My wife and I arrive at Paddington station, bound for points west. She is going to stay with friends, and I am going to the Bath festival to appear on a panel about hating Donald Trump. The plan is to travel together, but the departures board makes it clear the Bath service doesn’t go as far as my wife needs to get: she would have to change at Bristol. As we scrutinise the board, it occurs to me that I should selflessly insist my wife takes the direct train that’s leaving a few minutes after mine.
“OK, see ya,” my wife says, heading for platform four.
“Yes,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll be…”
“Bye,” she says.
At 7pm, I find myself at a reception to mark the opening of the festival, glass of wine in one hand, phone in the other. I am texting my wife a running account of my isolation, a lonely idiot among the great and the good. “Oh my days,” I type. “The mayor of Bath is here.” There is no reply.
I say hello to one of the festival organisers. She introduces me to a friend, and the friend introduces me to another friend. Someone takes away my empty wine glass and brings me a full one. I am asked about my evening plans and I say, with a little catch in my voice, that I have none. I am invited to dinner. I accept. I leave the reception and walk with my new friends to a nearby restaurant. I am asked whether I prefer red or white, and I say that I’m easy. It’s alarming how charming I feel.
At 8.30am my phone pings, and I wake up in a hotel room. My throat feels as if I have been recently intubated. The ping heralds a text from my wife that reads: “Did you have a jolly time last night? Your message suggests you did.”
I have no idea what this means, but further investigation reveals that at 12.45am I sent my wife a text that said, “Do you need any pictures of my privates?” I have a dim memory of finding this hilarious.
My qualifications for appearing on a panel about Donald Trump are twofold: I am American and I hate Donald Trump. I don’t always know what everyone else is talking about, but at one point I manage to utter the words “President pro tempore of the Senate” in an appropriate context. I think to myself: my work is done here.
An hour later, I’m on a train heading to where my wife is staying, continually texting her updates about my estimated time of arrival. She doesn’t answer any of them. I change trains at Bristol. As my destination approaches, I receive a text that says, “You’ll have to get a taxi”, appended with a postcode.
At the deserted station, I approach the first taxi in the rank; a troubled sky is reflected in its passenger window. When I bend to confer with the driver, I see that he is fast asleep. I go to the next taxi along and tell him the postcode. He nods and points to the taxi in front.
“Didn’t he want to take you?” he asks.
“He’s out cold,” I say.
The driver shakes his head. “He needs to stop doing that,” he says.
My wife greets me at the door of our friend’s house. “Look,” she says. “You got here all by yourself, without having to bother me.”
“I was amazing, by the way,” I say. Behind her, I see our friends, all smiles, and I know she has shown them all the text about my privates.
