A Spot Of Bother

Streatham minding your own business and they plowed into your passenger door while talking on their mobile. You went away to Edinburgh for a long weekend and they nicked your laptop and shat on the sofa.

He looked outside. The bloody cat was back. He put the choc-ice down and threw another piece of gravel, harder this time. It glanced off one of the sleepers, flew over the end wall into the adjoining garden and hit some invisible object with a loud crack.

He shut the French windows, picked up the choc-ice and stepped out of sight.

Two years ago Katie wouldn’t have given Ray the time of day.

She was exhausted. That was the problem. She wasn’t thinking straight. Looking after Jacob on six hours sleep a night in that craphole of a flat for two years. Then Ray pitches up with the money and the big house and the flash car.

He had to call her. He put the choc-ice on the windowsill.

Perhaps it was Ray who’d told their parents. That was a definite possibility. And very Ray. Marching in with his size fourteen boots. Then getting shit from Katie on the way home for stealing her thunder.

He dialed. The phone rang at the far end.

The phone was picked up, Jamie realized it might be Ray and very nearly dropped the receiver. “Shit.”

“Hullo?” It was Katie.

“Thank God,” said Jamie. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I mean, it’s Jamie.”

“Jamie, hi.”

“Mum just told me the news.” He tried to sound breezy and unconcerned, but he was still jumpy on account of the Ray panic.

“Yeh, we only decided to announce it on the way to Peterborough. Then we got back and Jacob was being rather high maintenance. I was going to ring you tonight.”

“So…congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said Katie.

Then there was an uncomfortable pause. He wanted Katie to say Help me, Jamie, I’m making a terrible mistake, which she obviously wasn’t going to do. And he wanted to say What the fuck are you doing? But if he did that she’d never speak to him again.

He asked how Jacob was doing and Katie talked about him drawing a rhinoceros at nursery and doing a poo in the bath, so he changed the subject and said, “Tony’s getting an invite, then?”

“Of course.”

And it suddenly sank in. The joint invitation. No bloody way was he taking Tony to Peterborough.

After putting the phone down he picked up the choc-ice, wiped the brown dribble off the windowsill and walked back into the kitchen to make some tea.

Tony in Peterborough. Jesus. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Mum and Dad pretending Tony was one of Jamie’s colleagues in case the neighbors found out. Or their being painfully groovy about it.

The most likely combination, of course, was Mum being painfully groovy and Dad pretending Tony was one of Jamie’s colleagues. And Mum being angry with Dad for pretending Tony was one of Jamie’s colleagues. And Dad being angry with Mum for being painfully groovy.

He didn’t even want to think about Ray’s friends. He’d known enough Rays in college. Eight pints and they were that close to lynching the nearest homosexual for sport. Apart from the closet case. There was always a closet case. And sooner or later they got paralytic and sidled up to you in the bar and told you everything, then got shirty when you wouldn’t take them up to your room and give them a hand job.

He wondered what Jeff Weller was doing these days. A sexless marriage in Saffron Walden, probably, with some back copies of Zipper hidden behind the hot water tank.

Jamie had spent a great deal of time and energy arranging his life precisely as he wanted. Work. Home. Family. Friends. Tony. Exercise. Relaxation. Some compartments you could mix. Katie and Tony. Friends and exercise. But the compartments were there for a reason. It was like a zoo. You could mix chimpanzees and parrots. But take the cages away altogether and you had a bloodbath on your hands.

He wouldn’t tell Tony about the invitation. That was the answer. It was simple.

He looked down at the stub of choc-ice. What was he doing? He’d bought them to console himself after the binoculars argument. He should have chucked them the next day.

He pushed the choc-ice into the bin, retrieved the other four from the freezer and shoved them in afterward.

He stuck Born to Run on the CD player and made a pot of tea. He washed up and cleaned the draining board. He poured a mug of tea, added some semi-skimmed milk and wrote a check for the gas bill.

Bruce Springsteen was sounding particularly smug this evening. Jamie ejected him and read the Telegraph.

Just after eight, Tony turned up in a jovial mood, loped into the hall, bit the back of Jamie’s neck, threw himself lengthways on the sofa and began rolling a cigarette.

Jamie wondered, sometimes, if Tony had been a dog in a previous life and not quite made the transition properly. The appetite. The energy. The lack of social graces. The obsession with smells (Tony would put his nose into Jamie’s hair and inhale and say, “Ooh, where have you been?”).

Jamie slid an ashtray down to Tony’s end of the coffee table and sat down. He lifted Tony’s legs into his lap and began unlacing his boots.

He wanted to strangle Tony sometimes. The poor house-training mostly. Then he’d catch sight of him across a room and see those long legs and that brawny, farm-boy amble and feel exactly what he felt that first time. Something in the pit of his stomach, almost painful, the need to be held by this man. And no one else made him feel like that.

“Nice day at the office?” asked Tony.

“It was, actually.”

“So why the Mr. Glum vibes?”

“What Mr. Glum vibes?” asked Jamie.

“The fish mouth, the crinkly forehead.”

Jamie slumped backward into the sofa and closed his eyes. “You remember Ray…”

“Ray…?”

“Katie’s boyfriend, Ray.”

“Yu-huh.”

“She’s marrying him.”

“OK.” Tony lit his cigarette. A little strand of burning tobacco fell onto his jeans and went out. “We bundle her into a car and take her to a safe house somewhere in Gloucestershire-”

“Tony…” said Jamie.

“What?”

“Let’s try it again, all right?”

Tony held his hands up in mock-surrender. “Sorry.”

“Katie is marrying Ray,” said Jamie.

“Which is not good.”

“No.”

“So you’re going to try and stop her,” said Tony.

“She’s not in love with him,” said Jamie. “She just wants someone with a steady job and a big house who can help look after Jacob.”

“There are worse reasons for marrying someone.”

“You’d hate him,” said Jamie.

“So?” asked Tony.

“She’s my sister.”

“And you’re going to…what?” asked Tony.

“God knows.”

“This is her life, Jamie. You can’t fight off Anne Bancroft with a crucifix and drag her onto the nearest bus.”