Twenty Something

by Iain Hollingshead

  Aha, this will be one of the cheeky little maidens now. I wonder which one.

  It was Rick. ‘M8, nt sure how to say this, but me and Lucy r getting mrrd, innit. We’d luv u to b bst mn. Rick.’

  JULY

  Friday 1st July

  I’ve just noticed that the last three months of my life have all ended in emotional cliff-hangers. At the end of April, Lucy announced that she was pregnant. At the end of May, I discovered that Rick and Lucy were an item. And now, at the end of June, I discover that Rick and Lucy are so much of an item that they’re planning to get married.

  I have to hand it to the two of them: they’ve got a unique sense of dramatic timing.

  Although the content of Rick’s text yesterday was understandably surprising, the tone was familiar enough. If Rick wanted to tell his best mate that he was planning on marrying his ex-girlfriend, it would strike him as only natural to use an illiterate text full of ‘innits’ and smiley faces. In fact, ‘innit’ was just about the only thing he’d spelled out in full. I mean, what kind of word does he think ‘M8’ is? And ‘luv’? Where’s the love in that? With predictive text messaging there’s really no excuse for these horrors. ‘Cu’, ‘wld’ and ‘cld’ are just about OK. Anything else is right out.

  But I digress. I wanted to shoot the messenger, not the message. So I rang up to ask for an explanation.

  ‘Ah, Jack. Glad you called. Was worried when you didn’t get back to me yesterday. Are you happy to be best man?’

  ‘Delighted, Rick. Ecstatic, overjoyed, elated, jubilant and euphoric. I am over the moon and strumming a harp on cloud nine.’

  ‘Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to be that happy about it.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m markedly unhappy about it. Isn’t it just a little bit hasty, a wee bit precipitous, a fraction rushed? What else have you done since I last saw you apart from get engaged? Gone to Mars, sold a multi-million-pound start-up, found a cure for AIDS?’

  Silence.

  ‘OK, perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining how it happened?’

  ‘Well, it was Lucy’s dad’s idea, really.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Poett. How romantic. Why don’t you marry him instead?’

  ‘Would you shut up a moment. While you were out fiddling with jail bait a couple of Fridays ago, Lucy went home and told her dad that she was four months pregnant. He hit the roof. Assumed it was you. Wanted to sort you out good and proper.’

  ‘Rick, Mr Poett’s a stockbroker, not the godfather.’

  ‘Anyway, the point is that Mr Poett was livid.’

  ‘And what — when Lucy told him that the father of his grandchild was you and not me, he calmed down and said, “I have not lost a daughter, I will gain a son”?’

  ‘Er, pretty much, yeah. You know what these stuffy upper-middle-class parents are like.’

  ‘Rick, your dad’s a QC.’

  ‘Yeah, well anyway. Her dad says that Lucy has his blessing, on condition that she marries me immediately.’

  Blimey, not so much a shotgun wedding as a scattergun wedding.

  ‘And you want to marry her?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You love her so much that you’ve stopped saying “izzit” and “innit” every second sentence?’

  ‘Yep, it drove her crazy, innit.’

  ‘Well, that is true love, then.’

  ‘It’s a small sacrifice to make. So, come on, are you going to be my best man?’

  ‘Dunno. I need time to think, OK?’

  Saturday 2nd July

  On reflection, Mr Poett’s attitude makes me very angry indeed. I’ve got half a mind to get hideously drunk and tell him to fuck off again over the phone.

  I mean, who does he think he is? Some kind of latter-day Mrs Bennett ordering his errant daughter down the aisle? He is a relic of the dark ages, a snob of the worst kind who can’t face the realities of the modern era. Single mothers are everywhere. What does it matter whether Lucy Poett becomes Lucy Fielding and starts wearing a wedding ring? There’s no more chance of her and Rick staying together just because she changes her surname and has a couple of extra wedding-gift fish knives from distant relatives.

  It’s no longer social death to be born out of wedlock. Bastards are people like Mr Cox, who treat their employees like dirt. Bastards are people like Buddy Wilton-Steer, who badmouth their ex-girlfriends. Bastards are fathers like Mr Poett, who try to pressurise their daughters into socially acceptable arrangements that won’t get the neighbours talking. Bastards are hypocritical fools like Rick, who go along with it. Bastards are not children who are brought into this world by two parents who were too wise to make a spur-of-the-moment lifelong commitment.

  Their child isn’t going to thank them for a marriage of convenience a couple of months before it’s born. It’s the fact they’re having the baby that is important. Not the marriage. Why can’t they just concentrate on that? Babies can’t be unborn.

