A Certain Age (20 page)

However, the Life Groomers just laughed when I suggested Shakira for the date, and instead I’ve got this agonising bore called Caroline, and I’ve been trying
SO HARD
to take an interest in everything about her: her job, her ex-husband, her friend’s ex-husband’s catastrophic skiing accident (actually, that was quite interesting), and her ex-husband’s friend’s daughter’s cat. They said to me the other day, “All you know is facts, Alastair. Most people like to talk about
THEMSELVES
.” But, God, it’s tiring when you have to fill in the pauses. “Tell me about that, Caroline; oh but
WHY
did you do that; how did you
FEEL
when you did that?” And then I have to pinch myself, literally, at the top of the thigh, otherwise I’ll slip into a coma. Even her solecisms are dull – “disinterested” for “uninterested” [
sigh
], although [
perversely impressed
] I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say “aircrafts” before. I don’t dare correct her. The Life Groomers will be alarmed enough already, I
reckon, what with me nervously drinking pints of water, and reaching compulsively under the table to interfere with my own leg.

[
Loo flushing or other bathroom noise
]

Scene Four: at home

It was only when I was signing the release form that I realised the problem. We were in the production office, it was quite intimidating, brightly lit, hundreds of computer terminals, dozens of under-25s in fashionable specs, wearing tech-y earpieces and important, faraway expressions. But, strangely, I felt quite welcome. And when we watched the tape to see how scary I was to Caroline – who characterised me afterwards as “hairy and weirdly aggressive, like an angry hobbit” – I knew I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t go back, because I’d already started. They were all delighted, thrilled, and so on – not least because, with me on board, they now had a full series, the plan being to slot me between a woman with self-esteem issues and a bloke who stinks, a pair affectionately nicknamed “The Cringer” and “The Whiffer”. But there was one problem. They want to groom me in May, culminating on Sunday the 17th, which happens to be the date of the London Pub Quiz Championship final in Highbury. “Sorry, Alastair,” said Baxter, “but can’t your saddo quiz mates manage without you?” – which is the most insensitive thing any of them has ever said to me, and you should hear Jancis on the subject of my cardigans.

Then Jake had an idea. “Look,” he said. “I’ve got it. Shakira takes Alastair’s place in the quiz team. Problem solved. Great stuff.”

Shakira looked a bit panicky. Her glasses steamed up. She bit her lip.

“Oh come on, Shakira!” he said. “You’ve got this IQ of – what is it? A hundred or something?”

“A hundred and eighty-five,” she said.

Jake looked at me. “What do you say to that?” he said.

[
Alastair can’t get over it
] “A hundred and
EIGHTY-FIVE?”

[
As Shakira
] “But I’ve never done a pub quiz.”

“Quick, Alastair, ask her a question.”

“Oh. Right. Um, Shakira, which London Underground station shares its name with a station on the Paris Métro?”

“Er … [
works it out, quickly; with assurance
] Temple!” she said.

They all looked clueless.

“Is that good?” Jake said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “That’s very good.”

“Well, that’s solved that, then,” said Jake. “Well done. Great stuff. Good man. Top job.”

I signed the form. I’d done enough shilly-shallying. And something was happening to me, I knew that. I didn’t just want to know facts any more. When Shakira said “Temple”, she suddenly had this special look, you see, the look known to quizzers as “the flash” – it’s the look of pure joy you get when you just
KNOW.
And I felt pleased for her, because it marked her out as “one of us”, but sort of melancholy for myself, because that flash is the only happiness I know, and it comes from being one hundred per cent certain how to spell the word “minuscule”. While we’re on the subject, though, Nick frequently has the flash with questions about motor racing, and the thing is, motor racing doesn’t interest
him and it
NEVER HAS
. Spooky, eh? “Emerson Fittipaldi!” he says; “Ayrton Senna!” We think Nick may have a direct psychic connection to Murray Walker’s brain. We don’t know how it came about. But it’s tremendously convenient, none the less.

