The Last Weekend by Blake Morrison Page A

with him but was now disclosing matters close to her heart. She always pretended to find Ollie ‘difficult'. But it’s well known that women find difficult men attractive. And Em was attracted to Ollie, earnestly though she denied it. Not that there had ever been any funny business between them, so far as I could tell. But Ollie had the power to make any woman false, even one as loyal as Em.
He and I were old friends. But if he was dying, he wouldn’t hesitate to worm confidences from a friend’s wife. He would probably not scruple to seduce her, either — had he not told me, just a few hours ago, that he had lost all sense of morality? ‘I’m evil,’ he’d joked. But what if he was serious? Could a man with nothing to lose be trusted? I don’t consider myself a jealous person. But there was something about Ollie that made me feel ugly. And though it was restful to sit there with Daisy’s head on my shoulder and the darkness flying by, I knew I had to watch him closely.
‘Nightcap?’ he said, back at the house.
‘Not for me,’ Em said, before heading upstairs.
‘Nor me,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ll clear the table then get to bed. Trust Archie to leave a mess.’
‘Ian?’
‘A quick one while I let Rufus out would be grand,’ I said.
I swung the French windows open and off he went, nosing over the grass towards the orchard. The sky was a navy ceiling, springing silver leaks. Ollie fetched two basket-weave chairs and we sat on the terrace in the cooling air.
‘So,’ Ollie said, clinking whisky glasses. ‘One—nil to you.’
‘What?’
‘Our bet. You’re ahead.’
‘If you say so.’
‘But tomorrow’s Round Two.’
‘What’s that consist of?’
‘Not sure yet. But I’m losing, so I get to choose.’
An owl hooted, like a fog warning. I felt exposed sitting there, at the edge of the unfrontiered night. Never the bravest of dogs, Rufus seemed nervous too, slinking back from the darkness to lick my hand.
We drank some more. It had been a long day and I feltwoozy. To be honest, I can’t recall which of us spoke next. But I could swear it was Ollie who took the initiative.
‘Of course a bet is pointless unless it’s for money.’
‘I wouldn’t say pointless.’
‘We always agreed it would be for money.’
‘Did we?’
‘We just didn’t stipulate the amount.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Fifty quid?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘A hundred?’
‘You’re winding me up.’
‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘Let’s say five.’
‘Five sounds fine.’
We clinked glasses.
‘Grand,’ I said.
He paused, taken aback. I couldn’t see why.
‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘I know you like to gamble, but can you afford it?’
‘I’m not that poor, Ollie.’
‘No, of course, I wasn’t meaning to suggest …’
‘Besides, I’m winning. You’re the one taking the risk.’
‘Fine. Agreed. Five grand, then,’ he said.
Of course I could have said I hadn’t intended … that the use of the word … that he’d twisted my meaning … But he had me in a corner.
‘If you’re sure it won’t kill you,’ he said.
It wouldn’t kill me. But Em would. Five grand? It was more than two months’ salary, after tax. More than we’d spent buying the car. More than our wedding and honeymoon had cost. More, in effect, than the house, which we’d paid for with a 95 per cent mortgage.
‘Five thousand pounds,’ I said. ‘Wow.’
This was madness — the late hour, the strange house, the heavy drinking, the dateless night. But I knew my reputation was at stake. The bet was less a sporting contest than a test of courage: was I willing to take a risk? Say no and I’d lose anyway — would sink in Ollie’s estimation. He was my friend, my dying friend, and this bet his last request. Reject it and I’d be rejecting him.
‘We don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ he said, knowing he’d trapped me.
‘We’ve agreed now. Let’s shake on it.’
‘Five thousand pounds I beat you.’
‘Five