Yes Man (18 page)

The group looked at me in stunned silence.

And then a couple of them wrinkled their noses, and someone said, “oh” with a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“A million hamburgers?” said the girl in the pink top. “Doesn’t sound like very much.”

“In
excess
of,” I said. “Which means more than.”

There was an awkward pause. The girl in the pink top looked at me like I’d really let her down.

And then my saviour came.

“The first ready-to-eat breakfast cereal was Shredded Wheat in 1893, beating Kellogg’s Corn Flakes by a full five years.”

The heat was off. The group was impressed again.

The man gave me a wink.

The man who had saved me went by the name of Gareth.

“Thanks so much for that,” I said. “To be honest I made that McDonald’s fact up. I mean, it’s
probably
true, so I wasn’t
technically
lying….”

“Yes,” said Gareth. “I imagine the fact that they’ve sold more than one million hamburgers probably
is
true.”

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” I said, still trying to make it seem more impressive than it was.

“Yes,” Gareth said, slowly. “Anyway, how’s it going? Where have you come from tonight?”

“Bow,” I said. “You?”

“Forest Hill. Just moved in with my girlfriend.”

Gareth worked in TV as someone big in forward-planning for
Richard & Judy
on Channel 4.

“Oh!” I said. “That’s a
great
show! I was
on
that once!”

And I had been. When I’d started my own cult—the cult that Hanne hadn’t taken too kindly to—I’d been invited on to the
Richard & Judy
show to explain what had happened. I’d had a brilliant time, and it was one of the highlights of a very odd year.

“Yes! I saw that one!” said Gareth, which was only to be expected, seeing as he worked on it. “I thought I recognised you. Yes … I remember Richard saying afterward, that was such an …
odd
edition of the show.”

Let’s just say that quote won’t be making it onto my résumé.

And then someone new had arrived at the party and informed the room with great gusto that in Hartford, Connecticut, you can receive a five-dollar fine if you transport a dead body using a taxi. He received a round of applause and an admiring glance from the girl in the pink top.

Gareth and I looked at each other, and I mouthed the word “bastard.”

My new friend and I talked about all manner of things, and I was finding out that since I’d started my Yes experiment, I’d become a fascinating human being with new experiences to talk about and opinions on all manner of things. I told him in great detail about how men actually
can
have babies and about how I’d hung out with peace activists and come up with both the War Is Bad slogan
and
the Geese for Peace campaign that he’d probably heard about by now and about how aliens built the pyramids and how earlier that evening I’d had curry just down the road from where Jesus lives.

And he nodded and took it all in and seemed to be thinking something over in his head.

“Danny, do you have a number where I can contact you?”

And I said I did and gave it to him.

And then he said he had to be up early, but would give me a call soon
about something, and he left. Maybe I wasn’t as fascinating as I thought.

I decided I would never again try to tell a stranger how to cork his birth canal.

It was an hour later, and I was having a great time.

Already I’d talked to a Spanish girl who’d seen a ghost when she was four; a man who, much to my amusement, finished every sentence with the words “do you know what I mean?”; and a bloke who once owned a windmill. I had also attracted the attention of a girl who was very impressed that my friend Wag was, the very next morning, to set off for Germany with Busted.

The lesson of the evening had quickly become you can never judge how a party is going to turn out just by the fact that the invitation included the words “Bring a fact.”

Next up was Thom, a bloke who worked in the city but had the look of a traveller about him. And that was exactly what he was about to do. An unusual move, for a man who worked with stocks and shares.

“Of course, it’s good money, but sometimes … you know … you just have to take a risk. Turn your back on the easy way. Which is what I’m doing. So I’m moving to New Zealand to do something else. Something new.”

“What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve just always had a thing for New Zealand. I’ve got enough money to see me through the first few months to get me set up and so on … but I just kind of want to see what happens.”

I admired for this. He was someone who had it all, but had decided that he didn’t need most of it.

“Wow,” I said. “How long have you been planning it?”

