Page 3 of Wish You Were Here
‘Proud of you,’ says Abigail with a supportive double thumbs up.
‘Nice one,’ says Poppy, as the front doorbell rings. ‘That will be Hugh. He couldn’t make it here for the beginning of the intervention, but wanted to have his say.’
Poppy wanders off to let her husband in, and after a minute, Poppy and Hugh walk back into the living room together. Our Clapham flat is tiny and consists of a narrow hallway, two similar bedrooms, a bathroom and then the kitchen, which is just about big enough for two people to stand in, as long as you don’t attempt to actually cook anything. It’s poky, and because it’s just Flatmate Simon and me, it definitely has student accommodation vibes. It isn’t a dump by any stretch of the imagination, more somewhere that’s on its way to gentrification but isn’t quite there yet – like parts of Hackney. I look towards Hugh, who has something to say. Hugh Delaney, thirty-three, works in insurance, and is a safe pair of hands. He’s in his work suit and has a briefcase that reminds me of Will fromThe Inbetweeners.
‘You know me, Ben, I’m not one to speak badly of others, and I think that generally in life, I live by the ethos of, you know, each very much to their own, but I have to say, and I’m sorry if this is hard to hear, old boy, but Saffy is, and I hate to use this word, especially with ladies present, a bit of a c—’
‘It’s all right, he agreed to break up with her!’ says Poppy.
‘Oh, right, okay,’ says Hugh. ‘Phew. Well, that’s all good then.’
There is a moment of silence when no-one seems sure what to say, until eventually it is broken by Flatmate Simon, who suggests going to the pub because when all else fails and no-one is sure what to do next, there is always the pub.
I am twenty-nine, and recently I have had this overwhelming fear that time is going by so fast and if I’m not careful, I’m soon going to be turning forty and I might still be single. After university, I moved to Clapham, into this flat with Flatmate Simon, started my career in finance, and I thought that in time I would meet the right girl, we’d eventually move in together, get married, buy a house, have children and that was the life I was all geared up for. However, with my thirtieth birthday fast approaching, and with no clear sign that any woman is even close to becoming a long-term girlfriend with prospects, it’s a little unsettling, to say the least. You spend your life convincing yourself that you are the very epitome of normal, but at some point you have to ask yourself the question: What if I’m destined to live out my days in a series of problematic and unhealthy relationships with deeply flawed women?
After the pub, I text Saffy and arrange to meet her after work tomorrow. I have to break up with her for so many reasons, but mainly because despite everything, I’m looking for big, once-in-a-lifetime love and Saffy just isn’t it. There is a line fromThe Office, when Dawn the receptionist says, ‘It is better to be on the bottom of a ladder you want to climb, than halfway up one youdon’t’. This is exactly how I feel about my relationship with Saffy. I just don’t want to be up her ladder anymore. Yes, it’s been a year and a half of gradual climbing, but the truth is, now I am on the ladder, it’s clear it’s got quite a few rungs missing, and no matter how long we spend together, I am never going to make it to the top. As it turns out, what I actually need is a whole new ladder and fast.
2
Sydney, Australia
Saskia
‘Just don’t have sex with the best man,’ says Jess.
‘Why not? He’s hot!’ I reply.
‘He is, but he’s also a complete bastard.’
‘The devil!’ chips in Caroline from the other side of Jess.
‘That hasn’t stopped me before,’ I say.
‘Okay, fine, he cheated on Caroline with a stripper,’ says Jess.
‘Really?’ I ask disbelievingly. ‘Because that sounds like the sort of story you’d make up just to stop me from sleeping with him.’
‘Okay, fine, she wasn’t a stripper, but she was obviously a whore.’
‘Defo a whore,’ says Caroline, fiddling with Jess’s hair. ‘And she wasn’t the only one.’
‘Weren’t you and Brad only together for like a month?’ I ask.
‘That isn’t the point!’ says a suddenly weepy Caroline.
‘Look, Sas, it’s my wedding day,’ says Jess. ‘I know what you’re like, and I’m asking you not to fuck the best man, okay?’
‘What do you mean? I know what you’re—’
‘We’d really appreciate it,’ says Caroline.
‘Fine,’ I say, looking across at Jess in her wedding dress, and she does look incredible. Jess has always been tall, and now with heels, she is well over six feet. It’s hard not to feel like one of the seven dwarfs standing next to her when I am quite short at five-foot-two. This has been the story of our relationship since primary school. There was Jess, who was athletic, popular and intelligent, and then there was me, who was short, creative and clearly in Jess’s shadow – literally and metaphorically. I was with Jess the day she picked out the dress at the wedding shop in the CBD, and for everyday after when she needed something because I am her maid of honour and it is my job to make sure she has the best wedding day ever. Now this also includes me not sleeping with the best man, but if this is what Jess wants, then this is what she will get. Nothing is as important as making her wedding a day to remember – and not because I was caught rooting the best man against her explicit wishes.
‘Who isn’t having sex with whom?’ says Jess’s dad Graham, walking up to his daughter’s side. Graham is early-fifties, divorced from Jess’s mum and re-married to a woman named Tess, which is obviously a bit of a head-fuck for Jess.
‘No-one is allowed to have sex with the best man,’ says Jess.
‘He broke my heart,’ says Caroline disconsolately, dramatically putting a hand on her heart.
