A SIMPLE CHOICE BETWEEN CAMP DAVID AND THE COSTA CALIDA CRUISE SHIP | AJ Kirby Denise was pestering. Work paid her mobile bills and so she didn’t really care how many text messages she had to send through to Mary, as long as Mary eventually gave in and said yes, she’d come to the bingo. Mary found herself wavering by the seventh and eighth texts. By the time the tenth arrived, she’d fiddled with her phone settings so that the insistent message tone no longer sounded, and yet she couldn’t find out exactly how to turn off the ‘vibrating alert’, and eventually, it was all Mary could do to sit at her dining room table staring at the phone as the phone seemingly attempted to drill itself into the teak. When message number eleven came in, Mary was torn between opening a window and tossing the phone out into the thick snow outside – let’s see if the thing can vibrate now! – and finally answering with a yes, she’d come. But then she caught a glance of herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece and any determination, any drive she’d had, was instantly sapped out of her. For Mary’s face was hung. Drawn. Quartered: her eyes drooping with big black bags, her cheeks pale, her chin wobbly. God she needed a holiday. She needed an injection of colour in her cheeks and of sparkle in her eyes. But money was tight – having to pay the mortgage on one wage left her budget stretched almost to breaking point. She lowered her gaze. But this didn’t help her mood either. Underneath the mirror, there was a model of a cruise ship which had pride of place on the mantelpiece. It was one of the only ‘shared’ David-and-Mary items left in the house. They’d honeymooned on board the Costa Calida – and this miniature was an exact replica of the ship - and it had been the happiest time of her life. Now the model almost seemed to be mocking her. Look at what you could have won, it seemed to say. This is what your life could have been like, if only you’d have been a winner. But Denise was a stone cold loser. The past few months had only served to reinforce that fact. First, and most obviously, there was The Thing With David. And then there was work. The job was getting her down. There hadn’t been a sniff of a pay-rise in years, despite the cost of living rising dramatically. And in the canteen there were all sorts of rumours of redundancies… When she returned home, hoping for some respite from the misery, all she found was a house which was empty of things but full of ghostly memories. Another text… Denise, Mary knew, was only trying to help. Her oldest, and boldest friend was just trying to drag Mary out of this slough of despond in which she’d found herself since the divorce. Denise wanted Mary to pull on her glad rags, hoping that somehow they’d inspire her to remember how to be glad about the things she had all over again, and not just mournful for all the things she’d lost. Denise was fond of the saying: ‘you need to get right back on the horse that tossed you.’ As though they were cowgirls in the Wild West. But surely nights like this, when the snow fell in blankets which were air-raid thick and which seemed to absorb all the sounds outside, even that of the old owl which was nesting in the ash tree out front of the house; nights like this upon which nobody but nobody was abroad, stamping their feet into the virgin snow; nights like this in which only cars which had had their winter tyres or snow-chains affixed would dare go out; nights like this were designed for being tucked up in front of the fire in the front room, with the soaps on the box and a mug of hot chocolate in your hands and your Totes Toasties on your feet, and, perhaps, Miles the cat on your lap. Surely… But Miles, bought in the aftermath of the divorce from the animal rescue centre, was not that type of cat. Miles was as selfish as David ever was and only ever showed the vaguest form of affection when he wanted something, like a fresh can of tuna opened, or else a quick head-rub, or else someone to clear out his litter tray. And the soaps were so depressing at the moment. Every one of them seemed to contain a divorce storyline. And she wasn’t sure she had any hot chocolate in either. Still, could Mary handle a trip out, on a night like this? She drummed her fingers on the teak. And then picked up her phone, hammered out a response to Denise’s latest text before she could let creeping doubt set in. Yes, it seemed she could handle a trip out on a night like this. Denise, however, wouldn’t take a simple ‘yes’ for an answer. Denise would only believe Mary was coming out if she witnessed it with her own eyes. Hence, as Mary emerged from a brief, and sadly lukewarm shower, she heard the furious barrage of knocks at her front door. Clad in two towels, one for the hair, one for the body, Mary descended the stairs. At the foot of them, she stepped carefully around the dastardly Miles - who might or might not have been attempting to trip her up, and hence keep her in, all to himself – and then fumbled with the triple-lock system she’d had installed the very day David fled the nest. Denise blustered into the hallway, steam pouring off her like she was a train as her body made the adjustment between the extreme cold outside and the tropical heat inside Mary’s house. And even before Mary could finish her sentence – ‘Christ, Den, the neighbours’ll be thinking I’ve got the police round, with you banging on the door like that. They’ll think - ’ – Denise was hurrying her back up the stairs, talking fast as