“I’ve thought about it for years. But I never thought it would come to anything. And then me and my girlfriend split up, and that changed things because it was only my job tying me down after that, and I thought, sod it. I’m going to do what I want. Which means moving somewhere where the quality of life is far greater than in London.”

“That’s brilliant,,” I said. “Really brilliant. And quite …
inspiring.”

And it
was
inspiring. Plus, it was a Yes. A Yes to himself. Although God knows what moving to New Zealand was in terms of yevels. looked really pleased. Like a man on the verge of something. He was excited.

“So I’m basically all packed up. I’ve got one more week in London and then that’s it. I’m off.”

“Well. I wish you the best of luck with it.”

“Thanks, Danny. If you’re ever in New Zealand, look me up.”

We clinked beer cans, and he started to walk away. What a nice bloke.

“Oh, hang on,” he said and turned back toward me. “I’ve asked everyone else, so I may as well ask you … I don’t suppose you’d be interested in buying a car, would you?”

Twenty-four hours later, and I had worked out that, yes, I probably could just about afford to buy a car. It would wipe out most of my savings in one fell swoop, but with the guarantee of an overdraft (and the promise of another contract at the BBC) it was possible. Especially if I engaged in some hard-nosed haggling with . The problem was I didn’t really know
how
to haggle. Not where cars were concerned, anyway; I knew nothing about them. I hadn’t even asked Thom what model it was. I’d stopped when he told me it was a Nissan. I knew my limits.

I’d been in town, working out my money situation and dropping in at work, and was nearly at the bottom of Oxford Street, when a bored-looking man holding a placard in one hand and a leaflet in the other said in an accent I think was probably Spanish, “You want?”

I mouthed a “yeah, okay,” and took a leaflet and strode on, glancing down to see it was was for an English course at University College London. I folded the leaflet and was about to stick it in my pocket, when it became all too apparent that someone else had seen me take that leaflet.

“Learn English?” said the man, holding his leaflet out at arm’s length. He’d made a special effort to stop me and said, again, “Learn English?”

I half-smiled, took the leaflet, and kept on walking, slightly alarmed by the look in the man’s eyes. I’ve walked down Oxford Street plenty of times and very rarely accepted a leaflet. Mainly because no one else ever does. I’d noticed a real hunger in that man’s eyes, replaced by instant relief when I’d taken one of his leaflets. I kept my head down and my speed up, but moments later another leaflet was in front of my eyes. It was for English as a foreign language at Premier College London. I took it and then, suddenly and forcefully, there was another one from another angle. English at Academy College. Another one came at me from over my shoulder. English at No. 1 College. Where were all these leaflets coming from? Where were all these dodgy colleges? Why did everyone think I needed to learn English? I glanced up as I moved off, but I was instantly blocked. Two men were standing in front of me, like zombies, holding out leaflets and
saying the word “English.” I was trapped. I took a leaflet from each and tried to move around them, but a slight Italian girl hiding behind them had cleverly cornered me. I didn’t want to take her leaflet, and I almost moved off, but I swear she let out a moan—a long, juddering zombie groan—so I did and managed to make my way around her, but no. More foreign students, clutching placards, holding leaflets, and wearing backpacks—probably fall of more placards and leaflets. I was becoming overwhelmed by this neverending group of well-meaning foreigners making their minimum wage on the streets of London, so I snatched a couple more fliers, and tried to make a dash for it, toward the Tube, toward home, toward a world free from student zombies …

“Thinking of learning English, are you?” said a voice to my right.

I looked up. It was Hanne. Smiling. She’d just stepped out of Tottenham Court Road Tube.

“Hey. Shit. Hanne. Hi,” I said.

“How’s it going?” she said.

“Good. Yeah. Good.”

I glanced down at my fistful of leaflets.

“Would you like one?” I said.

“Ah … no.”

“I’ll keep them, then,” I said, stuffing them into my pockets.

“Hey … er … this may be slightly awkward, but … there’s someone you should probably, you know, meet.”

She beckoned to someone standing by the lamppost.

“Danny, this is Seb.”

