Dumped, Actually

by Spalding, Nick

  It’s like ‘Dumped Actually’ has uncorked a vast mental dam in the subscribers to Actual Life. The outpouring of heartbreak from across the country has fair taken my breath away.

  And all because of me. All because I wrote a silly article.

  What a wonderful feeling.

  I am basking in the glow of all the attention. I just wish it hadn’t come with being called The Deer Porker.

  Erica is obviously delighted with all of this. I’ve hit upon a rich seam of zeitgeist here, and she’s cartwheeling down the hallways because of it.

  Actual Life’s engagement figures are way up, the new subscriber count is the highest it’s been in three years, and we’re even starting to get calls from advertisers again.

  Benedict Montifore scowled at me like I was the Antichrist yesterday when he came into the office to talk to Erica. He still wants to shut us down – for reasons I can’t quite fathom at the moment – and I’ve now become the number one reason that’s not happened yet, largely because ForeTech’s board of directors are a lot happier with Actual Life’s financial returns these days. You’d think Montifore’s desire to get rid of us would have softened somewhat because of all of this – but no. He still wants shot of us all, the bastard.

  This means I am a marked man.

  Never mind, though . . . People in the office are starting to treat me like a hero.

  As far as they’re concerned, my silly little feature is keeping the wolves from the door, and that makes me Captain Popularity around here. This is infinitely preferable to Captain CampyWank.

  It’s all incredibly strange, incredibly embarrassing and incredibly marvellous.

  So . . . why am I sitting here chewing on a fingernail, with a cold, hard ball of frozen steel in my gut?

  Because of Callie Donnelly, that’s why.

  I’ve read through her email to me about a hundred times, and each time I do, an internal war takes place in my mind.

  On the one hand, the prospect of actively trying to find another woman makes my toes curl with horror . . . but on the other, it would make an excellent fourth feature for ‘Dumped Actually’.

  After all, who hasn’t tried to find a new love, as a replacement for the old?

  We’ve all done it. All attempted to fill that void with a fresh face.

  I remember when Yukio flew back to Japan, I went online and joined a dating website called A New Love.

  I went on precisely one date.

  It was with Charlotte.

  Charlotte enjoyed knives.

  I didn’t know how much Charlotte enjoyed knives until she pulled one out of her jacket about an hour into the date.

  I can still see its gleaming tip in my nightmares to this day.

  Up to that point, Charlotte seemed like a normal girl, even if she did wear quite heavy and dark eyeliner.

  I sat there for a further twenty minutes while Charlotte expounded at length on how she forged the knife herself from some melted-down spoons and a leaf spring from a 1987 Vauxhall truck.

  Then I faked a bowel obstruction and ran away.

  Given this, you’ll understand my reticence to go out and find myself somebody new.

  One part of me wants nothing to do with the dating scene again.

  . . . and I’m not even the type of person who has rebound romances. I tend to be 100 per cent committed to the damn thing, or not at all. Could I even cope with meeting another woman so soon after Samantha, and maybe going through all of it again? I don’t think so.

  But the other part of me – the part that enjoys being called Captain Popularity and having lots of new readers – thinks it’s a great idea. It’s the same part of me that was insane enough to write all about my run-in with Bambi. The side of me that wants to keep the ball rolling, to keep the readers happy, to please them above all other things . . .

  If I chew this fingernail any more, I’m going to need a plaster.

  I need advice about this.

  If I’m going to attempt such a thing, I need someone to help guide me through it. Somebody I trust.

  Erica is alone in her office. I think I’d better go have a chat with her.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ I say, opening her door.

  She looks up at me and smiles. As well she might. I am the golden boy around here at the moment, after all.

  ‘If you’ve come looking for a Belvita, I’m fresh out,’ she says, grinning like a loon.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Very funny.’

  Erica holds up a hand. ‘Hang on, I have something cued up for just such an occasion as this . . .’

  She taps a few keys on her laptop and looks up at me again, an expectant expression writ large across her face.

  From the laptop speakers comes a song from The Sound of Music.

  You know which one it is already, don’t you?

  Yep. Julie Andrews singing her little heart out about does and deers.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and stand there with my head down as my boss sings along with Julie about rays of golden sun, and appropriate pronouns with which to describe oneself.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, finally walking into the office, wincing.

  Erica whacks another key, and Julie Andrews ceases her musical litany. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist. I’ve been waiting for you to come in here for two days now.’

  I slump in the chair opposite her desk, as I have done a thousand times in the past. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be too mad. I have rather brought all this upon myself.’

  Erica nods. ‘Well, yes. But I’m eternally grateful you have.’

  ‘You might be, but Mr Montifore clearly isn’t.’

  Erica’s smile vanishes. ‘Don’t worry about him, Ollie. He’s my problem. You just keep doing what you’re doing.’

  I give her a thumbs-up. ‘Will do.’ I sit up in the chair. ‘That’s actually why I’ve come in here. To ask you something.’

  ‘Go on,’ Erica responds, looking curious.

  ‘It’s like this. I’ve had an email from a woman called Callie Donnelly . . .’

