Surprise!

The alarm usually went off at the ridiculously early hour of six in the morning to rouse my unenthusiastic self from the depths of sleep, and should have done the same today, because even though I wouldn’t be working, I had set the wake-up call for the same time as I always did whether I had to go to work or not. It was a habit that was guaranteed to annoy Rachel, especially at weekends when there was no reason for an early alarm call, and I would often reset it for an hour or two later and then go back to sleep. Despite the daily repetition of the wakening call, familiarity did nothing to alleviate the unwelcome cacophony, particularly in the wake of alcohol fuelled nights’ before. Its absence today had been puzzling.

Various factors had served to compound my confusion. Not only was today a Friday, it was one that I wouldn’t be working, and Rachel would have been spared the torment of the alarm anyway by her continued absence, away visiting a friend since Tuesday. It was because of this that I had the day off of work: I was supposed to collect her and return her home later in the day.

In the aftermath of the absent alarm, I had been woken by a persistent banging on the door at the marginally more civilised hour of eight-thirty. Parting the curtains and looking out through the unwashed window, the dirt standing out against the early morning sunlight, I found that Geoff was outside, and it would later transpire that he was largely to blame for the failure of the alarm to do what experts in the field of sleep deprivation had designed it for.

Although I had set the alarm on the phone as usual, I had omitted to connect the charging lead, and the battery had gone flat during the night. This could be said to be the most important part of setting the alarm, as the time was set to repeat every day, which was why it always went off at six every morning. It is important not to complicate things: that is how mistakes occur.

Alcohol, partaken to an extreme with Geoff in the less than salubrious surroundings of our local watering hole, was the reason for the charging lead negligence on my part. Undoubtedly, I would have been much more restrained in the pub if Rachel had been around to act as my conscience, a job that she was well practiced at and therefore eminently qualified to do in a competent and efficient manner. She maintains that I am easily deceived due to my inability to say no to anything that appears to be fun or free (she means everywhere, not just in public houses: I would be a prime target for scammers if only I wasn’t too lazy to play along). As well as my moral compass, Geoff has often referred to her as my personal organiser and opined that nothing constructive would ever get done in my life without her input.

I disagree; in this case, there is no way that she would have reminded me to connect the charging lead, and so the alarm would still have failed to go off at the desired time. Even if she had insisted on a different setting to the normal, I would have still left the usual time set, and the alarm would then have gone off twice, but only if I had plugged the lead in, which I still wouldn’t have done without specific instructions to do so. The hole for the charging lead is very small, and almost impossible to find after more than a couple of alcoholic drinks - worse even than the keyholes in front doors.

The male dominated bar had been notably rowdy for a Thursday, and there seemed to be an agenda behind the revelries that I was unaware of, even though I seemed to be a significant part of whatever it was that was going on. I judged this to be the case because I had appeared to be the main benefactor of a substantial amount of free alcohol beyond the norm (zilch) in the form of a couple of pints and a vastly greater quantity of shots. I asked whose birthday it was (having first double checked in my increasingly unreliable memory that it wasn’t my own), but if it was a celebration of the anniversary of someone’s entry into the world, then they weren’t admitting it. I didn’t have a problem with this: I lie about my age all the time as well, and I am still able to enjoy an excessive drink on my birthday.

The culmination of the evening, which had been extended by an extra couple of hours due to the landlord’s benevolence (and, whether it was legal or not, a desire to extract as much cash from his customers as possible), was a trip to the kebab shop, attended by a larger proportion of the late-night clientele than was generally the case. Geoff was their best customer and often visited on his own. I have an unsubstantiated theory that they have a sixth sense about when he is going to arrive, and will stay open until he has visited. If they ever decide to issue a loyalty card, then he will be the first recipient, and will be a major beneficiary.

The remnants of a large donner kebab (including the gherkin thing that usually got thrown on the pavement outside the shop along with everyone else’s) were decorating part of the quilt on the opposite side of the bed to that which I usually slept in. Some cunning detective work involving a process of elimination, and without the help of Mr Holmes or Monsieur Poirot, led me the conclusion that this made it Rachel’s side of the bed. The chilli sauce had left a particularly nasty stain (why is it that after a drink it is almost impossible to say ‘no’ to the ‘hot sauce’ offered?). The rest of the left-overs, I transferred to a bin, after first ingesting a stray piece of kebab meat.

