‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘But I don’t think you are really here mentally.’
She was right. I wasn’t – and with good reason. I was usually mulling over how to get myself out of the shit I was in and, to be fair to me, we had been talking about the same old stuff every night for ages. I’d made the same suggestions; take some time off work, go and see your old friends from Uni, stay with your big sister for a while? I’d also exhausted all the usual platitudes associated with bereavement. ‘Perhaps it was for the best Laura, you wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer Laura, she would have hated not being a hundred per cent Laura, but, after a while endlessly going through the same topic, who wouldn’t let their mind wander? Blokes aren’t like women. We don’t want to regurgitate everything a million bloody times.
I felt a bit pissed-off at Laura for saying I was unsupportive considering what I could see every time I looked up from my sofa. On one of my bookshelves a space had been cleared for the squat china urn that contained the last remnants of Mrs Angela Cooper.
‘Do you mind?’ she’d asked as she’d brought her mum’s ashes home from the crematorium, holding them like a little baby, ‘it’s only for a while.’
‘Of course not,’ I’d said because at that moment, she’d looked like any objection from me might very likely push her over the edge into some form of grief-related madness. So she’d moved my books and placed the urn on the shelf with great reverence. I had to stifle a grin. After all, a bookshelf was probably an appropriate place for Angela’s Ashes.
After a while though, their presence had started to irritate me. I couldn’t think of anything more morbid to have in my flat than my girlfriend’s late mother’s remains. Why couldn’t her big sister, her dim husband and their two overweight children take the bloody urn? It was meant to be a temporary home but just how temporary is temporary? A week, a month, two years? The problem was I couldn’t think of any subtle way of asking Laura, ‘when do you think you’ll be shifting your mother off my bookshelf then?’
I didn’t want to get into another row with Laura about my lack of support so I asked, ‘do you want me to stay home tomorrow night instead of going to the match?’
I’d hoped the offer of staying home would be big enough to placate her without actually having to go ahead and do it. I figured she would say something like ‘that’s really nice of you but you love the football, you should go.’ Then I could say, ‘are you really sure, I honestly don’t mind missing it just this once.’ If I was really lucky this might even lead to make-up sex. Any sex would have been preferable to the complete drought I was currently experiencing. Clearly funerals didn’t have the same effect on Laura’s libido as they did on mine.
What she actually said was, ‘do you mind not going?’
Yes, I thought.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Really?’ she asked
‘Course not,’ I said.
Shit.
I was driving through the city on my way home when Sarah called, ‘I need a hunky man,’ she told me.
‘Any particular reason,’ I asked, ‘or have your batteries gone?’
‘Cheeky,’ she said. ‘It’s a crisis.’
‘Broken a nail have we?’
‘No. I’ve got a flat tyre and I need a hunky man to rescue me. I’m a damsel in distress.’
‘You’re in luck, I’m doing a special offer on damsels this week. It’s two for the price of one. I’ll throw in a dragon slaying too if you ask me nicely.’
‘Sounds like good value, trouble is… ’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m down at the Metro Centre,’ she said, like she was wincing at the level of the favour she was asking, ‘you’re not by any chance passing through Gateshead on your white charger right now are you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
‘But I could be.’
‘I knew there was a reason why I love you.’
‘You mean apart from my good looks, charm and raw sexuality?’
There was a slight pause for effect, ‘has someone been telling you you’re good looking?’
‘Do you want this tyre changing or not?’
‘Yes please!’ she trilled, ‘love ya.’
She told me where she was parked and I set off to the Metro Centre, a place I would normally have avoided like the plague. With its acres of shopping hell, all under one big roof, I’d normally rather have a tooth pulled than go there voluntarily.
When I pulled up beside her she climbed out of her car. She looked very good in her skinny jeans.
‘Those the jeans you’ve been banging on about?’
‘Seven Jeans,’ she sang and she swayed her bum round and out at me, slapping her rump like they do in the R &B videos, ‘you like?’
‘They’re okay.’
‘Just bought ‘em. Perfect fit, wore them out of the shop.’
I found that strangely sexy and I didn’t even know why. I think maybe it was because Laura would never have done something that spontaneous. I looked away from her and surveyed the problem, ‘yep,’ I announced solemnly, ‘your diagnosis is correct, that tyre is definitely flat.’
‘Thank you doctor, now are you going to change it for me?’
‘Nope.’
‘What? I thought this was damsel day. Am I not a damsel then?’
‘Yep, you’re a damsel right enough but, if I change that tyre for you, you are going to be late for the match.’
‘I’m already late for the match. I’ve had to phone ahead so they’ll save me some dinner in the box.’
‘I also phoned ahead. One of my guys is on his way down here. He will take your keys, change your tyre and drive your car home for you. As soon as he gets here, I’ll drive you to the match just in time for your prawn sandwiches. Your dad or Finney can run you back afterwards.’
She beamed at me, ‘you think of everything,’ then she sighed, ‘why are all the good men taken?’
‘Because there aren’t that many of us and you’ve got to be quick to land one.’
We were inching towards the ground. The traffic had slowed to a virtual standstill from the sheer number of fans striding purposefully towards St James’ Park.
‘Can’t believe you’re not coming to the match,’ she sighed.
‘I know, neither can I, if I’m honest, but Laura’s a bit upset about her mum, so I said I’d give it a miss.’ I knew I’d have to sit there with her again in virtual silence while she sniffed and moped about her ma, like she’d done every day since the old lady’d croaked. I’d hoped she might ease up a bit after the funeral, but it actually seemed to get worse then because she didn’t have any arrangements to distract her. Let’s be brutally honest, her mum was old and ill and she’d had a bloody good innings. I’ve seen a damn sight more tragic and sudden deaths than her’s I can tell you. Besides, life is for the living.
‘We’ll probably be shite tonight,’ consoled Sarah, ‘the back four wanted shooting last time and the food in the box isn’t great these days. It was sausage and mash last time,’ she sounded amazed. ‘I mean they put “balsamic-glazed, onion gravy” on the menu, but it was still bangers and mash.’
‘Slumming it eh? Count yourself lucky,’ I told her, ‘when I was a kid, I used to be happy calling into the Metro Café for a plate of chips on my way up to the ground. I could only dream of sausage and mash. No executive boxes back then and, if there had been, I couldn’t have got in them. I was a Gallowgate-ender, standing in the rain. There wasn’t even a bloody roof ’
‘Must have been worth it to see Jackie Milburn though?’ She told me.
‘Oi, watch it you. You’re not too old to go across my knee.’
‘You wish!’
I dropped Sarah at the ground and wound the window down to shout, ‘behave yourself,’ at her as she walked off.
‘Don’t worry, I’m a good girl,’ she called back cheerfully.
‘Yeah, right,’ I said but she had already turned her back and was disappearing into the crowd.