  ‘I saw it. She’s the one who suggested you get back out on the dating scene again.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been sat at my desk in two minds about the whole thing, because on the one hand I know it’s a great idea for another article, but on the other hand I have no desire to try to date anyone new right now. That’s when I thought of you.’

  Erica blinks a couple of times. ‘You thought of me?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course. You’re the perfect person to ask.’

  Erica’s jaw drops open. ‘Ollie . . . are you asking me out on a date?’

  It’s my turn for some jaw droppage. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t want to date anyone new, so you thought of me?’

  ‘What? No! That’s not what I meant!’

  Oh God. How exquisitely awful.

  ‘It isn’t?’ Erica has got over the shock very quickly, it seems, and is now looking highly amused.

  ‘No! I just meant that I should talk to you about it all, and get your advice!’

  ‘Oh . . . okay.’ Erica’s eyes twinkle as she says this. This is a cruel, cruel woman. To revel in my discomfort like this.

  At that moment, my stupid treacherous brain throws up a suggestion.

  Why not ask her out, Ollie? She’s an incredible woman. You know her well. And you’ve always had a great relationship with her at work, so . . .

  ‘Why? Would you . . . Would you go out on a date with me?’ I ask hesitantly.

  Erica’s eyes go wide, before she starts to shake her head slowly. ‘No, Ollie. I won’t. And I don’t think that’s really what you’d want, anyway, is it?’

  I also start to shake my head. ‘No. Probably not.’

  Stupid brain. Making stupid suggestions. Why weren’t you so proactive when the deer was staring at our bloody erection?

  Don’t blame me, pal. You should have fed me more Omega 3.

  I have to rescue this excruciating situation before it gets any
worse.

  ‘I just . . . I just wanted to ask if you think it’s a good idea to go ahead with it, and if you do, what advice you could give me about meeting someone!’ The words fall out of my mouth in a torrent.

  Erica leans her chin on her hand and regards me with the look of someone who owns an adorable puppy that has just done a shit on the carpet. ‘That sounds a bit more sensible,’ she says, and ponders my request for a moment. ‘You know what, Ollie? I do think you and I should go out together.’

  ‘What?’ For some reason my heart rate has sped up.

  ‘Not on a date, of course. But if you’re going to meet a new woman, it might be a good idea for you to have some help. I’ve known you long enough to know that without it you’ll go out searching for new love . . . and come home with a new injury.’

  I’d like to protest, but she’s 100 per cent correct.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a place I know that might do the trick. It’s quite upmarket. Lots of eligible singles for you to meet. It could be perfect.’ Erica smiles. ‘It’s certainly somewhere I’ve enjoyed frequenting on occasion.’

  There’s a whole side of Erica Hilton I know nothing about. I feel more than a little nervous about finding out about it.

  ‘Okay. I guess that sounds . . . good.’

  Erica laughs. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried, Ollie. We’ll just go along, have a couple of drinks and see if we can catch you someone nice. If not, you can just do a brief write-up on the bar itself and call it a day.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fine. Absolutely fine.’

  Erica’s words calm me down a bit, but the prospect of even talking to a strange woman in a setting like the one she’s just described fills me with trepidation.

  At least I won’t be going along alone. There’s something ever so comforting about Erica’s levels of self-confidence. With her along for the ride, I should be able to get through the evening without too many disasters befalling me.

  It takes three attempts for me to settle on an outfit to wear.

  I start off with a blue polo neck, black jeans and my least scuffed pair of Adidas. I send a picture of myself in this get-up to Erica, who almost instantly sends back a message saying, ‘NO, Ollie. Try again!’

  My second attempt is, if anything, even worse. I pull out a pair of beige chinos that I haven’t worn in ten years, a purple shirt – because at one point it must have been fashionable, I guess – and a pair of black work boots.

  Erica’s response to this ensemble is, ‘You look like you’re either searching for psychological help, or your next victim. Try again, Ollie. Put on something smart that you feel really uncomfortable in!’

  Which sounds like strange advice to me.

  However, I understand the genius of it, when I yank out the Moss Bros coal-grey suit I wore once to a wedding with Samantha and put the damn thing on. It’s awful. I feel deeply uncomfortable in it. Especially when I pair it with the slim-fit white shirt that Samantha made me buy to go along with it. And then there are the shiny black shoes, with the tops that cut into my ankles. I hate them so very, very much.

  When I send a picture of me dressed in all this awfulness to Erica, I almost immediately get a response saying, ‘Great! That’s perfect! See you outside the bar in an hour!’

  Why do I put myself through these things?

  Because you know you might get a good story out of it.

  I can’t really argue with that logic.

  The taxi ride across town to the club is conducted with much chewing of fingernails. It’s probably a good job we arrive outside the place in less than half an hour, otherwise I’d be trying to chat somebody up with bloody stumps.

  The club is called Manucode.

  This sounds more like an order given to an IT worker by a caveman than the name for a nightclub, but what the hell do I know?

  The club’s exterior looks exquisitely expensive. Which is to say, it’s minimalist in the extreme. This is not a nightclub that feels the need to advertise itself to all and sundry.

