1
I’m trying to remember the last time I actually spoke to Craig. I’ve got a text on my phone which reads:
Mate! At a wedding and I think we’ve got a real-life jilting on our hands, no shit!
Followed by another, ten minutes later saying:
Oh no wait, she’s turned up :-(
That was five years ago. I never replied, probably preoccupied with some other thing of great importance which I’ve long-since forgotten and, looking at it now, I feel a sharp pang of guilt for my old friend, sitting on his pew, ignored and doubly disappointed.
“Are you ever going to indicate?” I ask my wife, ex-wife, Helen as she swerves her Volkswagen Tiguan off the M40 without so much as a passing courtesy towards other road users. She’s a terrible driver but a nervous passenger and so insisted we take her car.
“I don’t need to indicate, David, I know where I’m going,” she replies.
This is the sort of thing that makes sense in her mind, so I let it slide.
“Now look,” I say, “when we get there, you ought to know there may be some…awkwardness.”
“When is there not awkwardness with Craig? I still don’t really understand why we’re going.”
“Legal matters. He’s our solicitor.”
“He’s your solicitor, your friend.”
“Our friend. Used to be anyway, and I know he’s a tad unconventional at times but he’s never steered us wrong through…everything. And unless you want our children’s entire estate to consist of your beloved Doug Hyde paintings and your grandmother’s cursed ruby necklace then we need to go and see Craig.”
“You’re not dying are you?”
“We’re all dying. And death does seem increasingly imminent the longer I spend in this car. You know this is a forty limit don’t you?”
“Do you ever stop complaining?”
“Look, it’s the will, my next of kin, power of attorney now that my brother’s dead, blah, blah, blah, et cetera. I explained all this in my email.”
“Yes, yes. What I mean is, why do we actually have to go and see him? Couldn’t this all have been sorted out online?”
“He insisted. Said it was his fee. I think he’s lonely, to be honest with you. I haven’t been a very good friend over the years, truth be told.”
“You don’t owe him anything, David. And I’m sure a man of Craig’s means can find plenty of ways to amuse himself.”
“I think he probably gets bored of amusing himself, hence the invite.”
“Why the awkwardness then?”
“What’s that now?”
“You just said there may be some awkwardness when we see him.”
“Ah, yes, well. Last time I saw Craig, if memory serves, it was at one of his parties, I’d had rather a lot to drink and…”
“Yes?”
“I was sick on his dog.”
“Brilliant.”
2
By some act of divine benevolence, we arrive at Craig’s house unscathed. The satisfying crunch of golden gravel welcomes us, and the Tiguan’s overtaxed drivetrain sighs its relief after completing another perilous journey against all odds.
We’re balls-deep in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside. Surrounded by wildly overpriced greengrocers calling themselves ‘lifestyle emporiums’ for tory-funding, Brexit-loving disaster capitalists and media luvvies in tweed jackets peddling craft gin, organic condiments and artisanal, scented homeware products, building their own disposable empires on the backs of underpaid labourers and disenfranchised bees.
The sight of Craig’s magnificent Georgian residence, lavishly draped in wisteria, never fails to hit me like a cricket ball in the nuts. I don’t possess the gene, the specific DNA coding or neuro-pathway, or whatever it is, that allows one to be happy for other people.
“Darlings!” Craig throws open the door theatrically and I am incensed to see that he has aged well. The pale complexion of the habitual substance abuser subtly masked by a golden tan. The jet-black hair has turned silver but maintained its thickness and lustre. The fine stubble on the cheeks like twinkling morning frost. The eyes bluer, more piercing, the physique noticeably toned, even beneath a chunky-knit cardigan. Being rich really is good for your health. One hundred percent of doctors recommend it.
“Helen, my God you look stunning!” Craig gushes, kissing her on each cheek in that irritating, luvvie way. “You haven’t aged, why haven’t you aged? Never mind, come in, please come in.”
Helen hasn’t yet had a chance to utter a word in reply but steps in anyway and I follow.
“Ah-ah.” Craig wags a finger and stops me in my tracks. “Not you, young man. You owe someone an apology first.”
“What for?”
“You know very well.”
