Six Months to Get a Life (10 page)

The consultation on the strategic review is still rumbling on. Daniel asked me about my domestic situation today and told me he hopes it isn’t affecting my work. I wonder who told him about it. Probably the same person I saw going out to lunch with him. Short skirt Sarah.

Not unrelated to the above, I thought a bit more about my future career prospects. What sort of jobs should I be applying for? What would I like to do? I am an educated man. I would quite like a new challenge. As I have mentioned before, something like journalism appeals, particularly sports journalism. But realistically I am probably twenty years too old to start along that path. I would also love to work with animals, but other than liking animals and thinking that animals generally like me, I have no particular qualification that would make me appointable by zoos or vets. I also have a desire to work outdoors but I can’t stand gardening, I am crap at putting a shelf up so I guess I wouldn’t make a great builder and I don’t even paint my own house so I don’t think there is a career there either. I reckon after spending most of the last month with estate agents, I could probably do a better job than half of them. I am sure I could sell more properties simply by cutting out the bullshit and being honest.

What I would like to do and what I can realistically afford
to do are two different things. I can’t afford to take a pay cut, which stops me from starting a new career as the
wet-behind
-the-ears new boy. So I dusted off my CV today and started looking at jobs that are vaguely related to my project management experience, problem-solving skills and organisational abilities. ‘Organisational abilities’ – what a load of nonsense. I am the sort of person who forgets appointments, rarely remembers birthdays, never has any food in the fridge (when I used to have my own fridge) and books holiday villas but forgets to book the flights. But apparently I have ‘well-developed organisational abilities’ according to my CV.

I took the kids to see the flat this evening.

‘It’s a bit small, dad,’ was Sean’s reaction. Get used to it, son. Neither of the boys were exactly jumping up and down with excitement but they do understand that I am working to a budget. They were content with the location so I think it’s a go. It is hardly a detached house in Surrey but it will have to do for the next year or so at least.

I haven’t quite signed the paperwork yet as I wanted to come home and work out my finances just to be sure I can afford it. Having done the maths for about the tenth time, I am still not sure. I might have to reassess the amount I am paying to my ex. Strictly speaking I am paying her slightly more than I am obliged to by the proper authorities. If I reduce my payments to her, it won’t go down well. I have got a tricky balance to strike there because if I reduce it by too much, she won’t be able to afford to keep the house. And then the kids will suffer. If it wasn’t for that little nuance, I would have been paying her less from the start.

Our trip to the flat was followed by a trip to the curry house. I love a good curry and decided today that it is about time I started educating my kids on the intricacies of Indian restaurant menus. My ex wouldn’t have covered this vital life skill as she doesn’t possess it herself.

We went to my old haunt, the Motspur Park Tandoori. Had we been there a couple of hours later we would have been joined by groups of inebriated revellers as they left the Earl Beatty pub next door, but with the sun still being high in the sky when we arrived, ours and another family were the only two groups in the restaurant.

‘Whoever can eat the hottest curry can have an ice-cream for dessert,’ I challenged them.

Ever the competitor, Jack took me up on the challenge and ordered a madras. Sean decided he didn’t want to play and went for a korma. I couldn’t let my eldest beat me so I asked the grinning waiter for a vindaloo. The curries arrived. Sean didn’t care that he wouldn’t win the contest and concentrated on enjoying his curry. Jack endured his curry. He wasn’t bothered about the prize either but he did want to get one over on me. My curry was the hottest thing I have ever tasted despite me telling the chef whilst on my way to the toilet to go easy on the chillies. I failed woefully.

Of course we all ended up having ice cream. We had a great night. On the way home Jack and Sean told me that when I was in the toilet they had asked the waiter to add extra spice to my vindaloo.

So yesterday I saw my ex out socially for the first time since she became my ex. Obviously she wasn’t out socially with me but we were out socially at the same place, the Morden Brook.

The lads had arranged to meet up to give Andy a bit of a send-off before he moves to Canada next week. We had all bought him little mementos of our time together, mostly stupid stuff like an encyclopaedia of British beers, a poster of Greg Rusedski with ‘he’s British now’ scrawled all over it and a Bear Grylls book about surviving in the wild. We were intending on having a good night.

And then my ex walked in. It pains me to admit it but she looked pretty good, in a new outfit of pillar-box red jeans and a leather jacket. She looked like she had lost a few pounds too.

