Joanna & Mark

By Charles FitzGerald

We first met Joanna and Mark when we moved into Crowley Avenue, nearly thirteen years ago. We sent  our kids to the same school, where my wife was introduced to Joanna at pickup time. Playground  pleasantries turned into play-dates, play-dates turned into dinner parties – and lots of those. Through  Joanna and Mark, we met Paula and Neil, Eileen and Andrew, and Tessa and Adam (since divorced). I  quite like Joanna. She can be very good company after a few drinks, albeit a bit loud. And she was very  helpful with the kids when my mother-in-law passed. 

Problem is, I think Mark’s a cunt.  

He’s pious, boorish, drinks too much, pretends to laugh at Shakespeare, drives a new Aston Martin and –  for some reason – reminds me a lot of my step-father. I haven’t a clue what he thinks of me. Nor do I really  care. On the surface, you’d be excused in mistaking us for firm friends. Our civility’s pretty unwavering.  Curry nights with Andrew and Neil on Wednesday. Golf every other Sunday. I used to regularly give him  lifts back from the pub, in the days before he was partial to drink-driving.  

Reluctantly, we’re indebted to Joanna and Mark. It’s sort of an unspoken truth. They’re responsible for  the friendships we’ve entered since arriving here, and we’re pretty unsocial otherwise. I think my wife feels  this a lot more than me, so I’ve resigned to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I’d have no problem with  never speaking to Mark again – or suffering through his stories from Harrow, or pretending to give a shit  about his new TV (one of those ones which transforms into a painting when idle).  

It seems, nowadays, ‘disliking someone’ is not a good enough reason to cut a friendship short. I used to  dream of the day Mark, or even Joanna, might execute some inexcusable faux pas – something which  would immunise our radio silence from criticism. No such luck.  

We were hosting last Thursday. I cooked one of my braised ducks. Joanna and Mark arrived forty-minutes  late. He quickly entered into a relentless recounting of something he’d heard on LBC. I was alert to even a  slither of boredom from Andrew and Neil, but they actually seemed pretty interested. Even my wife  played ball. I tuned out until they left, far too late as per.  

I could tell my wife was bothered by something. Just in the way she dropped plates into the dishwasher. “I  think Joanna’s holding secret PTA meetings”, she eventually cracked.  

“Really?” I felt a delightful opportunity brewing.  

“She’s planning some sort of coup. Y’know when you just get that… I dunno, that feeling?” I didn’t really  know ‘that feeling’, but I nodded along. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Of course” I suppressed a smile.  

“This is gonna sound really weird, but… Would you mind popping over, after work tomorrow? Peering  through their window or something. I’m just… I’m sure she’s holding them on Fridays. Sonia let slip the  other day…”

“Absolutely, no problem at all”, I interrupted. “I’ll swing by tomorrow. You know me. Discreet voyeur”.  

The next day, I took the scenic route home. I felt a bit like Taggart. Snow Patrol on the stereo. Joanna and  Mark live in an end-of-terrace on the other end of town, which they routinely describe as “semi-detached”. I pulled up beside their empty drive, where I had an unrestricted view into the kitchen.  

Joanna stood alone beside her kitchen-island, pouring a large glass of red wine. I could just about make  out her eyes – certainly glazed, perhaps even watering. It wasn’t unheard of for PTA meetings to end in  tears. She lifted the glass to her lips, as her eyes caught mine. I jolted into gear and drove on.  

I stopped off at M&S for some oven pizzas. I honestly didn’t know if I’d gathered the sort of evidence my  wife desired. But, I reasoned, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to play it up slightly. I parked in a nearby cul-de-sac and prepped my forthcoming dossier. Rounding the corner into Crowley Avenue, I nearly collided  with Mark.  

“Ha, look what the cat dragged in!”, he spat. “Tell you what… Christ, Jo left her bloody gloves at yours last  night. Somehow it’s my fault, so…”

“Ah, that’s… Bad luck, yeah”. I attempted a smile. “You get ‘em, then?”

“Yeah, yeah, all fine”. Mark patted his gilet pocket. “Lovely duck, by the way. I’m still full”.  

“Cheers, yeah, s’just… Good fun, wasn’t it?” I suddenly remembered locking eyes with Joanna. Oddly,  the significance of this hadn’t occurred to me until then.  

“Great fun, yeah, erm… I was meaning to text you actually. Might have to sack off curry next week. I’m  meeting some old Harrovians for a bit of a piss-up. Go ahead though, by all means”.  

I smiled, genuinely this time. “No worries. Have fun”.  

“Yeah, yeah… Not too much fun, not too much fun”, he smirked. “Anyway, look… You take care, mate”.  Mark held out his hand. As I shook it, I caught the scent of my wife’s perfume.  

Featured Image – Matthew Dodd