The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook (16 page)

‘Cheeky bugger. But you’ll think about it?’

‘Dan, number one, I hate injections. Number two, I don’t want poison injected into my face, or anywhere, now I come to think of it. And number three, I don’t want to walk around looking like I’ve got a bloody mask on for the rest of the year. So no, I won’t think about it.’

Dan sits back in his chair and holds his hands up. ‘Fair enough. Only trying to help. But…’

‘But what?’

‘In that case, you really ought to give up the smoking. Completely. Very bad for the skin. Not to mention the teeth. Or the wallet.’

I stare fondly at the Marlboro in my hand. ‘I’m trying. But on top of everything else I’ve had to give up—the beer, the chocolate, the pizza—it’s hard.’

‘Rubbish,’ says Dan. ‘Giving up smoking? Piece of piss.’

‘How would you know? You’ve never given up anything in your life.’

‘I’m serious. It’s easy.’

‘Yeah, right. How does the joke go? “So easy I’ve done it hundreds of times”.’

‘Listen. Do any of your friends smoke?’

‘Er…nope.’

‘Does anyone at work smoke?’

‘Seeing as there’s only Natasha and me in the office, and she doesn’t, then no.’

‘So is there anyone you know, anyone at all, who you could possibly bum a cigarette off if you get desperate?’

I think about this for a moment. There’s only Billy, who I know smokes roll-ups, but that would be just too low.

‘No.’

‘Well, do you want to know the easiest way to give up?’

‘Go on…’

Dan reaches across, takes my last Marlboro from me, and grinds it out distastefully in the ashtray. ‘Stop buying cigarettes.’

7.27 p.m.

It’s Valentine’s night, and I’m waiting for Dan in the Admiral Jim. That’s not as sad as it sounds for either of us; my ‘girlfriend’ if you can still call her that, is several thousand miles away, and Dan never ever has a date on Valentine’s evening, thinking it too much of a commitment thing.

I haven’t received a card from Jane this morning, but I’ve just put that down to the fact that she probably wasn’t able to find a post box, or even a card shop, come to think of it. Besides, I haven’t sent her one either, although that’s mainly because I don’t know where exactly she is.

Dan’s almost half an hour late, and I’m just about to call him on my new mobile, courtesy of ‘Fone Home’ (which I can’t say unless it’s in E.T.’s voice) in the high street, when he appears, grinning sheepishly. ‘Sorry, mate. Had a job getting out of my front door.’

I don’t take the bait. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know. With all the Valentine’s cards blocking it.’

I sigh. ‘Have you purposefully been hanging around outside for half an hour in the cold just so you can make that pathetic joke?’

Dan’s face falls. ‘Well, not quite half an hour.’

The Jim is having some kind of Valentine’s theme night, with heart-shaped balloons flying above the tables, and the bar staff all dressed in pink. Not surprisingly it’s pretty quiet, although I’m sure the same can’t be said for thousands of tables-for-two at Brighton’s various restaurants this evening.

As Dan pulls up a stool, Wendy appears behind the bar. She’s wearing a pair of red heart-shaped, battery-operated, deeley-boppers, which flash on and off alternately. They’re somewhat out of tune with her miserable expression.

‘Evening you two lovebirds,’ she says. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘My usual,’ says Dan, ‘and another half for Edward.’

‘What do you mean “another half”? I haven’t had a beer.’

‘Sorry mate. I meant to say “an other half”.’

‘Very funny.’

Wendy shakes her head. ‘So what have you two got planned tonight? Something romantic?’

Dan stick his tongue out at her. ‘It’s my only night off in the year. I want to do something fun. Any suggestions, Eddy boy?’

‘Dan, it’s bloody Valentine’s night. We can either go and sit in a restaurant surrounded by loved-up couples trying to inject some romance into their meaningless relationships, go home and watch the umpteenth rerun of
When Harry Met Sally
or some other romantic rubbish, or sit here. Which would you prefer?’

‘Good point.’ Dan turns his attention back to Wendy, who’s flashing away opposite us. ‘So, no date tonight?’

‘Only with a large glass of wine when I get home.’

‘What’s your boyfriend doing this evening?’ asks Dan.

Wendy reddens slightly. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Why not?’ I’ve asked this in the spirit of sympathy, and then suddenly realize that it’s not the cleverest of questions. Particularly on Valentine s Day.

