Gone Viking Page 2

  Arse … I fish out my phone and peel off a squashed raisin before answering.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi,’ says the Eeyore-like voice on the end of the line. ‘It’s just me.’

  It’s always ‘just me’.

  ‘Hi. I’m about to go in to my session; I can’t really talk now. Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Just wanted to check when you’d be back—’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, as soon as I can. As planned …’

  ‘It’s just the trains—’

  ‘I’ve booked a ticket—’ Amazingly, I can organise my life …

  ‘—are cancelled.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There’s a replacement bus. I saw it on South East Today after a feature on parking restrictions in Brent.’ We don’t live anywhere near Brent, but my husband likes to have the TV on AT ALL TIMES in case he misses something ‘really important’. Probably parking related. ‘So anyway,’ he goes on, ‘you’re best off getting a lift from someone …’

  ‘I’ll work it out. Thanks.’

  ‘You could always call—’

  ‘Yes, I know I could call her. But I’d rather not.’ He means Melissa. A woman who doesn’t normally loom large in my life but is, as sod’s law would have it, local. I have no intention of calling Melissa. We’ve barely spoken in months and the last thing I’ll be in the mood for after two days at a dentistry conference is an in-depth analysis of why this might be. Or even worse – having to feign interest in her latest obsession. Or conspiracy theory. Or animal acquisition.

  Greg does a loud sigh, then offers reluctantly, ‘I mean, I could always—’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure,’ he responds – far too quickly – sounding relieved.

  ‘Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to go. There are people here on trampolines; I should probably be preparing in some way.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘Right then. Well … bye.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how the ki—’

  Cranberry Pants is coming towards me with a beanbag in her hand and a rictus grin. She taps her watch to hurry me along.

  ‘Got to go—’

  I’m just about to press the red receiver icon to ‘End Call’ with ‘Greg Mobile’ when I hear a rushed, ‘The kids are fine, thanks for asking.’ And then he hangs up.

  Shit … I am A TERRIBLE PERSON.

  I love them. Of course I love THEM. Even though they haven’t let me sleep beyond 5.30am since 2009 …

  I add my own name to the Total Arseholes list then feel an overwhelming compulsion to scratch my head. If Ms Itch-a-lot has given me lice, I think … well, then, that’s karma. But then Cranberry Pants is showing me all of her very large teeth and attempting to raise her eyebrows at me in a ‘shall we go?’ expression before frogmarching me out. And we are on.

  It should be noted for the record that a panel discussion on root canal surgery is every bit as much fun as it sounds.

  Afterwards, it’s hard to say who’s more relieved – audience or panellists.

  ‘Lovely …’ Cranberry Pants sounds strained now as she attempts to save the celebrity hygienist from the editor of Dentistry Magazine and walk in a way that doesn’t splice herself in two. ‘Now then, lunch?’

  She gestures towards several plates packed with neatly arranged cakes and sandwiches, sweating slightly. The backstage area is stuffy and, despite the lack of windows, an alarming number of flies have appeared and are now congregating atop a plate of ‘Tooth Friendly!’ branded fairy cakes. The hygienist bats away a bluebottle as a catering assistant crunches several more with the back of a spoon, flicking them off the plate before she thinks anyone’s noticed.

  I’ve noticed.

  There’s nothing here I can eat. Or rather that I’ll allow myself to eat. So I don’t. This is a mistake. Because what I do instead is drink. And I soon discover that the warm white wine on offer doesn’t taste so bad after a couple. Then an overly hairsprayed woman gives me a pink ‘Dentists Rule!’ glass suspended on a chord that can be worn around my neck. The larger, beer-glasses on a man-ribbon have presumably been reserved for the male delegates, lest they break my fragile female mouth. But I don’t care. Because now I have WINE to hand At All Times! Not even ‘to hand’, I think, giddy with novelty … hands-free!

  This makes the ‘Wave Ta-Ta to Tartar’ seminar much more interesting and even the Cavity-In-A-Hat magician doesn’t seem quite so crap when I’m partially inebriated (‘How does he DO that with the doves?!’). I also find the awards ceremony (‘the pinnacle of the dentistry year!’) less painful than usual, and start a secret game of cliché bingo, drinking every time someone says ‘raising the bar’, ‘recognising excellence’, or ‘giving a hundred and ten per cent …’ It’s like The Apprentice, I marvel, but everyone’s got fractionally flatter hair!

