Turning Forty (31 page)

It’s difficult to calculate which of the two occupations is the more taxing but once the pasta bake is in the oven the lie seems to fall more easily into place and I decide that the easiest thing for me to do is base it entirely on my last full day at the shop minus the lunchtime visit from Ginny.

Feeling on top of everything I check my phone for texts from Rosa but as I find it nestled amongst my wallet, loose change and keys on the table in front of me I remember that the phone I had promised Rosa I would be contactable on all day has been switched off since the beginning of the funeral service.

I can barely breathe as I switch on the phone, frantically hoping that there won’t be any messages. No such luck: six unopened texts, five missed calls and two voicemails.

I read the texts and listen to the voicemails and piece together the story of the day. Everything that could go wrong for Rosa, had gone wrong, and not just common or garden wrong either but spectacularly, cringe-makingly wrong, the kind of wrong where the one thing that might help is a call from your boyfriend telling you that he loves you.

Rosa’s train had been an hour late into Euston; there had been delays on the Northern Line and the Victoria Line; even though I’d printed out a Google map for her she got lost trying to find the building where the meeting was being held; she was asked at least half a dozen questions which despite all of her preparation she didn’t know the answer to; over lunch she discovered that she’d lost her purse and had no choice but to cancel all three of her bank cards, a process which took her entire lunch hour. If that wasn’t enough then there were the texts of which the final one held the real bombshell:

Have managed to get earlier train. Arriving at 16.30. Have no money for taxi. Any chance you could leave work early and pick me up? My car keys are on the table next to the bed.

I look at my watch. It’s ten minutes past five. Even if I got in the car now in rush hour traffic I’d be lucky to be there in twenty minutes by which time I’d be nearly an hour late, but it doesn’t seem right to do nothing and so I grab my coat and the car keys but before I reach the front door it opens and in walks Rosa, closely followed by Tory.

‘I’ve only just this second got your messages,’ I tell her. ‘I left my phone at home and it’s been mental in the shop all day so I didn’t notice.’

‘Oh, so you’ve been in the shop all day?’ she asks, hands on hips.

‘Yes. A couple of the volunteers didn’t turn up so I was pretty much chained to the till.’

‘Liar,’ says Rosa, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘You absolute liar!’

‘I’m sorry. I left my phone at home, and I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible day. You worked so hard and I know you must feel I’ve let you down, but please let’s talk!’

‘Don’t say another word if it’s going to be a lie.’ She gestures to Tory. ‘She saw you this afternoon, Edmund Road, wearing a suit, talking to a woman who sounds an awful lot like your ex.’

The penny drops. The woman at the wheel of the silver Fiat Uno. That must have been Tory. I feel as if an explosion has gone off somewhere near the centre of the earth and right now the very ground beneath my feet is being sucked down into the cavernous space below. ‘I can explain,’ I tell her.

‘Are you going to tell me it wasn’t her?’

I don’t reply.

‘Maybe you’re going to tell me she’s not the reason you’ve had your phone off all day?’

Still no reply.

‘Maybe you’re going to tell me that a short while ago you didn’t promise me you’d never see her again?’

I shake my head for what I know is the last time.

‘I don’t want your explanations,’ spits Rosa, ‘I don’t want to know why you were with her or what you were doing. You promised me, Matt, you stood right here on this spot and you promised, and while I might put up with a lot, I don’t put up with liars. I’m staying at Tory’s tonight and I’ll be there until the end of the week. But when I get back I expect you to be gone.’

43

‘Look Mum, I’d better be going. I’m heading into the shop in a bit.’

‘Are you sure you should be working? You don’t sound like yourself.’

‘It’s just a cold, I’ll be fine.’

‘Will you promise to call if you need anything? I know you’ve got that lovely girl looking after you but I’m still your mum, you know.’

‘I know you are and yes, if I do need anything I’ll call, I promise.’

‘And you’ll pass on my best to Rosa and let her know how much I’m looking forward to seeing her on your birthday?’

‘Definitely.’

There’s a long pause and then: ‘I love you, son.’

These words have formed the first part of an automatic ‘call and response’ type ending to every telephone conversation we’ve had with each other since I first left home and yet today I catch my breath and have to swallow hard to counter the swell of emotion that’s seeking to engulf me.

