An Irishman abroad

The Jilting of Jonny Vegas

The Jilting of Jonny Vegas.

In order to recount this vaguely amusing episode in my life, I have to take you back to the year 1997, when I was working on a project for a large, Japanese, electronic manufacturer at their very impressive European headquarters in leafy Surrey, just outside London. You know the company – it rhymes with “Tony”.

Employed by Sony (D’Oh! – there goes my anonymity), my role was to develop and deliver training courses as well as perform system testing and provide support to the business for the go-live of the system that my esteemed colleagues had developed for them.

It was at times a somewhat thankless task as I found out on more than one occasion. Placed as I was as the go-between the system designers and the people that would actually have to use the system, I was subjected to such reactions as anything from utter disbelief to complete horror as I proceeded to outline how my colleagues in their ivory towers had envisaged how the my students would be carrying out their daily tasks from the moment of “go-live”.

It was a somewhat soul-destroying exercise, and myself along with the rest of the team that I worked on tried our best to boost moral in which ever way we saw fit and I think we did our best in that respect. “The Training Team”, as we were known, regularly organised nights out and in general were the comic relief within the project. Or perhaps we were just the big joke. I suppose there’s a fine line between the two…

Something that would probably have been frowned upon by the project management, but which provided me with a much needed relief from the tension of the project, was a tempestuous affair with a colleague, which lasted for several months without any of our colleagues knowing a thing. Like I say, it was a welcome distraction, if not very professional.

In those days, I was working as a freelancer, so had to pay my all my own bills. My colleague, who I shall call Chrissie, because – er - that’s what she was called, was an employee of a consultancy firm who gave her a daily budget from which to pay her hotel. By sharing a hotel room, we were therefore both able to save costs, so we had the added incentive of financial gain as a reason to continue the relationship. Who says romance is dead?

An unexpected but much appreciated benefit from pursuing this relationship came in the form of being privy to what my female colleagues were saying and thinking. An example came in the form of the “Who of our male colleagues do you think is fit?” questionnaire, which basically was a scoring system that the females were giving each of their male colleagues, myself included based on “shaggability”

I know – disgusting, isn’t it?

Being in on the inside (quite literally), I was able to find out just what the female colleagues were thinking about us guys on the project and it made for some pretty interesting listening. You females certainly don’t hold back with your thoughts. Or your marking for that matter.

As it turned out, yours truly came out on tops of the survey, which is probably more a poor reflection on my colleagues rather than a compliment of myself, but hey – with my ego suitably massaged I asked Chrissie how she had rated me.
“I put you down as third best looking” came the somewhat disturbing reply.
“Why third?!” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Well I couldn’t have the girls thinking that I fancied you” she explained and then, with a glint in her eye, she rather ominously continued “And anyway, its not what I said about you that you should be worried about.”
“What do you mean by that?” I enquired, all traces of nonchalance evaporating and being replaced by a quivering voice and a nervous twitch.
“Marysia fancies the arse off you!”
“Whaaaat?”
“You heard – she won’t shut up about you. I’m getting all sorts of emails about you – and what she would do to you if given the chance. I think you’d better watch out!”

My mind was in turmoil. Obviously flattered by the interest, I was also somewhat perturbed by this development. For you see, Marysia was the secretary (or administrative assistant as she liked to put it) for the project and was also well…… a bit of a bitch. She was forever complaining and to be honest scared the life out of me.

“What do I do?” I asked hoping for some pearl of wisdom from Chrissie as to how to deal with her.
“Keep flirting with her” was not the response I expected but nevertheless, the one that I received from my beloved.
“What do you mean? I don’t flirt with her!”
“Of course you do, Jonny – you flirt with all women. That’s we all adore you!”

And there you have it. We continued working on the project and it came to pass that word of the questionnaire was leaked out to the male colleagues. The whole event may not have been the most politically correct thing for the girls to be doing, but it certainly created a bit of fuss in the office, with many of the men interested to find out just how well they had done.

The men then decided to have their own bit of fun and when we did our own survey, Chrissie was most disappointed to find out that she hadn’t faired as well in the “competition” as I had, coming in at third overall after one very good looking German (I know, I was as surprised as well) and one extremely fit Australian.

Life continued in the project for the rest of its duration and after a while the whole business was forgotten about although it has to be said that I was always just a bit wary when Marysia was anywhere near me.

After the project finished, everyone went their separate ways, promising to keep in touch but never quite managing it, as tends to happen at the end of such projects.