Wendy pulls up a stool. ‘Well, number one, I work in a pub, so even though I meet a lot of men, they’re usually drunk when they ask me out. Number two, because I work in a pub I’m busy most evenings and weekends, so don’t have a lot of social life anyway, and number three, on the odd occasion I do go out with anyone I meet here, they’re only after one thing. Besides,’ she says, nodding at Dan, ‘most of the single guys who come in here turn out to be losers anyway.’

‘No offence taken,’ says Dan.

‘That’s a shame,’ replies Wendy.

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Hence the reason you’re working this evening.’

‘Exactly. I selflessly volunteered, so the other barmaids could spend the night with their nearest and dearest.’

‘Nothing to do with the fact that they’re paying you triple time, then?’ suggests Dan.

‘Maybe,’ says Wendy. ‘But at least I’ve got the pleasure of your company on this, the most loved-up of evenings,’ she adds, dryly.

‘Jane adored Valentine’s Day,’ I sigh. ‘I used to cook her dinner, do flowers, chocolates, the works.’

‘Romance the pants off her, you mean,’ says Dan. ‘It’s just one big marketing con to sell truckloads of naff cards and vastly overpriced chocolates, all so suckers like Edward here can get his yearly shag. I’m surprised you women don’t just ask for the money instead.’

‘So why didn’t you keep it up for the rest of the year?’ asks Wendy.

‘Hur hur,’ laughs Dan.

She ignores him. ‘The romance, and stuff, I mean.’

I shrug. ‘I didn’t know I had to. I thought it was a bit like hunting, you know, once I’d snared her…Well, all the hard work had been done, apart from birthdays and Valentine’s…’

Wendy shakes her head. ‘Edward, a relationship needs constant attention. It’s a living thing, not just a habit. You’ve got to keep on top of it.’

‘Hur hur,’ laughs Dan again, until I dig him in the ribs.

‘It’s like owning a car,’ continues Wendy. ‘You can’t expect it to keep going on its own. It’s bound to need a few minor repairs down the years.’

‘And, of course, regular servicing,’ chimes in Dan, smuttily.

‘And not just once a year,’ says Wendy.

I look across at Dan, daring him to make a comment.

‘What?’ he says.

I’m starting to feel a bit guilty now, and try to explain myself. ‘Valentine’s Day was different. Kind of a tradition. Besides, we didn’t go in for any of that romance stuff in the early days.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we were students. Back then, romance was remembering someone’s name in bed the next morning.’

‘Sounds like my life today,’ muses Dan.

Wendy rolls her eyes. ‘Well, when was the last time you bought Jane flowers, for example? And please don’t say “February the fourteenth last year”.’

I have to think about this one. ‘Er…I can’t remember. Oh, hold on, yes I can. We were driving back from London one afternoon last summer and we’d stopped to fill up with petrol. The garage was selling off bouquets of roses that had reached their sell-by date, so I surprised her with some.’

Wendy shakes her head, sending her deeley-boppers into spasm. ‘I’ll bet you did. And you haven’t “surprised” her with any since?’

‘Nope. “Don’t waste your money on things like this,” she’d said.’

‘So you just didn’t buy her any. Ever again?’

I give Wendy a puzzled look. ‘Well, she’d told me not to.’

Wendy sighs. ‘You really haven’t been listening to her, have you? When she said not to waste your money on things like that, you assumed she meant flowers in general, right?’

I nod, unaware of any other possible interpretation.

‘Right.’

‘Get real, Edward. She meant those particular flowers. Petrol-station flowers. And certainly not “special offer” petrol-station flowers. No girl in her right mind wants her boyfriend to stop buying her flowers. Ever.’

I’m still a little confused. ‘I don’t get it.’

Wendy folds her arms. ‘Let me tell you how romance works. Both of you. All a woman actually wants is to feel special. It really is as simple as that. And special-offer petrol-station flowers certainly don’t make us feel special. When we stop feeling that way, well…’

Wendy reaches up and presses a button on the side of her headband, causing the lights to go out in the two red flashing hearts.

I get it.

7.44 a.m.

