Turning Thirty (22 page)

The following evening after I'd left from babysitting Charlotte I moved into Ginny's, with the help of my parents. Although I was only moving twenty minutes away my mum made me promise to visit for dinner at least once a week, and insisted that I take a large cardboard box with me as well. It wasn't until my parents had gone and I'd sorted out my new room that I realised the box contained tinned food, tea-bags and breakfast cereals.

Dear Elaine

Are we having a row here?

Matt xxx

Dear Matt

OF COURSE WE'RE HAVING A FIGHT. (I DON'T ‘ROW' I'M AMERICAN!!!!!!!)

Elaine xxx

Dear Elaine

Fair enough. Let's . . . argue. Let me see: you're annoyed with me because even though we've split up I've moved into the spare room of an ex-girlfriend from about fifteen gadzillion (your word) years ago. You, meanwhile, have been ‘getting together' with random bar guys . . . and I'm the one in the wrong? I love your complete lack of grasp of the fundamental points of logical thought.

Love

Matt xxx

On the whole living with Ginny was a less stressful experience than I thought it could be, especially given our history. In the old days this definitely would've been a recipe for disaster given the way we used to flit from being lovers to best friends without even pausing for breath. But with my new turning thirty persona, I could handle it. Of course during the first few days we had to made a few more rules: if you finish a bottle of milk, buy a new one – and no getting round it by leaving a few drops in the bottom; the bath had to be washed immediately after use, and with proper bath-cleaning implements – not just a quick wipe round with a damp towel; and no borrowing of gender specific razors without permission. To be truthful, these were my rules, but Ginny didn't complain too much because being such a neat freak, I tended to do most, if not all, of the cooking and cleaning for both of us. It was a lot like living with Elaine and was strangely comforting and helped to take the edge off the lower moments in life.

Dear Matt

Let's not argue any more. I can't get any work done when I'm just sitting here waiting for your next e-mail. Having slept on the issue I admit that I might have been a little bit hasty re: you and your ex. I apologise. I promise you I'm not jealous. I just worry about you. I know how you are. Maybe you should date her after all. I think it would be good therapy for you to revisit your past like that.

Love

Elaine xxx

Ginny and I established our own routines as if we were a genuine happily living-together couple. Every weekday she got up at six-thirty, disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, then back into her bedroom where she'd dry her hair, put on her makeup and get dressed. Then she'd go downstairs, have a bowl of muesli and make her sandwiches for work. The entire process took her an hour and a half and, without fail, she would leave the house late.

My routine was far less sedate. Gershwin's mum was still away so on the days I had to look after Charlotte I'd get up at seven forty-five, race into the shower, nip back into my bedroom, get dressed and be out of the door seconds before Ginny.

It was fun hanging out with a nearly four-year-old and fortunately she seemed to like hanging out with me. To make her laugh all I had to do was make a farty noise on the back of my hand; and to make me laugh all she had to do was laugh at my farty noise. With her love of television, odd combinations of food (try beans on toast with cottage cheese all mixed together) and walking in the park, she made the perfect companion. I suspect I was built to look after children. I really was.

Dear Elaine

I'm having trouble following your line of thought. Now you want me to go out with her?

Just checking,

love

Matt

Dear Matt

First off (I am soooooo going to get fired when they realise that I do nothing here all day except write e-mails to England). Second off, since we broke up (and let's not forget it's been a long time) I've only ‘got together' with one guy in a bar! All you've done is move in with an old girlfriend who already has a boyfriend! If you're not going to date her then I think you should date somebody. It's only natural.

love,

Elaine

The only problem I really had was loneliness. On the evenings when Ginny seeing Ian coincided with Gershwin staying in or going out with his other mates, I'd find myself at a loose end. I'm not the kind of person who enjoys their own company very much. I need people to bounce off. I am very much a people-bouncing-off type of person.

Dear Elaine

Okay, I promise you I will go on a date. I am only doing this because I know that you won't give up until you get your way. It must feel good to know that your power to annoy extends right across the Atlantic. Seriously, though, I think you've got a point. However, I think things may be more difficult for me than you might think. I was looking in the personal ads in the paper on Saturday and women in their thirties (i.e. my new catchment area) always specify that they're looking for a man who:

1) Is financially solvent.

2) Supportive.

3) Has no emotional baggage.

While I'm okay on (1) and (2) I suspect that you may well constitute ‘emotional baggage'. Regardless, I shall find a date so we can get on with our lives.

love

Matt ‘luggage handler of the lonely' Beckford xxx

‘Good night?' asked Ginny.

