52.
Josh
December 2007
Just before Christmas, I meet Oliver for the first time.
I’ve been expecting for a while to encounter the new boyfriend Rachel’s been seeing since late summer. But up till now she has somehow succeeded in keeping the two of us apart.
They’re the final ones of our group to show up to the pub, taking seats at the other end of our run of tables. But as soon as it’s my round, they follow me to the bar.
Oliver is tall, and – to my surprise – silver-haired. He’s very smartly turned out, and I get the feeling he’s exacting. The kind of guy who disinfects his groceries, sets a timer to brush his teeth, routinely tests his fog light.
He has his arm around her waist. She looks ethereally beautiful, in a kelp-green sweater, blonde hair cascading over the front of her shoulder. I can’t deny that he and Rachel look good together. You’d see them and think,What a nice couple.
I sometimes try to work out if Rachel looks noticeably older than me now. If, standing side by side, we appear in any way odd. But it’s a question I will always struggle to answer. Because, to my mind, she is just Rachel.
As she introduces us, it occurs to me that Oliver could be Lawrence’s slightly squarer older brother. I guess she’s developed a type since we split up, though I’m not too sure what this says about me.
‘Oliver Danvers,’ he says, pumping my hand so hard, I can’t work out if he’s trying to alpha-male me or is genuinely enthused to meet me.
The urge to reply withJoshua Fosteris fierce. I’m pretty sure the me of a few years ago wouldn’t have hesitated. But I decide Rachel would probably appreciate it if I didn't make this into a rutting stags thing. ‘Josh. Hi. Good to meet you.’
Then, for reasons best known to herself, Rachel says she’ll get the next round in and moves a little further along the bar, leaving her husband and her new boyfriend to arm-wrestle their way out of the world’s most awkward silence.
‘Rachel tells me you’re a teacher.’
Straight for the jugular, then.
‘I write novels as well. Kind of juggle the two.’
A lofty smile. ‘When were you last published?’
I scratch an itch that isn’t there on my jawline. ‘Four years ago. Or thereabouts. They take a while to... gestate.’
He nods, thoughtfully. ‘A bloke I used to work with is a writer now. He’s on a crazy schedule. Bangs one out every year.’
The pub is loud and busy and hot. I feel as if the whole world is ringing in my ears.
‘Great. Does he? Great.’
‘Do you write under a pseudonym?’
It’s not hard to work out where this is going. ‘Nope. My own name.’
‘Oh.’ He affects surprise. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.’
I lift my left hand then to rub my chin, so he gets a good view of my wedding ring. This is petty, I know. But – for a moment, at least – it makes me feel marginally better.
Averting his gaze from my hand, Oliver lowers his voice and says, with a wink, ‘Listen, I own a recruitment business. So if you’re ever in need of work, let me know. We have all sorts of openings that could suit you.’
He stops just short of saying,slaughterhouse operative, orcold-caller of the elderly, which would have fully outed him as the arsehole I know him to be.
At this point, Rachel returns, handing over our drinks, and she looks so bright and hopeful and happy, it breaks my heart a little bit.
Back at the flat, in a kind of remote toast to Wilf, I decide to smoke a cigarette. It’s been years since I’ve done so, social smoking at college like everybody does. But I bought a pack from the corner shop on my way home, because, tonight, I fancied it.
Tar’s transient now. Fuck it, they can’t kill me. May as well enjoy having vices.
