A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [75]
How ironic that Jamie should turn out to be gay. Now, if he were getting married he would have his guest list and invitations printed several years in advance.
Never mind.
The first time round arranging a wedding seemed like planning the D-Day landings. But after working in the bookshop and helping out at the school, she realized it was no more difficult than buying a house or booking a holiday, just a string of small tasks, all of which had to be done by a certain time. You wrote a list of things to do. You did them. You ticked them off.
She arranged the flowers. She booked the disco Claudia had used for Chloë’s wedding. She finalized the menu with the caterers. She booked the photographer.
It was going to be perfect. For her sake if no one else’s. It was going to run like clockwork and everyone was going to have a good time. She was going to put her feet up at the end of the day and feel a sense of achievement.
She wrote Katie a letter detailing all the things she still needed to do (taped music for the register office, Ray’s suit, present for the best man, rings…). It would drive Katie up the wall, but judging by her daughter’s performance at the weekend it seemed entirely possible that Katie might actually forget she was getting married.
She ordered the place cards. She bought herself a new dress and took George’s suit for dry cleaning. She ordered a cake. She booked three cars to bring the immediate families back to the village. She put names on their invitations and addressed the envelopes.
She briefly considered crossing David off the list. George had insisted on inviting him after their dinner. Something about boosting their numbers to avoid being “swamped by Ray’s clan.” But she didn’t want George asking uncomfortable questions. So she sent him an invitation. It didn’t mean he had to come.
58
It had been almost enjoyable, seeing Dr. Barghoutian.
Obviously, his benchmark for what was and was not enjoyable had been lowered considerably over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, talking about his problems to someone who was being paid to listen was oddly soothing. More soothing than watching Volcano or The Peacemaker, during which he could always hear a kind of churning bass note of fear, like someone doing building work across the street.
Strange to discover that describing his fears out loud was less frightening than trying not to think about them. Something about seeing your enemy out in the open.
The pills were less good. He had trouble sleeping that first night and noticeably more trouble the second night. He wept a great deal and had to fight back the urge to go on long walks in the early hours of the morning.
He was taking a couple of codeine at breakfast now, then drinking a large whiskey mid-morning, brushing his teeth vigorously afterward so as not to arouse Jean’s suspicions.
The idea of going into a psychiatric hospital was beginning to seem more and more attractive. But how did one get into a psychiatric hospital? What if you drove your car into a neighbor’s garden? What if you set light to your bed? What if you lay down in the middle of the road?
Did it count if one did that kind of thing deliberately? Or was pretending to be insane itself a symptom of insanity?
And what if the bed was more flammable than expected?
One could perhaps pour water over a large circle of carpet around the bed to act as some kind of barrier.
The third night was pretty much unbearable.
Nevertheless, he doggedly continued to take the pills. Dr. Barghoutian had said that there might be side effects and, on the whole, George preferred treatments which involved pain. After falling off the stepladder he had gone to see a chiropractor who did little more than clap her hands at the back of his head. After several more weeks of discomfort he went to an osteopath who gripped him firmly from behind and hoisted him violently making his vertebrae crack. Within a couple of days he