I’d forgotten to plug in the toaster.

  Returning to the problem at hand, I tried to work out my next move. I couldn’t possibly eat a whole bowl of cereal without milk – I just didn’t have that kind of high-level saliva production in me. The other option was to dash to the shops to get some but, I suspected, if I was in possession of enough energy to ‘dash’ – which I strongly doubted – I’d probably have the wherewithal to have something more exotic than Sugar Puffs for breakfast. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the answer to my problem. I opened the tub of ice-cream I’d been so desperate for the previous night – now a rich pale yellow froth – and poured the contents of my cereal bowl in. Thoroughly pleased with my own ingenuity, I patted myself on the back and got stuck in.

  Twenty minutes later, I finished about a third of my concoction and started to feel sick. As I lay back on my bed, letting the contents of my stomach settle, I listened to the postman struggling with the letter box downstairs. I got excited. As far as Birthday Cards that weren’t going to be Late Birthday Cards were concerned, today was D-Day.

  Reasoning that it was too early for the rest of the residents in the house to be up, I nipped out of the door and downstairs in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, only stopping to put my shoes on as I didn’t like the look of the hallway carpet. There was a small hillock of letters on the Welcome doormat, most of which had been crushed mercilessly. There were yet more letters for Mr G. Peckham from the AA, a bundle of 50p off Pizzaman Pizza deliveries coupons, a postcard for the bloke in flat number four – Emma and Darren were having a wonderful time in Gambia – and a lot of other stuff I couldn’t be bothered to look at properly. After flicking through the pile twice I found four envelopes addressed to me and one for Ms K. Freemans. Too lazy to put the discarded mail on top of the telephone where it normally congregated, I created a very poor artificial post hillock underneath the letter box, sat on the stairs and opened the cards:

  Card 1

  Description: Painting of a bunch of flowers.

  Message: ‘Have a wonderful day, son. All my love, Mum.’

  Card 2

  Description: Gary Larson cartoon of cow leaning on a fence as car whizzes past.

  Message: ‘Have a wonderful day, Grandson, love, Gran.’

  Card 3

  Description: Photo of Kevin Keegan circa 1977 with a full shaggy perm wearing a No 7 Liverpool shirt.

  Message: ‘Have a great birthday! Love and kisses, A.’

  Card 4

  Description: Gustav Klimt’s ‘The Kiss’.

  Message: ‘Have a simply wonderful birthday. Thinking of you every second of every hour, ever yours, Martina.’

  I arranged the cards on the carpet in front of me, stood back and took stock of the situation.

  Tomorrow I’ll be twenty-six years old. For the first time in my life I’ll be closer to thirty than twenty; I’ll be officially in my late-twenties, and quite possibly a father to be. By no stretch of the imagination will I be young and if that’s not enough this is what I’m reduced to: four cards. Two from relatives. One from a woman I’m trying to dump. And a crap 70s footballer from Alice!

  I looked down at Alice’s card again, an intense sense of disappointment slowly spreading throughout my entire body. This couldn’t possibly have been what she meant by ‘something special’. I could trust Alice. She’d never let me down. There had to be something wrong.

  The postman.

  I’d always had a deep mistrust of the British postal service ever since they’d returned a letter I’d written to Noel Edmonds when I was eight just because I hadn’t put a stamp on it. Putting two and two together I decided that my postman had either lost, stolen or forgotten Alice’s present. Whatever the reason, I was going to get it back.

  A tall, wiry man in his mid-thirties was standing five doors away, shovelling mail through a letter box. The very sight of him sent me into a frenzy of anger, transporting me to a world where the only colour was red and there was no such thing as ‘keeping things in proportion’. A yobbish ‘Oi!’ was all I needed to grab his attention as I ran towards him.

  ‘Come on, where is it?’ I asked, adopting the no-nonsense manner of the TV ’tec who uses unorthodox methods but always gets results.

  The postman studied me nervously. ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘My sodding present.’

  I got the feeling that he wanted to run but terror rooted him to the spot. ‘Your what?’

  ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. Where’s my present?’

  He looked bewildered. A look of relief drifted across his face and his eyes darted about feverishly, presumably looking for the Beadle’s About spy cameras. When he didn’t find any his look of terror returned. ‘Er . . . Happy birthday.’

  ‘I don�
�t want your congratulations. I want my birthday present.’

  My eyes dropped down to his postbag. He followed my line of vision and draped his arm over it protectively.