This morning is a turning point for me in my training programme. Not only am I not sick, but I don’t even feel sick. I manage the stairs three times without stopping, and even though (of course) I’m knackered by the time I’ve finished, I actually believe that, given the right amount of rest— perhaps a day or two, I tell Sam jokingly—I could even do it once more. Sam’s pleased with my progress, and to celebrate she puts me through the kind of stretching routine that would have had the Spanish inquisitors wincing and saying things like ‘steady on’—in Spanish, of course.

We head back and Sam puts me through another kind of torture, this time a Swedish interval training technique called ‘Fartlek’—a word I’d find funny if the training weren’t so exhausting—where I have to sprint then jog alternately between the lampposts that all too frequently for my liking line the promenade. By the end, Sam’s hard pressed to tell the difference between my sprinting and my jogging, and ‘Fartlek’ has joined ‘
ikea
’ on my list of Swedish things I hate, but all in all I’m quite chuffed with myself. Sam is pleased with me too, although the glint in her eye seems to promise more severe exertions in the days to come.

‘What was “interval” about that?’ I ask her, once I’ve got my breath back.

‘The jogging parts,’ says Sam. ‘Obviously.’

‘When you go to the theatre, the interval is the bit where you stop and have a break. Not keep watching a slightly slower play.’

‘Stop complaining,’ orders Sam, ‘or I’ll make you do it again.’

I salute her. ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.’

‘So, are you starting to enjoy the training yet?’ she asks me, as we jog back home.

‘Well, “enjoy” is pushing it a bit, but I can see that I’m making progress. And that’s the important thing.’

And funnily enough, as well as feeling fitter, I feel more alert too. I’m sleeping better, though possibly because I’m so tired from a combination of the training and my early starts, not drinking, and not smoking—strangely, Dan’s ‘don’t buy cigarettes’ seems to be working. And while I really miss the cigarettes, and the beer, and of course the pizza, I still miss Jane more.

And that’s what makes the difference.

8.54 a.m.

Although I can just about manage the training sessions, the walk to work afterwards is the thing that kills me. What’s more, I’m so stiff from the workouts that I’m not nimble enough to avoid Billy any more. As a result I end up almost doubling my usual purchase of
Big Issues
.

‘You’ll be able to retire soon,’ I tell him, as he tries to sell me my fifth copy of the week.

‘Very funny,’ sniffs Billy. ‘Besides, why would I want to give all this up?’ He gestures across the road, where a pair of seagulls are ripping a dustbin bag to shreds on the pavement.

‘Come on, Billy. You must dream about the time when you can finally get off the city streets.’

He laughs. ‘What, a nice little doorway in the country somewhere?’

Billy has got himself the homeless person’s
de rigueur
accessory—a dog. True to form, it’s one of those canines whose breed defies classification, and for whom the word ‘scraggy’ seems to have been coined. To cap it all, Billy’s tied one of those standard issue red bandanas round its neck.

‘Who’s this then?’ I ask.

‘’S’Eddie,’ mumbles Billy, reaching down to give the dog a protective scratch, as if he’s afraid I might suddenly try and take him.

‘Eddie? I’m touched.’

‘Whaddya mean?’

‘Well, you know. His name.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Eddie. Your dog. You’ve named him after me.’

Billy grins up at me mischievously. ‘That’s your name, is it? Edward? Big Ed?’

‘Where did you get him?’ I say reaching down to stroke Eddie, which provokes a growl. From Billy.

‘Found him, didn’t I? Scavenging in those bins over there.’

I snatch my hand away quickly, then wonder whether it was Eddie or Billy who’d been doing the scavenging.

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be good company for you.’

‘Yeah, but I dunno if I can afford to keep him,’ says Billy, waving a
Big Issue
under my nose. ‘Two mouths to feed, and all that.’

As Eddie gazes up at me with his big brown eyes, and Billy looks down at me with his bloodshot ones, I reach into my pocket for a couple of pound coins.

11.15 a.m.

Billy s not the only person to get someone new in his life. When Natasha comes bounding in mid-morning, she’s got a spring in her step, and a smile on her face, two factors that make me reach the only possible conclusion: she’s just had sex.

‘We’ve got a new client,’ she announces, triumphantly flinging a copy of
Computer Business
on my desk. ‘Page forty-two.’

I pick the magazine up and find page forty-two as instructed. There’s a feature about the latest hot-to-trot UK dot-com company, Go-Soft Technologies, complete with a picture of their chairman—the fat, balding, forty-something multimillionaire Terry Woodward.

