When I nod hopefully, Sally stops laughing abruptly. ‘I don’t know whether to be angry or feel sorry for you.’
‘Please, Sally. I need your help.’
‘And just why should I help you, Edward? After all, I’m the injured party here. And besides, I never liked that Jane Scott. She stole my boyfriend, don’t forget.’
‘Sally, that was a long time ago. And we’d been going out for, what, three weeks? We hadn’t even…’
Sally folds her arms defiantly. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘Well, if it makes any difference, I apologize for treating you so badly. I did feel guilty about it at the time.’
‘Well,’ sniffs Sally, ‘that’s something, I suppose.’
‘Even though…’
‘Even though what?’
‘From what I remember, you got over me pretty quickly.’
Sally gets all defensive. ‘What do you mean? How exactly did I get over you “pretty quickly”?’
‘By getting under Dan Davis. That night. On the lawn.’
It’s Sally’s turn to look guilty. ‘You knew about that?’ she says, blushing.
‘Sally, we all knew about that. Quite a few of us saw it. Some even took photos. I think Dan still has the negatives.’
For a moment, a dreamy look passes across her face. ‘Dan Davis. Whatever happened to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, fed up with constantly having to answer that question. ‘Prison, I think.’
‘Prison?’
I nod, and offer Sally a cigarette, but she waves the pack away disapprovingly. I light one for myself, and take a long drag. ‘Anyway, back to me. Please. Just tell me—how am I different?’
Sally leans forward in her chair, puts her elbows on the table, and studies me over the top of her glasses.
‘You want me to be honest?’
I swallow hard. ‘Brutally.’
‘Well, there’s the cigarettes, for a start.’ She waves my smoke away from her face. ‘Disgusting habit.’
I get the hint, and stub my Marlboro out reluctantly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Much better,’ says Sally, taking a deep breath. ‘Now, are you sitting comfortably?’
1.51 p.m.
I’m wishing I’d brought a pen and paper, so comprehensive is Sally’s dismantling of my present self. Fortunately, though, from memory it’s not too dissimilar to Dan’s list, and while the details may be a little blurry, what is clear to me is that Jane is right. I have ‘let myself go’ in the fullest sense of the words.
Eventually, thankfully, Sally announces that she has to get back to work, so I walk her back to Victoria and flag her down a cab, pecking her on the cheek before she climbs in. I take the tiniest bit of comfort when she doesn’t flinch.
As I close the taxi door behind her, she’s possibly feeling a little guilty, because she tells the driver to wait, and winds the window down.
‘Listen, Edward, I hope I wasn’t too hard on you. At college you were, I mean, you were never…like this. Girls fancied you.
I
fancied you. But now…’ Her voice tails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘What’s happened to you since then?’
I shrug dejectedly. ‘I don’t know. Life, I guess.’
‘Or Jane’s influence, maybe?’ suggests Sally, archly. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘it was nice seeing you again. Despite the circumstances.’
‘You too, Sally. And thanks.’
‘Has it been any use?’
I nod, gratefully. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
She smiles. ‘Do that. How long have you got until she comes back?’
I look at my watch. ‘Two months and twenty-seven days.’
Sally stares at me for a moment, then starts to whistle something and it’s only as the cab pulls away that I recognize the tune.
It’s the theme from
Mission Impossible
.
2.15 p.m.
I’m sitting on the train back to Brighton, flicking through the selection of glossy magazines I’ve just bought at the station. I’ve got
GQ, FHM, Arena, Esquire
, and even a couple that seem to be soft-porn publications, judging by the number of barely clad women adorning their covers. I’ve also raided the women’s section, hoping that by the time we get to Brighton I’ll be able to put together a profile of my age group’s ideal man. But even before we’ve pulled into East Croydon, I’ve managed to confirm what I’ve been starting to believe: I’m so not him.
As I stare miserably out of the window at the Sussex countryside, a young couple get on and sit down opposite me. They’ve obviously spent their lunchtime in the pub, and can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. After a few nauseating minutes, they head off towards the toilets, and I don’t see them again until we’re disembarking at Brighton, by which time they’re red-faced and giggling furiously. I can’t wait to get off the train, and push my way past the other passengers. Ah, young love. It’s enough to make you sick.