the East Coast rattler with excited promises of helping her get ready, and of the bottle of fizz she’d just procured from the corner shop, and which was now chilling in her handbag. Mary allowed herself to be rag-dolled by her friend. Denise poured her into little black dress after denim skirt after strappy top, trying to discover just the right look for Mary. She also poured a good few drinks for them: ‘warmer-uppers’, she called them. Mary was just glad the drinks took the edge off, so that each new outfit didn’t look as bad as she’d feared they might, and so that, when she glanced at Miles, staring lugubriously at them from the top of the stairs, eyeing her outfit of choice with a David-like critical gaze, she could simply ignore the bad-tempered moggy. The bubbles of the drink carried Mary all the way back down the stairs, into the taxi Denise had called, and right across town. She felt the bubbles in her head, filling up brain-space so that there wasn’t enough room for the misery and self-consciousness she usually felt. She felt them in her throat too, and they did funny things to her tongue, so that when she spoke, her voice sounded different, as though it was coming from another person, and, in the end, they made her giggle. Denise said it was the first time she’d heard her laugh since… And for once in her life Mary was the one interrupting. She said there was no need to mention the ‘D’ word on a night like this: and whether that meant David or Divorce, she didn’t care. They bumbled out of the taxi outside the bingo club. Snowdrifts were piled at the sides of the road. A few lads down by the bus-stop were chucking snowballs. Somebody had built a snowman right in the middle of town’s biggest roundabout. On the pavements, it was sludgy, and Mary felt her feet slip-sliding, searching for purchase, but Denise held her arm fast, and between them, they navigated their way up to the porticoed entrance to the club, where two jolly-looking bouncers, bulky as snowmen in their Puffa jackets, greeted them with warm smiles. Denise asked the bouncers whether there were many in tonight, and when she spoke, her voice was almost speech-bubbled in the cold, coming out as a great cloud. The bouncers replied that of course there were loads in. It was the national that evening. And then this jolly pair set about actually bouncing, half-jumping up and down on the spot the pair of them as though to get their legs warm. The bouncers hadn’t been wrong. Through the double-doored entrance, reception was practically bursting at the seams. There were people everywhere, glammed up to the nines. And the noise! Well, after the strange muffling which the snow had provided outside, it seemed louder than a rock concert inside the club. Denise linked Mary’s arm so they wouldn’t lose each other, and helpfully explained the score. Tonight was the big game, the national competition. Bingo clubs across the land participated. According to Denise, someone in the club in the next town had won the jackpot a few months ago. Apparently, it had been a ‘life-changing’ amount of money she’d won. And at this, Mary dared hope. She emitted a girlish squeal which encompassed all of her secret hopes for Costa Calida cruises and being secure enough to quit work and look for another job. And Denise squeezed her arm affectionately. Reality set in again once they reached the reception desk and paid their entrance fees. Denise nudged Mary and pointed over at a very stern-looking woman who was standing in the queue for the toilets with her arms folded tight across her chest. The woman was clad in clothes which had to have come from somewhere posh, somewhere Mary probably wouldn’t be even allowed to cross the threshold of, like Harvey Nicks. And her handbag… It glittered, gleamed, practically shouted money. ‘That’s Beatrice,’ hissed Denise. ‘She’s about the best damned bingo player this side of Hull.’ Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought bingo was all about luck though?’ Denise snorted. ‘Huh. Well, it’s amazing how the more you practice, the better you play and the luckier you get. I hear Beatrice is determined to win tonight. Look at her. She’s got her game-face on and no mistake.’ Mary fluttered a smile. Suddenly, she felt her confidence had been sapped. What chance did she have against game-faced women like Beatrice? Mary had never thought of herself as a lucky person. Closest she’d ever got to winning anything was way back in the mists of time, at school, when she’d won a prize on the tombola. Later she’d found out that every ticket on that damned stall had been a winner. So that wasn’t really winning at all, was it? Already she was regretting that heart-lurching moment of hope she’d had when Denise had mentioned ‘life-changing’ sums of money. Because, when it came down to it, it was the hope that got you, wasn’t it? If you didn’t have any fragile dreams, they couldn’t be shattered, nor trampled upon. If you simply accepted bitter, grey reality as your lot in life, surely it didn’t hurt as much when that was all you got in life. And so, it was in this kind of defeatist mood that Mary made her way into the main hall. She barely even notice her surroundings as Denise guided her over to a bank of tables close but not too close to the stage. She couldn’t have told you whether the people sitting around them were male or female, how old they were, or what they were wearing. Somehow, she discovered a half-pint of lager in front of her, and she presumed Denise had bought it for