I look at Natasha and raise one eyebrow. ‘Go-Soft? Unfortunate name.’

‘They make software for the travel industry, Edward,’ she tuts. ‘And anyway, he wasn’t last night. Or this morning, come to think of it.’

I can’t help but shudder. ‘So, is it a big one? The campaign, I mean.’

‘Oh yes.’ She smiles. ‘Advertising in the
Sunday Times
, no less.’

‘Blimey. You must have been good.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If he wants to brag about it in the
Times
!’

Over the years I’ve realized that, although admittedly rare, there are occasions when I can actually take the micky out of Natasha without her having a fit. The day after the signing up of a new client, i.e., the day after she’s had sex, is usually one of them.

Natasha sits herself down at her desk, and I think I can detect the slightest tinge of embarrassment on her face.

‘Yes, well, he’s coming in later to take me out to lunch, so I’d keep those comments to yourself if I were you.’

I grin across at her, grateful for the upswing in her mood. ‘Yes boss.’

12.45 p.m.

An hour or so later, the aforementioned Terry arrives. In truth, I hear him before I see him, or rather hear the roar of his Porsche’s engine as he blips the throttle before double-parking it outside, leaving the hazards on in the hope Brighton’s Parking Nazis won’t get him. Some chance.

I peer down into the street below, getting a perfect view of the sun glinting off the top of his bald head. He’s dressed expensively, in that dot-com new-money kind of way, as if he’s been told to go out and buy some style. It nearly works, too, apart from the bright red tie that I’m guessing someone else has picked out for him. And I can imagine who that someone else is, especially when I catch sight of the wedding ring he’s wearing.

I’m bending over by the filing cabinet when he breezes in, so he doesn’t see me. Instead, he walks over to Natasha, and kisses her full on the lips.

‘Last night…’ he starts to say, before Natasha can stop him. ‘You were…it was…I’ve never…’

Natasha clears her throat. ‘Terry, I’d like you to meet Edward. Edward works for me,’ she adds, although possibly more for my benefit than Terry’s.

Terry wheels round, catches sight of me, and turns the same colour as his tie.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, walking over and shaking his hand. ‘You were saying?’

‘I was?’

‘About last night?’

Terry turns a shade or two redder. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Natasha’s…sales pitch, I mean. She made a very firm case as to why I should use her, or rather, Staff-IT’s services.’

‘Really?’ I say, thinking
I bet she did. And more than once, probably
.

Natasha glares at me. ‘We better hurry,’ she says, picking up her handbag and leading Terry towards the door. ‘I’ve booked us a table for one o’clock.’

‘Lovely,’ replies Terry. ‘I’ll be able to brief you fully on my requirements.’

As I look at the two of them, thinking that there’ll probably be more in the way of de-briefing going on, Natasha smiles sweetly at me.

‘Edward. You’re welcome to join us,’ she says, but her tone tells me that actually, I’m not.

5.30 p.m.

I’m just packing up and getting ready to leave when I hear the Porsche again. It roars off after a few seconds, and a flushed Natasha arrives back in the office.

I look at my watch. ‘Must have been a good restaurant.’

‘More of a liquid lunch, actually.’

I grimace. ‘Too much information. And in a Porsche? You have my admiration.’

Natasha shrugs. ‘Convertible. More head room, so to speak.’

I pick up my briefcase, trying hard to get rid of the image Natasha’s just conjured up in my mind.

‘And will you be seeing him again? After the campaign’s finished, I mean?’

‘I hope so,’ she says, perching on the corner of her desk. ‘I like this one.’

You like them all
, I think,
until the business dries up. Or you scare them back to their wives
.

‘And he’s married, I take it?’

Natasha sighs, and for once seems to drop her guard. ‘Edward, they always are. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to them. You know, wanting something that I’m not supposed to have. Or can’t have.’

‘Have you tried, you know, going out with someone who isn’t? Married, I mean.’