“Look, I said sorry at the time, didn’t I?”
“It’s not me to whom you must apologise.” Craig places two fingers under his tongue and whistles. The sound is closely followed by the skittering of tiny claws on hardwood floors.
A fluffy Pomeranian runs up to Craig, who scoops it into his arms, cradling it like a baby. The little gremlin-dog licks Craig’s face with its slimy tongue while regarding me with its black, marble eyes.
“Apologise to Mr Pickles.”
“Really, come on Craig for goodness’ sake just let me in.”
“Apologise to Mr Pickles. He was traumatised, yes he was, he was traumatised.” He speaks to the dog in that weird, childlike voice dog owners use. “And do you know how difficult it is, both logistically and emotionally, to clean red wine vomit out of a Pomeranian’s coat? Look how fluffy it is! I had to cut the chunks out with nail scissors, while we both wept.”
Helen is standing behind Craig, clearly loving every second of my humiliation. It’s the most I’ve seen her smile in years.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I apologise.”
“No, no, no, no, no. That won’t do at all. Apologise properly.”
Craig places Mr Pickles down on the floor and says, “Sit.” For a second I think he’s talking to me, but the dog obliges and Craig produces a treat from his pocket which the dog munches like a rabid gerbil. “You get down to his level, on your knees please.”
I know this could go on indefinitely, and I do need to make amends. So I play along. I drop down to my knees and stare directly into the miniature bear-face of the Pomeranian.
“I’m sorry.”
“Mr Pickles,” says Helen, joining in.
“I’m sorry, Mr Pickles. I wholeheartedly apologise for any trauma and pain I may have inflicted upon you. I deeply regret my actions and although I can in no way make up for the hurt I have caused, I hope you will allow me to enter your home and try to prove I am no longer the same man who violated you in such a heinous manner.”
Craig bursts into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God that was amazing! Get up you stupid arsehole, this isn’t even the same dog. Christ, what was that, ten years ago? That was Sebastian Krug, my old dog, he’s been dead for ages. It wasn’t Mr Pickles, was it? No it wasn’t, it wasn’t Mr Pickles was it?”
The dog is back in Craig’s arms, furiously licking his face with a renewed fervour.
“Come and give your old buddy a hug! God it’s good to see you man.”
Craig wraps me in an embrace. He smells fantastic and I must admit, it really is good to see him.
3
True to form, Craig has allowed himself to become overexcited. After we arrived, he immediately proclaimed he was making us some martinis and dragged us into the kitchen where a bottle of Pol Roger was already opened, on ice, for us to drink while we waited for Craig to mix the martinis. We told him about our eldest getting engaged and he launched into the usual, nostalgia-drenched reminiscence, “My God it barely seems like two minutes since Amelia was born, do you remember when you first brought her to the pub?”
“Yes,” Helen replied. “You were carrying her round in one hand, with a pint and a fag in the other.”
“To be fair, it was a different time,” I interjected on Craig’s behalf (I would’ve undoubtedly been doing the same so needed to deflect). “And you were quite partial to a menthol ciggie and a G&T if I remember correctly.”
Helen bristled of course, but then seemed to soften. Whether it was the warmth of the memory, or just the quality of Craig's champagne, I’m not sure. “Yes, well,” she said, “I only smoked when we were outside in the beer garden. As you say, it was a different time.”
It felt to good to catch up, sitting on stools at the breakfast bar, beneath the glass-domed ceiling of Craig’s orangery-style kitchen, the stars beginning to twinkle in the lavender dusk. Like old friends, old times. I did ask about legal matters but Craig just waved his hand and went ‘Pfffttt, we’ll get to that…’
And now he’s absolutely hammered. He’s been attempting to make Beef Wellington since about eight-thirty and it’s now nearly ten. As usual he’s a victim of his own ego — Wellington is an impressive dish if you get it right but it’s a heck of a lot of faff and can easily go wrong, and Craig is in the long grass. I’ve kept a close eye on him, and exactly as I predicted, he’s deemed the addition of a crêpe to be unnecessary and therefore, even if he does get it in the oven before midnight, I’m confident it will be a disaster.
