Page 13 of Mad About You

‘I woke up and I was hungry,’ Barty said, boredly, looking back at a banquet spread which Harriet now saw included two pain au chocolat.

There was a brief yet painful pause.

‘Same here! Fancied an early brekkers,’ Jon said, leaning over to playfully muss his hair, which made Barty wriggle away.

‘With your luggage?’ Barty said, sceptically.

‘Oh, ah … no harm in being organised,’ Jon said, shakily, and they all stared at each other, in a Mexican stand-off involving blatant lies instead of guns.

‘I’m eleven, I’m not an idiot,’ Barty said, succinctly, and Harriet felt belatedly vindicated that the near-mute who asked his parents to explain everything was indeed a malicious persona.

‘Are you trying to avoid seeing my parents and grandparents?’ he added, clearly enjoying tearing off the mask to reveal Clever Barty. Barty Poirot.

Harriet, desperate to be gone, said, ‘Yes, we’re doing a runner.’

‘Why?’

‘Jon and I have broken up because I don’t want to get married.’

‘You did say you didn’t like weddings,’ Barty said, insouciantly,and returned to cutting up his hash browns. Finally, a Barraclough who listened to her!

‘True enough. Bye then,’ Harriet said, and saw that Jon looked like he was having a heart attack. She nudged him and gestured to the croissants.

As soon as the car door slammed outside, Jon rounded on Harriet: ‘Don’t you think I have the right to tell my parents before that little berk does?!’

She knew he must be genuinely incandescent, to be slandering his nephew.

‘Jon, I know, but we’d been caught red-handed.’

‘We could’ve fobbed him off!’

‘How? I couldn’t think of a single innocuous reason why we’d be legging it at this hour, could you?’

‘Well, if you’d given me a chance, before blabbing: “oh I dumped him, I dumped his ass, he dwells alone in a hovel in Dumpstown.”’

Harriet said nothing, having forgotten that Jon trying to speak ‘street’ was worse than him telling waiters about his bowel movements.

‘I’m really sorry. I did say we shouldn’t risk the dining room.’

‘They’ll be ringing me in ten minutes’ time now! Demanding explanations! And guess what, I don’t really have any? Turns out Harriet doesn’t love me and the thought of marrying me is like an EARLY DEATH!’

‘… Do you want me to speak to them?’

‘NO, I FUCKING DON’T! THAT WOULD BE REALLY WEIRD.’

He was port coloured, working himself to hysteria, and Harriet didn’t know what she could do other than stay calm. She wasn’t insured to drive the Mercedes, either. She really needed Jon to make good on his promises or she’d be waiting for an Uber, concealed in a ditch. She imagined pin dropping her location, in a roadside bush.

Eventually, breathing heavily, Jon resentfully thrust his key in the ignition and roared out of the hotel grounds as if he was in the Grand Prix. Harriet inwardly let out a huge sigh.

It was an odd thought, but as they tore through leafy country lanes full of cow parsley, she wondered if Jon now regretted agreeing to their (partially) successful bolt. After all, they were leaving behind the four people – minus her new pal, Barty the sausage gannet – who’d be appalled at Jon’s reasonless mistreatment, at the inconceivable arrogance and stupidity of rejecting him. Jon always wanted to protect and promote Harriet’s reputation with his loved ones, but had that expired abruptly, like insurance cover? She had terminated her policy and stopped paying the premiums.

They drove in threatening, unbroken silence back to Leeds. At first, Harriet felt she should say something, but as it continued, she felt respecting his not wanting a conversation was wise.

‘You can stay as long as you like until you find somewhere,’ Jon finally said, with wounded gallantry, as they passed through the electric gates to his house. It seemed a semblance of Jon normality had returned. ‘If you’re genuinely determined to do this.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the last part.

As they got out of the car, Harriet noticed the uneaten squashed pastry in the map pocket of the driver’s car door.

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