I looked at Seb. I looked at Hanne. What were Hanne and this man called Seb doing together? And who was Seb, anyway? It was seven o’clock. Hanne should be at home by now. She should have had her tea and be settling down to watch the news with a yoghurt. Why was she out? Why was she here? And why was she out here with Seb?

“Oh,” I said. “Hello, Seb.”

“Hello, Danny,” he said, and we shook hands, limply. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t like Seb. There was something about him. Ah, yes. It was that his right hand was resting gently on Hanne’s back. But hang on. This was my
ex-
girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. What did I care where some bloke’s hand was? And then I realised I was staring quite a lot at where Seb’s hand was. He slowly moved his hand away. Shit. Now they thought I wasn’t cool with it.

“You had your hand on Hanne’s back!” I said with a big smile.

“Sorry, I …”

“No! It’s good!” I said.

“Danny,” said Hanne. “Let’s not cause a scene, okay …”

“No! Hang on—I think it’s
good!
I think Seb should put
both
hands on your back!”

Hanne made the face she used to make when she thought I was being sarcastic.

“I ’m not even being sarcastic! I think it’s fantastic! Put
both
your hands on her back, Seb!”

This was terrible. The less sarcastic I tried to sound, the more sarcastic I sounded.

Seb’s mobile went off.

“Okay, I’m going to get this …”

He walked a few feet away and started a conversation. He sounded like he was quite important. Hanne and I just stood there, awkwardly. I tried to change the subject.

“He seems nice.”

“Let’s just forget it …,” said Hanne.

“You’re on a date, then,” I said.

“Yes, well …,” said Hanne, looking to the ground.

“Cool.”

“Cool,” she said. “I was going to tell you, over that coffee, you know, about … tonight, but you distracted me by losing twenty-five thousand pounds. You said you’re okay with things, though, yeah?”

“Yes,” I said, “Absolutely I am. Of course.”

Hanne looked over at Seb. She was keen to go, but he was still on the phone. And I didn’t feel I could leave without clearing things up with Seb. Eventually he hung up the phone and rejoined us.

Seb smiled at me, so I smiled back at him. Hanne smiled at me. Then Hanne and Seb smiled at each other, and then they both looked at me and smiled, in that way that couples do. Gah. Couples! Seb and Hanne! Hanne and Seb! All of a sudden it sounded annoyingly …
right!

I coughed.

“So, I’ll be going …,” I said, which was the right thing to say, seeing as I now wanted to be literally anywhere else on Earth.

“Right,” said Hanne.

“Right,” I said, and I started to move off.

“Unless …,” said Seb, and I stopped in my tracks. “Unless you’d like to join us?”

My stomach turned over.

That was an invitation.
An invitation
.

My stomach flipped again, and my cheeks started to burn with embarrassment.

Seb was obviously just being polite.
Obviously
. He really didn’t want me there. And neither did Hanne. And the only person who wanted me there less than
them
was
me
. Shit. This was so level four.

How could I get out of this? Was there any way in the world?

Hanne smiled at me gently, then closed her eyes and did a little nod … giving me permission to make my excuses and leave. She knew full well that the proper—the
only—
course of action would be for me to say something along the lines of “oh, thanks, but I have to be somewhere else” and then leave. Seb was just being a gentleman; showing Hanne he showed no ill will and harboured no petty jealousies toward her ex-boyfriend. Bastard. Even
I
was starting to fancy him.

“Well …,” I started. And then I had an idea. I could get out of this! All I’d have to say was that …

“Because you’d be welcome to join us, Danny,” he said.

Bollocks! This was becoming a cast-iron invite!

He smiled at Hanne. Hanne smiled at him.

I looked at Hanne with some degree of panic in my eyes. She smiled sympathetically as if to say she knew what I’d have to say next. How was I going to break this to her? How was I going to say yes?

Seb took my silence to be a no.

“Hey, sure, sure …,” said Seb, nodding and holding his hand out for me to shake. “Well, I guess we’ll—”

“I’d love to,” I said, quickly and with instant regret.

Seb’s hand remained outstretched. He looked confused. Hanne’s eyes widened.

“What?”
she said sharply.