I watched her walk up to the bar with her group of revellers. She hadn’t noticed me at this point. I recognised a few of her crowd. Sarah and Debbie and a couple more mother’s-union types and their respective husbands. But there were a few I didn’t recognise, including the man who put his hand on my wife’s left buttock as he was ordering the drinks.

All of a sudden I had gone from thinking I was having
a good time with my mates to being completely conscious of my single status. I thought I was making progress in my life but there I was, single, in the pub with my single mates, about to go back to my parents’ and sleep on a mattress on the floor. My ex, who still hadn’t noticed me, was with her group of married friends, with her new man and probably about to go back to my marital home with him and make noises that only I have heard her make for the past fifteen years. Actually someone had heard her at our golfing weekend in Sussex and banged on the hotel wall, but we will ignore that for now.

Was I jealous? Yes. And some.

She was flagrantly taking advantage of me having the kids for the night. I had spent the day with the boys and the dog in Bournemouth and dropped them off with my mum on my way round to the pub. I was tempted to get on the phone to my parents and tell them to send the kids home.

The married group didn’t notice us single guys for quite a while. We had got there early and had occupied our favourite table in the back of the pub. I was the only one of our group to notice them too as my mates were all engrossed in pointing out things Andy won’t miss on his trip to Canada (David Cameron, Strictly Come Dancing, the Tory party, come to think of it all British politicians, and the Northern Line). For some reason I felt the need to laugh loudly at all our jokes, as if to show my ex that I was having a better time than her. I got a few odd looks from Dave, Ray and Andy before Dave eventually cottoned on to the reason for my antics.

‘Your ex scrubs up nicely,’ he rather unhelpfully observed.

Eventually they saw us too and my ex waved to me. I watched as she whispered something to her new lover and he smiled knowingly. Why hadn’t the kids mentioned this wanker to me? I took some small consolation from the fact
that he was rather plain-looking, with a belly that definitely put him into the clinically obese category and hair that had seen better days.

‘It’s your round Graham.’ Oh god, so I had to go up to the bar. I composed myself, mentally armed myself with all the witty put-downs I could think of and flexed my muscles in case things turned nasty.

‘Hello Graham, nice garb for the pub,’ my ex observed, gesturing to my shorts and trainers, still sandy from the beach (I still can’t get rid of the trainers). I hadn’t had time to change since coming back from Bournemouth.

‘Is that a large wine you’ve got? I obviously pay you too much maintenance,’ I said in response. My inner self was screaming at me not to show weakness. Or maybe it was the lads sitting at our table watching the encounter. Or just the beer talking.

My ex put on her best condescending look and was about to respond when her knight in shining armour entered the fray on her behalf. ‘You must be Graham. I’m Mark.’ He held his orange juice out as if he wanted me to clink glasses.

‘Nice comb-over mate. If you ever so much as say a word to my children I swear I’ll ruin your life,’ I said, clashing my virtually empty pint glass into his high-class, up-your-own-pretentious-backside J2O with enough force to spill half his drink on his expensive-looking brogues.

‘Oh grow up, Graham,’ my ex said. I actually stuck my tongue out at them as they turned and re-joined their group of happy couples. I then stood feeling like Billy no mates at the bar waiting to be served for what seemed like an eternity.

Now, with the benefit of a night’s sleep between me and last night’s encounter, I can see that my antics weren’t particularly sensible or mature. In an effort to show strength I showed weakness. My ex will get the impression that what
she does still matters to me. She will take some satisfaction from sorting her life out quicker than me.

She will probably think I still care about her. Honestly, though, she would be wrong. I care about being part of a couple. I care about having someone to share things with. I care about having someone to sleep with. Seeing my ex last night just brought it all home to me. It isn’t that I want to be back with my ex. I don’t. I just want to be with someone. Yes, I am jealous that she has got there before me, but I didn’t for one minute last night wish that I was mister comb-over. OK, maybe for one minute…

I learned a valuable lesson last night. Not the lesson you might be thinking of, but a completely different one. Always empty the sand from your trainers before you walk into the house. I spent half of my morning hoovering up the mess. I tried to blame the children but my parents, not to mention the boys, weren’t having it.

Neither Jack nor Sean had any inkling as to who combover Mark was or where my ex met him. Without putting any pressure on them I asked them to let me know if they saw him about the house in the coming days. As far as I could tell he wasn’t there when I dropped the boys off at their mum’s after their respective cricket matches. My ex was though, standing hands on hips in the doorway. I apologised for my performance in the pub. ‘Fuck off,’ was her somewhat terse response. At least we are still on speaking terms.