And how do I cope with this blow I’ve been dealt? This pit of despair I find myself wallowing in? I go back home, unplug the phone, and chain-smoke a packet of cigarettes while listening to my Queen albums at such a high volume on my portable stereo that even Mrs Barraclough has to bang on the ceiling to complain.
I turn the music up even further to drown her out, but when I remember that the next track is in fact ‘Somebody To Love’, which will only add to my depression, turn it back down again, only to realize that the banging has got even louder, and is now coming from my front door. I sheepishly open it, expecting to have to apologize to Mrs B, but instead I find Dan standing there, mid knock.
‘What the hell are you playing at, not answering your phone or the door?’ says Dan, pushing past me and into the flat. ‘And why is that crappy music on so loud?’
‘It’s not crappy music.’
Dan ejects the disk from the machine and looks at it scornfully. ‘Haven’t you got any music from this century?’
‘Not any more,’ I say, nodding towards the still-empty CD rack.
‘Remind me to add “music” to the spreadsheet.’
‘What are you talking about? Queen are one of the foremost…’
‘Well, I don’t see them releasing many new albums.’
‘Perhaps because their lead singer is dead? That usually stops musical flow.’
‘Oh really? When did he die?’
‘I don’t know. Some time in the early nineties, I think.’
‘Ah,’ says Dan, wrinkling his nose at the overflowing ashtray before opening a window. ‘About the same time as the air in here. Come on. Let’s get you out and about.’
‘Well, what’s “hip” nowadays, then?’ I ask him, picking up my jacket.
Dan looks at me and sighs. ‘Well you quite patently aren’t if you’re using language like that.’
‘Hip’s a current word.’ I think for a moment. ‘Hip Hop. There you go. I’ve heard you play that in your car.’
‘It’s not quite the same thing. But in language you can understand, yes, my musical tastes are “hip”. Yours, on the other hand, are more hip replacement.’
I fold my arms defiantly. ‘I’ve got two words for you. “Bohemian Rhapsody”.’
Dan just shakes his head. ‘How did you become so middle-aged? It’s like you just leapt from your twenties into your forties.’
‘Dan, you don’t understand. When you’re part of a couple, all this stuff becomes less important. Why do you need to listen to the latest bands if you already know what you like? In my day, a DJ was someone who stood behind a bank of flashing lights and played other people’s records. Not someone who made his own.’
Dan grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. Hard.
‘Edward. You don’t get it, do you? It’s still your day.’
6.52 p.m.
Not surprisingly, Dan’s choice of venue for me being ‘out and about’ is the Admiral Jim. On the way there, I give him a run down of Sally’s appraisal, which makes me feel even more depressed.
‘You see,’ says Dan. ‘That’s your problem. You always focus on the negatives.’
‘Dan, my girlfriend’s left me, I’m overweight, gone to pot, and my career is going nowhere fast. I’d say the only things I’ve got to focus on are negatives.’
‘All I’m saying is, look on the bright side.’
‘Your cheerful optimism is going to get you killed. There isn’t a bright side.’
‘There’s always a bright side. You just need to look for it. Then concentrate on the positives.’
‘Jesus, Dan. You’re not about to break into song, are you? What positives?’
‘Well, for one thing, because your girlfriend’s left you, it means you’ve got your flat to yourself.’
‘Brilliant. Just me rattling around at home, all the time thinking that something’s wrong because Jane’s not there. Next?’
‘Well, you can eat what you want. No having to think about Jane’s strange foodie requests.’
‘Except that I can’t because I’m on a diet. Next?’
‘Well…’ Dan scratches his head. ‘You’re free to date other women.’
‘Except they don’t give me the time of day. And besides, it’s Jane I want to date.’
‘Okay, how about this. You can fart in bed.’
‘Always used to. Don’t think Jane noticed.’
‘Yeah, right,’ calls Wendy, from behind the bar.
‘You can stay up as late as you like.’
‘Which would be exciting if I was five years old.’
‘You’re not making this easy for me, are you?’
‘Dan, some people’s lives aren’t all roses and please themselves. I’ve gone through a traumatic experience—one that I’m going to have to work extremely hard to remedy. It’s an ordeal that I’m going to have to suffer in the hope of a payoff at the end, which therefore doesn’t mean that I’m likely to enjoy it. Any of it, in fact.’
Dan sighs. ‘All right, have it your own way. I’m just trying to cheer you up.’
