Tony Parsons - One For My Baby

“Guess what I’ve got for you,” he says. He goes to the kitchen, gets something out of the fridge and comes back pouring a foaming, yellow beer into a tall glass. I immediately recognize the silver and green can he is holding.

“Tsingtao,” I say.

“Your favorite,” Josh says.

I am touched. I know this means Josh has gone to great lengths to make me feel comfortable tonight. But the beer on top of the champagne turns out to be not exactly the best idea in the world. In fact, it’s a rotten idea. Soon my eyes start crossing if I don’t make every effort to keep them in focus.

“Alfie’s father wrote that wonderful book,” Tamsin tells India, trying to include me in the evening. “Oranges for Christmas.”

“Really?” India says, interested in me for the first time. “Oranges for Christmas? God, it’s such a classic, isn’t it? I bought it ages ago. Keep meaning to read it.”

“He’s getting more famous,” I tell them. “My father, I mean. There was a picture of him and his girlfriend at some party the other day. In the Standard. They were grinning and trying to pretend they didn’t know their picture was being taken.” I have a swig of my Tsingtao. “He’s getting more famous but, the funny thing is, he doesn’t deserve it. Because he’s not even writing anything. And-I ask you-how’s that meant to make me feel?”

They all stare at me, dumbfounded.

“I wanted to be a writer. I really did. First of all, I was going to write about Hong Kong. About why it’s important. About why it’s touched with magic. Now-well, I don’t know what I would write now. I sort of lost the urge.”

“Why don’t you write about some stupid dickhead who can’t hold his drink and who is not fit to be in civilized company?” says Josh. “You’ve got to write about what you know.”

Then the buzzer goes again and the final guest arrives. A pretty, rather overweight young woman called Jane from Josh’s firm. Mid-thirties. Very friendly. A bit nervous. We are seated next to each other at dinner. I’m not meant to get off with her, am I? Plates are put in front of us containing some kind of fancy salad.

“Warm salad of radicchio, gem and pancetta,” Tamsin says.

“She’s such a genius,” Josh says, and they exchange a little sweet kissy-kiss that provokes an involuntary sneer on my flushed face. Some distant part of me realizes I am not being the perfect guest.

“Delicious,” India declares.

“Radicchio, gem and pancetta?” Dan says. “Sounds like a firm of Italian lawyers.”

Everybody roars apart from me. I can feel Jane looking at me, trying to think of something to say.

“Josh told me you were in Hong Kong,” she says pleasantly.

“That’s right.”

“I was in Singapore for two years. I really fell in love with Asia. The food, the people, the culture.”

“Not the same thing,” I tell her.

“Excuse me?”

“Not the same thing. Hong Kong and Singapore. It’s the difference between a rain forest and a golf course. Singapore being the golf course.”

“You don’t like Singapore?” she says, her face crumpling.

“Too sanitized,” I say firmly. “Singapore is nothing like Hong Kong. Didn’t somebody once say that Singapore is Disneyland with the death penalty?”

Jane sadly turns her face to the fancy salad before her.

“When were you ever in Singapore, Alfie?” Josh demands.

“What?” I say, playing for time.

“I said-when exactly were you in Singapore?” He is not smiling at me any more. “I don’t recall you ever going to Singapore. But suddenly you’re the big expert.”

“I’ve never been to Singapore,” I say with an infuriating smugness.

“Then you don’t really know what you’re talking about, do you?” Josh says.

“I know I wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I wouldn’t like anywhere that they say is like Disneyland with the death penalty.”

“Singapore Sling,” India says. We all look at her as if she is mental. “Fine cocktail,” she adds, spearing a piece of gem lettuce. Then they are all yakking about their favorite cocktails, even poor old Jane perking up a bit as she weighs in with her thoughts on the humble Piña Colada.

“I like a Long, Slow Screw Up Against the Wall,” Dan says, predictably enough, and they all hee-haw their stupid laughter.

“I bet you do, mate, I bet you do!” cackles Josh.

“How about you, Alfie?” Tamsin asks me pleasantly, still trying to include me in the evening, acting as though she knows it’s a meaningless question but it’s just a bit of harmless fun. How did Josh ever get a woman like her? Isn’t she much too good for him? “What’s your favorite cocktail?”

“Not much of a cocktail man,” I say lightly, as if this conversation is beneath me, draining my beer. “Not much of a drinker really.”

“Clearly,” Josh says.

I examine the empty glass in my hand as if I am secretly some kind of expert.

“But I do like a Tsingtao. Reminds me of home.”

“Home?” Jane says. “Do you mean Hong Kong?”

But India has a question of her own.

“Why are you wearing a wedding ring?” she says, looking at the hand that holds my Tsingtao, and everything around the table seems to get all silent.

“What?”

“Why are you wearing a wedding ring?” she asks again. “You’re not married, are you?”

I set down my glass and look at the ring around the third finger of my left hand as if I am seeing it for the first time.

“Used to be,” I say.

“And you still wear your ring? Ah. That’s sweet.”

“Lot of divorce about these days,” Dan says philosophically. “Rotten for the kids. Still, probably better than if the parents stay together and, you know, don’t get along.”

“I didn’t get divorced,” I say.

“No,” Josh says. “He didn’t get divorced. His wife died, didn’t she, Alfie? She was a beautiful girl and then she died. While scuba diving. And that means we all have to feel sorry for you, doesn’t it? Poor little Alfie and his dead wife. The rest of us are meant to apologize for going on living.”

“Josh,” says Tamsin.

“Well, I’m sick of it.”

Suddenly Josh and I are standing up. If there wasn’t a glass table and half a dozen fancy salads between us, I swear we would be exchanging punches.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Josh. That’s not necessary. But it would be nice if you would leave me alone.”

“Perhaps I will in the future.”

“Perhaps you should.”

I bow stiffly to Tamsin and leave the table. Josh follows me, getting more angry by the second. He’s not going to let me go that easily.

“Your wife’s dead and that’s your excuse for coming in here and acting like a complete asshole, is it? Is that your excuse, Alfie?”

But I don’t answer him as I make my way to the door. I think to myself-no, that’s not my excuse.

That’s my reason.

THERE IS NOTHING CASUAL ABOUT JACKIE.

Every morning she arrives for work dressed for a date with Rod Stewart. Her heels are high and her skirts are short, but there is a curious formality about her. She looks as though she has spent a long time deciding what to wear. She looks as though putting on her makeup took about as long as minor heart surgery. But her provocative clothes are like a uniform, or a shield, or a glossy shell. It’s a very self-conscious sexiness. As if she looks that way not to advertise something, but to protect it.

Even when she has changed into her cleaning kit, Jackie is still as formal as a flight attendant or a policewoman. It’s got something to do with the highlights in her hair, the mascara that is just a touch too heavy. She spends far too long trying to make herself look good. She looks good already.