her, but she couldn’t be sure. All Mary could think of was how unfair life was, that someone like Beatrice could win, could have a string of wins behind her – so much so she could afford to shop in Harvey Nicks and carry handbags which looked as though they were jewel-encrusted – and yet she, Mary, was castaway in life. She’d been dealt a bad hand right at the start, and things had only gone downhill since. All those years with David… They’d been a war of attrition. Each grinding the other down. His belittling her whenever he got the chance. So that in the end, she’d even come to the conclusion that this life was all she deserved. The divorce, when it finally, inevitably came, was bitterly contested. Eventually, she’d got the house, but it was something of a poisoned chalice. The house was an old one, and required almost constant repairs. It took huge sums of money to heat. It was a black hole into which she poured everything she earned, emotionally and financially. But David too had been affected. The divorce was closing in on two years ago now, and her ex-husband had taken a funny turn in the intervening time. About six months after he fled the nest, she began to hear the strange rumours about him. Didn’t believe them of course. But then Denise had taken her to one side and explained that the rumours were true. Apparently David was living on the golf course. Not in the Nineteenth Hole as he always used to when they were together, but actually on the course, in a tent. According to Denise’s source – her husband, another avid member of the gold club – David had quit work and moved out, lock, stock and barrel and was now ‘living off the land’. It had to be some mental breakdown or some mid-life crisis and, at the time, Mary had simply shaken her head and thought: well, we all suffer in our own ways. She’d been to visit him once. She’d needed his signature on some papers and hadn’t known where to send them seeing as though he was of no fixed address. A groundsman pointed her in the right direction. Told her ‘Camp David’ was between the seventh and eighth holes, by the water feature. When she reached the site, Mary was surprised by the military cleanliness of it. It belied the cluttered mess he always used to leave behind him at home. She was also surprised by how he’d set up a three piece suite, in the shade of a large oak. He had a tarpaulin, he said, which he could pull up and “properly waterproof” the sofa and chairs. The final surprise though, was the state of David himself. She’d been expecting him bushy-bearded and ripe-smelling, with tears in his trousers and holes in his shoes, but the David she encountered was clean-shaven, dressed in a freshly-starched shirt. Someone – surely not him – had ironed a crease in his trousers. And he looked… happy. Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. During the last few painful months, he’d looked like a lottery-winner who’d washed his ticket in the back pocket of his best jeans. Before she left, and after he’d signed the papers, he told her that he missed her. That he was piecing himself back together, starting from the ground up. He said it might take some time, but it was his intention that he’d finally discover a better person living inside himself. He thought if he camped out, somewhere away from all the worries, he might manage it. The last she’d heard of him, he was still on the course, still finding himself. Mary was jerked out of her reverie by a sharp elbow to the ribs. Denise hissed: ‘You’re not even dabbing your card, Mare. The caller’s called two numbers you have.’ Denise jabbed a finger at Mary’s card. ‘See, look. Leg’s eleven and five-and-nine, the Brighton line…’ Dutifully, Mary marked her card, but her heart wasn’t in it. She sat back in numb exhaustion as the game reached a climax and as, no surprise, Beatrice called ‘House’. And Beatrice’s win only served to confirm that Mary had been right all along: she was not one of life’s winners. Denise tried to cheer her up, told her that the national game was up next and that ‘everything’ was ‘still up for grabs’. But it felt like everyone else had already snatched at what was to be won, and there was nothing left for Mary. Nothing but the cold, frosty misery she already knew. The fact Mary had the first two numbers which came up on the national game didn’t help. It felt as though fate was laughing at her, teasing her into investing hope into the situation, only to dash it later, when it would pull the rug right out from underneath her and leave her floundering. But then, she dabbed the third, and fourth numbers too. Suddenly, Denise had left off playing her own numbers and was concentrating solely on Mary’s numbers. Suddenly everyone else around the bank of tables was leaning in, excited looks on their faces. Another number came up. Mary dabbed it. And then. House. Denise practically forced Mary’s arm into the air, screaming: House! House! And then the cameras were on her. Some smarmy, suit-wearing kid from another bingo hall was addressing her, in front of the whole bingo-playing nation, asking her question after question: What are you going to spend all that money on? Are you going to quit work? Go on a round the world cruise? A whole new wardrobe? But Mary was still numb. One word kept echoing through her mind. House. House. And suddenly she thought of David, freezing in his camp. And she thought of how she could save him, and maybe herself… She took a deep breath. Then: ‘I’m going to put down the deposit on a new house.’