It’s been three days since Rosa walked out, during which time I have all but forgotten about the deadline she imposed on my staying in the flat and focused on drinking myself into a stupor while supplying Rosa with enough ammunition for a city-wide restraining order should she apply for one. I left multiple messages on her mobile; bombarded her email with increasingly incoherent rants; and had long and involved conversations with Tory, during the last of which she took care to explain as carefully as she could that if I didn’t stop calling she would involve the police. In every message the core content was the same because the way I feel is always the same: I’m sorry and I want her back. And it’s true. I miss her more than I thought possible and I feel her absence like an energy-devouring, all-consuming black hole.

I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve run over that day in my head and I’m still shocked at how easily I’d betrayed Rosa for a friendship that with the gift of hindsight I now see is doomed. Ginny is never going to give up Gershwin and Gershwin is never going to give up Ginny, and my presence in their lives even as a friend is always going to be a source of disquiet. So why had I so quickly chosen the option that would be wrong for Rosa?

I don’t have any answers. Just questions piled on top of questions, and as I gaze at a silver-framed photograph of Rosa and Tory, and drink in Rosa’s delicate features, I find a rage boiling up that is aimed squarely at my own self-destructive tendencies that have seen me give up on people I loved, sabotage career prospects and destroy a marriage from the inside. Rosa was my last chance to get things right, my final opportunity to learn from past mistakes before I cast myself for good as a no-hoper.

I take a shower and get ready for work, pausing only to look in the mirror to register, for the benefit of my liver, exactly the kind of toll three days of drinking can wreak on the face of a soon-to-be forty-year-old. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin feels dead to the touch and with three days’ worth of stubble plastered across my chin the combined effect is to propel me into the centre stage of middle age. It’s a truly horrible sight. I don’t look worn in like Gerry, or mature and sophisticated like George Clooney, I look worn out, clapped out, knackered, like I’ve run a marathon or climbed a mountain when the most strenuous activity that I’ve undertaken is getting out of bed for a five-minute chat with my mother. I can’t carry on like this; I have to get a grip.

There is another motivating factor to consider today: I have run out of time. Having wasted three days of Rosa’s deadline feeling sorry for myself there are now little more than twenty-four hours before both I and my possessions are put out on the street. Thus, my plan consists of the only options available to me: I’m going to ask Gerry to let me crash at his for a while and then call up Lauren and talk her into lowering the price of the house for a quick sale and maybe, just maybe, I won’t end up totally screwed.

‘Ah, mate,’ says Gerry, ‘not this again!’

‘Oh, come on, I’ll have my place sold in a matter of weeks and then I’ll be out of your hair for good.’

‘If I could, I would, you know that, but I can’t.’

‘Pleae, mate. I don’t need much, just somewhere to kip. You’ll barely notice I’m there.’

‘I told you before, it’s Kara,’ says Gerry. ‘If it was up to me that spare room would be yours. But since Kara moved in she calls the shots and well . . . we’re going through a bit of a tricky phase at the minute so having someone else around wouldn’t pan out well. You can dump your gear here in the office, though, that won’t be a problem. You box it up and I’ll help you bring it over so at least you’ll know it’s all in a safe place.’

‘And that’s all you can do?’

‘My hands are tied mate, sorry.’

There’s not a great deal more to be said, and although I suspect that Gerry’s not telling me the truth (since when did he and Kara move in together? And even if they were living together I can’t imagine any scenario in which Gerry played the hen-pecked husband) I am grateful for somewhere to keep my stuff and so after work we collapse as many boxes as we think we’ll need and get Steve the Student to drop us at the flat.

I pick up the pile of post from behind the door and shuffle through it hoping none of it involves me, but three letters down is the official-looking white envelope I’ve been dreading. I tear it open and scan the contents:

Dear Mr Beckford,

According to our records you have now reached your official overdraft limit and therefore need to make an appointment to see a customer care consultant as soon as possible. Any attempt to take out further monies from your account (including direct debits) will result in it being frozen until as such time as significant repayments have been made and may also result in your incurring multiple charges.

