The To-Do List (23 page)

       
I sat bolt upright in bed. ‘They did what?’

       
‘Invited us to dinner.’

       
I was unable to fully comprehend what I was hearing. ‘Is this a joke?’

       
‘No.’

       
‘Because if it is it’s not funny.’

       
‘Good,’ replied Claire, ‘because it isn’t a joke.’

       
‘But they don’t like us. We don’t like them. Why would they want to offer us an evening of food and polite conversation?’

       
Claire shrugged. ‘Look, it was as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Yesterday afternoon I took the kids up to the shops and bumped into Jessica. Normally she lets me get away with an energetic hello and a big smile but for some reason she drew to a halt and launched into a conversation about pre-schools that lasted the best part of an hour and culminated in the dinner invitation. And before you ask, yes I did try to change dates, in fact I tried every trick in the book to make out that we were busy but Jessica came back with so many alternatives that I had to give in and agree that tonight was the best bet.’

       
‘So that’s it then? Tonight, when I should be with my beloved Sunday Night Pub Club I’ll be making chit chat with our next-door neighbours? I can’t believe it.’

       
‘Well, you’d better suck it up and move on because tonight we’re going round to their place.’

With this unwelcome news still ringing in my ears I got out of bed to start To-Do Listing but found it hard to concentrate. Even later in the day having worked on my book, set the ground work for tackling Item 397: ‘Start a pension’, collected my mum for baby-sitting duties and put the kids to bed, the very idea of eating with our neighbours felt wrong. At seven o’clock as I was supposed to be getting ready, I was lying on the bed drawing up a list of the reasons why I really, really didn’t want to go around to Derek and Jessica’s for dinner:

 1. Because it would involve making small talk.

 2. Because at some point I would be left alone with Derek and we’d be forced to talk about cars, work, sport or the weather.

 3. Because at some point I would be left alone with Jessica and we would be forced to talk about children, the weather or our other neighbours.

 4. Because at some point they would ask me what I was currently working on and I would have to explain and then they would nod and say something like, ‘I must apologise I haven’t read any of your work. With so many books and so little time I tend to just concentrate on the classics.’

 5. Because at some point during the evening Claire would end up running out of conversation and would ask me to tell them about the To-Do List.

 6. Because the temptation to drink too much might result in my lips loosening enough to tell them both that Claire and I were semi-stalking weirdoes and that the idea for the To-Do List in part, came from us wanting to be more like them.

 7. Because no matter how the evening went, at some point Claire and I would have to return the favour and cook for them and then they would eventually feel obliged to invite us round again and the self-perpetuating nightmare would never come to an end.

 8. Because the temptation to drink too much might also result in my lips loosening enough to tell them that we once heard Derek shout at Jessica: ‘That’s it! I’m sick to the back teeth of your mother!’ and how we listened to the subsequent argument with the aid of a glass to the wall.

 9. Because I was afraid that they might ask me questions about things they hear from our side of the shared wall like: ‘Why is it, Mike, that whenever you’re in the kitchen the only song you ever sing is “Move Close” by Phyllis Nelson?’ ‘Why do neither of you ever conduct a conversation with each other while you’re in the same room?’ and finally, ‘Why is it that as you’re coming through your front door and turning off the burglar alarm I hear Claire scream with laughter while you bellow in a spooky voice, ‘I’m going to goose you!’

10. Because despite my all-singing all-dancing outer persona, inside I am actually quite shy and terrible at delivering funny anecdotes.

‘Do you think there’s any way to get out of this?’ I asked Claire as I emerged from the bathroom having just brushed my teeth. ‘Maybe one of the kids could start throwing up and we could tell them we’re worried about leaving them. Our kids are always randomly throwing up, you’d think the least they could do is throw up the one time when we really needed them to.’

       
‘No, Mike,’ replied Claire firmly, ‘we are not going to make one of the kids throw up just so that you can get out of going next door.’

       
‘But I don’t know what to wear,’ I countered. ‘Do I put on a suit or go round in jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Derek in a pair of jeans.’

       
‘No, you’re right,’ said Claire slipping on her posh dress. ‘Off duty Derek is definitely more of a chinos and button-down shirt kind of man.’

       
‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘And I’m so not a chinos and button-down shirt kind of man. I’m a T-shirt, jeans and, at a push, jacket man.’

       
‘Then wear that, then. Derek and Jessica know that you’re a writer and so therefore a bit “arty” and they know how you normally dress when you’re off to Imran’s to get your paper, so . . .’ Claire paused to snigger, ‘I’m guessing that as long as you don’t turn up wearing a waistcoat, tie and tailored shorts matched with knee-length argyle socks and burgundy brogues you’ll be all right.’

       
The outfit referred to here was a real one that I used to wear around the age of eighteen when I was going through an experimental fashion stage. With the exception of another at university that saw me attend an Inspiral Carpets gig wearing the bottom half of a pair of M&S pyjamas, my fashion rebellion never happened again.

       
There was no getting out of this. I decided on the following outfit for the evening ahead: pin-striped jacket, red T-shirt with a photo of a burger and fries on it, jeans and white Converse. It said, I can do smart or casual but I’m happiest when I get to do both at the same time.

       
With half an hour to go I left my wife putting on her make-up and was about to head upstairs when the phone rang. In olden times I would’ve rushed to answer it, viewing phone calls as a welcome diversion from real life, but these days I barely raise an eyebrow when the handset trills because no one rings me on the landline. As I was musing on whether I missed old-fashioned phone calls or not, Claire stuck her half made-up head round the door, a puzzled expression on her face.