It was still a little too close to the night before to be testing my metabolism in this way. Cold donner kebab is usually at its best the following morning – only cold left-over meat Madras, Bombay aloo, onion bhaji and keema nan reaching the culinary heights to upstage it. Cold pilau rice I can take or leave. But today, the kebab relics had failed to work their magic.

The quilt would need to be washed before the return of my beloved (I know how to use the washing machine: I’m not a slob), who had issued many warnings in the past about après pub food finding its way into the bedroom. Food in bed, I have been informed in the strongest possible tones, does nothing to promote sexual activity unless it is chocolate, and either way it is my designated job to clear up any mess in the aftermath. This is a similar problem to the one about who it is that has to sleep in the wet patch (me). The wet patch enigma often resulted in my side of the bed becoming hers, and vice-versa.

Changing the quilt cover would have to wait until after I had dealt with Geoff, and in any case, I was probably not physically capable of such an arduous task quite yet. Changing bedding is obviously a two-person undertaking that is more usually performed by one person on their own, and preferably one that is not hung-over. You needed to be on the top of your game to complete the activity quickly and efficiently, and clearly, I was some way short of the desired necessary pinnacle of ability.

Geoff was dressed in a suit. This was an unusual state of affairs, to the point that I had never even previously known that he owned one. It was out of fashion, with lapels wide enough to double up as ironing board covers, but still, it was a suit. Rarely did his wardrobe extend far beyond the jeans and T-shirt combo. I looked down to see if he had managed to graduate beyond trainers (he had) and noticed that his suit trousers were slightly flared with large enough turn-ups to rival the lapels.

What I was unaware of until I had allowed him in through the door, was that I was also supposed to be similarly attired (preferably in a more up-to-date version, although he failed to clarify this), a situation which only became clear when he asked why I wasn’t ready, and why I hadn’t got my suit on, and continuing on with my previous observation, I realised that I was equally unaware that Geoff knew that I also owned a suit, as much as I had been unaware that he owned one. If my brain didn’t stop yo-yoing like this, it was going to be a long and unproductive day. I was quietly impressed with myself to find out that it was working at all, although currently experiencing a few temporary minor malfunctions.

Upon enquiry, I was informed that the reason for the dress code was that I had agreed to go somewhere (unspecified) with him, and to be ready by nine-thirty. Having absolutely no memory of acquiescing to this the previous night, I decided not to exasperate the situation by inquiring what exactly it was that I was supposed to be doing or where we were going, and played along as if I were in the know, and was just running a little bit late. Life is full of surprises and half eaten kebabs. I was sure that everything would become clear later. It was fortunate for me that I knew that I did indeed own a suit, and that it had regular sized lapels and no flared turn-ups.

‘It’s a bloody good job that I didn’t trust you to be ready on time, Jonesy. You’d better not make us late or we’ll both be in the shit.’

Again, I have missed the opportunity to find out what is going on, or where we are going. I wonder who it is that we are close to being in the shit with?

A rapid shower is necessary to remove the odour of stale kebab grease and alcohol, and more time is wasted afterwards whilst I try to track down a suitable tie from the tangled mass of clothing inside the bottom of my wardrobe. I only own half a wardrobe now. I used to own a whole one to myself, but over time, Rachel has invaded and has successfully over-run fifty percent of what used to be my space, and she now owns one-and-a-half wardrobes. I still control the bottom, and the drawers beneath the main storage area, due to the complexity of the mess there. Rachel also owns a complete chest of drawers, and although I control the bedside table, I am gradually being surrounded.

The suit is a lot cleaner than I was expecting it to be, which I see as a bonus. It would seem that Rachel must have had it cleaned after its last outing: I definitely hadn’t, and probably hadn’t even hung it up. I am not even sure when it was that I last wore it. Probably someone else’s wedding - definitely not mine, as Rachel and I are unmarried co-habitants. There are no obvious benefits to this arrangement, as I still have to occupy the additional positions, not just of boyfriend, but also of cook, maintenance contractor, interior and exterior decorator (but not designer), window-cleaner, and gardener.

