Dan nods. ‘Of course. It’s important to set a precedent. Lay down some ground rules. Otherwise what’s she going to do? The first sign of trouble, you start straining at the old waistband again and she’ll be off to Outer Mongolia, because she knows that’s what gets results. If, on the other hand, you can manage to give her the impression that you’ve done this for you, rather than for her, well, the shoe will be in your court.’
‘What?’
‘All I’m trying to say is, don’t let her think that she’s won.’
‘But she will have won. I’ll know it, she’ll know it. She left me with some specific instructions and if I pass muster…’
‘But there’s the thing. You have to make her think that it’s not just you on test. You’re now this slimmer, fitter, better-looking love-god…’
‘With a cool car, don’t forget.’
‘…so how does she measure up to you? Does plain old Jane deserve the new Edward Middleton.’
‘So you’re saying that in three months I’ve managed to leap-frog her in the attractiveness stakes? That now it’s her who’s trying to play out of her league?’
Dan laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. But you have to make her think that. Don’t let her assume that now she’s back she’s going to have it all her own way. I mean—do you just want the old Jane back?’
‘Er…yes. No. I don’t know. Well, not like it was in the last year or so.’
‘Well take her back on your terms then. Tell her that if she comes back now it’s for good. Or even better, make her feel that now it’s her turn to win you back. Maybe she’s put on weight while she’s been away, or got a funny hairstyle, or lost an arm or something. You never know, you might see Jane and not fancy
her!’
‘Well, if she’s lost an arm…’
‘Edward, all I’m saying is that she may well have changed while she’s been away milking yaks and whatever else it is they do in Tibet. You certainly have. Do you really think the two of you will still want the same things. And by that, I mean each other?’
He’s right. And I can’t pretend that this hasn’t occurred to me. I’ve been working away single-mindedly for the past three months with one aim and one aim only—to get Jane back. But what Jane is it exactly that I want back? The Jane I met and fell in love with back at college? Or the Jane who thought I was so disgusting that she flew halfway around the world to get away from me? I suddenly wish I was drinking something stronger.
‘I just feel I owe it to her to give her a chance.’
Dan raises one eyebrow. ‘Now it’s you who’s giving her a chance, eh? Not the other way round?’
‘You know what I mean. It’s just that we’ve been through so much together. So much history, you know.’
‘There’s a reason why history’s called history.’
‘Huh?’
‘Because it’s in the past. Gone. Finished. Make some new stuff. Maybe even with someone new.’
‘Dan, I can’t even think about that. Not till I know how Jane feels about me. Or, more importantly, how I feel about Jane.’
‘Tell me something,’ says Dan. ‘Isn’t there a part of you that resents her for treating you the way she did? That wants to tell her that she’s made her bed and has to lie in it?’
I nod. ‘Of course there is. But there’s also a part of me that wants to lie in it with her.’
‘Ah,’ says Dan. ‘But that’s not the part that should be making decisions.’
‘You can talk.’
Dan drains the last of his beer. ‘You know what I do when I have to make a difficult choice? Like between two women, for example?’ he adds, unusually perceptively for him.
‘Toss for it?’
Dan laughs. ‘No—what I
actually
do is get a piece of paper, divide it into two columns, then write down all the good points of one of them on one side, and then do the same for the other one on the other side.’
I’m a little surprised that Dan should take such a practical approach. I didn’t know he had it in him.
‘What do you do then?’
He grins. ‘Simple. I go out with the one who’s the best in bed.’
8.44 p.m.
Wendy appears at our table, dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a T-shirt to match.
‘You off to a funeral?’ says Dan, looking her up and down.
Wendy smiles sarcastically back at him. ‘Yours, hopefully,’ she replies.
‘Ignore him, Wendy. You look very nice.’
‘Thanks, Edward,’ she says. ‘Anyway, Danny-boy. What are you doing here so late on a Friday night? Not managed to find some poor unfortunate girl to lure back to your sleazy bachelor pad?’
‘It’s not sleazy,’ protests Dan. ‘And it’s certainly not a “bachelor pad”, as you so charmingly call it.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s a loft.’
