Happy New Year!!!
Our guests are due any moment now. Our electricity just got shut off. I know why… It’s because of that old lamp Livy just plugged in. She wants me to change the fuse. I want to unplug the light and ignore the problem.
She says: “Your phone’s ringing.”
I pick it up. It’s a strange number. I figure it’s the American guests who are wanting directions.
“Hi”, says a voice. “It’s Dave.”
Brilliant. It’s a wrong number.
“Dave Blair.”
I’ve only known one Dave Blair, and the last words I said to him, 21 years ago, were: “Listen, man. Have a great time in Bristol.”
“It’s your erstwhile school chum,” says Dave Blair.
Oh My God! It’s Dave Blair!
“I rung earlier. Did you get my message?”
Oh shit. He rung earlier as well? And I didn’t know because my phone was down the back of the sofa. But he doesn’t know what. He assumes I’ve ignored his message. And he’s probably also getting the impression that I dislike him which is why I’m pretending I don’t know who he is. I must act friendly. Must act friendly.
“WOW!” I shout. “Dave Blair!”
I am boiling with embarrassment. I am so embarrassed I can feel the skin peeling from my body. I have an overpowering desire to get away. I open the front door and I hurry out into the street in my socks.
So he says: “So… how ARE you?”
Erm… I’m feeling slightly better now I’m outside, but my socks are soaking up the rain. Can I say that? What can I say? “Yeah… Good. Great!”
For some reason, I’m sounding a bit camp.
“What are you up to?” he says.
Oh God. I suddenly have an image of myself: the person they were hoping to speak to: their crazy old school friend. Last time I saw Dave Blair, we were getting pissed, snogging girls, and wearing traffic cones as hats.
“I’m waiting for friends to arrive for a Christmas party,” I say.
Is that good enough? What is good enough? I don’t know what the rules are in this friendship.
“Kevin,” he says.
Oh dear. I’ve not been called Kevin in 21 years. I can’t be called Kevin. I must change the subject.
“What are you up to?” I manage. My voice has gone squeaky.
“I’m on a roof top in Mumbai with Max Fysh.”
They’re calling my mobile from India? Who’s paying for this call?
“So… how ARE you?” He asks again.
Please don’t ask me that again. Jesus, my guests are due here right now. This is such a bad time to call. But he’s taken 21 years to call me. I can’t really ask him to call me back tomorrow.
“I’m good,” I say again. “You’re on a roof top with Max Fysh?”
“Yes!” he says. “I’ll pass you over.”
I feel myself being passed over, like I’m some kind of prize.
“Andrew!” says Max. “What are you up?”
“I was just about to change the fuse on a light.”
He laughs. He spends two minutes talking about lights and fuses. To be honest, I’m happy with that. I’m not really listening, but my embarrassment is subsiding to more manageable levels.
“I’ll pass you back to Dave,” he says suddenly.
DON’T DO THAT!
Now I feel more like granny, being passed around at Christmas time.
“Dave,” I say, “it’s great to hear from you. Would you call me when you come back to England?”
“Sure.”
He realises I’m winding up. He senses the rejection.
“Oh God. What do I say now?”
“Happy New Year!” I say, with sudden fervour.
That’s it. That’s the thing to say. For a moment I feel good.
“Happy New Year!” he replies.
“Happy New Year!” I say again. I’m like a missionary who’s here on earth to wish people a happy new year. “Happy New Year!”
« Previous Entry: style.letters@sunday-times.co.uk Next Entry : A genocide of the Polly Pockets »
Leave a Response