People are forced together from wherever they’re available to help out on a project in what is usually a very intensive working environment. Working relationships are established, friendships are formed, your social life ends up being with the people that you work with as you’re living away from home during the week to be near the customer site. So, when the project finishes, its like a chapter in your life finishes as well and you turn the page to the next one.
It’s a lifestyle that isn’t suitable for everyone but one that can prove to be very rewarding if you’re open and receptive to meeting new people. Obviously Chrissie and myself may have over-indulged in this slightly but I wouldn’t have changed the experience for anything in the world. Apart from when she crashed into my lovely little sports car in the M6 near Carlisle in England but that’s a story for another time…

BTW - Just in case you’re wondering, Chrissie and myself “came out of the closet” a week before the end of the project, figuring that it would do no harm to tell our colleagues what had been going on. but rather than our colleagues being happy, they were pissed off at us for not sharing our secret with them. There’s no pleasing some people, eh? Everybody had been saying all along that we made a nice couple and should get together.

As a little aside, Chrissie was sent to another project, ironically enough in Ireland. Even more ironically, though, was the fact that Sony extended my contract and then sent me to oversee the go live of Sony Ireland, forty minutes drive from where Chrissie was based. Needless to say the affair continued until a rather nasty incident involving Chrissie returning to England for the weekend and me inviting Ashleigh, my “real” girlfriend down to Dublin for the weekend. Imagine her surprise when she opened a drawer in the hotel room and found some of Chrissie’s clothes in it.

I had quite a bit of explaining to do but decided that I should knock the relationship with Chrissie on the head and make a go of it with Ashleigh. Enough of the messing about. Of course I’m sure you can see this coming, but a couple of months later, Ashleigh and myself then split up, leaving me with neither. I suppose it served me right.

***

Fast forward to 2002, five years later, with these events no more than a fading memory and I received one of those mass-mailed jokes. You know the kind. Not particularly funny, but sent out to everyone in the person’s address book.
The joke itself mightn’t have been too funny, but the events that precipitated as a direct result of it will certainly go down in legend. At least in my world. This is the type of story that I want to be able to tell the grandchildren. And of course you, Dear long suffering Reader.

We are often told that marriage is an institution. Well let me take this opportunity to offer my idea on it –

“Marriage is a great institution, suited best for those who should be institutionalised”

Perhaps the dark recesses of my brain has stolen that gem from someone like Groucho Marx, but if not then let me be the one to claim first ownership of this sentiment.
If you agree or disagree I’ll still love you in the morning, Dear Reader, but what I would ask is that you allow me the chance to offer my side on this debate in this, my latest offering “The Jilting of Jonny Vegas”

Thursday morning 10:30
It was another non-descript wet Thursday in November and I was sitting at my desk in the non-descript office that was located on the outskirts of the – for the most part - non-descript city of Brussels.
I was consulting systems, analysing businesses, writing long-winded emails, the usual kind of stuff, when I received a joke in my email inbox. The content of the joke itself I do not remember, but I remember the fact that it had been sent to me by someone that I had hardly had any contact with in the intervening 5 years between working for Sony and the present day, which came as a bit of a surprise.

I happened to notice that the joke had been emailed to many people, some of which I hadn’t spoken to at all since leaving the project. Of course the old promises had been made. “Let’s keep in touch”, “Until next time”, “See you in hell.” Some were easier to keep than others.

I spied Marysia’s name on the mailing list and wondered whatever had become of her. None too busy at work and glad of the distraction, I decided to drop her an email and see how she was doing.

As it turned out she had progressed from “administrative assistant” to become a project manager for an SAP project in London. It seemed that she was climbing the corporate ladder. And fast. We exchanged a few emails that day and when she asked me what it was like to live in Belgium, I told her about the good food, the relaxed lifestyle and of course the 24 hour drinking. The following conversation (or something quite like it) took place.

M - It sounds like my kind of place”
J – “It’s not bad at all.”
M – “What’s the shopping like?”
J – “Erm what kind of shopping were you thinking about?” (hoping that she meant DVDs, CDs or electronic gadgets)
M – “I need to get some nice, fancy lingerie, the stuff in England is too bloody expensive.”
J – “Well I’m not so sure about that, but I know there are a lot of clothes shops in Belgium. Antwerp is full of them. You should come over visit some time.”
M – I think I will. How about Saturday?
J – What do you mean?
M – I mean - what are you doing this Saturday?
J – (somewhat taken aback) Erm not a lot to be honest. What did you have in mind?
M – I’ll price up some flights and get back to you tomorrow. You can give me the guided tour of Belgium and show me the sights.
J – Err, Sure no problem. Let me know when to expect you (not believing for a moment that less than 48 hours from then I would be expected to pick her up from Brussels airport).


Saturday morning 10:45
Wakening up, as my body and mind dragged themselves up from the murky waters of unconsciousness I was vaguely aware of an uncomfortable sensation going down my arm, and a strange itchy feeling on my face.
Opening my eyes, I was greeted with a close-up view of the rug in my apartment’s living room floor, although believe me, it took a few minutes for even that to register, as my first reaction was that I’d woken up in the pouch of some huge kangaroo.