He’s coked off his nut as well. Keeps nipping off to the bathroom every fifteen minutes, his jaw flapping around like a Great Dane chasing a tennis ball.
“A lot of people are intimidated cooking a whole fillet of beef,” he says, at a volume well above that which normal conversation requires, “BUT I’VE GOT A MEAT THERMOMETER AND I KNOW MY OVEN!”
I’m not offering to help, Craig is exactly the sort of prick who’ll say oh yes, could you be an absolute superstar and just knock up a quick salad? which he’ll then forget to serve. He’s elbow-deep in mushroom duxelles, splurging out of his pastry as he attempts to roll the whole thing up like a bad joint. He gives up, exasperated and says, “red wine!” like he’s just arrived at the answer to the universe and then fucks off again, ostensibly to the cellar but most probably, the bathroom.
4
“Why do all men think they’re professional chefs?” Helen asks. The question is directed towards the heavens above us, rather than me, but I answer nevertheless.
“Because we are.”
“He’s doing exactly what you used to do, getting all his ingredients out into little bowls before he starts. He’s spent an hour just faffing about arranging everything.”
“It’s what the French call Mise en Place, meaning ‘establishment’ or ‘putting in place.’ You have to prepare before you cook.”
“You used to do it on purpose, take forever to cook dinner to avoid putting the kids to bed.”
“That is an outrageous accusation. Besides, you were better at bath and bedtime, they never wanted me. I strived for perfection, so that you might have a delicious and nutritionally-balanced meal at the end of the day. That’s not nothing, you know.”
“Sure, when you eventually got it ready. I’d come downstairs completely frazzled from wrestling the children into bed and you’d be there quaffing Chablis and massaging the starch out of your fucking risotto. Then you’d plate yours before mine!”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did! You’d spend about five minutes making yours look all pretty and then just chuck mine on as an afterthought.”
“Well, if I did, it was only so yours wouldn’t get cold.”
“What?”
“I liked to plate mine true to my vision, sure. But I always left yours in the pan until the last possible second because of your weird obsession with incredibly hot food.”
“My obsession with hot food?”
“Yes, your asbestos mouth. If anything dipped below the core temperature of the sun you were whacking it in the microwave, ruining it.”
“No one likes cold risotto. And maybe I would’ve liked some mise en place every once in a while.”
“Well, all of life’s a compromise isn’t it? You can either have mise en place or boiling hot potatoes. Of course, as a man, you are expected to provide both, at all times. Who does the cooking in your house now? Surely not you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m quite good. Last night I cooked sea bass with gunpowder potatoes and a lentil daal.”
“A lentil daal, eh? You know daal literally means lentils in Hindi don’t you? That’s like saying you made a chicken coq-au-vin.”
“Really? How fascinating. I didn’t realise you’d studied the language, please teach me some other Hindi phrases…”
I don’t know, after all this time, whether we’re bantering or arguing. Somehow, these jocular inquiries into the wreckage of our marriage have become our default means of communication. And it…kind of works? It’s like therapy, in many ways. Because marriage, and especially raising children, inflicts a trauma on two people that is impossible to survive. You lose so many parts of yourself along the way, and eventually you lose the parts which once fit together. Intimacy, true intimacy, is like youth: once it’s gone, it’s gone.
But once you break free of the ridiculously unrealistic expectations of marriage, there begins a rebuilding process. You find an alternative way to co-exist. If you give it enough time, you end up as two completely new people and it’s as if none of that awful suff ever happened. In this light, on this evening, holding her champagne flute delicately between her long, manicured fingers, Helen looks more like a French actress than the woman who used to stand at the top of the stairs in a tatty, stained dressing gown, screaming at me for no apparent reason.
“David,” she says, interrupting my profitless reverie.
“Yes?”
“Stop leering at me.”
“Sorry.”
“Why aren’t you drinking your drink?”
“I am.”
“No you’re not. I’ve been watching you, you haven’t drunk a thing all night. You’ve been pretending to.”
“Nonsense.”
“David. What is going on, why are we here? Tell me right now, or I swear to God…”
“I’ve got cancer.”