Scene Five: a pub. It’s a few weeks later; Alastair is waiting for Nick

Nick should be along in a minute. I’m not going to put up with any more of his nonsense about these fancy specs.
ALL
this is his fault, from the tip of the trendy haircut to the soles of the shiny shoes. Even the proceedings of last night can be laid at his door, come to think of it. [
Drinks
] Which makes me feel slightly better about it. Oh, they were so pleased with me on
Life Groomers,
you see. Right up until last night. Four weeks of slog, and they were saying mine might be the best personality make-over ever. I went for hours at a stretch without calling anybody stupid. I was a success story. I was going to be great TV.

And now I’ve blown it. Oh, where’s Nick got to? Yesterday, you see, was the night of my last filmed date, and also the final of the pub quiz. Shakira and I met beforehand at the office, to wish each other luck. Over the past four weeks I’ve seen a lot of her, obviously, as she’s trained for the big night; I’ve become quite proud of her, to be honest. We both, separately, went to see
La Belle et la Bête,
and interestingly we both preferred it
WITHOUT
the extra footage. We both thought Cocteau had been right not to labour that crucial transfiguration scene. Meanwhile the quiz team – Nick, plus Trensher
and Hoppy – all welcomed her on board, and I enjoyed watching a natural quizzer really come out of herself. So last night when we met to say, “Good luck, Alastair,” – “Good luck, Shakira,” it was a bit unsettling when she suddenly fixed me with this meaningful look and said, [
very serious, very upset
] “Oh, Alastair!” and ran off in the general direction of Highbury.

I was confused, to say the least. What was all that about? Then Chazza came over with a cup of tea. He’s an idiot, Chazza, although obviously these days I try to avoid the “I” word, but I’ve grown to like him. I thought how amazing it was that a month ago I’d never even met these people: now they appeared to be my whole life.

“Big night, Al, yeah?” said Chazza.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What gel you using?”

“Couldn’t say, mate.”

“Scared?”

“Not really.”

“Huh,” he said. [
Between you and me
] “Hope you do better than the Whiffer, eh!”

I laughed. I’d heard on the grapevine that the Whiffer’s muscular BO had effortlessly triumphed over all attempts to quell it. On his final date, the woman had edged further and further away from him until her chairleg went off the edge of the platform they were sitting on, and she’d somersaulted backwards down some stairs.

“Chazza,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“All these weeks I’ve kept meaning to ask. There’s the Cringer and the Whiffer. What does that make
ME?”

[
Cheerfully
] “Oh, you’re the Pedant.”

Ah. Well, it could have been worse. But I was crushed
anyway. I didn’t tell him I’d secretly been hoping for “the Loner”.

“Chazza,” I said again.

“Yeah?”

“Is there anything wrong with Shakira?”

“Why?”

“She seemed a bit odd when she went off tonight.”

[
Confidential
] “Oh, she’s
CHANGED
,” he said. “She’s been a bit funny for weeks, but this afternoon, she suddenly went all peculiar and announced she was leaving. Leaving immediately. Said she couldn’t work any more on a show that glorified manufactured external attractiveness.”

“Really? That’s a shame. Oh, that’s such a shame.”

“We think it came home to her that she’s a bit, you know, a bit of a dog, when she heard that conversation between you and Jake.”

[
No idea what this is
] “Which conversation?”

“The one when you said she’d be great to take out on a date coz you wouldn’t have to take an interest in her.”

“Did I say that? I didn’t say that!”

[
He thinks about it
] I pictured Shakira’s little face, looking up at me, all crumpled, saying, “Oh, Alastair!”

[
Dead
] “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. We got it on tape if you wanna see it.”

I felt terrible. Shakira had been so good to me.

“And Shakira’s seen this, has she?”

“Yeah. We had it on in the office just today.”

[
Pause. Alarm
] “I didn’t say she was a bit of a dog?”

“No, no. Course not. Jake did.”

[
Phew
]

“But you didn’t say she wasn’t.”

From then on, funnily enough, I wasn’t on very good form.

“This is Gillian.”

[
A grunt
]

“Say hello, Alastair.”

[
Distant
] “Oh, hello.”

It was as if someone had struck me a glancing blow on the head with the back of a shovel. I couldn’t snap out of it. Luckily, the Life Groomers had never seen suicidal remorse before, so they assumed I was merely nervous.

“Big night, Alastair!”

[
In agony
] “Mm.”

“Good luck!”

[
Sick with guilt
] “Mm!”