This was not good. I had been sleeping on my living room floor, my right arm numb thanks to the awkward position that I had slept in. Sitting up, yawning and stretching I then realised for the first time that I was not alone.

Indeed, both the settees in my living room were occupied, each containing a female apparently deep in the arms of slumber. I rose unsteadily to my feet trying my best to get a grip on reality. My movements must have disturbed the two of them as they started to stir, themselves looking a the worse for wear.

“Ach so ye’re awake now are ye?!” one of them said in a thick Scottish accent. Things were beginning to come back to me. The previous evening, I had been in my local Irish pub, in Antwerp with Alan, a Scottish mate of mine. During the night we had got chatting to three Scottish girls who were on holiday for the weekend and the drink had flowed, as they tend to on these sort of occasions. Alan managed to get off with one of the girls, a girl unbelievably called Marysia as well. To this day, I have never, ever since met a girl called Marysia. What are the chances, eh?

After Scottish Alan went home with Scottish Marysia, I invited the other two girls around to my place to smoke on a joint and after a few smokes, the three of us, quite literally crashed out in the living room, with me offering up my bed to the girls, them refusing and saying that they would sleep on the settees, me stubbornly stating that I’d sleep on the living room floor then if that was the case. Which I promptly went ahead and did.

And then it dawned in me.

“What time is it?!!”
“Ten to eleven”
“Shit, shit, shit!!!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Shit – I was supposed to pick up the other Marysia at the airport this morning!!”
“Who?”
“An ex-colleague of mine is over for the weekend – I was supposed to pick her up from the airport at 10:10”

I started to run about the apartment, first of all checking my phone. The battery was dead. “Shit!” Quickly brushing my teeth and indulging in a French shower, I rushed out of the apartment bidding goodbye to the girls.

“Listen, make yourselves at home. I’ll see you girls later on if you’re in the pub”
“OK then – good luck!”

I raced down to my car and plugged my phone into the in-car charger. If Marysia had been trying to get a hold of me, then she would not have had any success. Lord only knows what she was going to be doing at Brussels airport, I was already almost an hour late and almost 40 minutes from the airport and until the battery of the phone charged sufficiently, I would not be able to contact her.

Racing down the motorway, I tried unsuccessfully a couple of times to phone Marysia but just as I got connected and tried to speak, the phone died. I would have to be patient and give the phone a chance to charge up.

15 minutes from the airport, I tried again, eventually getting through.

“Hello?”
“Marysia? It’s Jonny here!”
“Oh – hello asshole – where the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry Marysia, I slept in, I’m on my way to the airport now to pick you up!”
“Don’t bother, I’m going back to England!”
“What?! Don’t be silly I’m almost at the airport now”
“There’s no point – I’ve already rearranged my flights, I’m going back to London this evening, I’m on the train at the moment going to Brussels for some shopping and then I’m going back to bloody England! Some tour guide you are!”
“Look I’m sorry Marysia, but there’s no need to go home this evening. I’ll meet you in Brussels and we can go for lunch and then do some shopping together. I’ll take you for a night out in Antwerp tonight. There’s no need to go home tonight”
“OK – I’m not changing my flights but you might as well take me for lunch – it’s the least you can do”
“OK – I’ll see you at the Grand Place in Brussels in 30 minutes, but I’d like it if you don’t go home tonight. I feel terrible.”
“We’ll talk about it over lunch”

With a huge sigh, I hung up and collected my thoughts. Marysia was pissed off and rightly so of course. What a first trip to Belgium this was turning out to be for her. I felt terrible.

Arriving in Brussels and after lucking out and getting a parking space close to the Grand Place, I walked into the picturesque, historic square. Surrounded by the centuries old buildings I dialled Marysia’s number again.

“Hello?”
“Marysia – it’s me again, I’m at the Grand Place, where are you?”
“I’m on my way into the Grand Place. I’m walking downhill into the top corner of the square”
“OK, I know where you’re coming in, I’ll meet you there.”
“OK. Bye”

As I was on the phone, I noticed a stylish looking girl walking past on the phone and recall thinking to myself, how it would have been nice to meet her instead of a pissed off Marysia Bogaycz – the surname an indication of the volatile Polish blood that would no doubt be coursing through her veins at that moment.

If the girl scared me as a colleague 5 years previously, then I feared the worse about how she would be after all that had happened that morning already. Little did I know things were going to go from bad to a whole lot worse.…

Walking up the narrow street that leads from the Grand Place, I couldn’t see Marysia anywhere, so I tried her again on the phone.