‘Yes, well, sometimes people don’t want to be cheered up. They want to feel miserable. In some ways it’s easier if I do. At least then I’ve got something to keep me motivated.’
Dan shrugs. ‘Fair enough. Only trying to help.’
‘And you are helping, mate. And I do appreciate it. Just try not to be so bloody cheerful all the time.’
‘Sorry,’ says Dan, putting on a miserable face. And for the first time today I manage to crack a smile.
8.55 a.m.
I don’t feel much better this morning, despite Dan’s valiant attempt to lighten my mood, and I’m still in a pretty lousy frame of mind by the time I leave for work. As I turn into Ship Street, I spot Billy asleep in his doorway—despite the fact that he’s snoring loudly, he’s still managing to hold onto his can of Special Brew. By his feet, he’s fashioned a blanket into a receptacle for change, so I drop the one pound fifty I’d ‘made’ at Victoria into it.
Billy starts awake, and spots the money immediately. He puts down his beer and, still a little groggy, tries to hand me another copy of the
Issue
. When I wave him away, he looks up at me suspiciously.
‘Well, whassat for, then?’
I peer back at him, noting how relatively smartly he’s dressed, the fact that he’s obviously managed to shave some time in the last couple of days, and how he’s still taking as much pride as he can in his appearance, despite his situation. Given what happened to me yesterday, and his and my respective circumstances, I feel more than a little ashamed of myself.
‘Inspiration.’
Billy circles his index finger next to his temple. ‘You need help,’ he says, taking a long swig from his can. ‘Professional help.’
And it’s at that moment that I realize Billy’s a genius.
7.03 p.m.
We’re in the Admiral Jim, where Dan is staring curiously at me across the table. ‘What on earth are you looking so pleased about?’
‘I know what I need to do to get Jane back.’
Dan raises one eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘I’ve seen an advert. In the local paper.’
‘Steady on, mate,’ Dan cautions. ‘Those penis-lengthening pills don’t work.’
‘And you know that how, exactly?’
Dan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Never mind. I thought it was you we were talking about. What advert?’
I remove the
Argus
from my briefcase and open it to where I’ve marked the appropriate page. ‘Here.’
Dan snatches it from me. ‘“Life Coach.” What on earth is a life coach?’
I grab the paper back from him. ‘You know, someone to talk things over with. Discuss my goals, my motivation. My focus. Help me find my path.’
‘Bollocks,’ snorts Dan. ‘Life coaches are for losers with no mates who don’t live near a pub. How much is he charging?’
I scan quickly through the advert. ‘Fifty pounds an hour.’
Dan nearly drops his wine glass. ‘Fifty quid? Do you know how many drinks that is?’
Dan’s brow furrows as he tries to work out the relatively simple sum of fifty divided by two point five. I put him out of his misery.
‘Twenty, Dan.’
‘Exactly. Twenty. We could sit here, sort out your little problem, get absolutely pissed, and have enough left over for a doner kebab with extra chilli sauce from Abra-kebabra on the way home.’ He nods approvingly towards my glass of water and salad sandwich. ‘Well, I could, anyway.’
‘Yeah, but this guy’s a professional.’
Dan looks indignant. ‘Professional con-artist, more like. What can he possibly tell you that I can’t?’
When I don’t answer him immediately, Dan takes my silence as agreement. In actual fact, I’m just trying to work out where to start.
‘Well…’
‘Exactly. Lose weight, smarten yourself up, before you know it Jane will be back in your flat and flat on her back.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Fifty quid please.’
‘I’m not sure it’s quite as simple as that.’
Dan laughs. ‘What could be more simple? Jane left you because you’d let yourself go. Well, get a grip. It’s not rocket science.’
‘But how?’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘What. Like with the exercise?’
‘Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that. I’m afraid you’re too far gone down that road for me to be of any use. You need to get yourself a trainer.’
‘I’ve got two. You were there when I bought them.’
‘A personal trainer, dummy. But the rest of the stuff—how to act, how to dress, how to talk to women—they’re my specialist subjects.’
‘You think?’
Dan nods. ‘You don’t need to be wasting your hard-earned on some touchy-feely sandal-wearing vegan tree-hugger when in reality there’re lots of better things you could be spending it on.’ He downs the remainder of his Chardonnay. ‘Another drink for your best friend, for example.’
7.22 p.m.
