William Walkers First Year of Marriage by Matt Rudd

someone had got to the best man: not a single inappropriate joke. 2/10.
The first dance
    Robbie Williams again, courtesy of the chamber orchestra. Shoot me. 2/10.
    TOTAL 9/40. Plus one for the fireworks.
Sunday 17 July
    Alex sits next to me rather than Isabel at the wedding breakfast, no doubt to demonstrate how hard he is trying to get on with me despite my continued unreasonableness and his broken arm.
    ‘How’s the arm?’
    ‘Much better.’
    ‘Pretty quick, wasn’t it?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, the mending.’
    ‘I took arnica—and it’s still very sore.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘So sorry about all that nastiness with the police.’
    ‘It wasn’t nastiness. It was just routine inquiries.’
    ‘Listen, as soon as my arm’s fully better, do you fancy playing squash?’
    ‘Err, sure.’
    ‘Is it safe, you two trying another sport?’ asks Isabel.
    ‘No chicanes in a squash court,’ replies Alex, and we all laugh.
    What a cock.
Tuesday 19 July
    Guilt plus disgust today. Guilt because everyone in the office except me has been invited to Sandra’s funeral. I have to stay and answer the phones. Disgust because a new survey has revealed that toilet seats in offices are twenty times cleaner than keyboards. Apparently, it would be more hygienic to eat your sandwich off the bog than off your desk. While I decided not to take this advice literally, I decided to eat my lunch in the park, assuming perhaps wrongly that a park is cleaner than a toilet. I don’t know wherethis leaves the debate about which part of the toilet door handle is best to use.
Wednesday 20 July
    This really is turning into another bad week.
    ‘Hi, Will. Long time no speak. Can’t believe you’re not at Cat World any more. Who will taste the new rabbit flavour now you’ve gone? Anyway, New York is great but I’m coming back for a week in August. It gets so damned hot here. Even when I’m completely naked, I can’t sleep. Wondered if you wanted to catch up on old times?’
    How did Saskia, the Destroyer of Relationships, get my email address? Johnson just stares at the screen for about twenty minutes. Then he says don’t reply. Then he says reply. Then he says, no don’t reply. He keeps doing this for another twenty minutes. Because it is the perfect email dilemma. If I reply, I am communicating with the Destroyer of Relationships, which we both agree is a bad thing. If I don’t reply, and shut it down, she might try to make further contact when she comes back to London.
    I decide not to reply.
Thursday 21 July
    No further emails from DofR so potentially in clear.
    Might turn out to be a good week after all.
    Except then Isabel calls to say Alex has finished with his Moroccan girlfriend. He needs a shoulder to cry on. Obviously it has to be Isabel’s shoulder. Do I mind if she cancels our dinner?
    ‘No, darling. I hope he’s okay,’ I hear myself lying.
    Johnson has already left so I call Andy and endure a whole hour of pub time listening to how amazing his new life in Kenya will be before I can tell him about Saskia.
    ‘Ignore it,’ he advises before continuing on about Kenya for another hour until I can mention Alex.
    ‘Listen, he’s a nice guy. I like him.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘He’s a nice guy, man.’
    ‘You know you actually said “man” then?’
    ‘Well, I think you should give him a break. You’re obsessing about nothing. He’s done all that stuff for your wedding, he invites us racing, you drive him off the road.’
    ‘He was trying to kill me.’
    ‘Of course he wasn’t. You’re the husband of his best friend. He loves you, man.’
    ‘You said it again.’
    ‘And now he’s going through a difficult time. I know what heartbreak feels like, believe me.This life is a rollercoaster: there are highs as well as lows.’
    ‘There are loop-the-loops?’
    ‘There are loop-the-loops.’
    ‘Jesus.’
    This is how the conversation goes when she gets back (late) from the cocktail bar he chose to do his shoulder-crying