every count, if failing to look like a substance-abuser could ever be described as a problem. And even if they were colleagues or substance-abusers, I would still find it hard to explain the apparent desperation of my desire to see them. I had told Penny and mine hosts that I was going to the toilet; why would I then shoot out the front door half an hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve, in order to attend the AGM of some nameless society?
So I decided simply to carry on as if there was nothing to explain.
‘Sorry. Penny, this is JJ, Maureen, Jess, JJ, Maureen, Jess, this is Penny.’
Penny seemed unconvinced even by the introductions, as if I had started lying already.
‘But you still haven’t told me who they are.’
‘As in…?’
‘As in, how do you know them and where did you meet them?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Good.’
‘Maureen I know from… Where did we meet, Maureen? First of all?’
Maureen stared at me.
‘It’s a long time ago now, isn’t it? We’ll remember in a minute. And JJ used to be part of the old Channel 5 crowd, and Jess is his girlfriend.’
Jess put her arm around JJ, with a touch more satire than I might have wished.
‘And where were they all tonight?’
‘They’re not deaf, you know. Or idiots. They’re not… deaf idiots.’
‘Where were you all tonight?’
‘At… like… a party,’ said JJ tentatively.
‘Where?’
‘In Shoreditch.’
‘Whose?’
‘Whose was it, Jess?’
Jess shrugged carelessly, as if it had been that sort of crazy night.
‘And why did you want to go? At eleven-thirty? In the middle of a dinner party? Without me?’
‘That I can’t explain.’ And I attempted to look simultaneously helpless and apologetic. We had, I hoped, crossed the border into the land of psychological complexity and unpredictability, a country where ignorance and bafflement were permitted.
‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’
Seeing someone else? How on earth could that explain any of this? Why would seeing someone else necessitate bringing home a middle-aged woman, a teenaged punk and an American with a leather jacket and a Rod Stewart haircut? What would the story have been? But then, after reflection, I realized that Penny had probably been here before, and therefore knew that infidelity can usually provide the answer to any domestic mystery. If I had walked in with Sheena Easton and Donald Rumsfeld, Penny would probably have scratched her head for a few seconds before saying exactly the same thing.
In other circumstances, on other evenings, it would have been the right conclusion, too; I used to be pretty resourceful when I was being unfaithful to Cindy, even if I do say so myself. I once drove a new BMW into a wall, simply because I needed to explain a four-hour delay in getting home from work. Cindy came out into the street to inspect the crumpled bonnet, looked at me, and said, ‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’ I denied it, of course.But then, anything – smashing up a new car, persuading Donald Rumsfeld to come to an Islington flat in the early hours of New Year’s Day – is easier than actually telling the truth. That look you get, the look which lets you see right through the eyes and down into the place where she keeps all the hurt and the rage and the loathing… Who wouldn’t go that extra yard to avoid it?
‘Well?’
My delay in replying was a result of some pretty complicated mental arithmetic; I was trying to work out which of the two different sums gave me the smallest minus number. But, inevitably, the delay was interpreted as an admission of guilt.
‘You fucking bastard.’
I was briefly tempted to point out that I was owed one, after the unfortunate incident with the line of coke and the TV chef, but that would only have served to delay her departure; more than anything I wanted to get drunk in my own home with my new friends. So I said nothing. Everyone else jumped when she slammed the door on
So I decided simply to carry on as if there was nothing to explain.
‘Sorry. Penny, this is JJ, Maureen, Jess, JJ, Maureen, Jess, this is Penny.’
Penny seemed unconvinced even by the introductions, as if I had started lying already.
‘But you still haven’t told me who they are.’
‘As in…?’
‘As in, how do you know them and where did you meet them?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Good.’
‘Maureen I know from… Where did we meet, Maureen? First of all?’
Maureen stared at me.
‘It’s a long time ago now, isn’t it? We’ll remember in a minute. And JJ used to be part of the old Channel 5 crowd, and Jess is his girlfriend.’
Jess put her arm around JJ, with a touch more satire than I might have wished.
‘And where were they all tonight?’
‘They’re not deaf, you know. Or idiots. They’re not… deaf idiots.’
‘Where were you all tonight?’
‘At… like… a party,’ said JJ tentatively.
‘Where?’
‘In Shoreditch.’
‘Whose?’
‘Whose was it, Jess?’
Jess shrugged carelessly, as if it had been that sort of crazy night.
‘And why did you want to go? At eleven-thirty? In the middle of a dinner party? Without me?’
‘That I can’t explain.’ And I attempted to look simultaneously helpless and apologetic. We had, I hoped, crossed the border into the land of psychological complexity and unpredictability, a country where ignorance and bafflement were permitted.
‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’
Seeing someone else? How on earth could that explain any of this? Why would seeing someone else necessitate bringing home a middle-aged woman, a teenaged punk and an American with a leather jacket and a Rod Stewart haircut? What would the story have been? But then, after reflection, I realized that Penny had probably been here before, and therefore knew that infidelity can usually provide the answer to any domestic mystery. If I had walked in with Sheena Easton and Donald Rumsfeld, Penny would probably have scratched her head for a few seconds before saying exactly the same thing.
In other circumstances, on other evenings, it would have been the right conclusion, too; I used to be pretty resourceful when I was being unfaithful to Cindy, even if I do say so myself. I once drove a new BMW into a wall, simply because I needed to explain a four-hour delay in getting home from work. Cindy came out into the street to inspect the crumpled bonnet, looked at me, and said, ‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’ I denied it, of course.But then, anything – smashing up a new car, persuading Donald Rumsfeld to come to an Islington flat in the early hours of New Year’s Day – is easier than actually telling the truth. That look you get, the look which lets you see right through the eyes and down into the place where she keeps all the hurt and the rage and the loathing… Who wouldn’t go that extra yard to avoid it?
‘Well?’
My delay in replying was a result of some pretty complicated mental arithmetic; I was trying to work out which of the two different sums gave me the smallest minus number. But, inevitably, the delay was interpreted as an admission of guilt.
‘You fucking bastard.’
I was briefly tempted to point out that I was owed one, after the unfortunate incident with the line of coke and the TV chef, but that would only have served to delay her departure; more than anything I wanted to get drunk in my own home with my new friends. So I said nothing. Everyone else jumped when she slammed the door on
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