  It’s none of my business, but I really need to talk to Lucy about this.

  Sunday 3rd July

  ‘It’s none of your business, Jack.’

  ‘Look, please, Lucy. I’m not trying to get in the way; I’m just trying to help. For old times’ sake. Please can we talk about all this?’

  ‘OK, let’s meet up next weekend.’

  ‘Not sooner?’

  ‘No, next weekend.’

  Bint. She always did get her own way.

  I’d just put my mobile down when it beeped and two texts arrived. One from Lizzy, another from Sarah. Result, I thought.

  Actual context of texts was less of a result. They were identical. They read like this:

  ‘Thanks for texting us both. Sunday is indeed the new black, the new rock ’n’ roll Which is why I have no intention of spending it with you. It’s not me; it’s you.’

  Oh dear, I really am a tit. Perhaps I should have realised that sending identical texts to two friends was a stupid error.

  Anyway, you lose some, you lose some humiliatingly. To be honest, they were both last-window girls. There’s still Jean.

  Monday 4th July

  ‘Fred, you know how when girls live together in close proximity, their periods start synchronising?’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

  ‘What do you reckon the male equivalent is? Do you and I get elated and depressed at similar times? Do we get sudden urges to go on CD shopping sprees and gorge on curry and beer? Do we go on and off sex at the same time?’

  ‘Jack, get a sodding job.’

  ‘Is Freddie-weddie missing Jasper-wasper?’

  Silence.

  ‘Seriously, Fred. I really don’t mind if you’re gay. You can tell me, you know. If you’re a milky way, ginger beer, Inspector Taggart, it really is fine by me.’

  ‘Seriously, Jack, you’re really beginning to piss me off. I can’t do anything with you moping around the house like this.’

  Wednesday 6th July

  Decided that I was going to try and get a letter published in as many different national newspapers as possible.

  Started with The Sun.

  Well done my Sun for your brilliant piece on the European Union. How dare those fat cats in Brussels force me to drive on the right side of the road! Paws off our democracy!

  Jack Lancaster, London

  Moved on to the Guardian:

  Congratulations to the Foreign Secretary for his lucid and erudite description of what any future European Constitution really means for Britain in Europe. The sooner the electorate has the chance to shatter the ridiculous myths perpetrated by the Murdoch press and endorse the Constitution in a free and fair referendum, the better.

  Jack Lancaster, London

  And then the Independent:

  Sir,

  On reading your balanced appraisal of the merits of the draft European Constitution this morning, I was again reminded of the free-minded excellence of a newspaper whose hands are not tied by
the whimsical views of its proprietors. I do, however, feel duty bound to point out that it is articles I-40.3 and III-212 which provide for the creation of a European Armaments, Research and Military Capabilities Agency, and not I-40.2 and III-213 as your report stated. In addition, the escalator clause — which would ascribe further competences to the EU without recourse to national governments — is more usually referred to as the ‘passerelle’ (Article I-22.4).

  Jack Lancaster, London SW3

  And finally the Daily Telegraph:

  From Mr Jack B. H. N. Lancaster

  Sir,

  Few political events arouse as much ire in the hearts of right-thinking Englishmen as the mendacious attempts by this discredited Government to sign away a thousand years of history through the back door. Did my relatives die in vain at the battles of Crécy, Trafalgar, Passchendaele and Britain?

  Yours faithfully,

  Jack Lancaster

  23 Onslow Mews, London SW3

  Thursday 7th July

  Unbelievable. The whole ruddy lot got published. Am deliriously happy. Even Flatmate Fred acknowledged that this was a triumph. The Sun’s giving me £25 for writing its Letter of the Day. Perhaps this is to atone for the fact that their letters page — ‘The page where you tell Britain what you think’ — is squeezed on to page 36 between an advert for the page 3 calendar and the quick crossword. I get the impression that Britain doesn’t give much of a toss about what you think.

  Equally unbelievable was the phone call I received in the afternoon. I normally hate being called from a withheld number. For a start, you don’t know how to answer it. ‘Hello’ sounds a bit informal. ‘Hello, Jack Lancaster’ makes it sound like you’re in a call centre. And, despite the initial excitement that it might be someone interesting, it normally turns out to be one of your bored mates abusing the office phone at work.

  This time, however, it was someone interesting.

  ‘Jack, hi, this is Frankie. We used to play rugby together at school.’

  ‘Frankie, hang on Yes, Frankie Boal. How are you doing? Have you learned to catch the ball yet?’