  Soon, the comforting blanket of fog descends and wraps itself around me so that my senses are dulled and I feel slower – softer, even – than usual.

  Ahh, alcohol, I think, fondly. Hello, old friend …

  I’m a lot more sociable when I’m drunk. But after some surprisingly pleasant exchanges with the celebrity hygienist and a woman who runs a practice in Peckham, I get stuck with a man who looks as though he’s been on a lot of caravan holidays, and another who’s clearly wearing bronzer (and possibly mascara). Mascara Man proceeds to cup his hand around my elbow and tells me he’s a life coach.

  ‘I specialise in pre-surgery visualisation,’ the melted, latter-day Simon le Bon insists enthusiastically. ‘Close your eyes, I’ll show you!’

  Because I’m overly obliging, socially awkward and inebriated, I do.

  When I open them, I pray inwardly, please don’t have your penis out. After some gubbins about ‘pelvic breathing’, I squint to find the male member still, thankfully, concealed beneath some flammable-looking trousers but I’m alarmed to note the white ghost of a wedding ring. This happens a lot at trade events: the lanyards go on and the wedding rings come off.

  I politely decline melted Simon le Bon’s suggestion to go on a cocktail-menu crawl but then he slurs something about ‘lady dentists’ being ‘really sexy’.

  Oh dear lord …

  This is: a) gross; b) a patronising affront to my feminist principles; and c) gross. Because no one over the age of twenty-five should ever use the word ‘sexy’. Ever.

  I scroll through my mental rolodex of excuses to get the floss out of there, but my mind isn’t able to function as swiftly after five glasses of hands-free wine, so when a tall, handsome man with truly excellent teeth butts in and suggests we all move through to the next room ‘for the disco’, I comply.

  ‘Urggh, thanks,’ I whisper, swaying slightly despite my best efforts to walk in a straight line. ‘You saved me from another demo of his hypnotism skills. On top of his life coaching. And his making-wedding-rings-disappear trick …’

  Mr Teeth makes a joke about ‘watching out for the pampas grass lobby’ at these events, and I laugh, always impressed when the seriously good-looking are also funny – as though they don’t have to be. They already have so many advantages the rest of us lack. And Such. Nice. Teeth …

  Under the influence of alcohol, he blurs out of focus, then multiplies by two, crossing over himself, before swinging back again in an odd sort of Shiraz-induced optical illusion. This makes ‘walking’ even more of a challenge but, somehow, we make it.

  Roxy Music are playing in the ‘party room’ (not in person, FYI – dentistry budgets don’t stretch that far …), and it’s around about this time in the proceedings that my glass of Shiraz starts whispering to me, conspiratorially.

  Shiraz: ‘Oh, hey you! Wouldn’t it feel good to throw some shapes around about now? Shake things up?’

  Me: ‘No. Go away. You’re drunk—’

  Shiraz, interrupting: ‘No, YOU’RE drunk! Trust me: you’re a brilliant dancer …’

  Me: ‘No. Must stay in control. At all times
. That’s my thing. Along with hiding in the loo at social events.’

  Shiraz: ‘Pah! That’s the old you. The bor-ring you that works all the time and is stressed and hasn’t smiled in weeks! This is the new, FUN version!’

  Me: ‘I am NOT dancing …’

  Shiraz: ‘Horse shit!’ (My glass of Shiraz has quite a mouth on her.)

  I’m drowsy and confused and the music is loud. So, really, everything that happens after this point is Bryan Ferry’s fault (and the wine. Did I mention the wine?). But what *I think* happens is this:

  1) Mr Teeth takes my hand and we move to the side of the dance floor.

  2) The hands-free-glass hanging around my neck is refilled and Mr Teeth even procures a straw for me so that all I have to do is dip my chin and suck (so to speak …) to get my Shiraz on. Naturally, this means I drink All The Wine until Mr Teeth offers to top me up. I gratefully accept and drink some more. This happens, on repeat, until I feel numb. Do I still have toes? I wonder, in an abstract sort of way. I haven’t felt them in at least half an hour …

  3) Many more dental practitioners flood the room until we are all pushed up against each other.

