Turning Forty (23 page)

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t mind as long as you’re there.’

‘How about the theatre?’

‘Nope. Not special enough.’

‘How about we go out for a meal?’

‘Still not special enough, plus we’ve been out so much in the last couple of weeks that I’m nearly as broke as you are.’

‘OK, well how about I cook you dinner?’

Her face brightens. ‘Now you’re talking! There are few things sexier than a man cooking for his lady. What’ll you make?’

‘My signature lady-impressing dish: fish fingers on a bed of sliced white bread adorned with a dollop of ketchup.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ she whispers, ‘I can’t wait,’ and right on cue the bedside alarm goes off again. As I watch her naked form exiting the bedroom I realise two things with perfect clarity: first, that I’m happy and second, my only ambition right now is to make this woman as happy as she is making me.

It’s hard to describe the past fortnight without trotting out all the usual superlatives, but being with Rosa really has been amazing. After the night at the Cross she invited me back to her place and late the following morning we walked hand in hand down to the centre of Moseley, bought a couple of newspapers, ate a leisurely breakfast at the French café across the road from the shop before taking a stroll down to Cannon Hill Park where we fed the ducks, pushed each other on the kids’ swings and generally acted like fools in love.

Neither of us wanted the day to end so we made sure that it didn’t. I made a brief appearance at my parents’ but before my mum could open her mouth to ask me what I wanted for dinner I had showered and changed and was back out of the door on my way over to Rosa’s where I stayed until the Monday morning when we finally both had to go to work.

Despite having resolved over the weekend not to spend Monday night together neither of us had the willpower to resist and soon a pattern emerged where I would stay at her flat every night, pop over to my parents’ (normally while they were out) for a shower and clean clothes before going back to Moseley and the shop where Gerry would mock me remorselessly for being so ludicrously happy.

And I don’t fight it because I
am
happy.

Rosa and I just click. We get each other and instead of being a barrier the age thing seems to be something that draws us together. It’s almost as if when I’m with her I stop being thirty-nine, she stops being twenty-three and somehow we meet in the middle. I haven’t had a great deal to do with her friends and I haven’t exactly got any friends around other than Gerry to make her feel weird, so for the most part it’s just me and her and that seems to be pretty much all we need.

Gerry’s Lambretta is already parked on the pavement by the time I arrive at the shop and as I press the buzzer and peer through the window, I can just make out the outlines of Gerry, Anne and Odd Owen chatting in the back office.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ says Gerry, opening the door, ‘who’s looking even more loved up than usual?’

I can’t help but laugh. On the walk down this morning even I had noticed a big soppy grin on my face.

‘What can I say?’ I reply, ‘I’m a happy man.’

‘So it’s going well?’

‘It’s going better than well, it’s going brilliantly. She’s amazing.’

‘And all this from the man who thought it was doomed from the start. You’ve certainly changed your tune.’

I’m not going to be drawn. I say my hellos to the other volunteers, take a look at the list of tasks on the wall, hang up my jacket and get the kettle on for the first brew of the day.

The morning passes quickly: I spend an hour on the tills, another creating a window display of children’s books and the remaining time before lunch putting new stock on the shelves. As the shop has more than enough cover today Gerry and I decide to head next door to Annabel’s and we’re just getting our coats when there’s a sharp knock at the rear door. I open it expecting to see someone carrying one of those huge blue IKEA bags weighed down with donations but instead there’s a tall, lean guy wearing sunglasses, a black velvet jacket, denim shirt and jeans.

‘I’m looking for Gerry,’ he says in a well-spoken voice with only the faintest hint of a Midlands accent. ‘Is he about?’

I open the door wider to reveal Gerry. The two men stare at each other and neither says a word. I sense I’m surplus to requirements so I tell Gerry that I’ll meet him at Annabel’s when he’s done.

I realise there’s something familiar about Gerry’s guest but it’s not until half an hour later when Gerry sits down opposite me that I find out for sure.

‘Who was that?’

Gerry picks up his sandwich. ‘And there was me thinking you were a real Pinfolds fan.’

‘So that really was Pete McCulloch?’

‘The very same.’

Pete McCulloch was a legend in his own right as well as being Gerry’s former songwriting partner and The Pinfolds’ lead guitarist. After The Pinfolds split up, Pete had moved to New York and joined a succession of moderately well-known bands before finding success as a music producer on two platinum-selling albums in a row, which made him one of the most in-demand producers in the world. And while he wasn’t famous enough to be stopped in the street by your average punter, I’d seen enough photos of him hanging out with people who were globally recognisable, and read the back pages of enough CD inserts, to be impressed that he’d crossed the threshold of our little charity shop in Moseley.

‘What did he want?’

‘What do you think?’

The first answer that pops into my head is too huge to contemplate. ‘He wants to get the band back together?’

‘Bingo!’ says Gerry, pointing his right hand at me like a gun. ‘Apparently the bastard’s got the other two on board and now he thinks I’ll just fall into line.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’re not going to do it?’

Gerry grimaces. ‘Of course I’m not going to do it! The man’s scum! I swore twenty years ago that I’d have nothing more to do with him and I can’t see a reason to change my mind.’

‘What happened back then? What did he do?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ replies Gerry firmly. ‘It’s just one of those things that is never going to happen. Not for the sake of old times, not for the fans and least of all for the money.’

It’s clear that he doesn’t want to talk about it any more and so I try to change the subject but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything and he stays that way for the rest of the afternoon, only venturing out of the office with a face like thunder when the credit card machine breaks down.

