was poured was not to see if you liked it, but to make sure that it wasn’t corked. If you didn’t like the taste, that was too bad, because you’d chosen it yourself. What you should do – if you were sophisticated – was just give the glass a swirl and sniff, which would tell you whether or not the wine was off. So this was what Ollie took to doing, reducing his performance to a series of loud inhalings followed by a curt nod. Sometimes, if he thought one of the girls didn’tknow what he was doing, he’d go into a long explanation of why he hadn’t actually tasted the stuff.
I must say Oliver ordered some pretty filthy wines those times I went out with him. I shouldn’t be surprised if some of the bottles were corked.
But what does that matter now? The same as what does it matter whether or not I was a virgin when I met Gillian? I wasn’t, as I say, though I don’t delude myself that this area of my life which I kept hidden from Oliver was the story of one triumph after another. It was average, I suppose, whatever average means in this context. Sometimes it was jolly nice, sometimes it was a bit fraught, and sometimes I had to remind myself not to start thinking of other things in the middle. Average, you see. But then Gillian came along, and everything starts here. Now.
I love that word. Now. It’s now now; it’s not then any more. Then has gone away. It doesn’t matter that I disappointed my parents. It doesn’t matter that I disappointed myself. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t ever get myself across to other people. That was then, and then’s gone. It’s now now.
I don’t mean I’ve done a sudden transformation. I’m not a frog that’s been kissed by a princess or whatever the fairy tale is. I haven’t suddenly become incredibly witty and good-looking – you’d have noticed, wouldn’t you? – or a high-flier with a huge family that takes Gillian into its bosom. (Do those families exist? On television you’re always seeing fascinating households full of eccentric old aunts and sweet children and interestingly varied adults, who may have their ups and downs but are basically all pulling together and ‘on the side of the family’, whatever that means. Life never seems to be like thatto me. Everyone I know seems to have a small, broken family: sometimes broken up by death, sometimes by divorce, usually just by disagreement or boredom. And no-one I know has any sense of ‘the family’. There’s just a mum they like and a dad they hate, or vice versa, and the eccentric old aunts that I’ve come across tend to be eccentric only because they’re secret alcoholics and smell like unwashed dogs or turn out to be suffering from Alzheimer’s disease or something.) No, what’s happened is this. I’ve stayed the same as I was before but now it’s all right to be what I was before. The princess kissed the frog and he didn’t turn into a handsome prince but that was all right because she liked him as a frog. And if I had turned into a handsome prince Gillian would probably have shown me – him – the door. She doesn’t go for princes, Gillian.
I was a bit nervous about meeting her mother, I can tell you. I polished my shoes and no mistake that morning. A mother-in-law (that’s how I thought about her already), a French mother-in-law who’s been deserted by an Englishman now being introduced by her daughter to the Englishman she wants to marry? I suppose I thought she’d either be fantastically frosty and sit on one of those little gilt chairs with a fancy gilt mirror behind her, or else be quite fat and red-faced and come in from the stove holding a wooden spoon and give me a huge embrace smelling of garlic and stockpot. On balance I would definitely have preferred the latter, but of course I got neither (that’s families again for you). Mrs or Mme Wyatt wore patent-leather shoes and a smart brownish suit with a gold brooch. She was polite, but no friendlier than she had to be; she
I must say Oliver ordered some pretty filthy wines those times I went out with him. I shouldn’t be surprised if some of the bottles were corked.
But what does that matter now? The same as what does it matter whether or not I was a virgin when I met Gillian? I wasn’t, as I say, though I don’t delude myself that this area of my life which I kept hidden from Oliver was the story of one triumph after another. It was average, I suppose, whatever average means in this context. Sometimes it was jolly nice, sometimes it was a bit fraught, and sometimes I had to remind myself not to start thinking of other things in the middle. Average, you see. But then Gillian came along, and everything starts here. Now.
I love that word. Now. It’s now now; it’s not then any more. Then has gone away. It doesn’t matter that I disappointed my parents. It doesn’t matter that I disappointed myself. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t ever get myself across to other people. That was then, and then’s gone. It’s now now.
I don’t mean I’ve done a sudden transformation. I’m not a frog that’s been kissed by a princess or whatever the fairy tale is. I haven’t suddenly become incredibly witty and good-looking – you’d have noticed, wouldn’t you? – or a high-flier with a huge family that takes Gillian into its bosom. (Do those families exist? On television you’re always seeing fascinating households full of eccentric old aunts and sweet children and interestingly varied adults, who may have their ups and downs but are basically all pulling together and ‘on the side of the family’, whatever that means. Life never seems to be like thatto me. Everyone I know seems to have a small, broken family: sometimes broken up by death, sometimes by divorce, usually just by disagreement or boredom. And no-one I know has any sense of ‘the family’. There’s just a mum they like and a dad they hate, or vice versa, and the eccentric old aunts that I’ve come across tend to be eccentric only because they’re secret alcoholics and smell like unwashed dogs or turn out to be suffering from Alzheimer’s disease or something.) No, what’s happened is this. I’ve stayed the same as I was before but now it’s all right to be what I was before. The princess kissed the frog and he didn’t turn into a handsome prince but that was all right because she liked him as a frog. And if I had turned into a handsome prince Gillian would probably have shown me – him – the door. She doesn’t go for princes, Gillian.
I was a bit nervous about meeting her mother, I can tell you. I polished my shoes and no mistake that morning. A mother-in-law (that’s how I thought about her already), a French mother-in-law who’s been deserted by an Englishman now being introduced by her daughter to the Englishman she wants to marry? I suppose I thought she’d either be fantastically frosty and sit on one of those little gilt chairs with a fancy gilt mirror behind her, or else be quite fat and red-faced and come in from the stove holding a wooden spoon and give me a huge embrace smelling of garlic and stockpot. On balance I would definitely have preferred the latter, but of course I got neither (that’s families again for you). Mrs or Mme Wyatt wore patent-leather shoes and a smart brownish suit with a gold brooch. She was polite, but no friendlier than she had to be; she
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