Geoff evaluates my appearance, looking me up and down, and insists that I iron my shirt. It is like having Rachel peering over my shoulder. I thought that he would not take kindly to being told he was nagging like an old woman, and then I realise that Rachel wouldn’t take kindly to being called old. Or a nag. I thought it best that I just ignored that voice in my head and not articulate its suggestions out loud. It tended to be a very unreliable, dangerous, and controversial source of information, particularly after a night drinking with Geoff - although it should also be said that he was not entirely to blame, and everyone else in the bar the previous evening was equally complicit.

Geoff retrieves a grubby piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket (it looks as if it has been there since shortly after the suits’ purchase, but it quickly becomes obvious that this is not the case). After referring to it, he looks down at my shoes - which are actually dark trainers masquerading as shoes - and shakes his head. I don’t even bother to ask, and just walk off back upstairs and change them for a shiny pair of shoes that don’t require major surgery to give them an acceptable gleam: just a brief wipe over to remove the dust collected from beneath the bed. I have begun to have some suspicions that he is working to someone else’s orders, directives that apply equally to the two of us. He looks at my tie, a decorative little number sporting a collage of cannabis leaves. He consults his list again, but it seems that there are no guidelines concerning ties beyond their actual presence. This may be an oversight. Geoff’s is decorated with Disney characters, and I think that I can detect a small fragment of begrudging envy on his part. He has got Goofy, whilst I have Dopey.

I am pleased with this observation, and note that normal service is gradually being restored to my cerebral functions. This is aided by the coffee that Geoff has made during my foray upstairs to shower, and then again to change my shoes.

‘The cab will be here in ten minutes,’ he tells me.

This is good: I won’t have to walk around in public dressed like this, running the risk of being seen by anyone who knows me, even vaguely. Rachel has said in the past that suits make men look very attractive, a proposition over which we tend not to be in total agreement with each other. Although other males’ attire is not high on my list of concerns, I hold the opinion that men who regularly dress in suits are not to be trusted. This is why politicians wear them so often.

When the cab arrives, it is apparent that Geoff has splashed out on the transport and it isn’t the normal local cab firm wreck that brings us home occasionally late at night: the paintwork has been polished to a deep gleam that is normally only seen on cars immediately before they leave the showroom, and the driver is also wearing a suit and tie and holds the door open for us. I decide to trust him, he is probably not involved in politics, not even local politics, although there may well have been politicians in his car in the past. The interior is spotless, freshly valeted, and has a brand-new aroma about it, although it is difficult to tell how old the vehicle is, as it is so well maintained. If it is not new, then somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to preserve that smell. It is as well that I have had that shower, or I may not have been very popular with the driver who it would seem is a bit OCD about his car. I have no doubt that the tyre pressures have been recently checked, and that he is aware of any wear on the treads.

I still don’t know where we are going, and I listen carefully hoping to hear Geoff confirm our destination, but irritatingly, not a word is passed between them, and the driver pulls away from the kerb, evidently already fully aware of where he is going. He drives in that confident, patient, unhurried manner that people like me and Geoff are unable to replicate, and he uses his indicators. He probably has no points on his license, and is unlikely to ever get any, and I would dislike him for this, but I am much more annoyed with him because he knows where he is going, and I don’t.

He doesn’t swear at other drivers either. This is not natural. I give it a go on his behalf, calling a driver who impatiently pulls out on us, a tosser, but nobody else seems interested in joining in, so I give it up. It is like playing I-spy on your own.

We are heading into town through the one-way system and negotiating the queues present at every set of traffic-lights, and Geoff has been checking his watch. He takes out his phone and sends a message. His phone is top of the range and up to date, the complete opposite of his suit. I decide to try a bit of fishing.

‘Not going to be late, are we?’ I ask him.

‘No. We’ll be fine,’ he tells me without expounding further or supplying any useful information. At least it would seem that we are going to avoid the time-sensitive immersive effluent.

There is a bit of a stand-off whilst I wait for Geoff to elaborate, and he pretends that he doesn’t know that I am waiting, and stares steadfastly forwards ignoring me. This is very impressive: he really does seem to be turning into a male version of Rachel.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of me and becomes more potent than my unwillingness to admit that I am completely in the dark about the days schedule.