  Its long, tinted-glass frontage is lit with cool blue spotlights, and I can just about see inside, to where the moody blue lighting appears to be continued around the whole club. It’s hard to make out much through the glass, other than the fact the place looks quite full.

  It’s a wonder I’ve never heard of Manucode before – but then I remember who I am, and it makes perfect sense that I’ve never heard of it before.

  There’s a simple but elegant sign above the double doors set at the right-hand side of the glass exterior, bearing the club’s name in that same cool blue. Standing in front is a bouncer in an equally elegant black suit. He has a pleasant, welcoming expression on his face, which is unusual for a bouncer, and is therefore quite worrying.

  I bid the bouncer a good evening.

  ‘And to you, sir,’ he replies with a smile. Somebody working on a door who is this polite is probably incredibly dangerous.

  I offer him a shaky smile in return and look out into the road to see another cab pulling up.

  From it emerges Erica Hilton, and my heart sinks.

  There’s no way I’m going to even get the chance to talk to another woman this evening, not with Erica looking like that. They won’t be able to stand the comparison.

  Erica is wearing a dark-green evening dress that clings to places I didn’t know she had. I’ve only ever seen my boss in an efficient and straight-cut business pantsuit before. This dress tells me where all her curves are, and it’s making my knees tremble.

  The redness of her hair is particularly deep this evening, and she’s worked it into a long elegant wave that must have taken hours to get right.

  She walks up to me with the kind of grace usually reserved for endangered species on the savannah.

  ‘Evening, Ollie.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I respond, forgetting my manners.

  She looks taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  I hold out my hands. ‘Well . . . look at you!’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean?’ she repeats, her tone sharpened to a point.

  I let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘How am I supposed to meet another woman with you looking that incredible? They’ll avoid coming anywhere near you!’

  Erica smiles and pats my cheek. ‘Oh, Ollie. I think it’ll be absolutely fine.’ She turns to the bouncer. ‘Good evening, Carlo. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you, Ms Hilton,’ Carlo replies, opening the door as he does so. Beyond is Manucode’s main bar and dance floor, full of people who look like they most definitely belong in a swanky gaff like this.

  ‘I am not nearly cool enough to go in there,’ I say in almost a whisper.

  Erica rolls her eyes and snakes one arm into mine. ‘Don’t worry, Ollie. I’ll be by your side, for as long as I need to be.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about. Next to you, I look like a bin bag full of cold sick.’

  Without saying anything else, Erica shakes her head, and then drags me through the door.

  The floor of Manucode is all polished grey concrete flecked with gold. The walls are a crisp white colour, with the occasional expensive painting hung on them. The long bar that sticks out into the centre of the expansive room is replete with every single alcoholic beverage under the sun, and is lit with that same cool blue that dominates the entire club.

  The most dominant feature of the place is a waterfall that runs across the whole back wall, down a vast sheet of glass and into a long canal at the bottom that’s full of what look like gemstones. Their water bill must be bloody astronomic.

  The comfy-looking black chairs that sit around the shiny chrome tables have that simple sophistication about them that you just know would cost you an arm, a leg and most of your children’s future.

  There’s a low stage in the far right-hand corner of the club, where a four-piece band is filling the air with a sweet-sounding Latin number. No cheesy DJ for Manucode tonigh
t, it appears. Live music is the sophisticated order of the day for this place.

  The whole club screams wealth and stylishness.

  I scream doubt and reluctance right back at it.

  And it’s full of exclusive-looking people, drinking exclusive-looking drinks, with exclusive-looking expressions on their faces. I bet when they need to relieve themselves of those exclusive-looking drinks they’ll go into exclusive-looking toilets and have an exclusive wee.

  The only thing exclusive I’ve ever been near is a VAT bill.

  ‘Let’s go sit up at the bar,’ Erica suggests, before gently leading me over to it.

  ‘This is horrible,’ I tell her in a low voice.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People might think we’re . . . you know . . . together.’

  Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘And you think that’s horrible?’

  ‘For you, yes.’

  Erica doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead she turns to the barman, who has miraculously appeared in front of us. ‘Hello, Hector. A bourbon sour for me, and for my friend here . . .’ Erica looks at me expectantly.

  ‘A pint of Carling?’ I venture.

  Hector looks like I’ve just wiped a bogey down his nose.

  ‘Get him a Peroni, Hector,’ Erica interjects. I look at her for a moment before nodding at Hector, who squints at me, before going off to get our drinks.

  ‘Now, Ollie,’ Erica says, laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘Just relax, and stop worrying too much. You don’t look out of place at all. Have a few drinks, chill out and we’ll see what happens.’

  I nod my head again, uncertainly. Erica must be mad if she thinks I don’t look out of place in this club, but then if these people do think I’m her date tonight, then maybe I won’t look all that bad. Anyone with a woman like her on their arm can’t be a complete loser, can they?

  As the evening starts to tick by, however, I come to realise that nobody thinks I am Erica’s date. Erica’s pet maybe, but definitely not her date.

  She appears to be extremely well known by the club’s clientele. Not a minute seems to go by without somebody new and exclusive coming up to talk to her. Erica doesn’t need to move from our spot once to get into a conversation with somebody. They all just come to her.