All I could think of was Shakira. I was jangled, in torment. As I sat at the table with the lovely Gillian, all I wanted to do was moan aloud with my head in my hands. As a fun date, I ranked just about equal with the ghost in
Hamlet.
How could I have said something so horrible about Shakira? It was unbearable to think about. I only meant that we had a lot in common! I only meant, actually, that she wasn’t a tiresome, illiterate egomaniac like all these other women with their sparkly make-up and strappy shoes. Blimey, [
a laugh
] if anything, Shakira and I were made for each other! The other day, as we were walking past a café, she said, “Look, Alastair, fancy writing ‘paninis’, when panini is
ALREADY A PLURAL WORD”!

“Excuse me,” I said, “Won’t be a sec—” and I ran to the Gents with my mobile, where I tried to phone Nick, but of course all the contestants have their mobiles confiscated and switched off during an all-London final, so there was nothing I could do, nothing. I looked around in a kind of panic. I’d left my wallet in my jacket. If I stayed away from my date for more than a minute, a bunch of well-meaning youths with space-age earpieces would descend
on me and ask what was happening. What could I do? I had to speak to Shakira!

There was nothing I could do, I thought, nothing; or nothing unless [
ho ho, not very likely
] I removed my microphone, ran some water to cover any tell-tale noises, climbed out of that toilet window, and sprinted in the rain up to Highbury like something from a Richard Curtis film. [
Beat; he did it
] Blimey, Al, I thought, as I unpinned the mike and reached for the tap. It wasn’t in a direction anyone was expecting, but you really have
CHANGED.

Scene Six: a few months later, at the café of the first scene; hubbub

Excuse me. [
Raises voice
] Excuse me, the answer you require is “Rayon”. “Shedding light on synthetic fabric.”
“RAY, ON –
rayon.” That’s OK, no problem. [
Smiling, used to having people recognise him; under breath
] Yes, I
WAS
on the telly. Yes. Yes, I was the ugly, hairy git who was the biggest ever failure on
Life Groomers.
Yes, yes, completely useless. The one who’ll never have a girlfriend. Yes, that’s me. [
Giving an ironic wave
] Hello!

[
Yet he seems happy. Is this because he has reverted to type? Or did he climb out of that window? We don’t yet know
]

We lost that final, you know. It was all Nick’s fault, though – not mine, although it may have been a bit distracting for everybody when I burst in at the start of the second round, shouting, [
gasping, exhausted
] “Shakira, I love you! I’ve been an idiot!” and collapsed from exhaustion and hypothermia on a pile of wet smelly coats in the corner. No, it was Nick. In the last round, they were neck-and-neck with the Hackney bunch when one of those
motor racing questions came up and Nick said, [
with great assurance
] “Brands Hatch!” and for the first time ever, it wasn’t. Poor old Nick. Murray Walker must have put up a firewall. You can’t blame him, really.

But the bursting-in thing was definitely the right thing to do. Because it’s been
Life Groomers
in reverse for the past couple of months, and it’s been fantastic. Shakira and I take turns pointing out hilarious mistakes on menus. We go and see old French films together on purpose (instead of accidentally) and wait till the very, very end of the credits, drinking in as much information as we can. I’ve grown back the beard and bought several new cardigans to replace the ones ceremonially shredded by Jancis. Shakira’s coming with me this morning to the Chelsea Book Fair, where she’ll meet more short-tempered beardy-weirdy book dealers than you can shake a stick at.

“Did you know they called me the Pedant?” I said to Nick yesterday, as we leaned on the counter and stared out mournfully at the cretins on Charing Cross Road.

“Ah,” he said.

“Ah?”

“Well, that was me,” he said. “When I first contacted them, and I spoke to Shakira about you, she asked if I could come up with a snappy one-word description.”

[
Shocked, disappointed
] “And you said Pedant?”

“No, actually, I said ‘Tosser’ but we decided to tone it down.”

“I see,” I said. “You don’t think ‘Loner’ would have had more of a ring to it?”

[
Scoff
] “Loner!”

“All right. Calm down.”

[
Guffaw
] “Loner!!”

“All right. All right. How about some Lapsang?
Shakira’s introduced me to this new one, that’s the same but different, if you know what I mean.”