  ‘It’s illegal, you know – tampering with the post. I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Not if I call them first.’

  I was about to make a lunge for the bag when a red, white and blue Pizzaman Pizza moped pulled up next to us. Its engine purred with all the raw power of a Braun hairdryer.

  ‘Nice day for it,’ said the white jump-suited pizza delivery man, nodding in the direction of my boxer shorts.

  I joined his gaze and then looked up at the postman sheepishly. As if awakening from a sleepwalk, the ridiculous nature of my temporary insanity became instantly apparent. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I said to the postman. ‘It’s just that a friend of mine was supposed to be sending something in the post. I jumped to the wrong conclusion when you didn’t bring it. Sorry.’

  The postman’s whole body shook in a paroxysm of laughter. ‘What do you look like!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You need to work out, son. A couple of sessions down the gym will get rid of that.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said humouring him, ‘very funny.’

  He wiped a mirthful tear from the corner of his right eye. ‘Tell us your name and I’ll check my bag if you like.’

  ‘William Kelly . . .’

  ‘Flat 3, 64 Cumbria Avenue?’ asked the pizza delivery man.

  The postman and I both turned and looked at him.

  He explained all: ‘I only stopped to ask directions. House numbers around here are difficult to follow.’ He got off his moped and handed me his clipboard. ‘Just sign this for me, please.’

  I signed.

  He reached into the pizza carrier on the back of his moped and gave me a large cardboard pizza box.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said mounting his moped, laughing. ‘You’ve really made my day.’

  The postman and I looked at each other in amazement.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said, pointing at the box.

  I was about to open the pizza box when a Parcel Force van pulled up next to us.

  ‘Everything all right, Tone?’ asked the driver suspiciously. ‘It’s just that it’s not every day I see you talking to a bloke in boxer shorts holding a pizza at . . .’ he looked at his watch pointedly, ‘11.55 a.m.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ said the postman. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to the depo. The lad’s just having a bad day. We’ve all had those.’

  Hoping to diffuse the situation I walked across to the van.

  ‘Will Kelly,’ I said offering my hand. ‘Sorry about all this.’

  ‘Will Kelly, Flat 3, 64 Cumbria Avenue?’

  Despite the fact that this sort of occurrence was fast becoming commonplace the postman and I looked at each other in amazement for old times’ sake.

  ‘Parcel for you,’ said the man in the van.

  He handed me a small shoe box sealed with brown tape, waved to his colleague and drove off.

  In the middle of our momentary not-quite-sure-what-to-do-next silence an Interflora van pulled up. The man in the van didn’t bother getting out.

  ‘Will Kelly, Flat 3, 64 Cumbria Avenue?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said warily.

  ‘Thought so.’ He handed me his clipboard to sign. ‘I’ve got these for you.’ I exchanged the clipboard for a large bouquet of lilies and he drove off.

  ‘Looks like I can go now,’ said the postman.

  I offered him my hand. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘This’ll make a great story for the lads down the pub tonight.’ He turned and began trudging back up the road. ‘Many happy returns of the day!’

  12.13 P.M.

  Alice had excelled herself.

  She’d completely transformed the formerly tedious birthday experience into a festival of happiness; a carnival of joy; a moment to remember for the rest of my life.

  The Pizza

  Extra cheese, pineapple, mushrooms, peppers, fish fingers and peas. The recipe of our Pizza – Pizza for the Dumped. Alice and I first created it when I visited her in Bristol a fortnight after Aggi and I had split up. I hadn’t wanted to go, citing my newfound determination to grow a beard and forgo all human contact for the foreseeable future, as the reason. However, she had insisted to the point where she said that if I didn’t arrive on her doorstep she’d drive up to Nottingham and take me back with her forcibly. (My hesitancy was odd, especially in the light of the fact that I ended up sleeping on her and Bruce’s sitting room Futon for two whole weeks before reluctantly returning home.) On my first night at Alice’s she’d asked me what I wanted to eat and I told her I didn’t want to eat because I was too sad (Bruce, as luck would have it, had gone out so I could be as pathetic as I wanted). After much bullying on her part I relented and requested pizza. She flicked through Yellow Pages until she found a listing for a pizzeria that delivered. The entry read:

  Luigi’s – home of the pizza. Luigi’s Pizza Special: Two 7″ pizzas and a selection of any six toppings, garlic bread and two soft drinks £7.99. Any delivery over thirty minutes late – FREE!

