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

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СКАЧАТЬ I have another cup of tea?’ That’s fine, sugar.

      ‘Oh, you’ve just sat down but I need another cushion from the bedroom. Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Your wish is my command, buttercup.

      Gradually, the novelty of being needed wears off. Yes, I’ll get your magazine, your book, your bed socks, your smelly candle. But do you really want chicken soup, dearest? We’ve got vegetable soup. Nice organic vegetable soup. It’s your favourite. No? Okay, I’ll go back to the shops where I’ve just been to buy your Purdey’s and get some chicken soup.

      By eight, it is clear that I am being exploited.

      ‘Darling, I’m sorry. Can you get my face cream, my lip balm, my hair band and some Shreddies with double cream?’ For someone who is allegedly unwell, she rattles off the list with surprising sprightliness. And she’s got a lot more colour in her cheeks. I sigh like an overworked, underpaid NHS nurse at the end of another grinding shift and go about my duties.

      Then, the TV premiere of The Bourne Identity clashes with a two-hour documentary about Rudolf Nureyev.

      ‘Aren’t you tired, darling?’ I ask hopefully.

      No.

      ‘The doctor did say you should rest as much as possible in the first forty-eight hours.’

      No.

      ‘Wouldn’t you rather watch something less taxing than a documentary? The Bourne Identity, for example, is on at exactly the same time as Nureyev: the Man, the Ballerina, and it’s supposed to be great fun. Very light.’

      No.

      SOME OF THE THINGS I NOW KNOW ABOUT RUDOLF NUREYEV

      He was born on a train going to Vladivostok, where his father served in the army.

      At ballet school, he was incredibly stroppy, perhaps because of an internal conflict over his sexuality.

      He didn’t like non-celebrities.

      He might have slept with Anthony Perkins.

      Saturday 2 July

      Alex came around early and unannounced, gushing concern like he would gush blood out of a deep arterial wound if I took an axe to him: ‘I didn’t know, I hadn’t heard, oh my God, babes, are you okay? You poor, poor thing.’

      Despite his allegedly broken arm, he has carted a bunch of flowers the size of a small tree with him, which he picked and arranged himself. And some organic chicken soup.

      ‘I know how you love chicken soup when you’re under the weather, babes. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.’

      After an interminable chat about how wonderful last night’s Nureyev documentary was, he leaves, wincing a bit to remind us of his injury as he goes. He has bought last-minute tickets to the matinee at Sadler’s Wells, a surprise for his Moroccan girlfriend, who also loved the Nureyev documentary. What a guy.

      Monday 4 July

      Quite relieved to get out of the flat. I offered to stay at home and continue being Florence Nightingale, but Isabel is almost back to normal now. Or else she’s quite keen to get me out of the flat.

      The usual frustrations of the day seem harder to deal with today, possibly because I am suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome by proxy. No one ever looks after the carer.

      Frustration one

      It’s the start of the week and I still appear to be no closer to ever escaping Finsbury Park. I manage to get a seat on the Tube. A fellow citizen of my ‘hood, a gangsta rappa with headphones the size of grapefruit, manages to get the seat next to me. The music is so loud I can hear the vocals: ‘I don’t know what you heard about me; But a bitch can’t get a dollar out of me; No Cadillac, no perms, you can’t see; That I’m a motherfucking P-I-M-P.’ I ask him to turn it down. He says: ‘Interrupt my train of thought again, bitch, and I’ll cut you.’ Then the Tube stops mid-tunnel: someone in another train in another tunnel has pulled the emergency cord. I have to spend the next thirty-five stationary minutes sitting with a man who just threatened to knife me.

      Frustration two

      A woman with a loud voice has just got a job in the book department of Life & Times, which involves her sitting two desks away from me. After an alarmingly short I’m-in-a-new-job-so-must-be-on-best-behaviour honeymoon period (five days), she has settled in and revealed her true colours: she is a phoner of friends and a sorter-outer of home administration at work. This is dreadful news.

      Last week (her first in the office), she booked a holiday to the Maldives (‘I just need to get away from it all for a while’), arranged for a quote on a garden spa bath (‘how much more are those underwater speakers? It wouldn’t be proper without a bit of Courtney Pine bubbling away,’ snort, guffaw, snort) and had a two-hour argument with her daughter about the pros and cons of Gordon Brown.

      This morning, I arrive late because of my one-to-one face time with the knife-man and she’s already mid-conversation with an unspecified friend.

      Johnson is making slit-throat mimes but I don’t know why he’s complaining—he sits seven desks away and, because he likes rock and roll, he can’t hear properly anyway.

      ‘My BUPA insurance has always reimbursed me. Mmm, mmm, mmm, so why’s she taken him off the diet if the stools are only grey? Mmm, mmm. I suppose all I would say is that there is probably a psychological aspect to it, in that she’s a bit of a hypochondriac. Mmm, mmm, mmm. But if they were green…mmm, mmm.’

      My appetite for a morning croissant is ruined.

      Frustration three

      When I call Isabel, mid-afternoon, Alex is there. He has taken the afternoon off work because his arm is too painful and he thought they could convalesce together. Isn’t that sweet?

      Tuesday 5 July

      ‘Barry? Barry? Barry?’

      I haven’t even switched my computer on yet.

      ‘This is a bad line, Barry. Can you hear me, Barry? I wondered whether you were free on Sunday?…Free…On Sunday! No, Sunday…I’ve bought a lamb…Not a lamp.

      ‘A lamb. From the nice place in Wales where we went last summer…No, a lamb. It’s cut up and in the fridge…No, I’m fine, Barry. I said the lamb’s cut up and in the fridge. I’m going to do the shoulder on Sunday. Wondered whether you’d like to come? No, a lamb. I’ll call you back.

      ‘Not a lamp. It’s Sandra. No, I’ll call you back. I’ll call you back.’

      This conversation is repeated throughout the day. The woman is organising a Sunday roast with a group of deaf or stupid people.

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