That’s the point, says Colin obliviously. She’s not a girl. She’s an android. And once you know that, your stiffy goes. It’s the same with breasts, you see. If you can’t be sure –
I don’t see that it matters, I say. Fake, real, whatever. You’re still going to respond. Anyway, she’s not a replicant.
What? But I thought –
She’s an actress playing a replicant. Everything’s real.
Colin looks confused.
Yeah, but it’s diluted, somehow all the same. Because in the film she’s not real. And that’s what’s real while you’re watching it.
I glance across at Nodge. He’s looking pained, putting himself above the argument as usual. He’s making it plain that he finds this sort of thing childish. It annoys me, not because he’s not right – it is childish – but because he’s making a virtue out of standing aloof. Whereas me, I’m trying to make Colin feel comfortable, talk his language. I’m the good guy here, not him. I’m the good guy because I don’t mind seeming to be the bad guy.
Anyway, I can help you on this one. The girl from the Mirror. They are fake. I saw her interviewed on The Big Breakfast. She said she was very proud of the job. She said it made her feel – what was it? Empowered.
Colin looks a degree more crestfallen.
Really? So she’s not… they’re not…
They’re plastic fantastics. Both of ’em. Sorry.
Colin closes the paper and picks up his mug of tea thoughtfully. He nods as if he knew all along.
It just goes to show.
Just goes to show what? Nodge says, with naked irritation towards Colin.
Good. A crack in that smug, fake implacability. But his face is still composed, superior. The Court of Star Chamber.
Colin looks faintly startled.
Er… I don’t know. It just goes to show that you never can tell, I suppose.
Colin is peering through Nodge’s cigarette smoke, eyes narrowed to protect against fumes. Colin is always protecting himself against something, one way or another. He gives a slight shake of the head and a pucker of the lips, then gazes at the open doorway. We fall into silence again.
Colin has not been offended by Nodge’s obvious disdain. He adjusts his New York Nicks baseball cap, snapping the brim up. Nothing ever seems to offend Colin. Then he says brightly, out of the blue, Do you think there’s life after death?
Nodge doesn’t even turn around as he replies.
Have you ever wondered how Father Christmas gets down the chimney?
Nodge is a militant atheist, a relic of his distant past as a cracker-barrel Marxist. Colin smiles wider. His smile is wide, but his eyes seem colder and more and more distant every time I see them. I wonder if something is happening to him. I’ve heard from my mum that Olive is very bad, so I’ve been keeping off the subject with Colin. I don’t want to upset him. Also, I don’t want to be embarrassed. There’s always the possibility he might blub.
Seriously, though. What do you think? I mean, we can’t just disappear, can we? Then everything would be pointless.
He smiles again, as if in wonderment at some newly discovered conclusion. He picks up his cellphone and starts to play with it, flicking the aerial with his finger so it springs forward then bounces back. As if activated by this movement, it begins to trill.
I bet that’s Tony.
Colin puts the receiver to his ear and presses a lit green button marked ‘OK’.
Hello? Oh, hi, Tony. Oh, don’t worry. No, we’re fine. Yes. No. Can’t be helped. Sure. See you in a minute then. Bye.
Colin switches off the phone and balances it on the cusp of his stomach. He moves small muscles so that the phone rises and falls. An inch of red flesh shows beneath his T-shirt, which has a bright picture of a beach and palm trees printed on it, and the name of a holiday destination, Cancun, Mexico, where, in fact, he has never been. He sways back and forth on the white plastic collapsible chair.
That was Tony. He’ll be here in five minutes. He said he’s sorry, but he’s stuck in traffic on the Uxbridge Road.
I feel my irritation level rise a notch. The Uxbridge Road was clear when I drove down it. But I’m not going to show anything if Nodge isn’t. And Nodge is still maintaining his stance of emotional maturity. He shrugs, gives a faint, forgiving smile.
Diamond Tony. He’ll never change.
There’s a short pause, as if Nodge is calculating something. Then he says, I’m amazed he got up at all after last night.
Colin doesn’t seem to hear. The mobile phone loses balance and falls to the floor with a crack, and separates into two pieces.