  4) And then …And then …

  I’m looking down at a woman wearing the same ten-year-old Zara skirt suit as me, with the same ten-year-old hairstyle as me, and the same nervous laugh as I’ve been trialling for the past decade (spoiler alert: it’s me) and I’m shouting at her: YOU’RE ABOUT TO KISS A MAN WHO IS DEFINITELY NOT YOUR HUSBAND! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! THIS IS ABSOLUTELY, INCONTROVERTABLY NOT THE FATHER OF YOUR CHILDREN! CEASE AND DESIST!

  But she doesn’t.

  For about twenty seconds I don’t know how I feel about this. How should I feel? Horrified? Guilty? I should feel guilty around about now. Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I be breaking away and running off in tears? That’s what would happen in a Richard Curtis film, wouldn’t it … ? Quick! Someone check …

  But I’m tired. So tired. And it’s so unlike me. Because, well, who wants to play that part? The married mother of two who snogs strangers while listening to Bryan Ferry at a dentistry conference just off the M42?

  Then I remember all the cumulative rows that Greg and I have had over the past decade – rows over who does more (me …) and whether or not the other partner appreciates it (he doesn’t …). And I think, Is that it? Is that what it’ll be like? For the next eighteen years? Or longer? What with house prices and financial uncertainty and kids living at home for ages … (Damn you, economy!) After which we can look forward to a future of staring at each other in silence, wondering what to talk about and counting down the hours until we can go to sleep? I promised to hang out with him until death us do part. But people live forever these days, don’t they?

  I can almost picture a messenger on each of my shoulders, trying to sway me:

  Good Angel (a miniature blonde in a metallic dress. Essentially, Kylie): ‘You can’t split up – you’ve just had the bathroom done! You’re booked in for an extension next spring; you have two wonderful children – and you don’t want to be “the woman who ended her marriage at a dentistry conference”!’

  Less-Good Angel (aka Shiraz): ‘Greg-Schmeg … What you really want is for someone to hike up your skirt and shag you senseless. And that hasn’t happened in quite some time. Definitely not post-Brexit …’

  And then … nothing.

  I wake up at the convention centre’s Premier Inn, naked but for my ‘Alice Rat’ lanyard, on top of a dubiously stained hotel ‘comforter’. I appear to be alone. And the colour-coded toiletries arranged in perfect symmetry on the bedside table confirm that I’m in my own room. But still … things aren’t looking great.

  I feel jagged and raw, and I can barely lift my head it’s so heavy. Instead, I have to prop myself up on my elbows, then execute a sort of commando roll to get to the side of the bed and sit up. The room spins a full 360 degrees so I decide it’s probably best to keep low and slow, sliding off the divan and onto the floor. There’s an acrid tang in my mouth and a vague stench of stale self-loathing emanating from my every pore. I crawl to the en suite, splash my face with water, then look up to see a woman whose mouth has set to a thin line, with a complexion like pea soup and a mop of dry, straggly hair. She’s thin from exhaustion – the cleft of each rib can be made out, clearly – but she’s flabby around the middle from not having had time to exercise since 2009. And possibly the late-night sugar/meat-patty sessions. Her eyes are small red slits and she has what the magazines call ‘wine-face’.

  ‘I never want to look that tired,’ I say out loud, as the mirror-hag mouths the words back at me.

  Ohhhhh …

  I don’t recognise this new reflection. Or rather, I don’t want to. But my mind feels ragged. Threadbare, even. I force myself to breathe slowly and to try not to vomit as the air curdles around me. I turn on the shower and make the water as hot as I can until steam obscures the reflective glass and saves me from myself. Then I peel off the lanyard now adhering to my clammy chest, curse the cellulite blooming in my thighs, and scrub – hard – with a hotel flannel that’s seen better days.

  Washing feels good, I think. Really good. I should wash more … I wish I could do my insides, too, but make sure I give all available surfaces a thorough going over then scrape the heck out of my cheaty-snogger-mouth that so betrayed me last night with a new, goodie-bag box-fresh, firm-headed toothbrush. This initiates a small gag-reflex but I rationalise it’s a price worth paying for a clean(er) mouth.

  And then the guilt comes.