We’re sitting at the bar, where Wendy is showing us an article she’s read in the
Daily Mail
’s ‘Femail’ section.
“‘Health-check your relationship”?’ scoffs Dan. ‘I can already tell you that Edward’s is so ill that it’s in need of major surgery. Liposuction, for example.’
‘Shut up, Dan. Go on, Wendy.’
‘Well, apparently, you’ve got to ask yourself a few simple questions,’ she says. ‘Firstly, are you happy in the relationship? Secondly, how does your partner enhance your life? Thirdly, if this person suddenly vanished from your life, how would you feel? Fourthly, where in your relationship league does this person sit? And lastly, how balanced is the relationship?’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Fire away.’
‘Right. So let’s look at these from Jane’s point of view. Was she happy?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘If you could let me answer them please, Dan?’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Well, Edward?’
‘Um…obviously not.’
‘How do you think she felt you enhanced her life?’
‘Er…Well, can I come back to that one?’
‘If you suddenly vanished from…’
‘Well, I have, haven’t I, and she’s the one who instigated the vanishing, so I guess not so bad.’
‘Where in her relationship league table would you be?’
‘At the top, I guess. Based on length.’
‘And how balanced would you say the relationship was?’
‘Fairly. We split everything down the middle.’
‘Everything?’ asks Wendy. ‘Like the cooking? Cleaning? Driving? Sex?’
‘Well, apart from those things. Financially, I mean.’
‘Okay. Right, let’s turn those questions around. Were you happy?’
‘Yes!’
‘How did she enhance your life?’
‘Just by being there.’
‘If she suddenly…’
‘I think we all know the answer to that one.’
‘Where in your relationship league table would she be?’
‘That’s a league with very few teams in it,’ interrupts Dan.
‘Shut up, Dan. Wendy, I appreciate your input, but how is this helping, exactly?’
Wendy puts the newspaper down. ‘I just thought if we could work out what it was in the relationship she was unhappy with, then perhaps that would give you something more to go on.’
‘Thanks, but I think I know what it was she was unhappy with. Me. And I don’t need a quiz from the
Daily Mail
to tell me that.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’ asks Wendy.
‘Er…Why?’
‘Well, if we ignore for one moment the possibility that she has, indeed, gone off you, and was trying to let you down gently…’
‘Let me down gently? By moving her stuff out without telling me and buggering off to the other side of the world?’
‘…it could also be that she’s simply trying to work out some stuff, and seeing where, if anywhere, you fit in.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
Wendy shrugs. ‘Perhaps it’s everything: the flat, her job, Brighton, even. Maybe she’s going through one of those “what’s-it-all-about?” phases. I mean, she’s thirty, right?’
I have to think for a minute. ‘Er, nearly. But what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Because just as forty is an important age for men, thirty is for women. Did the two of you ever talk about getting married? Having kids?’
‘Don’t you start. No, we didn’t talk about it.’
Wendy looks surprised. ‘Not once in ten years?’
‘No. Besides, she always seemed pretty independent.’
‘It’s true,’ says Dan. ‘Jane’s the one who wore the trousers. Just as well, with her legs.’
As I punch Dan on the shoulder, which hurts me more than him, Wendy looks at me sympathetically. ‘Edward, sometimes the strongest woman in the world just wants a guy to seize control. To take over. She gets tired of having to make all the decisions, and of organizing every single thing that you do.’
‘But Jane seemed quite happy to do all that.’
‘Happy? Or was it just that if she didn’t, nothing would get done?’
‘Er…’ Not surprisingly, I don’t have an answer to that.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘This is how some relationships work, and I know it’s not particularly PC, but the guy goes out to work, and the woman’s job is to look after the guy. Keep the home clean, raise the kids, cook dinner, that sort of thing. Now, as I say, that may not be a particularly modern view, but it suits a lot of people. The problem you two had was that Jane loved her job, she was very much the career woman and earned a lot of money. It takes a lot to give that up. Particularly if you’re not sure you can rely on the man in the relationship to support you.’
‘But I’ve got a good job…’
‘That you’re always moaning about and threatening to leave. Hardly the best security from Jane’s point of view. And what about the “kids” thing?’
‘What “kids” thing?’
‘You and Jane. Having them. Neither of you were getting any younger. What were your plans in that department?’
I scratch my head thoughtfully, ‘I dunno really. I guess we just thought we’d have them one day. Or not.’