“Hello”
“Marysia - Where are you?”
“I’m in that bloody big square, the Grand Place or whatever it’s called.”
“You can’t be – I’ve just come from there!”
“Well get your arse back here then”
“Are you sure you’re at the Grand Place?”
“Look Jonny – I am stood in the middle of a huge square, surrounded by big, old buildings. I’m in the fucking Grand Place!”
“OK – don’t move. I’ll be there in one minute!”

Jesus, she sounded pissed off.

Returning back to the Grand Place, I walked towards the centre of the old square, trying to find Marysia, but could not see the grumpy, angry bitch from 5 years previous anywhere. The brass figures at the top of the old guild houses looked down at me mockingly – like they knew I was in a whole heap of trouble.
I noticed the stylish girl who had just walked past me a few minutes earlier, who looked as if her date had stood her up as well but I couldn’t see Marysia anywhere.

I was convinced that she had managed to find some other square with old buildings in the centre of Brussels – which is not easy, as anyone who has been to that city can testify. The Grand Place is one of the few areas in central Brussels with any real character, with Brussels seemingly determined to rip down any building more than a few decades old and replacing them with just another faceless office block to house the ever-increasing number of European bureaucrats that populate the city.

Perhaps this would explain the reason why UNESCO has deemed the place a world heritage site, before some over enthusiastic city-planner comes along and thinks to himself “This would be a great place for the European Cucumber Department to be based! Close to the restaurants, bars and of course the shops.”

I was awoken from my thoughts as the words “It’s about bloody time Jonny Black!” shattered the relative calm of the Grand Place. Pigeons took to flight, deciding that finding a safe haven from the banshee-like wail, was more important than picking up any scraps of food that they would find.

I spun around, just a little too quickly for a man that had about 4 hours sleep on his living room floor and waaaay too much to drink the night previously. The buildings seemed to close in on me as I saw the stylish girl from before walk towards me with a huge smile on her face.

“Marysia?” I enquired.
“Yes of course it’s me – who did you expect? You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. What sort of way is this to treat a lady?”

I couldn’t believe it. This was not the Marysia Bogaycz that I remembered. Long gone were the big woolly jumpers and leggings - indeed the whole student wardrobe that she had insisted on wearing in the office during the Sony days had been replaced by designer clobber, the full length jacket she was wearing to protect her from the cold so unique in its design that it couldn’t help but turn heads.

And then there was the face and hair.

If I looked long enough around the eyes I supposed that I could see the Marysia that I remembered but everything else had changed dramatically. The hair was immaculately coiffured, and for the first time I could remember, she was wearing make up. And then there was the weight loss – she was never hugely overweight during the project but the girl that was walking towards me was certainly a shadow of her former self.

Dazed, confused and more than a little bit stunned, I embraced her in greeting suddenly acutely aware of just how terrible I must have looked considering my morning’s preparation for this moment.

“I’m soooo sorry about all this, Marysia. I really am.”
“So you should be. This is not good enough Mr. Black.”
“But holy shit Marysia, you’ve changed a helluva lot! I walked past you earlier and noticed a hot chick but didn’t think it was you.”
“Thanks. I think.” She was smiling and there was a naughty glint in her eye that gave me some hope. I thought I might still be able to rescue the situation.

“Please allow me to make this up to you. Are you hungry? I know a nice street of restaurants where we can go have lunch.”
“As a matter of fact I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since the crappy breakfast on the plane and that was hours ago.” The emphasis on the word “hours” was not lost on me.
“OK then. This is my treat. After that we can go do some shopping. Are you really going to go back to England this evening?”
“We’ll talk about that over lunch”

Yep this was a situation that was rescuable. As long as I didn’t fuck it up anymore. Boy – I hadn’t even begun to fuck things up…

Leading Marysia away from the Grand Place we went to “La Rue de les Bouchers” (The Butchers’ Street) a narrow, cobbled street that led off the Grand Place. All the way along this street there are dozens of restaurants advertising there wares, mostly seafood, arranged artistically on iced carts outside. To further try and entice you into their restaurants, waiters offered greetings in several languages. Despite the fact it is an obvious tourist trap, it nevertheless is an interesting and amusing scene, colourful enough to brighten up even the dullest of November mornings and much to my relief the darkest of moods as Marysia’s visibly lifted.

I let her choose the restaurant (well, it was the least I could do, Dear Reader) and we sat at a table on a heated terrace offering us a view of the passing world which in this part of town seemed to purely consist of Japanese and American tourists.

Allowing Marysia to take the lead, we ordered a bottle of red wine from the waiter as well as some food. My heart skipped a beat at the prices on the menu, but I did my best to keep cool, resigned to having to spend a bit of money to try and redeem the situation.

