I feel an overpowering urge to get out of this room, but before I can think of an excuse, the doorbell sounds again and Alice jumps to her feet.
‘Ooh, that’ll be Marek and Dipal!’
Chapter Forty-Three
‘Marek?’ I say.
Alice frowns down at me. ‘Yes, Marek. What is wrong with you today?’
‘No, nothing. Sorry.’
She goes out to answer the door, and Phil thumps me on the back. ‘Wedding’s not for four months, and they’re already bickering like a married couple!’
‘Are you OK, Ben?’ Becky asks, leaning forward from her sofa. ‘You do look a little peaky.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just … tired.’
‘Merry Christmas, fuckos!’
‘Marek!’ Becky squeals, and suddenly, the director, writer and star of The Carol Revisited is standing right in front of me, pumping my hand. His hair is still as wild as it was at his wedding three and a half years ago, but it’s now almost entirely grey to match his neatly trimmed goatee beard. He’s wearing a thick black polo neck and clear-framed glasses, looking like a bizarre mash-up of David Brent, Richard Ayoade and Steve Jobs.
His wife Dipal – Dee – pecks me hurriedly on both cheeks before shrieking and running across to manhandle Becky’s bump.
Marek accepts a glass of Cava from Alice. ‘So. How are you then, Benjamin?’ he asks me.
‘Good, thanks,’ I lie. ‘You?’
He nods, swallowing a large gulp of wine. ‘Yup. Tons of directing gigs at the mo, so it’s busy, busy, busy. But that’s how we like it.’
In 2023, Marek is apparently exploring previously uncharted levels of pretentiousness by referring to himself in the majestic plural.
‘Saw your latest masterpiece on telly last night, mate,’ Phil laughs, putting on a jokey All-American accent. ‘McCain Oven Chips: for a happy, healthy family!’
Marek smiles back tightly, and I get the impression that Alice v Becky won’t be the only passive-aggressive grudge match on today’s docket.
‘No, fair play, not exactly Oscar-winning fodder,’ he says with his jaw clenched. ‘Still, I got a fucking good pay cheque for it, which I can use to fund something a little more creatively nourishing, if you know what I mean. That’s how it works in this industry,’ he adds snootily. ‘One for them, one for you.’
‘It’s been more like twenty for them, none for you, hasn’t it, mate?’ Phil chuckles, to snickering laughter from Becky and Alice.
Marek soaks up their giggles with apparent good humour, and answers with a question of his own. ‘And how’s the fascinating world of accountancy then, Philip? Sitting behind a desk tapping away at your calculator: sounds fucking mind-blowing.’
Phil grins and punches Marek’s shoulder. ‘Whatever, mate.’
Becky squeezes Dee’s arm. ‘Oh, I love it when the boys go all alpha.’
There’s more laughter at this – from ‘the boys’, too – and I see Marek smirk as he reaches for a vol-au-vent.
It’s weird, really, how little he’s changed since uni. That spark and arrogance he had at nineteen are still very much there, despite the fact that he clearly hasn’t lived up to his own – and everyone else’s – expectations. At York, the one thing we all knew for certain was that Marek would go on to be a superstar. The next Tarantino, the next Shane Meadows – at the very least, the next Guy Ritchie. The next someone, anyway.
After he graduated, though, nothing seemed to quite fall into place. Film school turned out to be a dead end, so he went into advertising. It was supposed to be a stopgap: a way to earn a bit of cash to fund his own independent movies. As the years went by, he clung to this idea tightly, retaining the dress sense and swagger of a critically acclaimed auteur when he was actually spending most of his time directing fast-food commercials. At his wedding, back in 2020, he was quick to tell me he was ‘making shitloads’ doing this kind of work, but I could tell that his guard was up. He was spiky and defensive about it; like he suspected I might be about to remind him of our student days, when he used to swan into pubs drunkenly bellowing that Bill Hicks line: ‘If anyone here is in advertising or marketing … kill yourself.’
I guess none of us turned out how we thought we would at nineteen. We all made mistakes and concessions and wrong turnings.
I realise I’ve zoned out slightly, and as I tune back into the conversation, I find that the chat about my and Alice’s wedding has now somehow segued into the story of how Phil proposed to Becky. It’s an anecdote everyone here is clearly already familiar with, but you can tell the protagonists get a massive kick out of rehashing it.
‘Show them the photo again, Phil!’ Becky squeals.
‘There you go.’ Phil passes me his iPhone – an iPhone 14, I notice – and I squint down at the picture. It’s taken from far away, like a long-lens paparazzi shot, and it shows Phil and Becky on a swanky-looking speedboat. He’s down on one knee holding a velvet box open as Becky does her best Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone impression: shrieking with both hands clasped to her face.
‘Where were you again?’ I ask Phil.
‘Cancún, mate,’ he says smugly.
‘Right, yeah. So who took the photo?’
‘They’ve told you this so many times, Ben,’ Alice mutters.
‘I’d hired a guy beforehand,’ Phil explains. ‘Gave the doorman at our hotel twenty pesos to snap a few pics with my Nikon as soon as I got down on one knee.’
I look at Becky. ‘So the whole day, there was a random bloke on the shore watching you through a camera without you knowing about it?’
‘Yes!’ Becky tilts her head at Phil. ‘It’s so romantic, isn’t it?’
Everyone murmurs in agreement, although ‘romantic’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use. It sounds like the kind of stunt the Walking Dead guy might pull if there’s ever a Love Actually sequel.
‘How did you pop the question again, Ben?’ Marek asks me.
Becky claps her hands. ‘Oh yes! I love this story.’
All five of them are staring at me now, their smiles withering fast as I gape back in silent panic.
‘Ha! He can’t bloody remember!’ Phil booms.
‘I, er … No, of course I can … I just …’ I can feel myself going bright red. I glance over at Alice. ‘You tell the story so much better, babe.’
Babe. What the hell is happening to me?
Confusion and fury are fighting for territory in Alice’s eyes, but she manages to compose herself. ‘What is my fiancé like, honestly?’ There’s a tinkle of polite laughter. She continues. ‘Well … we were in New York, on Broadway, about to go and see Legally Blonde: The Musical, and Ben did this whole sweet little routine, pretending to bend down and tie his shoelaces, and then suddenly he was looking up at me and holding a box …’
‘Aw,’ says Dee.
‘Bless,’ says Becky.
‘Classic,’ says Phil.
Alice nods. ‘Yeah. It was a total surprise, and I just—’
‘Oh come on, Ali,’ Becky scoffs. ‘You’d been dropping hints for months.’