Читать книгу William’s Progress - Matt Rudd - Страница 45

…except, perhaps, for coral and red squirrels. And a certain type of parrot that only eats mangetout. I have conceded additional species on the understanding that I can go to the pub this evening, but only between the hours of 7 and 9 p.m.

It was Andy’s idea that they come all the way down to my local pub because I have a baby. He’s clearly trying to get back in my good books. Johnson isn’t. He arrives grumbling about it being a long way to go for a couple of hours, seeing as they both live in London and I live in the sticks. Despite Andy being a bastard and Johnson being miserable, I am delighted. I am in the pub. I am a free man.

The first pint vanishes in twelve seconds. The next two go almost as quickly. I should probably hold back: I am a dad now. But Johnson explains that it is important to wet the baby’s head, even if the baby isn’t here. And besides, I have to leave in an hour and they’ve come all this way, so we have another two pints in quick succession. We talk about nothing in particular, largely because baby talk is boring and talk about women would involve mentioning Saskia, which none of us feel like doing, given that we only have two hours.

None of us, except Johnson.

‘Andy?’ he asks after a long draw of lager. ‘Do you find it weird sleeping with a girl with whom your mate has already slept? It’s only, I did that once, back when life was fun, and the image of my mate, naked, kept popping into my head every time we shagged. It got to the point where I had to stop mid-coitus every time because it got all strange and homoerotic. I had to dump her because it felt like being in the wrong sort of threesome.’

Andy looks first at Johnson, then at me. He sips his pint thoughtfully and says, ‘Saskia and William. It was almost five years ago. I think we can all assume it’s water under the bridge.’

This is not the case. Saskia is still Saskia. Andy is still Andy. But the pub is still the pub, so after explaining that I’m fine with it as long as I never have to talk to Saskia, I have another quick pint and then another one. Then I suggest they come back because I have beers in the fridge.

‘And a baby in the living room,’ says Johnson. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

This proves to be a sensible decision. I zigzag home, open the door to the blissful domestic scene of Isabel still trying to make herself dinner, half undressed because she had momentarily given up on dinner and tried to go to bed, Jacob screaming in one arm, a soup spoon in the other, the kitchen looking like it has been ransacked by angry chimps.

‘Forget the coral and the parrots. You’re never going out again,’ she says. And she is only half joking.