Lunch itself was very entertaining, the food was good, the wine was better (we ordered a second bottle) and we sat for a couple of hours reminiscing about the Sony days, interspersed with a few more “I can’t believe you did that” followed by a few more apologies from me.

As I ordered a couple of coffees, I asked Marysia if she was going to change her mind and spend the night in Belgium after all.

“OK then – I will. But you’re a very lucky boy. I can’t believe you did that to me!”
“I know, I know. Let’s start again, shall we?”
“OK – give me a couple of minutes, I’m going to phone and rearrange my flight back to the original one for tomorrow evening”

Flights rearranged, we finished our coffees as I ordered the bill.

“So what do you want to go shopping for?” I asked
“I told you – fancy lingerie. The stuff back home is sooo expensive”
“I’m not sure where to go to shop for that kind of thing”
“Well then, we’ll just have to find some place that does then, won’t we? You said there are loads of clothes shops in Belgium.”
“I said there were loads of clothes shops in Antwerp – I don’t know about Brussels”
“Surely it’s got to be just as good?”
“Yes I guess so. We’ll soon find out”

Just then, the waiter returned with the bill.
“It’s OK, I’ll get this” I offered, reaching into my pocket for the wallet.

Except it wasn’t there. Abject horror chilled my inner core as I realised that in my rush to leave the apartment that morning I had left my wallet in the apartment.

Marysia noticed something was wrong.
“What now?!”
“I don’t have my wallet with me – I must have left it in the apartment in my rush to come and pick you up”
“You are bloody unbelievable!”
“Look – is it possible that you pay for this and I square you up when we get back into Antwerp this evening?” I more or less begged.
“I don’t fucking believe this”, she said.
“I’m really, really sorry – I’ll square everything up once we get back up to Antwerp”

Marysia tutted, rolled her eyes, but produced her visa card and paid for the (expensive) lunch. All the good work provided by my witty banter and sparkling conversation (not to mention the red wine) had been undone.

There was still one hope.
“I still have my bank card. It’s like a cash card and can be used in shops. We can go to get you some lingerie and I can pay with that card in the shop”
“OK then – but I’m gonna warn you – I have very expensive tastes.”
“No problem – it’s the least I can do.”

I have to admit that I get really uncomfortable being in lingerie shops. I always think the women are looking at me like I’m some kind of pervert. I suppose the hang ups from back home are still with me but fuelled by a bottle of red wine and a desire to do one thing, just one thing right that day – I grabbed her close by the arm and walked her to the shops.

I had a point to prove.

After going to a couple of clothes shops we stumbled (quite literally) into a lingerie shop. Just in case I’m not making myself clear here – I mean a shop that sells ONLY lingerie. Arm in arm we went in through the door of the shop. I tried my best to look cool but as soon as the attractive sales assistant came over and said “Bonjour, ça va?” I immediately broke into a nervous, cold sweat.

“Wee saa vah. Ahm - we’re just looking” I mumbled in return.
“Oh no we’re not – we’re here buying!” exclaimed Marysia as she proceeded to drag me over to some expensive but oh so sexy underwear.

After a few minutes browsing Marysia had picked three different sets – all equally pleasing on the eye, even though mine were firmly shut of course, for fear that God was about to strike down upon me with great force and furious anger from high up above for having impure thoughts.

And off Marysia went to the changing rooms at the back of the shop, leaving me on the shop floor on my own, save for half a dozen female shoppers, a gorgeous sales assistant and fancy underwear. Lots of fancy, sexy, skimpy, lacy, revealing underwear. I felt faint. It was too warm in the shop, compared with the cold of outdoors, I was dressed like an evacuee from Scott’s expedition to the Antarctic and had more than a healthy red wine glow about me. I had to get out of there fast.

“Jonny – can you come here a minute?” Marysia’s voiced called from the changing rooms. I looked at the sales assistant who shrugged her shoulders and smiled gesturing that I should do as I was bid.

Gingerly, I walked into the room. There were three cubicles to my left. Only one was occupied.

“Marysia?” I called, aware of the fact that my voice was quivering. I cleared my throat, unsure what to do.

Suddenly, the curtain of the middle cubicle flew open and there stood Marysia wearing nothing but a smile and one of the matching sets that she had selected.

“Whaddya think?”

I didn’t no where to look.
So I did what any bloke would do.

I stared at her tits.

“Are you checking out my piercings?” she asked, making no effort to cover herself up.

And indeed she was right. Through the sheer fabric of her bra, I had noticed that both nipples were pierced.

“Play it cool Jonny, play it cool” I thought to myself. “Yes – you’re in the females changing room, in a lingerie shop in Brussels, with a girl that you haven’t seen for 5 years, looking at a lot more of her than you ever saw 5 years ago, but there’s no need to spoil the moment.”

