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“No. Are you sure he’s not there? Can you check again?”
Tears escaped me then, in ugly slobbery sobs. I retched too; fuck knows what that wanker must have thought. “It’s really…really…important.”
“I’m not walking up those bloody stairs again. He’s not there. I think he’s at Callie’s. Phone him in the morning when you’ve sobered up a bit. Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I need to speak to him now,” I urged, through a fresh round of sobbing. “I haven’t got her number.”
“Tough titty,Matthew, nor do I. You’ll have to cope until he gets back.”
His words had a note of finality about them. “Wait!” I begged. “Rupert, please, wait.”
“What? I don’t need this shit.”
“Tell him I phoned.” I begged once more, not caring how pathetic I sounded. “Please. For fuck’s sake. Tell him I need to speak to him. It’s urgent. Give him this number. Tell him Bren…Brenn…just tell him, okay?”
A cold draught crept under the front door, coiling itself around the bottom stair. The damp sort of cold, the kind that seeped into your bones and built a home, especially if you hadn’t spent the night tucked up in bed.
Once he’d realised I had no intention of budging, Phil’s dad had lent me his dressing gown and I dozed a bit, slumped awkwardly on the stairs. Phil’s mum, white-faced and dishevelled, tried to persuade me to go up to bed, or home, but I was having none of it. I must have looked quite fierce, sitting there, clutching the phone, because in the end they left me alone and went for a lie down.
I passed the hours picking at a loose carpet tack. Once I’d pulled it out, I stuck the sharp end in my palm a few times, dragging it down one of the pink creases, to see if it hurt. It didn’t, no matter how many times nor how deeply I drove the tip into my soft skin. My other hand was just the same and I sucked the blood off so as not to get any on the carpet.
At ten a.m. I tried Alex again. And once more at one p.m. At three in the afternoon, he still hadn’t phoned. Nor had he phoned by six. Phil and his mum didn’t know what to do with me, so at eight o’clock, when I heard the theme tune toLast Of The Summer Wine, I took off the dressing gown and made their blameless lives a hell of a lot easier.
By walking away from everything.
PARTTWO
2005
MR BRIGHTSIDE
(THE KILLERS)
ALEX 2005
“Buy the fresh rigatoni. Two bags, and we’ll put one bag in the freezer. Don’t get the penne. It’s too rubbery.”
“Mmm. Yes.” There was a difference? Apparently so.
“Last time, you didn’t listen to me and bought the penne. It’s cheaper but not as nice. And don’t buy the Waitrose own brand—it turns gloopy, even if you add oil to the water. Oh, and make sure it’s the organic rigatoni, not the ordinary.”
“Yes.”
“The organic pasta is on the left, just below the fresh sauces. Halfway down the milk and cheese aisle. And if you can’t see it, ask. Sometimes they run low. Especially towards the end of the week.”
“Mmm. Yes.”
As I drove through a short tunnel, my wife’s educated and, dare I say,naggingvoice crackled and faded out for a few seconds. I contemplated switching off the Bluetooth speaker then claiming bad reception for the remainder of the journey.
The tunnel opened into daylight.
“And if they have run out, go for the tagliatelle. The verde, not plain. It’s not as good.”
“Yes.”
“Three bags. It tends to not go as far as the rigatoni.”
“Yes.”