Uh-oh.
He scrabbles for the phone. It has fallen into a puddle of old orangeade. He gingerly picks up both pieces and begins to wipe them with a paper towel. I have begun to strike my thumbs against each other, interlocking the fingers of my hands in front of me. Nodge clocks this and I seem to see a shadow of satisfaction pass across his face. He sits and waits for me to speak, as he knows I will.
I affect an unfelt nonchalance.
What? Did you two go out together last night then?
As if it didn’t matter.
We went down the Anglesea. That place they’ve tarted up.
Colin is trying to piece together the two sections of his phone. His tongue protrudes slightly from his thick lips. There is a tiny fleck of spittle on his cheek.
Bare floorboards. Charcoal grill.
Oh. Right.
But it isn’t right. It’s wrong. It’s a… breach of protocol. Tony is primarily and foremost my friend. I have priority access. If Tony is around, then he should call me, like he always has in the past. I was sat in last night, desperate for company if the truth be known, anticipating the fight I was going to have with Veronica today. And Tony called Nodge for a drink. No – maybe it was the other way round. Maybe Nodge called him. It won’t be so bad if it was that way round.
I was quite surprised to hear from him. I thought he was still away in New York.
Nodge always knows exactly what buttons to push. I can feel a stupid little ball of pain and rage gathering force in my stomach. Colin is still fumbling with the phone, with infinite patience. I search for something to say that won’t sound childish. After all, why shouldn’t Tony call Nodge instead of me? But I feel betrayed, furious. It’s OK to leave Colin out. But not me, not me. I’m not like him.
You never said at the Bush Ranger. About you going out with Tony.
Nodge shrugs, gives a particular kind of smile. This smile is really clever, because it is a reaching-out kind of smile, almost a smile of sympathy. It is an on-my-side kind of smile, which puts Nodge a moral notch up while he enjoys his triumph. It’s a smile that says, I was only trying to protect you.
Well, I didn’t think. Does it matter?
No. Of course it doesn’t, you fucking thief.
No. Of course it doesn’t. How was he?
I can feel the look on my face now, occupying the planes and curves. Sullen, sulky. I realize that I am more than mildly drunk. It suddenly occurs to me, through the slight fog of alcohol, I want to cry. This, I know, is meant to be a ridiculous thought for a thirty-year-old man to entertain. I want to be grown up, indifferent, big, large-hearted. But I’m not. I’m a schoolboy. We’re all schoolboys, schoolboys in the playground. And Nodge has dead-legged me. But now we look like grown-ups, it’s secret, it’s all in secret. I take a determined pull of lager from one of the cans we’ve brought with us.
Oh, you know. Same old Tony.
Done it!
Colin looks delighted. His phone makes a soft bleep to announce its return to functionality. He is entirely oblivious to what has passed between Nodge and me. I notice that my fists are clenched and make a conscious effort to relax them.
There is a blast of music from outside in the car park, cranked up so loud it sounds like there are speakers in the café itself. It is Radiohead, OK Computer. Old men pulling golf trolleys with Pringle sweaters and tams on their head
s turn at the sound, looking resentful.
Through the door, wedged open in an unsuccessful attempt to generate a breeze, I see his white 1965 Merc Cabriolet whack into a small parking space at a dangerously high speed. Tony’s face is in profile and he is singing along to the music. Gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, shoulders protected from the sun by a white T-shirt.
Tony turns and sees us through the door. He grins and gives a big thumbs up, then revs the engine before switching it off. The music abruptly ceases. He gives an almighty whoop, Yee ha! and catapults himself out of the car. He is wearing beautiful cream linen shorts, Birkenstock sandals. When he walks towards us, it is as if he is still dancing to the music. He jigs into the café and immediately throws himself on to the floor in an attitude of caricatured apology.
Forgive me! Forgive me! I am guilty. 1 am the arse of all arseholes. I am the scum of all scumholes. I am the butt of all buttholes, the piss of all pissholes.
He is bowing up at us now, flickering his eyes as if in prayer, on his knees. There is a small Prada logo on his T-shirt, a larger Armani label on his shorts. Colin gives an amiable grin, as does Nodge, the hypocrite. I make no response.