Even though I’m supposed to be making dinner for Rosa, I invite him for a quick pint across the road, but he mumbles something about meeting Kara in town so I leave him to his own devices. As I’m about to leave the shop Rosa texts saying she has finished work early and to hang on at the shop until she arrives. Minutes later there’s a knock at the door and I see her face at the window.

‘No need to ask if you’ve missed me,’ she grins as we part from our embrace.

‘No need at all.’ I grab my coat and shut up shop as quickly as I can.

We cross the road to Sainsbury’s Local, pick up a basket and wend our way along the aisles with me throwing things in for the meal and her adding stuff she needs for the flat. I know what she’s thinking because it’s exactly what I’m thinking:
This is good. It feels comfortable. It feels right.

When we get to the till I pull out my credit card even though I can’t afford it, but this moment seems too important to let a little thing like debt get in the way and so with fingers crossed I hand over my card. It’s only when I actually have our goods that I allow myself to exhale in relief but then we walk out of the shop and heading straight towards us, hand in hand, are Ginny and Gershwin.

32

I really had tried to avoid this moment. I had deliberately steered clear of Pat Kav’s where I had met Gershwin for a drink; hadn’t been back to the Sainsbury’s where I’d first bumped into Ginny; and deliberately avoided the café on York Road where Ginny and I had once breakfasted. In short I had given my two former friends practically the whole of Kings Heath in return for my never having to see either of them in public again, but it seemed that the whole of Kings Heath wasn’t enough.

I greet them both as warmly as I can, which, given the fact that I still want to punch Gershwin and can do little more than look daggers in Ginny’s direction, isn’t all that warmly. It doesn’t help that they had looked so happy together (Ginny’s head was turned towards Gershwin listening intently and Gershwin was clutching her left hand in a proprietary fashion).

‘What are you up to?’ asks Ginny, trying to look and sound normal.

I raise the carrier bag in reply. ‘Just picking up a few things. How about yourselves?’

‘We’re on our way to the Thai place next door to Kav’s.’

‘You’ll love it,’ says Rosa. Ginny and Gershwin turn to look at her as though they hadn’t noticed her before. ‘A group of us went from work a while ago and we had a great time.’

‘We’ve been before,’ says Ginny, ‘but thanks for the recommendation.’

Was it my imagination or was there a hint of acerbity in Ginny’s voice? I glance from Ginny to Rosa and decide to get the introductions over with. ‘Rosa,’ I say, ‘this is Ginny and Gershwin, some old school friends of mine, Ginny and Gershwin, this is Rosa, my girlfriend.’

It’s hard to know which of us is more surprised by the use of the word ‘girlfriend’; my former friends certainly seem staggered by my revelation but Rosa’s eyes widen too. In fact I’m the one most in shock even though I do a pretty good job of hiding it.

‘Well,’ says Ginny after an awkward pause, ‘we’d better be getting off if we’re not going to lose our reservation.’

‘Of course,’ I reply, ‘it was good to see you.’

Ginny glances over at Rosa. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too.’

I look at Gershwin and he looks at me but we don’t say a word.

As Ginny and Gershwin walk away I count in my head using ‘elephant’ seconds trying to guess how long it will be before Rosa questions me about our encounter. I barely get to two.

‘Who was that?’

‘Two old schoolmates.’

‘But why were they being so weird? The guy didn’t say a word and you were throwing lethal looks in his direction.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘She wasn’t your soon-to-be ex-wife was she?’

‘Of course not, Lauren is in London, I told you.’

‘So who was she then?’

‘Another ex, a sort of more recent ex . . . Look, do we really have to do this? The last thing I want is to go over it all again. Can’t we just go home, crack open a bottle of wine and chat while I make you the best fish finger sandwich you’ve ever tasted? The art lies in getting the ketchup to cheap white bread ratio just right.’

It’s a nice try but I can tell from the searching look in Rosa’s eyes that she’s not going to let it go that easily. ‘You called me your girlfriend.’

I feign confusion. ‘Did I?’

Rosa stops, stares at me as if trying to size me up and then pulls back her fist and hits me square in the chest.

For a reasonably small person she actually packs quite a punch. ‘What’s that for?’

‘For taking me for an idiot. I’m not stupid, Matt. You said it to make her jealous.’

‘Why would I want to make her jealous? Up until a couple of months ago I hadn’t seen her for years.’

Rosa shrugs. ‘People are weird like that.’

‘Well, not me.’

‘So why did you call me your girlfriend then? You’ve never called me that before.’

‘I’ve never had a reason to until now. It’s not like we’re bumping into a continuous stream of people for you to meet, is it? We barely go out, who am I going to introduce you to? Your next-door neighbours?’

Mellowing, she reaches out a hand and rubs the spot on my chest where she struck me. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just I don’t think you should go bandying about words like “girlfriend” unless you mean it.’

‘And who says I don’t?’ I’m glad to have our first argument behind us. I feel the same rush of affection for her as this morning when she left for work. ‘You are my girlfriend, aren’t you? I don’t want to be with anyone else and I don’t want to be anywhere else.’ I dig around in my bag, pull out a book and hand it to Rosa.

‘
The Velveteen Rabbit
,’ she says, ‘you remembered.’

‘I’ve been hunting for it ever since you mentioned it at the party. A copy came in last week and I was going to keep it to celebrate our one-month anniversary but now will do just as well.’

‘I love it,’ she says and kisses my cheek. She flicks through as if searching for something. ‘This is the part I was telling you about, the part that reminds me of you: “Real isn’t how you are made,” says the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you . . . It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” ’