Wendy sighs exasperatedly ‘We thought? Or you thought? Did you and Jane ever discuss it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because it never kind of came up, I suppose.’
‘Never came up, or because you avoided it?’
‘Well, not in so many words.’
Wendy tries another tack. ‘Did she want children?’
‘I don’t know. She loves kids, though. Other people’s, I mean.’
‘And what about you? How do you feel about it?’
I shrug. ‘Fine either way, really. If she wanted them that would be okay, and if she didn’t…Same, really.’
‘So, fundamentally, you’re not bothered about one of the major decisions every couple has to make?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.’
‘What way would you put it?’
I give this a bit of thought. ‘Well, it’s more a case of if Jane decided she wanted kids, then…’
‘Let me just stop you there. So having children would be a decision she’d have to make. Another thing that she’d have to instigate?’
‘I suppose. But I’d be happy to support her, both financially and, you know, emotionally, and all that.’
Wendy rolls her eyes. ‘Edward, for every woman who reaches the age of thirty, having children is the biggest issue they’ve got to deal with. We know that unless we make a decision about it soon then we may be leaving it too late. Firstly, we’ve got to decide whether we actually want them at all. Next, we have to work out whether the person we’re with would make a good father. And then we’ve got to decide whether we can bear to stay with them for at least the next eighteen to twenty years while we’re stuck at home bringing up the kids.’
‘Kids?’
‘Oh yes, as in the plural, because you can’t really stop at just the one.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘My parents did,’ interrupts Dan, who’s been pretty quiet throughout most of this discussion.
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Wendy. ‘But, Edward, that’s why we have to take drastic action sometimes. It’s not like in our twenties, where relationships are just about us, and if things aren’t right we can simply end it and move on. There are time factors that come in to play here. The older we get, the more pressure we put on our partner to be the right one, particularly where our decision regarding kids is concerned. Let’s face it, if we do decide you’re not the right one, we can’t just go away and instantaneously have a child with someone else. We’ve got to go through the same relationship process, then actually
get
pregnant, and then carry the little sod around for nine months. So the longer we leave it, the older a mother we’re going to be, and the more chances there are of complications or that we can only have one child. You guys can keep fathering until you’re old and grey. We’ve only got so many eggs.’
‘So…’ Dan frowns. ‘Jane’s deciding whether she’s going to put all her eggs in Edward’s basket, so to speak.’
‘Kind of,’ says Wendy. ‘She’s coming up to a crucial time in her life—I as a woman can sympathize with that—and maybe she just wants to be sure. I think if she’d just left him, moved out, stayed here in Brighton, and maybe started looking for another boyfriend, then Edward should be worried. But instead, she’s gone off to Tibet on this “finding herself” mission, because she needs to find herself before she can decide whether she wants to find someone else.’
This is great—the idea that the reason Jane left might not all be down to me, but rather down to some other issues she needs to get straight in her own mind is something I’m more than happy to entertain. But on the other hand, if it is partly because she might have been thinking about starting a family, then that’s something else I’ve got to sort out before she gets back.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe this is all because of bloody children. But maybe she doesn’t want kids.’
‘Maybe,’ agrees Wendy. ‘But the fact that you’re sitting well and truly on the fence probably doesn’t help her one bit. See it from her point of view—she’s coming up to that age where she’s got to start thinking about making a decision, and you’re doing the old “whatever you decide dear…” It’s not like choosing a new duvet cover—this is the most important issue she’s ever going to face, the biggest decision anyone ever has to make; it will affect both of you for the rest of your lives in the biggest possible way and you
don’t have an opinion on it?’
‘Ah.’ I’m starting to see Wendy’s point. And I’m also starting to feel pretty stupid.
‘If we’re going to spend nine months feeling sick, suffering back ache, watching our bodies change—sometimes irreversibly—needing to pee every five minutes, culminating in a day or two’s intense effort, pain, and stress when we have to try and squeeze something through a part of our body that’s only used to much, and in Dan’s case, much much smaller things going in and out, then spend several years not sleeping, stressed, with sore nipples, changing crappy nappies, breathing a sigh of relief when he or she finally goes off to school but at the same time crying our eyes out when they do, then spending the next thirty or forty years worrying about every little thing…Well, we need to be sure that the person we’re doing it with is at least a little bit interested, not to mention committed.’