“Did they hurt?”

Homer would have been proud of that one.

“Yes, they did a bit but they were worth it – I love the sensation I get from them when they rub up against nice underwear like this. Here. Feel” And she reached for my not entirely unwilling hand bringing it up to lightly caress her left breast.

Next thing I knew I was in the cubicle with Marysia and we were snogging passionately (is there any other way to snog?). I know this is starting to read like an excerpt from Penthouse Letters but I kid you not. As is the norm when I regale you with these stories, there is no need for me to use writer’s license - this shit really happened.

Things started to heat up, and this time I don’t mean anything to do with the over enthusiastic heating system. Just as I was starting to get carried away, Marysia broke free (God – I make it sound like I had her in a headlock) saying “we’d better stop, before we get carried away.”

“Too late” I thought to myself.

“I think I’ll take this set. This seems to have the desired affect!”

As she started to undress, I returned to the shop floor. The sales assistant gave me a knowing look. “You like what you see?” she enquired.
I returned her enquiry with a sheepish grin that I hoped said “Aw shucks – sorry about that – but this sort of thing happens to me all the time” but which in all likelihood said, “God I’m so embarrassed, I think I might have come in my pants”.

A few moments later, a very pleased with herself looking Marysia bounced out of the changing room and placed the set on the counter. “I’ll take these” she announced.

I reached for my bank card and placed it into the card reader on the counter, pleased that Marysia had managed to find something that she liked and that at last I was able to redeem myself by treating her to some sexy underwear. I was also pleased because, despite being notoriously bad at reading what women want, I was pretty sure that Marysia was interested in me. Against all the odds, I had redeemed the situation beyond my wildest dreams. I typed in the card’s pin number and gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back.

The smile on the sales assistant’s face was replaced by a look of puzzlement.
“I’m sorry sir, but there seems to be a problem with your card”
The colour drained from my face.
“What do you mean?”
“For some reason the machine is rejecting your card.”

This couldn’t be happening.

“Oh, for fucks sake!” exclaimed Marysia, sounding even more exasperated with the situation than I was. If that was at all possible.

So there I was, for the second time in less than hour asking Marysia to pay for something that I had originally offered to pay for by means of an apology for standing her up for 2 hours at Brussels airport.

Like I say – I’m not that great at reading a woman but I could tell that she was not impressed.

“I swear - I’ll square you up once I get to my bank back in Antwerp”
“You’d bloody well better! You sure know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you?”

I gathered that is was a rhetorical question and shrugged my shoulders. I could feel the eyes of the sales assistant burning a hole in my head as she gave me the “All men are bastards” look. Not for the first time, I wanted out of there fast.

Stepping out into the cold early evening air, I wallowed in the fresh feel of it on my face, and gathered my senses. I turned around, placed both hands on her shoulder and looked Marysia in the eyes. “I’m really, really sorry that today didn’t go as I had planned. I hope to make that up to you by showing you a good time in Antwerp this evening. Let’s go back to my place, get showered, changed and who knows? - maybe even a bit of “Foefelen” I gave her a cheeky grin.

It had the desired effect. “Foefelen?! What the fuck is that?” She asked, the stern look on her face replaced with a much more accommodating smile.

“It’s Flemish slang. It means ‘messing about’ “.
“After your performance today Mr. Black, you’d be lucky! Here – carry this and take me to Antwerp. I want to party!” She handed me the shopping bag and linked arms with me, cuddling up against the chill of the winter evening air and off we walked to the car.

I offered myself a wry smile. I had pulled it out of the fire again, but I was only too aware that I could not keep this up much longer. I was thankful that I was out of the woods. Surely there wasn’t anything else that could go wrong?

Arriving back at my car, Marysia let out a squeal of excitement. “You drive a Beetle??! I love Beetles! Can I drive it, can I drive it?. Pleeeeeeease!”

I considered the situation. This was her first time in Brussels. It was 5 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, the traffic was going to be heavy, they drive on the other side of the road AND she’d polished off a bottle of wine not an hour and a half earlier.

On the other hand, I was trying to get in the good books with this girl. A girl with a penchant for good food, good wine, sexy underwear and nipple rings had to be worth the effort.

“Of course you can” I heard myself saying as I handed her the car keys.

We got into the car but not before she gave my confidence a dent by trying to get into the car on the passengers side.

Sitting behind the wheel, she giggled like an excited school girl. “This is sooooo cool!” We drove out from our space and out into the Brussels traffic. This was going to be a white knuckle ride.

But give credit where it’s due, Marysia was more than a match for the Brussels traffic, considering the circumstances and the fact that her navigator was a little bit petrified. Then, whilst stopped at a set if traffic lights, she announced “OK – that was fun. Your turn - get us to Antwerp” as she stepped out of the car.