He springs to his feet, reaches out to shake Colin’s hand. Two gold and diamond rings, one on the index finger, one on the middle.
Am I forgiven? Please say I’m forgiven. I would have worn sackcloth, but it does clash with the Armani’s. Anyway, sackcloth went out with the spring collection.
He indicates the shorts, just to let us know that they aren’t just any shorts. He’s talking in high camp now. He gives a little flounce with his hips.
Colin doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but reaches his hand out and shakes it anyway. Colin’s hand is white, small, and seems to completely be encompassed by the brown manicured ham of Tony’s.
Forget it.
Colin means it. Unlike Nodge, who just isn’t showing it.
I knew I could rely on you, Colly-flower. You are Christ-like. No. You are Jesus. Nodge, what about you? You can’t be angry with me. It was all your fault, man.
He turns to me.
It was his fault, Frankie. If he hadn’t plied me with vodka for three hours, I would have heard the alarm clock. He’s a fucking maniac. Whoa. Are those real?
He’s clocked the copy of the Mirror.
Colin perks up.
It’s funny you should say that because we were just –
Tony ignores him and begins to talk over the top of him.
Frankie, come on. Cheer up, you miserable cunt.
I frown. He comes over and begins to tickle me under the arms like I was a big baby. At first this just fuels my anger, but I find the wherewithal to play the game.
OK. OK. Forget it.
That’s my man.
I’m just in a bit of a mood today.
Tony looks uninterested. Having re-established connection, he’s ready to move on to other things. He reaches for his mobile. I continue anyway.
I think me and Veronica have reached the end of the road, I say. And I want to add, I sacrificed her. For you.
I stare at the back of my hands, as if embarrassed to look up.
It was her birthday today. She wanted me to cancel. I said I wasn’t going to do it. So she told me it was her or you lot. That I had to make a choice. So that was that. No doris is going to get in between me and my mates.
I sit and wait for the reaction. I look up in anticipation. But instead of the unbounded joy and gratitude I had imagined, there is hardly any response at all.
That’s a shame, says Colin.
Too bad. Women are all mad anyway, man. Oh, hi! Polly. Darling, I’m sorry about the weekend.
Tony’s talking into the cellphone again. Nodge doesn’t say anything at all. He’s just shaking his head. It’s all very muted. It’s as if… as if… is this really possible? They didn’t really care one way or another. That maybe it was all in my head. That there was no choice to be made.
This thought is stabbing at me. I look out of the open door. Out of nowhere, dark clouds have begun to assemble, blocking the sun. Tony finishes his conversation, gets up and goes to close the sunroof on his Merc, then takes some smart new waterproofs out of the boot, plus a grand’s worth of clubs and equipment. Ping Zings, Bubble Burners, electric trolley, the whole kit and caboodle.
Nodge is hauling his clubs on to his trolley – good to medium quality, second-hand, polished and cleaned – then taking out a ball and wiping it thoughtfully. Colin has only a half-set in a bag that looks like it has come from a car boot sale – a Robin Hood quiver bag, tartan, canvas, circa 1975. He has a novelty Daffy Duck cover for one of the woods. He takes out a putter and swings it in an arc. I can see clearly that it is bent. He wobbles slightly when he walks, carries the bag on his back. He doesn’t have a trolley. We trek as a foursome towards the first tee. Tony ahead, impatient as ever, the three of us just behind.
Anyone want a side bet?
Tony is waving a fifty-pound note in the air. No one responds.
Aaagh, you pussies. Nodge, what about you? Give it some spice.
Nodge looks doubtful. Colin is shaking his head forcefully and grinning. I look at Tony’s set of clubs and electric trolley and my own second-hand set. I look at his mocking grin. I think of him and Nodge out drinking together last night.
Come on, Frankie. Be a man. Get your revenge, eh?
He laughs again. He’s talking about his lateness, but I’m thinking about his betrayal. There is something unpleasant in the laugh, something that mocks the fact that I was upset by him in the first place. He’s getting at me. I feel my hand tighten around my club.