‘Where are we going, Geoff?’ I ask him, ‘I need to collect Rachel later.’

‘Registry office,’ he illuminates me without hesitation.

‘Oh,’ I say, only partially illuminated, and now having started asking questions, I decide to risk another one, ‘Who’s getting married?’

Geoff now seems to be taking his time considering his answer, when it dawns on me that he never showed any surprise when I more-or-less confessed to not having any idea where we were going, or why we were going there. I am now functioning at a level that is leading me to believe that there is a high probability that I never did know. Have I been kidnapped? By Geoff and an OCD chauffeur? Why?

We are drawing up outside the registry office, preventing me from further quizzing Geoff, and allowing him the opportunity to give a short answer to the original question.

‘You’ll see,’ he tells me, making good his escape before the car has fully stopped, ‘I’m the best man,’ he concludes smugly as he shuts the door. Good God! Who would have Geoff as a best man dressed in that suit?

The driver is already at my door to open it for me, and then close it behind me, and I waste valuable seconds thanking him. He calls me ‘sir’. The local cab firm drivers always call me ‘mate’ whether the driver is male or female. I have to rush after Geoff who is moving at a pace that is unusually rapid for him.

He leads the way through the reception area, and I am still trying incompetently to ask more questions, which he very efficiently pretends not to hear. He pushes his way through the double doors, remembering at the last second to catch one of them, narrowly preventing it swinging back into my face.

Inside, there are about forty people, including faces from the pub the previous evening. Rachel’s parents, and my own, are seated near the front. As Geoff and I enter, everybody stands up. At the front, resplendent in a pink wedding dress and holding a small bouquet is Rachel.

‘Surprise!’ they all shout in unison, and it is indeed a surprise. In fact, it is a fucking great big unexpected shock. I have arrived at my own surprise wedding. Geoff is now behind me, ushering me forward. I am speechless, which may later become a problem if I am required to make one. I bet that the best man has another grubby piece of paper readily prepared to prompt his own offering.

Later, I ask her why she did it. She tells me that if she had waited for me to organise it, it would never have got done. Although there may be an element of truth to this, I still think that it is a bit unfair. With all my other household duties, wedding planner has had to take a bit of a back seat.

‘How did you do it? Aren’t I supposed to meet the registrar beforehand?’

‘Well yeah, you sort of did,’ she tells me, ‘You know Paul, who looks a little like you?’

I do know Paul. He was in the pub last night, and again in the congregation today. What I didn’t know was that he was an accomplished actor (I had always known him as a car mechanic) and that he had an interesting side-line in forging peoples’ signatures, and an uncanny knack of keeping his mouth shut. Geoff also seems to have developed the hitherto unknown talent of preserving a secret, along with the landlord and regular clientele of the pub, and possibly the owners of the kebab shop too, if they were also in the know. Rachel seems to be unconcerned by the illegality of it all.

I don’t bother to ask who invited Geoff to be best man, I am sure that I already know the answer, and that it is the same person who never sleeps in the wet patch, and fails to see the aphrodisiacal properties of donner kebabs.

Looking around, it is clear that there are an awful lot of people here who have demonstrated a hitherto unrealised talent for deviousness and the maintenance of a secret, including both sets of parents. I wonder if Mr OCD, the chauffer knew. It seems that everyone else except for me did.

I point out that I am astonished that the registrar didn’t smell a rat when everyone else shouted ‘surprise!’.

‘I told her that you thought there was only going to be six people here, and that you would be expecting me to be arriving after you,’ which is, I have to admit, the more traditional order of doing things, even if shouting ‘surprise!’ is a little bit out of the ordinary.

I have also belatedly realised that I had unwittingly attended my own stag night. I am disappointed that a policewoman never arrived, who then turned out not to be a policewoman at all, but was a stripper with a pair of handcuffs. It seems to me to have been an opportunity missed. Maybe I should have a word with Rachel about it later.

I hope that she has thought to book a hotel for tonight. If not, she is going to find that there is a very nasty kebab stain on the quilt in the bridal suite.