“What? No you haven’t. You can’t. Have you even seen a proper doctor?”
“No. I checked my horoscope, Helen, that’s how I know I’ve got cancer.”
“David…”
“Adenocarcinoma of the oesophagus, stage three, they think.”
“So all of this, Craig, the legal matters…”
“Got to put everything in place before you cook.”
“You selfish, arrogant little shit! We finally reach a point where we can be civil to one another and you’re just going to, just…HOW DARE YOU!”
Just as Helen is about to unleash the mother of all bollockings upon me for having the temerity to die without her permission, Craig comes staggering back into the room and shouts, “forgot the fucking wine!” He stops abruptly, as if he’s about to turn and leave the room, but he seems rooted to the spot. He’s trying to move his upper body but his legs are going nowhere, then his hand goes up to his chest. Then he falls, face-first onto the kitchen floor.
He crashes into two stools as he goes down. Helen screams, “Oh my God!” and knocks over her champagne flute as she jumps up. It falls to the floor and smashes into a million little diamonds, scattered around Craig’s prone body on the mahogany floorboards. Mr Pickles runs in and starts yapping his head off, jumping up and down, trying to lick Craig’s face as he writhes and crunches in the broken glass.
“Don’t just fucking sit there David, call an ambulance, he’s having a heart attack!” Helen starts chasing the dog around the room, trying to get the little fucker to safety.
“Oh Christ. Jesus. Wait, I haven’t got my phone…”
Craig is clutching at his chest, his face is turning bright purple but he manages to speak, “no…ambulaaarrgghhh….”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’ll take too long, we’ll have to drive you.”
“NO!” Craig cries out through the pain.
“It’s ok mate, I’ll be driving, not Helen.”
“NO HOSPITAL. CALL MY ASS…ARRGGHHH…”
“Call your ass…?”
“ASS…IS….TANT…” He struggles with his pockets and pulls out his phone. I hold the screen to his gurning, tear-stained face which it recognises immediately and unlocks.
“First…number…Natalia…helicopter…”
“We are not getting a helicopter for God’s sake!” says Helen.
“He could die!” I yell back, realising that saying the words out loud doesn’t sound very reassuring to Craig, but I am quite excited at the prospect of having him airlifted out of here. He probably has his own paramedics on standby. I open up his recent calls and the first on the list is Natalia. In fact, every call on the list is Natalia. I scroll down, there must be at least twenty entries, at every time of day or night. I hope he’s paying her well. He really doesn’t have any friends, and now his heart is about to explode from all the beak he’s been shovelling up his hooter for decades. I picture a funeral with only Natalia present, her one final task before collecting her P45.
Just as I’m about to call, I notice Helen, holding a frantic and thrashing Mr. Pickles under her arm and a brown paper bag from Long Bumlington Farm Shop & Lifestyle Emporium in her hand.
“Breathe into this.” She shoves the bag over Craig’s mouth and he starts sucking in the air — ragged and shallow breaths at first but then fuller, deeper. The bag expanding and contracting like an artisanal lung. Gradually he’s able to gain control over his breathing, and then sit up.
“Leave it for a minute,” says Helen. “You’re having a panic attack. But you’re going to be fine, Craig.”
Tears stream down Craig’s face as he huffs into the bag. Helen’s eyes are welling up too as she steadies herself on the kitchen counter. I’m still holding Craig’s phone when an alarm pings up on the screen. He’s obviously set it for the wrong day because it says: David and Helen coming for dinner tomorrow!!! [smiley face emoji] Tell Natalia to buy beef fillet and baking powder [winky face emoji].
In for a penny, in for a pound I think, as I open up Craig’s notes app out of morbid curiosity. Sure enough, the first thing I see: Get David to apologise to Mr. Pickles! (icebreaker = funny!).
Poor bastard.
“Right,” I say. “I’m ordering a fucking pizza. Helen, do you still like Hawaiian?”
Truthfully I’ve no idea if she likes it or not. Once you reach my age you forget who’s who and which pizza is which. Maybe I’m remembering everything wrong, or imagining a completely different person altogether. Either way, I reckon I’ve got about a fifty-fifty chance.