Livid.’
‘What are you asking, Tom?’
‘The fact is … I have two tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon for next Thursday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, James, that isn’t important, isn’t remotely important, compared to … your tragedy. However … James, I’ve never told another human being this, except the doctors, but I have … um … a bit of a problem. I … not to put too fine a point on it … I suffer from premature … um …’
James knew he shouldn’t interrupt but really there had been no scope for fun all morning.
‘Ejaculation?’
‘No!’
‘Baldness?’
‘No. Well, yes, but … um … that’s not the … and that annoys Jen, actually. The way baldness is said to be a sign of … um … virility in male mythology. Nonsense, of course.’
James ran his fingers through his thick, riotous hair.
‘Absolute nonsense, Tom.’
‘Everybody comments on my baldness. “Jen’s a lucky woman.” “Jen’s obviously getting plenty.” People can be surprisingly coarse in Godalming.’
‘So what you suffer from is …’
‘Yes. Impotence at an unusually young age. I mean, I was never a several-times-a-night man, if you know what I mean.’
Too much information, Tom.
‘Not by a long chalk. I mean, Jen’s very sympathetic. She’s behind me all the way. As it were. Anyway, the point is …’
Ah! At last.
‘… The point is, I’ve tried for Centre Court tickets for eighteen years at the tennis club draw. Never got them. Every year Margaret Insole gets two, and she prefers golf. Goes, though, and don’t we hear about it? Every sodding serve. Over these last few years as my … my problem … has got worse, the tickets have become a kind of symbol of my impotence, my general uselessness, James. And this year, bingo, two tickets, ladies’ semi-final day. I’d rather a men’s day, I find women’s tennis boring, but Jen doesn’t, of course, and that’s what it’s all about. So, all I’m saying is, if there is any scope for choice, I’d be enormously grateful if you could avoid today week.’
‘I’ll do my best, Tom.’
Oh, give me strength, he thought. And he couldn’t continue delaying the call to Mike.
Mike was feeling quite depressed and wondered whether to answer the phone. Just before it went onto the answer machine, he found himself picking it up.
‘Mike, it’s James.’
The contradictory feelings surged. Well, they would have done if he’d had enough energy for surging.
Affection. Only James of the old mob kept in touch. Only James ever took him out and bought him food and drink. The others had smelt his failure, called him less and less often, eventually dropped out of his orbit altogether. His orbit! He didn’t have a house any more. He didn’t have a wife any more. He didn’t have an orbit any more.
Irritation. James never invited him to his home any more, never invited him to meet any of his friends, never wanted to spend more than two minutes in his horrid little pad, always took him to a pub or restaurant. So kind. So demeaning.
Anger. It was never far from the surface. It wasn’t so much anger at James himself as at his situation and the way James reminded him of his situation. By phoning him James reminded him of all those people who never phoned. By being kind to him, even in the limited manner of his kindness, James brought home to him that the rest of the world was not kind.
‘Well, hello, James. Long time no hear.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. You know how things are.’
Only too well.
Mike was shocked at James’s news.
‘I’m really sorry, James.’
‘Thanks. Maybe we could have a drink this weekend.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I’ll be glad to get out of the house, to be honest. Mike, I’ve rung you first of all my friends because I know I’ve rather let you down. Anyway, mate, how about Saturday evening? Hang a few on. Sup some lotion, as your dad used to say.’
That’s right. Remind me I’m working class.
‘Fine. Great.’
‘I’ll need it by then. And by then I’ll know the funeral date. Mike, I hope you can come. And for drinks afterwards. At the house.’
When James had rung off, Mike looked at himself in the mirror. His stained T-shirt was a map of his recent pauper’s meals. He was unwashed and unshaven. His hair was a tangled jungle. He shuddered.
At the house! It was years since he’d been invited to the house. Maybe it was Deborah who hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. He looked at himself again. Nothing a haircut and a good shave and a clean shirt wouldn’t cure. But perhaps he wouldn’t bother. Perhaps he’d go like this and embarrass the bastard.
Not a bad bastard, though. He wondered whether to ring his ex-wife and suggest that she came too. Melanie had always liked Deborah. If he could see her again, just once, who knew? He looked in the mirror again. No. No chance. Be good to see her, though. Perhaps. Or awful. Oh, hell.
Fuck them all.
He felt a rivulet of sweat running down his back. There were spreading dark stains under his arms. The sun had moved round, and he’d no longer been sitting in the shade, and he hadn’t even noticed. His face was burning, and he had no protection on it. How angry Deborah would have been. ‘Do you want skin cancer?’
He tried to stand up. The chair came with him. He was stuck to the chair. He had to prise it off.
And even then it was agonising to stand up straight. His back was so stiff.
He went, very cautiously, through one or two of the stretching exercises that Gareth had prescribed. Gareth. Should he cancel him on Saturday? And the acupuncturist? No. If they were any use, if they weren’t a waste of money, it was at times like this that they’d be needed. He’d stick to his routine.
He walked slowly into the blessed darkness of the house, the wonderful coolness of the kitchen, then went into the utility room and drank two glasses of chilled water from the fridge-freezer.
He entered the sitting room just as Philip was saying, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for your help,’ and putting the phone down.
‘I’ve had enough for one morning,’ said James. He couldn’t believe that it was only two minutes to twelve. He seemed to have been talking for hours. ‘Still a few people to ring, but I can’t take any more. Um … I never drink before twelve, it’s one of my rules, but it’ll take two minutes to pour. Would you like something, Philip?’