  It descends like lead, crushing my chest first, then sinking to my stomach, until I think it might be a good idea to just let my legs crumple and lower myself down again onto the hotel bathroom’s cold, tiled floor.

  Charlotte and Thomas.

  Seven and five.

  Laughing. Puffy-eyed from sleep first thing in the morning. Tumbling downstairs, dressing gowns flapping. Eating boiled eggs and soldiers. Having their faces flannelled until they’re pink and glowing. Or, I calculate, if everything’s running to schedule, smelling sweetly minty around about now, after two minutes each with the electric toothbrushes they got for Christmas. I miss them. And the thought that I might have done something that could hurt them pierces like a thorn. Because whatever problems Greg and I may have, he’s their dad. So I’m going to have to get on with him. Somehow. Better.

  It was easier when he was working. He had something to get up for in the morning. He made an effort, and shaved and ironed his shirts occasionally. Staying at home was only ever supposed to be temporary. ‘Just until I find something else,’ he’d said. So I took on more responsibility at the practice and worked longer hours. I got promoted and my new role came with the ‘honour’ of occasionally speaking at events like these. Greg said he’d look after the kids and use the opportunity to make a start on his ‘Seminal Guide to Stonehenge’: a project he’d apparently started as a student but had to postpone because of, well, life. So the spare bedroom became a shrine to druid temples, pictures of rock formations and academic journals. Only he didn’t do much of the ‘looking after the kids’ bit. And I still cooked and cleaned and dropped them off at school. And he’d just about remember to pick them up from the child-minder before coming home to slump on the sofa or fall asleep in his ‘study’ on his ‘day bed’. Which, increasingly, was becoming his night bed too.

  He hasn’t applied for a job in months now. And when I offered to read the book – or at least the chapters he’d written so far – he became suddenly sheepish. He told me something about it being better to ‘read it all in context’. And that was that.

  So although, yes, I am technically a terrible person, I’m pleading mitigating circumstances. And I’m quickly becoming convinced that this morning’s monumental hangover is Punishment: Part I.

  I scrabble around for painkillers, find some in my bag, take two, then remember that they’re the special ones from work with big shouty letters on the packaging that read: One a day. DO NOT EXCEED R
ECOMMENDED DOSAGE.

  I try regurgitating one. Or both. Which, obviously, doesn’t work and just makes me feel more anxious and dizzy.

  Smart. Really smart … I scold myself, before deciding that perhaps I should try eating something. Ordinarily, I don’t do breakfast, but I rationalise that this might be one of those days that calls for an exception. Fruit, maybe? Half a grapefruit?

  The ‘restaurant’ – another windowless room – is crammed with children and their parents, all bound for the nearby theme park. It smells of wet wipes and despair and the decibel level is deafening.

  ‘Araminta? Do you want cow’s milk on your cereal today? Does Mummy usually give you half fat or full fat? Try this and tell me if it tastes normal …’ a man wearing a blazer and cufflinks to a Premier Inn breakfast buffet addresses his two-year-old. Another woman loads as many bagels as she can into her handbag while a third dissects five hard-boiled eggs to extract the yolk and discard the rest.

  People are ridiculous.

  The sounds of several dozen spoons bash against bowls as though competing to give a toast and various pre-schoolers are congratulated loudly on their Weetabix intake (‘Four, Felix? Clever boy!’fn2).

  My skull is going to split open, I think. Right here and now. That, or splinter internally and haemorrhage in some way … I decide, nursing my cranium. But at least I’m keeping full-throttle nausea at bay for now. Well done, me …

  I’m just approaching the ‘cereal ’n’ fruit station’ when I experience the first lurch: a fish hook in my stomach threatening to wrench up the single raw food bar I found in my bag and the only solids to have passed my lips since 11am yesterday. My head continues to pound as I contemplate the small spheres of soft fruit bobbing in murky liquid. I decide I would very much like to hollow out my brain with a melon baller, but take a bowl anyway and convince myself, ‘You can do this!’

  Only it turns out I can’t.

  It comes up – faster than I can stop it and with a force I didn’t know I had in me. The salad bar sneeze guard proves no match and offers little resistance. Great chunks of paleomush, stomach lining and Shiraz (damn you, Shiraz …) surge out of me and spray the fruit, the cereal, and onlookers. Liberally.