The Good, the Bad and the Fugly: Part 1, The Bad

The Bad

As you may recall, my evening of woe with Wanker Banker Alex was followed by a tense week with Freddie. We were both in the house far more than is usual for either of us; in my case because of the exhausting, uglifying dregs of my swine flu, in his because…oh, God only knows why Freddie does anything. God only knows what he does at all, frankly. Anyway, when we weren’t having another awkward conversation about the weather or Gordon Brown or something equally depressing and English, or avoiding such interactions by taking refuge in our respective bedrooms (actually that may only have been me), we were irritating one another.

‘Those pajamas are disgusting’, I remarked one evening, without the slightest context, and to Freddie’s obvious surprise. ‘Not as disgusting as your toothbrush’, he muttered back, no doubt itching to get the poor thing and bin it again. ‘Well, but I don’t walk to the corner shop with my toothbrush, do I?’ I replied patronisingly. ‘And I don’t put my pajamas in my mouth’, he retorted, making me want to slap him. ‘Your hair is blocking up the plug-hole in the shower,’ he informed me confrontationally on Tuesday morning, standing in front of me at 6.45 wearing only a towel, with his arms aggressively folded. ‘Mmhmm, ok, I’ll unblock it,’ I told him, thin-lipped with irritation. ‘But while we’re on the subject of bathroom etiquette, perhaps you could ask your girlfriend to stop stealing my Yin Yang moisturizer.’ Freddie looked sheepish. ‘That might have been me’, he said apologetically.

Minor quibbles erupted into a near row on Wednesday. I wanted to watch a documentary on the BBC about Milton. He wanted to watch Manchester United v. Barcelona. The football had already been on for some time when I came downstairs for my literary fix. ‘I hope you know that’s going off at 9’, I said lightly, hoping that he was only watching casually. ‘I hope you know it’s not,’ he replied, grimly, refusing to look round. ‘Mm, no, it is, Freddie, because I’ve been planning to watch this show for ages’. (On the other sofa I saw Jamie stiffen with the fear of confrontation). ‘Bad luck,’ Freddie said, and turned up the volume. Annoyed, I turned off the television and stood in front of it. He stared at me. ‘What the fuck, Alice? Turn it back on.’ (Voice definitely raised.) A stand-off ensued. He glared at me uncompromisingly; I stood shuffling my feet and feeling that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. ‘Alice,’ he said again, ‘turn the TV on.’ ‘No’, I muttered, sullenly, ‘not unless I can watch my Milton thing’.

He stood to approach me (and the hotly contested household appliance) and his hands gripped my hips to move me out of the way. I refused to be moved. He looked down at me angrily for a long, hip-tingling pause. Then his left hand detached itself from my right hip and he leaned against me and around me to turn the TV back on, while my heart thudded angrily and I considered kicking his shin. (I didn’t, because I am a coward.) He looked momentarily past me to check the score, and then stared down at me. ‘Alice. Please let me watch the football. Your Milton thing is on the BBC, I looked. You can iPlayer it. I know you don’t like me very much, but I think we should try to get on.’ I felt a sudden rush of guilt and murmured something about not disliking him, which he swept aside with ‘It doesn’t really matter. Can I just watch the football.’ I nodded, speechless. ‘Good’, he said gently and gave the hip he was still holding a manipulative little squeeze.

Ten minutes later I had made him a cup of tea and some toast and was curled up next to him on the sofa, his arm resting behind me as he explained why Alex Ferguson was a fool for not having Paul Scholes on the pitch. Argument over. Freddie and Barcelona 2 – Alice and Manchester United 0. I think Manchester United minded more than me.