Wendy laughs. ‘A loft?’ she says, picking up our empty glasses. ‘Isn’t that where most people store their junk?’
I follow her to the bar, and we look back over towards Dan, who’s checking his hair in the reflection of his Oakley’s.
‘He doesn’t mean any harm’ I say. ‘He’s just a little…’
‘Retarded?’ suggests Wendy.
I smile. ‘Could be. I was going to say “insensitive”, but you’re probably closer.’
‘Why on earth do you hang around with him?’
‘Dan’s not all bad. He’s a good friend. And he’s taught me a valuable lesson these past few months.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. How not to behave towards women.’
‘I can’t imagine it’s much fun going out with him,’ agrees Wendy. ‘He’d make a lousy boyfriend.’
‘So tell me—any last-minute tips as to what makes a good boyfriend?’
‘Hmm.’ Wendy puffs out her cheeks. ‘That’s a hard one.’
‘Is that the first thing?’
‘No, cheeky. But I’m the wrong person to ask, aren’t I?’
‘Why? You’re a woman.’
‘Thanks for noticing. But why don’t you tell me what you think? After all, you’re the expert now.’
‘Well, I’d hardly call myself an expert. But I think I have worked out where I was going wrong. Or rather, where Jane and I were going wrong.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, the way I see it is this. Women spend all this effort on their make-up and hair to make themselves look as good as they possibly can. They can waste hours deciding what to wear before even venturing out as far as the corner shop. In some cases they spend a fortune on jewellery, watches, handbags, shoes; all accessories to make themselves look better.’
‘So, what’s your point?’
‘Why then blow all that time and effort by walking around with a big, untrendy lump of a man hanging off your arm?’
Wendy laughs. ‘You may be right.’
‘But most women don’t need wa-hey. They just want okay. Imagine the insecurity if you went out with a too-good-looking man. All the time you’re worrying that other women are looking at your partner, wondering what on earth he’s doing with you, and thinking how they can steal him off you. And what’s worse, if it’s someone like Dan, you know that he’ll be thinking exactly the same thing—here I am with so-and-so but I’ll just keep an eye out because you never know, I might spot someone better, and if I do…I think that really good-looking guys usually know they’re really good-looking guys, and therefore think they can get away with murder. Not-so-good-looking guys just have to work that little bit harder at the “rest” of it, and that’s what makes them better boyfriend material. Someone like Dan, well, you probably worry that he’ll spend more time in the bathroom getting ready than you will.’
‘You know,’ she says, ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way round. If that’s the case, then you’re saying I should feel sorry for Dan, as from his point of view, it’s actually a pain to be really good-looking. You’re always going to worry that the girl you’re with is feeling insecure, unsettled…’
‘Precisely. When you go out with someone, you want them to complement you, not compete with you. Imagine how you’d feel as a woman, typically the glamorous side of the relationship, if every time you went out with your boyfriend you felt that people were looking at him, not you? It’s as you said to me a while ago: what women want is someone who thinks
they’re
special. Not someone who knows that
he’s
the special one. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Like at the Oscars.’
‘The Oscars?’
‘All the women appear in the most fashionable dresses, in the latest designs, and a multitude of colours, trying to outdo one another on the red carpet. The men? They all wear the same thing. Why? Because that’s what’s supposed to happen. It’s the way the world works. Women look beautiful, men just look. And most women are aware of this. They know they can’t just log on to “He-Bay” or go down to “Boys R Us” and choose a finished model off the shelf, so instead, they pick a basic one and gradually shape them, making improvements until they reach that ideal balance—you know how women like a project. But occasionally, there comes a time when they realize they might be working on a lost cause. And that’s what Jane had begun to wonder. Whether I was a lost cause.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d stopped responding.’
Dan chooses that moment to catch my eye, and indicates the lack of beer in his hand. As I pick up the drinks from the bar, Wendy leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
‘I hope you get what you want after all this, Edward.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, starting to head back towards where Dan’s sitting.
‘And if things don’t work out tomorrow with Jane…’
‘Yes?’
Wendy just smiles.
9.32 p.m.
Dan’s a little bit pissed by now. I, on the other hand, just need a piss, especially after all this water. When I get back from the toilet, he decides to give me the benefit of some more of his alcohol-induced wisdom.
