Mathieu et Marcelle
Marcie was beginning to enjoy herself.
She finished her half-pint, and when Matty made a move to order her another, she insisted that it was her round. At least she wasn’t penniless.
Matty suddenly realised he was on his third pint, and he hadn’t eaten.
’Already eaten, I suppose ...?’ he asked her, frowning.
’Me? Well, not as such …’
’What do you mean, "not as such"?!’
’I mean, no, not really ... I had a snack at lunch time, but …’
‘Lunch time? I can hardly remember lunch time! Drink up, and we’ll see what we can do, all right?’ ’Well, I don’t know…’
‘Got to get back home ...?’ He glanced at her finger, and she tensed up, involuntarily clenching her hands together.
’No,’ she said, decidedly, ’I’m not going back.’ And she twisted at her ring, struggling to force it off her finger. There was an awkward silence, now, and Matty broke it gently, by offering her one of his cigarettes.
’I shouldn’t really ...’ she hesitated, but took one all the same. ’I don’t really smoke, you know, but thanks anyway.’
He lit it, slowly, and took another for himself.
’I started smoking when I used to hitch-hike, as a student,’ he said, smiling. ’I found it was a good way to say a kind of "thank-you", if you had something to offer, when you’d been offered a lift. I suppose apples would have been more healthy, but you’d look pretty silly hitch-hiking with a bag of twenty Granny Smiths, wouldn’t you!’
They laughed together, and she concentrated on not choking on the smoke. She didn’t really inhale it, anyway. It was just to have something in her hand. And to watch the smoke curling up...
’So why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, while we finish our drinks, and then we’ll see if we can find a chippy, or something, all right? I mean, I don’t want to be nosey …’
‘No, no! There’s nothing much to tell …’
‘I mean, I’m quite capable of talking about myself, if you don’t want to talk ... people tell me I’m quite good at talking.’
‘I can believe it! Anyway, why not. I’m Marcie, I’m married with two kids, and I’ve just left home.’ She went to raise her glass again, and then paused, to add, looking at him from under her lashes, ’And do you know how old I am …?’
He sucked in his cheeks, and raised his eyebrows, at this little speech. What was he letting himself in for...? He looked at her, seriously now, and said, ’Marcie, Marcie…’ as if trying to remember something. ’Is that from Marcelle, by any chance ... French ...?’
’No. Just plain Marcie. Why?’
’I don’t suppose you’ve read Sartre, at all ... Roads to Freedom ...?’
’No.’
’Mm. So ... let’s see ... do you really want me to play?’
’Eh?’
’At guessing your age …’
‘Go on. Tell me how old you think I am.’
’O.K. What’s the prize?!’
’Oh, you! I’ll buy the fish and chips. Right?’
’Have I got to get the exact year? Exact age?’
’Let’s say ... give or take one year.’
’You drive a hard bargain ... but you’re on! Stand up.’
’What ...?!’
’Come on ... I can’t tell just like that, you know! Stand up, and do a twirl.’
’No!’
’Go on - there’s only the barman, and he won’t mind. It’s either that, or we’ll have to change the rules, and make it "fish and chips on whoever guesses the other’s age closest"!’
’I’ll still win!’ she laughed.
’You’re on, then. Thirty ... two,’ he pronounced, generously.
’Go on! You’re not trying!’
’Thirty. Today’s your thirtieth birthday, and so you can have champagne with your fish and chips!’ ’Silly. Anyway, I’ve got two sons, nineteen and seventeen, so work that one out!’ she announced, with a mixture of pride and challenge, watching to see if his expression would change.
’Really?! So you were a mother at ... thirteen! Sure your name isn’t Juliette?!’
’Don’t believe me, do you. But it’s true. So if you want to "remember" you’ve got to get home for supper with your girlfriend, no hard feelings, all right?’ And she hid behind her half-pint glass again, her heart beating faster.
’No girlfriend, no wife or kids, ... and I’1l tell you about the house another time. Your turn.’
’Hm. Well, you don’t take very good care of yourself …’
’Thanks!’
’But I’d say somewhere between thirty and thirty-five …’
‘That’s cheating!’
’Well. You said two ages …’
‘That was different. Come on: courage of your convictions. And don’t worry about flattering me …’
‘Ah! So you were flattering me, were you?!’
’You’ll never know! There’s absolutely nothing you can do, against a born lier. No ... I wasn’t flattering you. Much, anyway. I would have said thirty-five at the outside, What are you really?’
’A born lier! ’
They laughed together, both beginning to realise that it was going to be O.K. At least …
’Thirty-nine in September.’
’You don’t look it. What’s the secret? Beer and fish and chips? Come on. You’re playing for time. Not fair.’
’Thirty-three.’
’Wrong.’
’But I still win, right?’
’Twenty-eight from thirty-three is five, thirty-five from thirty-eight is three: the fish and chips is on you!’ ’What! You’re never twenty-eight!’
’Unfortunately I don’t drive, or I’d produce my driving licence with a flourish. Talking of which: where’s my proof you’re not conning me?!’
’I don’t drive either. Hang on a minute, though … what do you mean, "thirty-five from thirty-eight"?! You guessed thirty-two ... and then changed it to thirty! I win hands down! The meal’s on you ... and I’ll have a sit-down Chinesey, too!’
’Don’t think there’s a Chinesey around here ... unless you know ...?’
’We could always get a taxi …’
‘We’ll have to find something else to bet on, for who’s going to pay for it!’
Matty asked the barman if he could phone for a taxi. Having done so, he said, ’I’ve decided on the bet. You’re feeling fed up, and you need a break, right? Don’t worry. The taxi and meal are on me. Then you can buy me a pint.’