I spent the afternoon diligently filling in a couple of application forms. I am not quite sure what an ‘asset protection manager’ is but I am sure I can Google it if they decide to interview me.

I am now committed to renting the flat off Martin Way. I have paid far too much money over to the estate agents. Subject to references, I hope to be able to move in in a couple of weeks. I am still not sure I am doing the right thing but for my own self-esteem as much as anything, I need to have ‘my own place’. I won’t dwell yet on the fact that it isn’t actually mine. I told my parents the good news.

My mum had one last ditch attempt to get me to go home to my ex. ‘Graham, are you sure you can’t just move back in to your old house? I am absolutely certain your family would still take you back if you asked.’

I thought about telling her about Mr comb-over but I didn’t have the energy. Instead I just shrugged and told her it wasn’t happening.

‘Well if you won’t go back then at least reassure us that you will continue bringing Jack and Sean round to see us,’ she followed up. At what point do your parents start to care more about their daughter-in-law and their grandchildren than they do about their own children?

Amy and Susie the shih poo were waiting for us at the Windmill when Albus and I arrived tonight. To lay my cards on the table, I have really got the hots for Amy and it isn’t just because it’s been a while since, you know.

We had another great night dog-walking and drinking, at the end of which we at last exchanged phone numbers. Amy suggested that we should engineer a weekend dog walking ‘chance’ encounter when we had our kids with us.

I am not sure of the etiquette of dating when you have kids. At what point should you introduce your children to your date? I let my kids have a say in where I was thinking of living but there is no way I am letting them have a say in who I date. What if my kids don’t get on with Amy or Lucy? What if Albus falls out with Susie? Lots of questions, but at the moment I am quite excited about the prospect of seeing Amy again. I don’t want to compartmentalise my life too much, so let’s chuck everything in the pot and see what happens.

The boys are off on a scouts’ trip at the weekend so they came to see me this evening. My ex phoned me before dropping them off and gave me strict instructions that neither of them is allowed to play on any gaming devices. When I asked her why, she told me to ask them.

It isn’t easy being a parent at the best of times, i.e. when you are living under one roof. My ex and I had one golden rule when we were parents and that was always agree with the other parent, however wrong they may be. I always tried my best to adhere to that one simple rule, which was why we came home from our camping trip to Devon after only one day all because my kids woke up early and my ex had a go at them.

I was a bit sceptical today though. Is it right for the ex to be punishing the kids when they are in my care? Maybe it is but if a punishment I dished out spanned in to her time with the boys, I have absolutely no faith that my ex would enforce it. She didn’t always stick to her side of the bargain when we lived together. I would often come home from work to find the kids watching the telly despite me having banned them from watching it for a week for some misdemeanour or other. She would justify it by saying something
inane like ‘I needed to cook dinner’ or ‘leave them alone, they’re tired’. Basically there was one rule for me and another for my ex.

When the boys arrived I asked them what they had done wrong to get them a gaming device ban. I had decided that if the punishment truly did fit the crime then I would still continue to support my ex. I might not be married to her anymore but we are still partners in the rearing of our children.

‘Dad, it’s not fair,’ Sean complained, ‘all we were doing was playing games on mum’s phone.’

‘She totally lost it with us and sent us to bed. I mean it’s ridiculous dad, how old are we?’ Jack joined in.

‘She sent you to bed and banned you from computers for playing on her phone?’ I asked. This didn’t sound particularly feasible to me. The boys have spent half their childhoods playing with our phones.

‘We might have read a facebook message that popped up when we were playing,’ Jack conceded.

At this point I know I should have let it lie, or maybe even reinforced the importance of personal privacy. Instead I found myself asking about the message. My boys took great pleasure in telling me it was from Mark, aka Mr combover. He apparently messaged my ex thanking her for a great night and asking her over for dinner.

‘That’s not all it said though,’ Sean threw in. As if that wasn’t enough. ‘This Mark guy went on to ask mum whether it was definitely over between you and her because he thought you were still in love with mum.’ Excuse my language but who does the fucking idiot think he is?

‘But don’t worry dad, we put him straight,’ Jack let on. Somewhat sheepishly I asked my son how he put my ex’s new lover straight.

‘We sent him a reply saying that mum has never been so
bored in her life, she thinks he’s an idiot and never wants to see him again,’ Jack explained.

‘And don’t forget the bit about him having a small penis,’ my twelve-year-old chirped.

The boys and I had a great evening playing on the PS4.