‘It’s not as straightforward as that. Look at me—I’m attractive, successful, financially independent, no “baggage”. You’d think that men would be queuing up to go out with me. But oh no—it’s me who has to do all the chasing. The younger, good-looking guys who I might fancy physically can’t deal with the fact that I earn more money than them and want to enjoy it—it makes them feel insecure, apparently. The older guys who earn more money than me and are divorced, I don’t fancy, because they think that their money makes them attractive, which it might do, but only to someone who doesn’t have any. The other guys my age, my level, my status, if you like, are usually married, and can’t, or won’t, leave their wives either because of the children, or they’re scared it’ll cost them too much money in the divorce courts. So who does that leave for me? Very few options, I can tell you. And of those few that are available, of course every other single woman out there is competing with me for them.’

‘So why do you think the Terry of this world have these affairs?’

‘That’s easy,’ says Natasha. ‘These are men who’ve been married to the same women for twenty years. They probably met when neither of them had much money, and he drove a boring car, and their life was pretty dull. Now he’s made all this money and had all this success, he thinks he can afford a flashier model, but the truth is, he can’t, because the actual costs in getting it far outweigh the benefits. The kids have left home and the guy, who’s been out moving and shaking with the movers and shakers, suddenly comes home to find his wife, who’s perhaps dedicated the last twenty years to bringing up the family while he’s been out bringing in the big bucks, suddenly saying, right—now this is our time. Trouble is, he finds out that now that the kids have gone they’ve got very little in common any more.’

For a moment, despite the fact that Natasha’s made my working life hell for the past decade, I almost feel sorry for her. Because the truth is that she does like them all. And they all like her. It’s just that, on balance, they seem to prefer their wives.

‘So what are you hoping? That you’ll suddenly meet one of these software bosses who isn’t married, and the two of you will be able to live happily ever after?’

Natasha shakes her head. ‘No. Because chances are if they get to my age and they’re not married already then either there’s something wrong with them that no amount of money can compensate for, or they decide that they want a trophy wife. And sadly, trophies only look good when they’re shiny and new.’

‘But, at the risk of playing pot to Terry’s kettle, he’s not exactly the best-looking of guys.’

‘Edward, are you learning nothing? It’s not all about looks. He may be a bit overweight, and not have much hair, but he’s funny, successful, confident, and that’s what makes him attractive.’

I point to the copy of
Computer Business
on my desk, still open at page forty-two. ‘And the fact that he’s worth eleven million pounds doesn’t make a difference?’

Natasha doesn’t answer, but walks across to my desk and rests a hand on the side of my face.

‘Oh, Edward. If only you were loaded,’ she says, mischievously.

‘What?’

‘I’m kidding,’ she says, noting the look of alarm on my face. ‘Of course it doesn’t make a difference. Well, not to me, anyway.’

‘Well, in that case, is now a good time to talk about my pay rise?’

7.47 p.m.

‘Why ever not?’ says Dan when we get to the Jim later, the concept of turning down sex with anybody so alien to him.

‘Because a) she was joking, b) she’s my boss, and c) I don’t think I’d get out alive.’

‘I’d shag her,’ says Dan. ‘She sounds like a fox. And she’s loaded.’

I point to the empty bar stool next to me. ‘You’d shag that if you could find a hole.’

Dan shrugs. ‘Fair cop. And speaking of which…’

I look over my shoulder where a blonde policewoman has just walked into the bar. She heads over towards a group of businessmen sat in the corner, asks for one of them by name, then proceeds to remove her uniform, much to the delight of his colleagues.

As she gets down to her underwear, Wendy walks over and, amid cries of derision from the party, and even louder cries from Dan, asks her to leave. The stripper shrugs, plants a kiss on the bemused birthday boy, and heads for the door, slipping her jacket back on as she does so.

Dan stares longingly at her departing backside. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he says, heading off in pursuit.

True to his word, he isn’t even sixty seconds. ‘Result!’ he says, hitting ‘save number’ on his mobile phone.

I look at him incredulously. ‘You’re going to go out with a stripper?’

Dan thinks about this for a second or two. ‘“Go out with”, no. “Stay in with” however…And speaking about staying in, it’s time to do something about your flat.’

‘My flat? What’s wrong with my flat?’

‘What, apart from the lack of furniture? You may have taken a vow of chastity, but you don’t have to live like a monk.’

‘But what happens when Jane comes back? What is she going to do with all her stuff?’

‘That load of old junk?’ Dan makes a face. ‘Take it to the dump.’

‘This is going to be expensive, isn’t it?’ I say, resignedly.

Dan attempts a bad American accent. ‘You want Jane? Well, Jane costs. And right here’s where you start paying.’