I jumped into the car and took us back to Antwerp, Arriving there sometime around 18:00 in the evening.

Upon reaching Antwerp, we went to my apartment to get freshened up. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise but better than that – try if you will to imagine Marysia’s, as I opened the door of the apartment to see two Scottish girls lying on my settees watching television.
I could have died.

Waiting for, but not expecting the floor to swallow me up I looked at Marysia. Her face was a picture. Lord knows what my own was like, but it seemed to spur the two girls into action, with both of them getting up on their feet and one of them asking if I could order them a taxi.

I introduced them to a rather incredulous looking Marysia and we sat in an awkward silence punctuated by strained conversation waiting for the taxi to arrive. It was with a huge relief that the doorbell rang and the two girls made their exit. “Sure we’ll maybe see you two later in the pub, if youse are aboot”.
“Aye, sure you never know”, I replied.

As the door closed and with the two girls no doubt still within ear shot, I got the expected “interrogation” from Marysia.
“So who were they?”
“Well – they were two girls that I met last night in my local”
“And they came back and stayed here?”
“Their mate went home with my mate”
“And you thought you’d take the other two home?”
“Well, I invited them back for a smoke and then after that we just kinda crashed out. I said they could make themselves at home, but I didn’t think for a moment that they’d stay all day!”
“What do you mean ‘smoke’?”
“Well, I was in Amsterdam recently and brought some stuff back. We smoked some of it last night.”
“Do you have any left?”
“I sure do – would you like some?”
“Absolutely - I’d love a bit of weed!” Her mood had visibly lifted at this new development and I relaxed a little as I went to retrieve an example of the commercialised success of Amsterdam – a blister-pack of pre-rolled joints.

Sitting on the settee, we smoked a bit of weed whilst watching a bit of MTV. This ended up having a very tiring affect on both of us, after all the stress that we’d both endured already that day.
“Would you like to put your head down for an hour?” I offered.
“Yeah – sure that’d be great”
“OK – you can have my bed” I suggested. (Trying to play it cool).
“Thanks, but don’t you want to sleep for a bit?”
“Yes I do, but it’s ok – I’ll be fine out here on the settee.”
“Don’t be stupid – you can sleep with me” was the reply that I had hoped for and received.

And so it came to pass, that against all the odds, I found myself climbing into bed with an ex-colleague of mine. An ex-colleague who up until 2 days previously, I had had no contact with for 5 years. Considering this and also taking into account that I had tried my best to screw everything up completely by stumbling from one glorious fuck up to another, this was quite an achievement. So after a bit of “Foefelen” we dozed off into a restful sleep.

Almost an hour later, the alarm went off, awakening us from our slumber.
“What time is it?”
“It’s eight o’clock” I replied.
“OK then – where’s this great night out in Antwerp that you promised me?”
“Ah, but what you’re forgetting is that this is a 24-hour drinking city. There will still be plenty of opportunity to party”
“OK – so who’s showering first?”
“Well – we could save time and shower together” I joked.

And so we did. This was my kinda girl.

Suitably refreshed and having ensured that each other was clean, very, very clean, we headed out into the Antwerp night. But before the party started, we had one stop to make. My bank. Having reimbursed Marysia with enough money to regain some of my battered male pride, we were ready to hit the city of Antwerp in typical fashion – going first for a meal at a nice restaurant before heading out to sample the many bars the city had to offer.

As the night progressed and with the booze flowing, we went from pub to pub, enjoying each other’s company, reminiscing about the Sony days and filling each other in with what had been happening in each other’s lives during the intervening years. Even the events from earlier in the day were deemed humorous topics for debate, with Marysia beginning to be able to see the funny side of things.

We chatted in amazement at the fact that although it had been 5 years since we’d contacted each other last and that it was weird to be stood in a bar in Antwerp after all that time, that we were getting on great. We both agreed that despite it’s early teething problems, the day had turned out just fine and had been an enjoyable time spent in each others company.

I started to get carried away with the situation.

“Perhaps this is a sign,”
“What do you mean?”
“Well – you know – fate.” I was definitely getting carried away with the situation.
“Yes – I know what you mean – it’s mad that here we are after all this time and getting on so well in spite of everything.” It seemed that she was getting caught up in the moment as well.
“Fuck it Marysia – let’s get married”
“What?!”
“I’m serious – let’s go to Brussels airport tomorrow and get on the first flight to Vegas” I looked at my watch. It was 04:00am. “This time tomorrow we could be getting married at the 13th chapel of Elvis, saying ‘Uh-huh’ instead of ‘I do’.”
“Jesus, you are serious, aren’t you?”
“I realise how ridiculous it sounds but yes I am deadly serious. I just think that for the two of us to get hooked up after all this time it’s too good to be true. We’ve had a great day in each other’s company and I’d like to have many more. Whaddya say?”
“Holy Shit! Erm….Fuck it – let’s do it!”
“Seriously?! I don’t want you to be changing your mind in the morning in the cold light of day”
“No – let’s do it. Let’s go to Vegas tomorrow”
“OK then Mrs. Black – we’ll have to go to my local and tell everyone the good news. This is a cause for celebration!”