It was just past half-eleven on Friday night a week after I'd moved into Ginny's. My now slightly merry landlady had just come back from another night out with Ian while my evening had been a simpler affair along the lines of
Weekend Watchdog
followed by
Top of the Pops
, followed by feelings of hunger and self-pity, followed by a call to Domino's Pizza, followed by more self-pity and an intense half-hour of channel surfing, followed by the arrival of my thin-crust Meat Feast pizza, followed by
Friends
, followed by half a tub of ice-cream followed by
Frasier
, followed by half of an unconvincing vampire film followed by the arrival of Ginny.

Terrible,' I replied to Ginny's question, without lifting my head from the arm of the sofa. ‘How about yours?'

‘Nowhere near as bad as yours, I suspect.' She took off her coat, moved my legs out of the way and slumped on the sofa next to me. ‘We went for a drink at a new bar in town and to the Persian restaurant above it.'

‘How was it?'

‘Fine.' She smiled. ‘They make all-right food, you know the Persians.' She gave a little yawn then stretched. ‘So come on, Mr Misery, why was tonight so awful for you?'

‘No special reason.'

‘Hard day with Charlotte?'

‘Not in the least. She was brilliant. We went to the art museum this afternoon. I think she quite enjoyed it. Well, she must have done because on the bus on the way home she told me she was going to be an artist when she grew up. Well, either that or an accountant.' Ginny giggled. ‘I'm not making it up either. I don't know where she gets these things from, I really don't. Kids' minds are a total enigma to me.'

‘So what's wrong, then?'

‘I'm bored, I suppose.'

‘Oh, poor baby,' said Ginny, and rubbed her eyes. ‘Ian was on about going to the cinema tomorrow night. You can come if you want.'

‘That's the second time you've invited me to play gooseberry. I have my dignity. I don't need your charity . . . yet.'

‘You'll be fine.' Ginny kicked off her shoes and looked at the clock on the far wall. ‘What are you doing now? Off to bed?'

‘Not this early,' I replied. ‘I was toying with watching this week's
ER
. I taped it on Wednesday and I've been waiting for a really low moment in my life to watch it. The way I see it, other people's misery, even fictional other people's misery, is bound to make me feel better about my own life.'

‘I've never watched
ER
before,' said Ginny, settling back in the sofa. ‘I never really like the idea of all that blood and guts and shouting.'

‘You're joking!' I said. ‘The shouting's the best bit. I used to be like you, ignorant about such things. In fact, I used to leave the room whenever Elaine started watching it, saying I was going to leave her to her “girls' programmes” but she converted me. It only took about three episodes and I was addicted. You make some coffee, I'll set up the video, and I'll give you a crash course on all of the characters' histories like Elaine did with me – all the who's sleeping with who, the who's slept with who, the who hates who and the who's pregnant by who. It's just like real life, only it happens in a hospital.'

It was just coming up to a quarter to one in the morning when Ginny and I got our second wind of energy after watching sixty minutes' worth of top-quality hospital drama. In fact, we were so hyperactive that we decided to play
ER live!
, a stupid in-joke of a game invented by Elaine and me that nobody else understood or found remotely funny but that we found hilarious. To play
ER live!
all you had to do was find a willing patient (Elaine and I used one of her mother's embroidered cushions), assign roles (Elaine was always Dr Shula Hobgoblin, a one-armed hot-headed maverick surgeon new to the trauma department, and I was always Staff Nurse Zimmerman, a hard but fair male nurse born on the wrong side of the Austrian Alps). The rest of the game involved trying to deliver as many
ER
clichés as possible in a minute.

Ginny loved the idea because it was so bizarre. She decided she was going to be Dr Elizabeth Hatstand, a brilliant but eccentric second-year surgical resident from London, England. In an attempt not to reawaken too many old memories I decided to be Dr Lance Buttie, a brilliant but acutely miserable trainee surgeon with a chip on his shoulder the size of a brick.

‘Dr Buttie!' said Ginny, barely able to control her laughter. ‘To the trauma room quickly! We've got a gangbanger with a GSW to the head, suffering from anaphylactic shock and – er – other stuff.'

‘Here's the patient, Dr Hatstand.' I picked up Ginny's cat Larry (Sanders, smart animal, had made a crafty exit) and settled her in front of the TV with the two of us kneeling on the floor beside him. ‘It doesn't look good,' I said. ‘It looks like he's lost a lot of blood. He may never bring another dead mouse into the house again.' I thumped the ground in mock anguish. ‘Damn these youngsters and their gang warfare. Can't they see this is such a waste of young life?'

Ginny pretended to smack me across the face. ‘Dammit, Buttie, you're getting hysterical. Do you know that I've never lost a patient yet? Not even one with whiskers!' She slapped me again. Larry watched the two of us passively, flicked his whiskers and rolled on to his back.

‘You're right, Dr Hatstand. I'm sorry. I'm being hysterical. It's just that I've never told you this but I lost my own cat in exactly the same way. It's such a tragedy! I should never have—'

Ginny interrupted with loud beeping noises.