LITMIR.BIZ

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they were going to look at smaller properties in Chiswick instead.

      Wednesday 22 June

      I was right. Isabel does think I’m having a nervous breakdown. She says she’s spoken to Astrid, her yoga teacher, and Astrid says men benefit from her type of yoga even more than women and that I should come to the next class. Which is tonight.

      I’m just trying to choose the most appropriate form of dismissive laugh when Isabel says, ‘Please come, it would make me happy,’ which is blackmail.

      In a small, sweaty room above a holistic healing shop in Holborn, nine women and one man, all in Lycra, spread their mats as Astrid spreads her crystals, while I bite my nails.

      I don’t have a mat so I have to borrow one from a cupboard. The only place left to unroll my mat—which is pink and smells of sweat—is right behind the man in Lycra. The next hour seems like four or five. There are the boring positions (‘Put your arms in the air…stretch a bit…hold it…hold it…feel the energy…’), the impossible positions (‘Put your leg over your arm…put the other leg round the other arm…spread all your toes…hold it…hold it…keep breathing, William…’), and the disgusting positions—which are all of them when you have a man in Lycra blocking your view. A man who laughs happily every time he lets one off. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to blot out the downward-facing dog.

      ‘Thanks, guys. Great session. And remember, don’t walk on the Earth, walk with the Earth. See you all next week.’

      No.

      It gets worse. Message from Alex when we get back to the flat.

      ‘Hi, guys. Almost two months married. Hope it’s all sweetness and light over there.’

      [Wanker.]

      ‘Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue but I’ve got a friend who does marketing for Ferrari. You know, the racing team.’

      [Wanker.]

      ‘Anyway, he’s hosting a race day down at Brands Hatch on Saturday. You’re probably too blissfully married to spend a day apart but I wondered if William might be free? And perhaps Andy? For a bit of a race. Be good to hang out with my best mate’s new hubby.’

      [Wanker—but it is Ferrari.]

      Saturday 25 June

      So let me just explain how it happened.

      We arrived at Brands Hatch and it turned out they wouldn’t let us into the actual Formula One cars. We were in buggies, which was still cool. Andy had fallen for Alex’s pretend friendliness, hook, line and sinker. As we watched the safety demonstration, they were all jokey and matey and laughey.

      But I was onto him. I could tell from his feigned interest in my week, from his relentlessly inquisitive chattiness, from his horrible chiselled jaw line, that today was all about humiliation. I got the girl so he had to show he was a better racing driver. Well, life doesn’t work like that, buster.

      We had a few practice laps. Alex was being all encouraging and non-competitive when Andy was within earshot, but asked me if I always drive like a kerb crawler when he wasn’t. Divide and rule. Clever.

      We did some quick laps individually. I was faster than Alex. He pretended to be pleased for me in an I’m-letting-you-win-at-the-moment kind of way.

      Then, it was time to race. As we got ready, Alex came over to me and said, ‘Good luck, old boy,’ which he would later claim he said to everyone, just to get us in the spirit.

      Six of us lined up, me and some marketing joker at the front, Alex and Andy in the second row, two other marketing jokers behind them.

      I was ahead for the whole of the first lap, but on the second lap Andy and Alex overtook the marketing joker and began to challenge me for the lead. Then Andy, mistiming a corner, spun out, taking the marketing joker with him. At that point, Alex changed. When everyone was watching, he was the consummate gentleman driver. Now, out on our own, he was driving like a maniac. As we began the final lap, he drove up my inside and, rather than take the first corner, just sort of steered us wider and wider. I missed a head-on collision with three hundred tyres only by braking and going around the back of them.

      Alex should have been well gone. But he wasn’t. He was waiting for me to catch up again. As we went through the back of the course I tried to overtake but he charged me again. I ended up ahead but he started ramming me from behind.

      I looked back and saw only the dead eyes of a psychotic maniac.

      Into the final corner, I had the edge. I can’t remember exactly what happened, except that I crossed the line first.

      Andy, on his way back to the pits, saw it all. He claimed I rammed Alex off the road. I remember Alex trying to ram me but losing control. Either way, I only noticed he had rolled his buggy once I’d crossed the line.

      Sunday 26 June

      Back so soon at Alex’s horrible maisonette, dropping off some grapes.

      ‘Sorry about the arm, Alex,’ I offer warmly.

      ‘Don’t worry, William. It was an accident. And it’s only a fracture,’ he replies. You would think he might apologise himself for trying to kill me, but then everyone else in the room might actually believe me.

      ‘William is like a toddler, Alex. He can’t just play nicely,’ says Isabel unhelpfully.

      ‘Great day though, mate. Thanks again,’ says Andy, traitorously.

      Andy thinks Alex is great. Isabel thinks Alex is brave. I know Alex is a psycho. I know he probably has a rocking chair and a wig hidden somewhere around the flat.

      At least tomorrow is the start of another day.

      Monday 27 June

      Start of another day already ruined by half eight in the morning when Arthur Arsehole calls. A lot of interest in the flat. Sixteen hits on the website alone. But it’s a bad time for the market. Tells me to keep my pecker up, Willy. I tell him I’ll smash his face in if he ever calls me Willy ever again ever or makes any reference to my pecker whatsoever. But only after he’s hung up.

      Tuesday 28 June

      Andy has been around to Alex’s again to help make him dinner. ‘What’s the point in arguing? Alex is a nice guy,’ he tells me. ‘You’re a ridiculous hippy,’ I reply. Of course, he always has been a ridiculous hippy. The first time we met, in Freshers’ Week at university, his hair was down to his shoulders, his trousers were stripy and he smelt. Since then, he has learned to wash, bought new clothes and cut his hair, but the hippy still lurks within.

      And you can never rely on a hippy to understand that an evil maniac is trying to ruin your marriage.

      Wednesday 29 June

      The only reason I went back to Astrid’s sweaty room in Holborn is because of the whole Alex buggy-crash debacle. I suspect Alex, with his broken arm, is winning the charm offensive. I need to be seen in Lycra again, just so Isabel will stop giving me that look every time anyone mentions the race.

      It is just as sweaty as last week but I make sure we get there early and that I bagsy a place right at the front. This means I get told off by Astrid for yawning but sweaty Lycra guy has to spend the whole lesson staring at my clenched buttocks and not vice versa.

      I think he likes it.

      Thursday 30 June

      Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Isabel sent straight from doctor’s appointment to hospital. Something gynaecological. Something about an operation…

      She called me from the hospital, sounded

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