So we downed our drinks and headed over to the pub to tell everyone the good news. I was fully aware of how ridiculous the situation was. I was also aware as to what people’s reaction would be but I was deadly serious. I was convinced that this was the right thing to do and even more convinced that it wasn’t just the booze talking. This was going to happen.

We walked into the pub and saw a sight that was only too familiar for me. The little pub was packed with all the familiar faces and the place was bouncing. The music was blaring, the Scottish girls from the previous night were up dancing on the benches, my mates were drinking at the bar and all the usual faces were behind it.
Nathan the manager, playing the tunes and conducting the throng, whilst his brother Gordon stood beside him pulling pints with the usual bemused expression on his face. Uncle Isy was stood at the end of the bar surveying the scene, with a big grin on his face. Abbie completed the team working behind the bar looking like she wanted everyone to go home so she could start her own party but this looked like a typical Saturday night and the pub was far from closing.

Saying hello to Nathan, I asked him to turn off the music as I had an announcement to make. His face showed a look of puzzlement but he did as I had asked.

The pub went abruptly silent. Everyone turned to Nathan to see what had happened but he shrugged his shoulders and pointed at me. I took this as my cue.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Dubliner, I have an announcement to make.”
I surveyed the see of faces staring blankly back at me. Undeterred, I continued with my speech.
“Tomorrow morning I am flying out to Las Vegas to get married. Ladies and Gentlmen I’d like you to meet, Marysia my wife to be.”
I noticed Alan bury his head in his hands. Nathan started to laugh “Ah for fuck sake Jonny, stop winding us up” as he bent down to start the music again.

“I’m serious!” All eyes turned to an embarrassed but smiling Marysia.
“It’s true – we’re off to Vegas tomorrow morning” she agreed.

Stunned silence.

Eventually, it was Alan who broke it first. “OK – well then, let me be the first to congratulate these two mad bastards by buying them a drink. Congratulations! – what will it be?”
“I think it will have to be some of my specials – The Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers” suggested Nathan, referring to a potent cocktail shot that he had been trying, without much success, to convince us all to drink. He put the music back on and then proceeded to pour the drinks, his face a picture of concentration.

At this point, I can fully recommend making this sort of announcement if you are (a) in the mood to get absolutely shitfaced and (b) wanting to do it as cheaply as possible, because for the next couple of hours nobody would allow us to buy a drink, whilst they continued to offer us drink after drink. Marysia and I both took it in turns to “dance the pole” a ritual that is usually reserved for the extremely drunk or the extremely extrovert (or both) and involves sexily dancing on an iron pole that stands conspicuously in the middle of the bar, tempting the foolish and the drunk.
Marysia especially made good use of the pole, whilst I was time and time again forced to go through the same conversation. A conversation that went a little something like this:

“You’re not really going to go to Vegas tomorrow – are you?”
“Look – I know how ridiculous this sounds, but this is not the drink talking, this is for real”
“Jonny – who the fuck is she?”
“We used to work together 5 years ago – she came over to visit for the weekend”
“And you’re going to go to Vegas tomorrow to get married?”
“Yes – we’re going to go to the 11th chapel of Elvis and say ‘Uh-huh’”
“Fuck sake Jonny, you’ve come out with some crap in your life but this beats everything else hands down. Nathan – set another one of those Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers up for this mad bastard”.

And so on it went.

06:30 came and things had started to wind down in the Dubliner, and my wife to be and myself decided to call it a day. After all – we still had to go home, get packed and get to Brussels airport to try and sort out tickets.

We said our goodbyes to the people that were still in the pub and as Abbie opened the door to let us out into the Sunday morning, I kissed her goodbye and said:
“Abbie, this time tomorrow, we’re going to be in Vegas”

A few short hours later, I awoke and looked at Marysia. Her eyes were open and she was looking at me. I remembered everything from the night before. My body’s usual self-defence mechanism, total blackout, apparently not working.

“So” *ahem* “What about this Vegas trip then?” I gingerly asked.
“Well – what do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure”
“Perhaps we should leave it for a few weeks?” Marysia suggested.
“Yes – that’s a good idea. Let’s do that” I said, suitably relieved.

We rolled over, cuddled up and went back to sleep – probably a lot more soundly than before.

Elvis could wait.