‘So, there’s this guy…’
‘What guy?’
‘Any guy. Let’s call him Edward, for argument’s sake, and he’s walking along the street, and he finds a magic lamp.’
‘Are you telling a joke?’
‘And he picks the lamp up, and because it’s dirty, he gives it a rub.’
‘Not likely in Brighton, mate. More likely to be a used syringe or an empty beer bottle.’
‘And out comes this genie.’
‘You are telling a joke.’
‘Just listen. And so the genie says, “You have freed me from my prison.’”
‘He obviously hasn’t seen Brighton yet.’
“‘You have freed me from my prison”,’ continues Dan, ‘“so in return, I grant you one wish”.’
‘One? I thought it was usually three.’
‘Are you going to let me finish this or are you just going to keep interrupting?’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘And so the guy thinks for a bit, and then says “Tell you what. I’m afraid of flying, but I’ve always wanted to visit America. Could you build a bridge across the Atlantic so I can drive there?” Well, the genie scratches his head, and says to the guy, “Do you realize just how complicated that would be? It’s miles, and I’d need to make sure it was high enough for the ships to go under, and secure enough to resist the waves…It would take ages. Are you sure there’s nothing else you want?’”
‘And?’
‘And so the guy thinks for a minute, and then replies, “Okay, there is one other thing. I’ve always wanted to understand women.” And the genie looks back at him and says, “How many lanes wide did you want that bridge?”’
I sit there patiently while Dan finishes chortling to himself. ‘You mean I’ll never understand women?’
‘None of us will. And shouldn’t waste our time trying, mate.’
‘So, I’ve been spending all this time trying to work out what it is exactly that women want, and then trying to mould myself into that person, when what I should have been doing is thinking about the specific woman I wanted, and trying to make myself attractive to her, instead of turning myself into some generic attractive-to-most-women clone like you? No offence.’
Dan shrugs. ‘Well that’s a good theory. Only trouble is that first of all you’d have had to decide whether that woman actually was Jane, and if it was then you’d have to see if you could work out exactly what it was she really wanted, and that’s assuming a) that she knew herself, and b) that you could actually have found that out from her while she was in Tibet. And if it wasn’t Jane, but someone else, well you would’ve had to have reached a certain level of attractiveness before you could have got close enough to her to then find out what it was she was looking for, and then moulded yourself to that.’
Strangely enough, the drunker Dan gets, the less he seems to talk rubbish. And after all this time, he’s finally beginning to make sense to me.
‘So have I just been wasting my time for these last three months? Why couldn’t you have told me that at the beginning?’
Dan looks a little sheepish. ‘Because I’ve only just worked it out. And besides, even you’ve got to think that it’s all been worth it, hasn’t it?’
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
‘You’re back to at least that base level where you managed to attract Jane in the first place, right? So at the very least, you should be able to attract the likes of her, if not actually her, again.’
‘I suppose so.’
Dan picks up his empty glass. ‘Another?’
I check my watch. ‘No thanks, mate. As appealing as one last glass of fizzy water might be, I think I better head on home. Big day tomorrow. Someone’s got an important decision to make.’
Dan looks confused for a moment. ‘You mean Jane, right?’
And it’s only when I’m halfway home I realize that perhaps I should have corrected him.
7.00 a.m.
The arrivals hall at Gatwick is teeming with people. Red-faced holiday-makers, some wearing souvenir sombreros, most carrying clinking bags of duty-free, swarm through customs and out towards the car parks, where they shiver in the biting spring wind, cursing the fact that there’s another fifty weeks before they can head back to their sun loungers.
Jane’s flight is on time, the notice board tells me, which means I’ve probably got about fifteen minutes to fight my way through to the front of the arrivals gate, where I’ll hopefully be able to spot her as soon as she comes through.
Eventually she appears, pushing her trolley along the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, through the swing doors, and out into the main concourse. Her hair’s a little lighter than when she left, maybe she’s lost a little weight, but apart from that, she looks like the same Jane who left me three long months ago.
