David Nobbs - It Had to Be You

He switched off, poured himself another glass of Brouilly, went to the waste bin, rescued his list, went back to the dining room, stretched the list out on the kitchen table, trying to iron it with his hands, added one more name, Mike … Oh God, should he invite Mike, how would he behave? … He began to think about Mike, once his best friend, now a wreck. Memories of happier times with Mike. Lots of drinking. He took a couple more sips of the Brouilly. His head dropped.

He woke suddenly, to find himself face down on a crumpled piece of paper covered in traces of tomato soup and sardine oil. He had no idea where he was. At first he felt that Deborah’s death was part of a dream. Then he was wide awake and standing up and knocking his red wine all over the carpet.

‘Oh, shit,’ he shouted to nobody.

What did you put on red wine? White wine? Salt? Lavatory paper? He tore off some toilet rolls and stamped around on them, watching them go red. Then he remembered that Deborah had some stuff that worked wonders. He rummaged around under the sink, found the stuff, stood up, bashed his head on the edge of the cupboard door, swore violently to the empty room, and worked away on the stain, with moderate success.

Max. He was supposed to be ringing Max.

He felt as though he had been asleep for several hours, but it was only twenty to twelve. He dialled his son’s mobile number very carefully, feeling dismayingly drunk.

‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

He’d never get used to phones that showed you who was ringing. He didn’t like them. It cut into the preliminaries, the careful approach to difficult subjects. He was thrown by Max’s cheeriness. How could he destroy that carefree youthful happiness? He felt about a hundred and five.

‘I’m fine, Max. Bit drunk …’ get that in before Max did, ‘… but fine.’

‘Great to hear from you, Dad.’

‘Not really.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got some terribly bad news, Max. It’s your mum. She’s …’

He couldn’t say the word.

‘What? Not…?’

Max couldn’t say the word either.

‘She was in a very bad car crash, Max. I’m afraid … I’m afraid she was killed.’

‘No!’

James shuddered. He had fantasised about something that could cause his son such grief. In that moment he realised just how much he loved Max.

‘I’m afraid so, Max. Max, at least it was instant. She didn’t suffer.’

But Max was clearly too shocked, too bereft, to even care about that at that moment, and as he heard the sorrow of his distant son, James felt real sorrow too. He told Max a few more details. By now the driver of the Porsche was a homicidal villain. They needed a villain, father and son, separated by thousands of miles.

James told Max about his conversation with Chuck, but he could tell that his long-lost sister hardly registered in the ghastly slipstream of his mother’s death. Max was in deep shock. He told Max who he’d rung (omitting Helen) and Max wasn’t interested. He asked Max if there was anyone he’d like him to ring, and he was too numb to care.

‘So when’s the funeral?’ he asked eventually.

‘I don’t know. Rather dependent on when you can come.’

‘I’ll phone Mr Jellico tonight, and then I’ll check the airlines. Oh, Dad, I can’t believe this. Not Mum.’

‘I know. If anyone was indestructible, it was her.’

‘Dad?’ Suddenly Max sounded young, younger than his twenty-two years. Suddenly he sounded like a boy who needed his father. ‘I’ve got some leave owing. I could stay a bit after the funeral. Like a week maybe.’

A week. A whole week with Max. James felt dismayed. He felt dismayed that there would be a whole week in which it would be very hard, even downright dangerous, to see Helen. He felt dismayed that his behaviour, his desire, his love had led him into becoming a man who was dismayed at the thought of his son’s staying for a week.

‘A week. That would be wonderful, Max. That would be simply great.’

James was beginning to realise that things were not going to be as easy as he had thought. If only life was a fantasy.

The alarm woke James at half past seven, as usual. He woke slowly, and from a long way off. His head was heavy. His sleep had been deep but troubled.

He turned to face Deborah, reached out with his right hand to stroke the ample curve of her admired and envied buttocks, very very gently, so gently that he wouldn’t wake her if she was fast asleep, but would stimulate her to a faint moan of yawned pleasure if she was sleeping lightly, and, if she was already awake, would reassure her that he was still fond of her, even though he was no longer interested in the glories that had once banished all thoughts of early-morning tea from the first minutes of the day.

There were no curves. There were no buttocks. His arm felt only space, and suddenly all the events of the day before came flooding back. His head was heavy because he had drunk too much, and because he had taken a temazepam tablet when sleep wouldn’t come, when the empty bed that he had dreamt about had been more than he could bear.

Philip had said that he would ring at eight. He hoped he would. He would ask him to come and help. He couldn’t face everything that had to be done without some form of support. And Philip was easy, reliable, calm, methodical. In his adoration and admiration of Charles he sometimes forgot how much he liked Philip.

He took a shower, and washed his hair, removing any traces of tomato soup and sardine oil that he might have picked up when he’d fallen asleep on his list.

If only he could just leave, just pack a suitcase and go to Helen’s.

He looked out of the window. It was another stunning Wimbledon and barbecue day, so beautiful even in Islington, so inappropriate. A faint residue of mist softened the sunlight.

He shaved, cleaned his teeth; his gums were bleeding, it was the tension, but he must check to see if he’d remembered to make another appointment at the hygienist’s.

He dressed for work, remembered that he wasn’t going to work, took off his suit and put on jeans and a denim shirt, decided they weren’t respectable enough or sad enough, took them off and was naked except for his purple pants when Philip rang.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Well, you know.’

‘I can imagine. James, would you like me to come over?’

‘Do you know, Philip, I really would. Can you? Is it all right?’

‘No problem. My statistics will all still be there tomorrow, and I’m pretty much my own boss, you know.’

‘There’s such a lot to do and I think I’m still in shock.’

‘You will be. You must be.’

Yes, I must, thought James. Even if I’m not, and I’m not sure if I am, I must seem to be. God, this is going to be hard.

He selected a pair of black trousers and a dark blue shirt. With a black belt and black shoes he would look sad and dignified without actually looking as though he was in mourning.

It dawned on him that Helen might ring while Philip was there. For years she had been unable to ring him at his home. It had upset her occasionally, although most of the time she had accepted it as sensible and inevitable. Today she would feel that she could ring, and so she would. It would be a defining moment for her. How awful it would be if she did.

He started to put on his shirt and then stopped. He was almost naked, it was early morning, it wouldn’t be so terrible, this morning, to phone her in the altogether.

He took off his shirt and his purple pants, picked up the cordless phone, and went into the spare bedroom, far from prying photographs. He sat on the bed and dialled.

Her voice was sleepy.

‘You’ve woken me up.’