       
‘That was next door. Their youngest has apparently been throwing up like billy-o since about five this afternoon and so they’ve asked if it’s okay if we cancel tonight.’

       
I punched the air and let out a muted, but nonetheless heartfelt, ‘Result!’ I was about to head upstairs to lose myself for several hours on the internet when I stopped and turned around.

       
‘Do you believe them?’

       
‘What do you mean?’

       
‘Do you believe that their kid really is chucking up like they’re saying?’

       
‘Why, do you think they’re making it up?’

       
‘Well isn’t that exactly the excuse that I was suggesting that we should pull on them?’

       
‘But why would they invite us if it was always their intention to cancel?’

       
‘Maybe it’s Derek. You said yourself that Jessica did it off her own bat. Maybe when she told Derek he was like, “No, I can’t stand them! Tell them our kids are sick or I’m leaving you!” ’

       
‘Yeah,’ jeered Claire. ‘Like that’s true. And anyway, so what? You didn’t want to go anyway.’

       
‘But that was before I knew that Derek didn’t want us to come around. Who does he think he is making us get a baby-sitter, preventing us eating tea at our usual time and then taking the invitation away at the last minute. Call them back and tell them that we’re really sorry that their child is sick and that we’d love to rearrange for next month and instead of us coming to them, they can come to us. Go on, babe, ring and tell them that.’

       
‘You do realise that you’re insane, don’t you?’

       
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Now will you do it?’

       
Claire shook her head. ‘No way! I absolutely refuse to be dragged into your deluded world. If you want to invite them round then be my guest.’

       
‘Right then,’ I said haughtily, ‘I’ll do it myself.’

       
‘I’ll get you the phone.’

       
‘You do that.’

       
She handed me the phone and I stared at it blankly.

       
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’

       
‘I would do. But it’s getting late and their kid’s sick plus I’ve got to take into account that I can’t really afford the time to do anything that’s not on the List right now. July and August are going to be very busy months List-wise. I really don’t think I can take any time off.’

       
‘Not even for a holiday?’

       
‘Especially not for a holiday.’

       
‘Really?’

       
‘Well, not right now . . . maybe the month after next?’

       
‘Or maybe even this one.’

       
I frowned at Claire. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

       
‘It means that I’ve already booked a holiday, and whether you like it or not, you’re coming. And before you start moaning about how I haven’t consulted you, let me refer you to the contents of exhibit “A”: my daily diary.’ Claire began reading extracts from the diary that I had bought her for Christmas: ‘January 3rd: Suggested to Mike that we book a holiday because we always leave it until the last minute. Mike said, “It’s on my list, babe.” February 8th: On the train up from London I looked out at the snow and suggested to Mike that we book a summer holiday. Mike replied, “Of course, babe, it’s on the List.” April 10th: Mike and I are walking past a travel agent on our way out for a coffee. Suggested to Mike that we nip in and get some brochures. Mike said, “It’s on the List, babe. I’m on it.” May 5th, May 18th and May 28th: Mentioned to Mike that June was just round the corner and that if we didn’t book a holiday soon there would be little or no choice. Every single occasion Mike was like a broken record insisting that booking a holiday is, “next on the List”. Will I therefore give him three weeks to get it sorted before I take the whole thing into my own hands?’ She paused dramatically and fixed me with a hard stare. ‘And guess what? Those three weeks are up.’

       
I found myself bizarrely attracted to this new, more assertive version of my formerly happy-go-lucky wife. She had well and truly got me and I didn’t have a leg to stand on. And she had saved me from hours of dithering, as there are few things I loathe more than booking holidays.

       
I looked at Claire and grinned. After the exhausting year she had had so far she deserved a break, and for that matter, To-Do List or not, I was more than a little knackered thanks to my current heightened pace of life. Even so, a holiday needn’t mean a holiday from the List.

       
‘Great,’ I pronounced as a plan began to hatch at the back of my mind. ‘Let’s go on holiday.’

Chapter 21: ‘When on holiday make sure to pack some light reading.’

Claire had chosen the holiday well. Very well indeed. Fully accommodating a young baby and a four year old who had occasional trouble sleeping, Claire had booked us a holiday not only in the same country that we had visited the year before but also in the very same hotel. Thus just after three p.m., having left our home eight hours earlier, we arrived at the Intercontinental Hotel in Malta knowing exactly what to expect. Once we had checked in and unpacked it was only a matter of a quick change of clothes before we were making our way up to the hotel’s roof-top swimming pool and the glorious Mediterranean sun.

       
Settling ourselves on sun loungers underneath an umbrella, we grabbed a child each, slathered them both in sun-block and began earnestly getting into the holiday spirit. As Lydia played in the water by our feet, Maisie napped in my arms and, liberated, Claire delved into her bag and pulled out a copy of
Heat
magazine. Reasoning that there was nothing to stop me joining her in a little light holiday reading I pulled out Leo Tolstoy’s one thousand three hundred and fifteen page epic
War and Peace
.

       
War and Peace
(Item 1021) had been on my mental To-Do List for some years now. Having first been introduced to the novel by my secondary school English teacher, Mrs Parker, who hailed it as a ‘must read classic’, at the age of thirteen I had searched it out from my local library and had been stunned to discover that it was roughly the same size and density as a house brick. Having read the back of it, I concluded it was marginally less interesting than one too. Phrases like ‘gossip-filled rooms of a St Petersburg party’, ‘fortunes of the aristocratic Bolkonsky and Rostov families’ and ‘epic sweep of national events and the private experience of individuals during the Napoleonic Wars’, were more than enough to make it clear that this wasn’t going to be my kind of thing, especially given that the other reading material in my hands at the time were books one and two in the
Grange Hill
novelisation series.