‘What’s that?’ asks Gerry, trying to get a look over my shoulder. ‘A love letter?’

‘Nothing.’ I tuck the letter in my pocket and focus on the task in hand. It takes me just over an hour to pack my things and the best part of half an hour to ferry the boxes down to the shop in the back of Steve the Student’s car and afterwards the only thing I’m good for is the pub which given my three-day bender isn’t exactly the best idea in the world.

‘You can’t stay in,’ says Gerry, when I tell him of my plans for the evening, ‘you’ll end up drinking anyway but you’ll do it alone and drinking alone is the first sign that things are starting to go really wrong.’

I have to laugh. ‘How much worse can things get? My girlfriend hates me, I turn forty next week and as of tomorrow I’m officially homeless.’

‘Oh come on mate, you’re being melodramatic. You can always stay with your folks can’t you?’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’

Gerry puts a gentle hand on my shoulder as though he’s afraid I’m losing the plot. ‘I do, mate, I really do,’ he says soothingly. ‘Listen, let’s get a drink and see if we can’t sort out this problem between us.’

I haven’t got the strength to resist so once the shop is locked up we head across to the Fighting Cocks, grab a pint (even though it’s standing room only), push our way through the hordes and lay claim to three square feet of unoccupied space on the far side of the bar. Gerry tries to keep the conversation light but I only have one thing on my mind and so he asks the million-dollar question.

‘So do you think she’ll change her mind?’

‘I’ve no idea, but she means it when she says she wants me out by tomorrow.’

‘I don’t know what to say, mate.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, ‘something will come up.’

‘I can probably let you kip in the shop for a couple of nights. You’d have to keep it quiet from the other volunteers though.’

‘That’s better than nothing.’ I’m grateful even though I know how cold the back office can get when the heating isn’t on. ‘Anything that buys me a bit of time has got to be a good thing. I’ve reached my overdraft limit but if I catch Lauren in the right mood she just might lend me enough for a room in a house share for a while.’

Gerry’s phone buzzes from inside his jacket. ‘That’ll probably be Kara, she’s gone to the cinema with her mates but she might drop in afterwards.’

I’m reminded of Gerry’s weirdness earlier in the day and his refusal to let me stay at his place. Just as I start piecing together a theory based on him having turned his flat into a marijuana factory he interrupts my thoughts by shoving his phone under my nose so that I can read the last bit of the text:
128 Whitehouse Lane, Balsall Heath.

I look up at Gerry, confused. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your new home if you want it. Kara’s been on the case for me. Apparently if you turn up there midday tomorrow with a deposit and a month’s rent there’ll be a double room with your name on it.’

‘Why does that address seem familiar to me?’

‘Because it’s the address of that party we went to, the party where you and Rosa got together.’ Gerry looks at me resignedly. ‘Do you still want it?’

I try to imagine myself living with my parents in a retirement bungalow in Worcester.

‘Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice, does it?’ I reply. ‘Tell the landlord I’ll be there at midday.’

44

The dilapidated facade of 128 Whitehouse Lane, with its broken guttering, peeling paintwork and overgrown front garden in the grubby light of a truly grey and horrible Balsall Heath rainy day reminds me of every craphole of a student house that I’ve ever lived in. Twenty-three Charlotte Street, for instance, where I lived for most of my first year of university and which had a kitchen wall so damp that water would pool daily at the base of it; or 228 Manton Avenue, where our next-door neighbours would regularly break into our house and steal our stuff; or 91 Lingham Street where I discovered a family of cockroaches living in the airing cupboard; or finally 218 Bristnall Street, which although damp- cockroach- and burglar-free, was so cold come winter that I used to have to sleep fully clothed under three heavy-weight winter duvets. The day I moved out of Bristnall Street, I vowed that I was done with sub-standard rental accommodation. Never again would I hand over my hard-earned money to crooks and swindlers in return for a roof over my head and with the exception of the first place I lived in London (a house-share in Kensal Green with no running water) I stayed true to my word. So 128 Whitehouse Lane represents the biggest backwards step I’ve taken in the last twenty years. It’s the real-life equivalent of being three squares from the end of a game of Snakes and Ladders only to roll the die, and land on the longest snake on the board.