Sure. Why not? If Nodge will join in too.
Nodge shakes his head.
Too rich for me. Anyway, I think we should just keep it friendly. This is meant to be fun, you know? You two are always too competitive. It spoils things.
The slight schoolmasterish tone provokes me. I become determined to engage him in the bet.
Come on, you fucking poof.
I see a flash of unconcealed anger in Nodge’s eyes which takes me aback slightly. But I continue anyway.
I’ll even give you two to one. What about that?
Nodge furrows his brow.
Two to one. Double your money.
Nodge tenses slightly.
What about me? says Tony.
Evens with you. But I’ll give Nodge the odds. Because he’s shit.
This is meant to come out more lightly than it does. But Nodge’s face puckers angrily.
It’s a deal.
The gamble has somewhere solidified the tension that was already hanging vaguely in the air. We all shake hands, affecting indifference but with an unmistakable solemnity.
What about you, Colin. Fancy a go?
I know Colin will refuse, but I don’t want him to feel left out. I’m smiling, but I feel grim inside. Colin shakes his head softly.
No. Then he appears to think for a second and says, This is silly. Can’t we just play for the fun of it?
This is fun. Isn’t it, Nodge?
My head is still swimming from all the booze, but I try to clear it, to concentrate on the game. Nodge grunts. He’s very definitely got the egg on. He’s already distracted, concentrating on the game ahead.
Tony hits a good first shot straight down the fairway, Nodge hits about forty feet behind him, Colin muffs and hits into rough off to the right. Now it’s my turn. Just as I’m about to hit, Nodge puts his club back in his golf bag, making a loud clunk. I let loose anyway and miss the ball almost entirely. It goes about ten feet.
Come on. That’s not fair.
Nodge shrugs. Colin looks away.
Tough beans, Frankie, says Tony, offering an apologetic grin.
No. Hold on. Nodge made a noise. It put me off.
Well, you shouldn’t have hit the shot then, says Nodge, who has already begun moving his trolley down the fairway.
Look. Let me take a free shot as it’s the first hole. Let
me take a mulligan. This is meant to be friendly.
Colin shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t start moving towards the next tee. Tony has put his clubs down and is rubbing sun oil into his face. His eyes are closed.
I continue, whining, We always do mulligans. Ever since we started playing, we’ve given mulligans.
Nodge has stopped pushing his cart and turns round towards me. He’s speaking with an exaggerated evenness that I know indicates absolute intransigence. He’s definitely got a major strop on.
Other games were different. We weren’t playing for money. Also you hadn’t just called me a fucking poof.
Colin, your casting vote. Do I get a mulligan or not?
Colin averts his eyes and shifts uncomfortably. The sun passes behind a cloud. I can feel a drop of rain on my face.
I dunno.
I bite my lip, Nodge-style.
Fine. If that’s the way it’s going to be…
Now I feel angry towards Colin as well as Nodge and Tony. After all I’ve done, the times I’ve protected the little shit. I march up to my ball, stand astride and, hardly thinking, slash at it with the club. The club meets earth and sends a clod out into the air. The ball moves maybe another five feet.
The formless anger inside me begins to harden into something colder, more purposeful. I become absolutely focused on winning the game, on obliterating them all. I compose myself again over the ball and feel myself going very still inside. The club, still a three wood, swings slowly back into the air and comes down smoothly. Nodge is in line with the green, but I don’t bother to call a fore. The ball whizzes within a few inches of his head and he jerks to one side in shock. Then the ball takes off into an upward trajectory, seeming to hold still at the peak of its arc, then falls perfectly just inside the edge of the green. An absolutely brilliant shot.
I hold my hand up in apology, slightly shocked at how close I came to hitting him. Nodge looks back at me, doesn’t return my wave.
Fuck him.
I manage to get the ball, amazingly, down in one from the edge of the green. Colin blows the hole completely, but I don’t care about Colin, because I know he isn’t going to win anyway, and even if he does, it doesn’t matter. I am silent and grim. One part of me is whispering that I am behaving badly, but I’m not listening.