As she scans the crowds, searching for a route through, her gaze briefly meets mine, before moving away. Her face crinkles in puzzlement and she turns back towards me, eyes widening with surprise, before abandoning her luggage in the middle of the airport and rushing over to meet me.
Jane stares at me for a few seconds, lost for words, before bursting into tears. She kisses me hard, and tells me that it was all a stupid mistake, how much she’s missed me, that she’s sorry for the whole Martin thing, and how unbelievably great I look. I take her into my arms, effortlessly hoisting her heavy suitcase with my new-found strength, and we pile into the Mini and drive off into the sunset.
Or that’s how I imagine it would have happened, had I actually gone out to meet her from where I’ve been hiding behind the pillar next to the magazine rack in WH Smiths. Instead, when Jane appears through customs, I duck down behind my copy of
Health & Fitness
, pretty sure that she won’t think of looking for me there.
As she makes her way past the entrance to Smiths, I sneak a peek at her over the top of my magazine. She looks great, radiant even, as if the last three months have done her the power of good, and I realize that it’s important for me to be here to see this. To know that she’s happy, healthy, and safe.
As I watch her stride confidently on her own through the busy airport, it occurs to me that I was wrong last night. I don’t owe Jane a chance. I don’t owe her anything, apart from an apology, maybe, for the last few years: for letting myself go; for making it seem like I’d stopped caring about myself; for not caring about her; and for not caring about us. And, more significantly, for not realizing what that meant.
Perhaps there’ll be an opportunity to give her that apology, face-to-face, in time. But not here, not today. I don’t need a reaction. I don’t want revenge. I don’t even require what I believe is known as ‘closure’. And at the same time, I’m relieved that I’m not going to have to make a choice. After all, if I don’t want her back, then there isn’t a choice to make.
I wait until I’m sure she’s a respectable distance away before leaving the safety of WH Smiths, then freeze as I feel a tap on my shoulder. Fortunately, it’s only one of the assistants—I haven’t paid for the magazine I’m absent-mindedly holding—so, red-faced, I hand it back. By the time I get to the walkway that links the airport to the car parks, Jane’s already making her way towards the escalators that lead down to the Gatwick Express.
And the funny thing is, despite how hard the last three months have felt, how tough the training has seemed, and how difficult the dieting, not drinking, and giving up smoking has been, watching Jane walk out of the airport and out of my life is actually surprisingly easy.
7.50 a.m.
I race back home and change quickly into my workout gear, before heading off on my usual seafront loop. After about ten minutes I spot them in the distance, one a shambolic limping figure, and wince at the recollection of how similar that was to me just three short months ago. They’re heading slowly in my direction, so I decide to sit in the nearest shelter and wait for them.
As they draw level, Sam’s client collapses onto the bench next to me, breathing heavily. He must be about fifty, and at least that many pounds overweight, and I’m slightly jealous that he doesn’t seem to be feeling sick, although I can almost hear his heart hammering through his chest. Mine is too, but it’s nothing to do with my morning run.
When Sam sees me, she looks puzzled for a moment, before making the introductions.
‘Lawrence, this is Edward. He’s one of my success stories.’ She looks at the two of us, sitting side-by-side. ‘You two look like a “before” and “after” poster.’
It’s turning into a warm morning, and perspiration glints off Sam’s top lip as she talks. I have to resist the temptation to reach across and wipe it off for her.
‘Which of us,’ wheezes Lawrence, ‘is which?’
Sam ignores him. ‘Edward, haven’t you got something important you should be doing?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Which is why I’m here. There’s something I need to ask you.’
Sam looks nervously down at Lawrence, who’s obviously grateful for the interruption. ‘I’m kind of on somebody else’s time right now.’
‘Take all the time you need,’ he gasps from his sprawled position on the bench. ‘Please.’
‘I won’t be long,’ I say, standing up and leading Sam away, out of Lawrence’s earshot. ‘I just wanted to check something.’
‘Which was?’
‘When you said to me a while ago that you’d never go out with a client.’
Sam frowns. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, yesterday was our last session, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So, I’m not a client any more?’
Sam thinks about this for a moment or two, then leans forward and kisses me, but it’s on the lips this time.
‘I guess not,’ she says, with a smile.