  We called on Alice’s speaker phone.

  ‘A Luigi Pizza Special, please,’ asked Alice.

  ‘What toppings do you want?’ enquired a distinctly un-Italian but disturbingly pubescent voice.

  Alice turned to face me, her furrowed brow a visual question mark.

  We took it in turns to make suggestions. As I was the guest I set the ball rolling.

  ‘Extra cheese.’

  ‘Pineapple.’

  ‘Peppers. Only no green ones.’

  ‘Mushrooms.’

  ‘Fish fingers.’

  ‘And peas,’ said Alice with a flourish.

  I laughed for the first time in what seemed like years (which was in fact only two weeks). For that brief moment Aggi didn’t exist.

  Baby Luigi tried to tell us that we could only order from selected toppings. Alice informed him that it didn’t say that in their advert and if they refused to make our pizza she would be prepared to sue them for misrepresentation because not only was she a solicitor, she was also a solicitor who’d had a very bad day.

  Forty-one minutes later (we’d set Alice’s jogging stop watch the second we put down the phone) our free pizza arrived.

  Reclining on the sofa, a slice and a Coke in our hands, we turned to face each other as though the situation required something momentous to be said.

  Alice raised her Coke cup. ‘May the mozzarella of our respective pizzas remain forever entwined.’

  I took a sip from my cup before raising mine because I’d suddenly become incredibly thirsty. A mouthful of Coke and I was ready to speak.

  ‘Ditto.’

  When all that was left of my pizza were several crusts, fish finger crumbs and a number of peas that had managed to escape the glutinous grasp of the extra cheese I opened the shoe box.

  The Shoe Box Parcel

  Inside was a thick padded envelope and twenty packs of duty free Marlboro Lights. My entire stock of blood made a mad dash to my skull at the thought of being in such proximity to so many cigarettes. Alice was the world’s healthiest person. She jogged, hadn’t eaten meat since she was seventeen and even knew what her cholesterol count was. (It was low. Very low.) Not only did she not smoke, she was the most vehement anti-smoker I’d ever met, and yet her love for me was such that she was prepared to indulge me in my so-called filthy habit to the tune of 400 cigarettes! This act of charity propelled Alice way beyond the parameter of best mate. She had excelled all definitions of cool. She was out there and unapproachable.

  Propping my cigarettes on the window sill, so I could look and marvel at them wherever I was in the room, I tore open the padded envelope. By now Alice had whipped me up into such a flurry of excitement that I was half expecting to find it stuffed full of fivers with a note attached saying: ‘Bruce and I had a col
lection for the poor. We don’t know any poor, so we’re giving it to you!’ Sadly there were no bank notes only a colour photograph of a donkey, some stapled sheets of paper and a letter which read:

  Dear William Kelly,

  You are now the proud sponsor of Sandy the donkey.

  Sandy, a twelve-year-old donkey, was discovered in a barn in South Wales by the RSPCA in July suffering from severe neglect, malnutrition and blindness in one eye. Following the rescue he was brought to The South Devon Donkey Sanctuary where he was looked after and nourished back to health.

  Sandy is now a lot better and will be able to live out his days in the open fields of the Sanctuary grounds.

  Thanks to your sponsorship we will be able to continue looking after the food and shelter needs of Sandy for a full 12 months.

  Please find enclosed your sponsorship papers and special certificate. As a valued sponsor, your name will be placed on a plaque outside Sandy’s stable for 12 months.

  Thanks for your support,

  Carol A. Flint

  Director South Devon Donkey Sanctuary

  I couldn’t believe that somewhere in Devon there was a donkey with my name on it. I fixed Sandy’s picture to the wardrobe door with Blu-tac and examined him in detail. Though donkeys are supposedly the most miserable of animals, Alice had somehow managed to find me a happy one. His good eye almost sparkled, although that might just have been the reflection of the camera flash going off, and his mouth was fixed in an expression much like a wry grin. His light brown coat looked healthy and sleek and from what I could see in the picture, he appeared to have more than enough field to roam around. Sandy was fantastic. He was better than fags. He might be a one-eyed donkey, but he was my one-eyed donkey and that was all that counted. I examined his papers and noticed that he was particularly fond of carrots. As I was now responsible for Sandy’s welfare I decided that from now on his birthday would be the same day as my own. I made a mental note to send him a fiver’s worth of carrots as a belated birthday present – a thought which resulted in the following miniature day dream: