For Bill and Pete, friends since school, sixty is a defining moment, forcing a reappraisal of life as urgent as it is unexpected. But if there is no turning back, can they move on, taking wives, girlfriends, children and each other, along for the ride? Or, transformed in body and mind, must they return to Go, dreaming, however late in the day, that life can start over again? Poignantly exploring the difficulties of ageing and friendship, Estorick's novel is a compelling portrait of middle-class life.
Release date:
July 10, 2019
Publisher:
Quercus Publishing
Print pages:
186
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It was the best of ties, it was the worst of ties, Bill thought merrily, caressing the gaudy striped confection around his neck; then told Pete, over the phone: ‘Wear a tie. I assume you own one.’
‘What's wrong with the pub?’
‘You’ll like it, I promise. Food's excellent.’
‘I’m sure,’ Pete said, doubtfully.
‘We also have very good pictures.’
‘How would you know?’
‘The members are always boasting about them.’
‘Ah!’
‘Don’t be late. The club table fills up.’
‘I have been there before,’ Pete said.
‘Really? I didn’t know.’
‘You don’t know everything.’
Bill and Pete had been friends for almost fifty years, ever since as ten year olds in identical grey shorts, they had occupied adjoining desks in the Assembly Hall of the senior school whose entrance exam they were sitting. Both had won scholarships – Pete to nobody's surprise, Bill to almost everyone's, not least his father's – and had been friends ever since, though whether they still liked each other, whether indeed they ever really had, now seemed beside the point.
‘What's up?’ Pete said. ‘Must be very important.’
‘Not especially. Why?’
‘Never mind.’
Bill had rung up the day before, much to Pete's surprise, because Bill never phoned – that was one of the characteristics of their friendship which had been established early on. It didn’t mean Bill didn’t want to see Pete. He enjoyed asserting himself over his contemporary far too much for that to be the case, and often seemed to enjoy Pete's company rather more than Pete did his. But the fact that Bill had telephoned at all suggested something significant must have taken place, though when Pete expressed surprise, Bill seemed not to understand. Evidently, he was unaware that almost all their meetings over the years had been initiated by Pete.
‘Well, as it happens,’ Bill said, ‘I’ve just been elected to…’ He mentioned the name of a London gentlemen's club he’d been wanting to join for years.
‘Bully for you.’
‘Thanks. I am rather chuffed.’
‘Good for business, I’ll bet.’
‘Oh, no. Nothing like that.’
‘The Old Boy network and all that crap.’
‘You don’t have to come, you know,’ Bill said.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘I could have painted that,’ Pete said, casting a professional eye over a large group portrait of men in suits hanging above the bar. ‘Only I couldn’t have. What a bunch of stiffs.’
He’d visited the club, a Victorian mausoleum with columned portico and echoing marble hall, some years before, when it was looking for someone to paint the committee. It had been a complicated commission involving a large number of people, of necessity working from photographs (which Pete hated and priced accordingly), and as soon as he’d named his fee knew he wouldn’t get it. For as Whistler had found to his cost a century earlier, the experience which went into making a work of art was of little significance to the person paying for it. All the same, Pete had been curious to see what they’d ended up with, and wasn’t in the least impressed.
Bill frowned at the painting as if he’d never noticed it, and said: ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Do they have anything as common as beer?’
‘I’ve no idea. Albert?’
The barman smiled insincerely.
‘Bitter. In a straight glass,’ Pete added.
‘A silver tankard, perhaps? The members prefer them.’
‘A straight glass is fine.’
Bill waddled over to a table in the bay window and sat down heavily. Pete followed with their drinks.
‘Did you have to?’ Bill said, shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘You know perfectly well. You’ve always done it.’
Bill knocked back his drink in one go, and said: ‘Great view, isn’t it’, indicating with his chin a patch of worn grass on which stood the skeleton of a marquee. Above a line of plane trees, like something from another world, loomed the London Eye.
‘So how does it feel to finally be a fully paid-up member of the Establishment?’ Pete asked.
‘It didn’t really take that long. Shows we can afford to be choosy.’
‘Does it?’ Pete smiled, then said: ‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘Carol's a bit miffed, between you and I. Womens’ Lib and all that.’
‘Me.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Me. Not I.’
Bill frowned again. ‘Oh, right.’
‘What's it got to do with her?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘I don’t.’
‘That's because you’ve never been married.’
‘Thank God!’
‘You’ve missed out on a lot.’
‘Yeah, right. The minute a woman gets spliced her un-married friends become persona non grata. Suddenly, she's convinced every single woman is after her boring husband, while all his men friends want to drag him off to the golf club.’
‘Don’t they?’
‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t play golf.’
‘Bill, why are you always so literal? You’re missing the point.’
‘Which is?’
‘That not everyone wants the same thing.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Bill said, struggling to his feet.
2
‘Good lunch?’ asked Sarah, Pete's girlfriend for the past couple of years.
‘Weird. Totally weird. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing there and he never told me.’
‘Perhaps he was just being friendly.’
‘Showing off, more like. Bill's never performed a disinterested act in his life. We didn’t talk about a bloody thing.’
‘He never does.’
‘You should see the size of him. I thought he was going to explode.’
‘He's insecure. He wants your approval.’
‘Bill doesn’t care what I think. Never has.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
Pete shook his head. ‘Bill's made a career out of believing in absolutely nothing and assuming everyone thinks the way he does. And you know what? Maybe he's right. All these years I’ve been busting a gut to get kids to look with their own eyes, to really see what's in front of them, have been a total waste of time. The Bills of this world have finally won.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘But it's true. People don’t want to make anything anymore, they just want to be famous for being their stupid, half-witted, ill-educated, boring selves, and Bill's made his fortune encouraging it.’
‘He really gets to you, doesn’t he?’
‘Yep. Always has.’
3
‘How's Pete?’ asked Carol. She and Bill had recently celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
‘Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Chippy as ever.’
‘Where d’you take him?’
‘The club… Big mistake.’
Carol nodded. ‘Hardly his thing.’
‘I thought he needed cheering up, and it made a change from the pub.’
‘Still with Sarah? Her time must be almost up.’
Bill appeared perplexed. ‘Don’t you know?’ Carol added. ‘Whether he likes them or not, after three years out they go. Whoosh. That's if they haven’t already been dumped.’
‘I didn’t ask. We don’t talk about that sort of thing.’
‘What do you talk about?’
‘God knows.’
4
The phone rang in Pete's studio.
‘Pete? Bill.’
‘Good Lord, twice in a week!’
‘The other day, at lunch. There was something I meant to ask.’
‘I thought there might be.’
‘You know I’ve got this big birthday coming up.’
‘Not just you. All of us. The big six-oh.’
‘Yes, of course. Quite. Well, Carol's organised this party in Puglia, but please don’t be offended if I don’t ask you. There are certain people she insists on, and numbers are very tight.’ Pete wondered why they felt obliged to ask anyone, and said: ‘Fine. It's fine.’
‘No, really. I want you not to mind. It's important to me.’
No it's not, Pete thought, and said: ‘Bill, shit happens. I get the message, and it's OK. No need to feel bad. I’m not offended. Honestly.’
But as soon as Pete put the phone down he rang Sarah.
‘That fat fuck Bill. Know why he asked me to lunch, only he didn’t have the balls to say so to my face? To tell me he wasn’t going to invite me to his fancy fucking birthday party in poxy Poo-li-ah, wherever the fuck that is.’
‘But he's your oldest friend.’
‘Not any more. He even blamed Carol.’
‘Typical …. Do you mind?’
‘Not really.’
‘I would.’
‘We probably couldn’t afford it. And anyway, I hate his friends, always have. Bunch of complacent clowns.’
‘Well, that's all right then!’
5
Bill woke in a muck sweat, his pillow soaking wet. Carol pressed a hand to his forehead, and said: ‘You’ve got a fever.’
‘I can’t . Places to go, people to see.’ Bill tried to stand, but fell back heavily onto the bed.
‘Cancel them.’
‘Impossible. I’ve been working on this deal for months. This is zero hour.’
‘It’ll have to wait.’
‘No way.’
Again, Bill tried to get up, and again his legs gave way.
‘Stay there. I’ll get you a herbal tea,’ Carol said. ‘You’ll feel better.’
‘None of that New Age muck. Get me coffee. I need strong coffee.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Carol said, saluting.
‘Sorry.’
When Carol returned, with a hot drink of her choosing, he said: ‘I had that bloody dream again. Third night in a row.’
‘The golf one?’
Bill nodded. ‘Yep. Trying to hit the ball off a table through the bathroom window. Always falling behind. Clubs made of rubber.’
‘Kinky! It's your age, I expect.’
Five years earlier, Carol had chucked in a lucrative career in the City and retrained as a psychotherapist. Bill still had no idea what kind, and even if he could have remembered the name of her particular school, it would have meant nothing to him. Nonetheless, he felt proud of his wife for having made such a courageous move at her time of life.
‘Just as I was pausing at the top of my backswing the phone rang,’ he said.
‘It did. At three a.m. But there was no one there.’
‘There was definitely a voice in my dream.’
‘Sex?’
‘What's sex got to do with it?’
‘What sex was the voice?’
Bill shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Everything matters.’
‘Well, if you must know, it was about heather.’
‘Who's Heather?’
Bill grinned.
‘The bloody horrible purple stuff you get on golf courses.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Carol stood up and walked to the door.
‘The other Heather knows better than to call me at home,’ Bill added. ‘In case you’re worried.’
‘I’m not,’ Carol said, going out.
Carol sat on the side of the bed, stroking Bill's forehead.
‘You should lose some weight. It isn’t good for you, and it gets harder as you get older.’
‘I’m glad something does.’
‘I mean it. I don’t want to be a premature widow.’
‘As soon as this deal's done, I’ll go to a fat farm. Promise.’
‘I’m only thinking of you.’
‘I never have time to go t. . .
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