William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story. Matt Rudd

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СКАЧАТЬ So I said something cool but contradictory like, ‘Sure, this place is dead anyway,’ and before I could catch my breath we were having sex in Hyde Park.

      It was a seedy, torrid affair, and one conducted largely outdoors because we had nowhere indoors to go. My flat was usually out of the question because of Elizabeth. Saskia’s flat was always out of the question because it was owned by a forty-year-old stockbroker she had been having an affair with but who, in an effort to avoid hefty alimony, was now trying to rebuild his marriage. I thought this was all incredibly exciting but entirely unsustainable. Apart from all the obvious reasons why being a philandering, cheating, good-for-nothing two-timer is inadvisable, there’s the sheer stress of it all. Lying and cheating is exhausting. Besides, Saskia and I had nothing in common and we both knew it. A month after we met, I told her we had to stop meeting in public parks like this; she said fine, kissed me goodbye and went to live in New York. But not before she phoned Elizabeth and told her I was a cheating bastard.

      I suppose I should have been grateful. I was too pathetic to be honest and tell Elizabeth it was over. Saskia saved me the trouble. Without Saskia, I might never have met Isabel. In many ways, Isabel should be grateful.

      Tuesday 21 June

      Another flat viewing but the husband said he wouldn’t feel happy letting his wife walk home on her own at night. What an idiot. Arthur Arsehole said he’d explained about how the area was colourful rather than dangerous but they were going to look at smaller properties in Chiswick instead.

      Wednesday 22 June

      I was right. Isabel does think I’m having a nervous breakdown. She says she’s spoken to Astrid, her yoga teacher, and Astrid says men benefit from her type of yoga even more than women and that I should come to the next class. Which is tonight.

      I’m just trying to choose the most appropriate form of dismissive laugh when Isabel says, ‘Please come, it would make me happy,’ which is blackmail.

      In a small, sweaty room above a holistic healing shop in Holborn, nine women and one man, all in Lycra, spread their mats as Astrid spreads her crystals, while I bite my nails.

      I don’t have a mat so I have to borrow one from a cupboard. The only place left to unroll my mat—which is pink and smells of sweat—is right behind the man in Lycra. The next hour seems like four or five. There are the boring positions (‘Put your arms in the air…stretch a bit…hold it…hold it…feel the energy…’), the impossible positions (‘Put your leg over your arm…put the other leg round the other arm…spread all your toes…hold it…hold it…keep breathing, William…’), and the disgusting positions—which are all of them when you have a man in Lycra blocking your view. A man who laughs happily every time he lets one off. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to blot out the downward-facing dog.

      ‘Thanks, guys. Great session. And remember, don’t walk on the Earth, walk with the Earth. See you all next week.’

      No.

      It gets worse. Message from Alex when we get back to the flat.

      ‘Hi, guys. Almost two months married. Hope it’s all sweetness and light over there.’

      [Wanker.]

      ‘Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue but I’ve got a friend who does marketing for Ferrari. You know, the racing team.’

      [Wanker.]

      ‘Anyway, he’s hosting a race day down at Brands Hatch on Saturday. You’re probably too blissfully married to spend a day apart but I wondered if William might be free? And perhaps Andy? For a bit of a race. Be good to hang out with my best mate’s new hubby.’

      [Wanker—but it is Ferrari.]

      Saturday 25 June

      So let me just explain how it happened.

      We arrived at Brands Hatch and it turned out they wouldn’t let us into the actual Formula One cars. We were in buggies, which was still cool. Andy had fallen for Alex’s pretend friendliness, hook, line and sinker. As we watched the safety demonstration, they were all jokey and matey and laughey.

      But I was onto him. I could tell from his feigned interest in my week, from his relentlessly inquisitive chattiness, from his horrible chiselled jaw line, that today was all about humiliation. I got the girl so he had to show he was a better racing driver. Well, life doesn’t work like that, buster.

      We had a few practice laps. Alex was being all encouraging and non-competitive when Andy was within earshot, but asked me if I always drive like a kerb crawler when he wasn’t. Divide and rule. Clever.

      We did some quick laps individually. I was faster than Alex. He pretended to be pleased for me in an I’m-letting-you-win-at-the-moment kind of way.

      Then, it was time to race. As we got ready, Alex came over to me and said, ‘Good luck, old boy,’ which he would later claim he said to everyone, just to get us in the spirit.

      Six of us lined up, me and some marketing joker at the front, Alex and Andy in the second row, two other marketing jokers behind them.

      I was ahead for the whole of the first lap, but on the second lap Andy and Alex overtook the marketing joker and began to challenge me for the lead. Then Andy, mistiming a corner, spun out, taking the marketing joker with him. At that point, Alex changed. When everyone was watching, he was the consummate gentleman driver. Now, out on our own, he was driving like a maniac. As we began the final lap, he drove up my inside and, rather than take the first corner, just sort of steered us wider and wider. I missed a head-on collision with three hundred tyres only by braking and going around the back of them.

      Alex should have been well gone. But he wasn’t. He was waiting for me to catch up again. As we went through the back of the course I tried to overtake but he charged me again. I ended up ahead but he started ramming me from behind.

      I looked back and saw only the dead eyes of a psychotic maniac.

      Into the final corner, I had the edge. I can’t remember exactly what happened, except that I crossed the line first.

      Andy, on his way back to the pits, saw it all. He claimed I rammed Alex off the road. I remember Alex trying to ram me but losing control. Either way, I only noticed he had rolled his buggy once I’d crossed the line.

      Sunday 26 June

      Back so soon at Alex’s horrible maisonette, dropping off some grapes.

      ‘Sorry about the arm, Alex,’ I offer warmly.

      ‘Don’t worry, William. It was an accident. And it’s only a fracture,’ he replies. You would think he might apologise himself for trying to kill me, but then everyone else in the room might actually believe me.

      ‘William is like a toddler, Alex. He can’t just play nicely,’ says Isabel unhelpfully.

      ‘Great day though, mate. Thanks again,’ says Andy, traitorously.

      Andy thinks Alex is great. Isabel thinks Alex is brave. I know Alex is a psycho. I know he probably has a rocking chair and a wig hidden somewhere around the flat.

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