Читать книгу William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story - Matt Rudd - Страница 23

Isabel wants to know what Johnson, Andy and I always talk about at the pub, besides brazen, harlotish women in bars.

‘Stuff,’ I say.

‘What stuff?’ It’s not the first time she has asked but this time she says she has a right to know.

‘I am your wife. You shouldn’t be going out with them any more. Not without telling me what you talk about.’

This is the sort of thing Johnson has been warning me about. I must nip it in the bud.

‘Well …’ I begin with a sharp, scandalised intake of breath.

‘I was joking,’ she says. ‘It’s only that you never seem to come back from the pub with any news about the two of them. I was curious about how you pass the time.’

This could easily be a trick. If I was a better chess player, I’d be able to work out the various permutations before I opened my mouth. I don’t think she’s trying to trick me. She’s simply making conversation. She likes talking to me when we get back from work. She likes it more than watching television. This is obviously a compliment but it does mean I am no longer up to speed with The Bill. It could also still be a trick.

‘Well, you can come.’

‘What?’

‘Come to the pub.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Er, yes.’ Suddenly, I’m not. I should have just moved the pawn. That would have been fine.

‘Okay, but you have to talk about the things you always talk about. No chatting about art and poetry and horse-riding just for my benefit.’

These are the things she really does like to talk about, which is sometimes a problem. I don’t know very much about art but she does, on account of her highly arty family upbringing. The poetry of the Romantic Period was her special subject at university and, unlike everyone else who went to university, she still remembers it. And made me go to several poetry recitals when we first met just because she really, really wants to share the joy of it all. I almost got it. I almost did. I could see why she loved it and why I was a useless philistine for not loving it as much.

Horse-riding, though. That’s where we really come unstuck. She loves horse-riding. When we’re tired of London (about five years) and we’ve won the lottery, she wants to move to somewhere remote and horsey like North Wales. She wants to ride and muck out stables and give out carrots and blow in horses’ nostrils because they love it. She likes smelling of horse.

We’ll never see eye to eye on the joy of horses.

I phone Andy and Johnson, both of whom are suspicious, even when I tell them we don’t have to talk about poetry. Reluctantly, they agree to meet me and Isabel in the pub on Friday—and pretend she’s a bloke.