  ‘Ha, very good. Have you learned to pass it properly yet? Listen, mate, you know I’m working for the Leader of the Opposition at the moment? Well, someone told me that you were out of a job, so, well, anyway, here he is — he wants to talk to you’

  Shit. I’m about to talk to Alex de Montfort, the bumbling, bumptiously plummy MP for somewhere in Oxfordshire and the new leader of the Conservative Party.

  ‘Cripes. Which way up do I hold this thing? Ah, there we go. Right, Franco, am I connected?’

  ‘Hello? Mr de Montfort?’

  ‘Ah, here we go. Jack, Jack Lancaster? Listen, one of my useless staff has passed me a copy of this morning’s press cuttings. Your name seems to appear in almost every comment section. Are all those letters yours?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Why am I calling him ‘sir’? I’m twenty-five.

  ‘Well, I think it’s bloody marvellous, Jack, I really do. You’re just the kind of swivel-eyed, deviously crafty, Machiavellian schemer which the Tory Party requires in these dark years of opposition. I’d like you to come and work for me. Can you start on Monday?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’d be honoured. But don’t you want any references?’

  ‘Not worth the ruddy paper they’re written on. Franco tells me that you can spin-pass a rugby ball off both hands, and four national newspapers tell me that you’re a tub-thumping genius. On condition that you stop calling me “sir”, I think we’ll get on very well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Saturday 9th July

  ‘It’s none of your business, Jack.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, Lucy. It was wrong then and it was wrong now. You’re not going to make it any less wrong by repeating it over and over again.’

  I was at my planned rendezvous with Lucy to talk about the Rick/baby/marriage situation, and it wasn’t going very well.

  ‘Look, Lucy, when you tried to lure me back with your elaborate pregnancy ruse, you told me that I was the one for you. Doesn’t that at least give me the right to voice my opinion on your current situation? I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Trying to help me or trying to help yourself? Aren’t you just jealous of two people who are sorting their lives out? From what I hear, yours is going down the toilet.’

  ‘You said toilet, you said toilet.’

  ‘It was an expression, Jack. Please grow up.’

  ‘OK, fine. I am mildly jealous. But that’s not my motive. I’m happy that you and Rick want to be together. He’s convinced me that he loves you. And ultimately I just want both of you to be happy. I think it’s great that you’re keeping the baby and I think it’s great that he’s prepared to be a good father. But I also think that getting married on a whim simply because your dad wants you to is a huge error.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you think, is it?’

  ‘Er, yes, that’s why I said it.’

  ‘Well, fine, yes, my Dad did hit the roof and it was his suggestion that we got married, but it’s also what Ricky and I want.’

  She’s calling him Ricky. Ugh, that makes me feel sick. No one makes up nicknames for my best mate.

  She continued: ‘Marriage isn’t about wild romantic sparks, Jack. It’s about cellulite and school fees. I’ve realised that now. You and I had wild romantic sparks but I don’t think we could have lasted as a married couple. Ricky and I can. I love him in a solid, constant way that isn’t going to change. I can imagine waking up next to him when I’m old and ugly and still loving him as much as I do now. We’re going to have a very happy family together. This baby has just fast-tracked us into realising something that has always been there.’

  There was a knock on the door of my flat.

  ‘Oh look,’ I said. ‘It’s Ricky. Come on in.’

  He looked at me weirdly.

  ‘Easy, mate. How’s things, izzit?’

  Lucy coughed behind me.

  ‘I mean, hello, old bean. How are you? And hello, my little honeybee. I was wondering if you were still here. How are you and honeybee junior?’

  He walked over to Lucy and rubbed her tummy gently. She settled into the crook of his arm and looked up adoringly at him.

  ‘So, mate, have you decided whether you’re going to be my best man or not?’

  I looked at the two of them and smiled. Rick and Lucy — the happy Fieldings.

  ‘Rick, it would be an honour.’

  ‘Good man. You better start organising my stag party, then. We haven’t got long.’

  Sunday 10th July

  After more than six weeks of blissful unemployment, it would seem that I’m going back to work tomorrow.

  To be honest, I’m less than ecstatic at the prospect. I know I should be grateful for the exciting opportunity. I know that I might have hit upon a new purpose in life. It’s just possible that this will be my springboard towards becoming the Rt Hon Jack Lancaster MP, Prime Minister, First Lord of the Treasury and Minister for the Civil Service.

  But then I’m not sure I can be bothered to get up early in the morning, put on a blue tie and an ironed shirt and spend the entire day with a bunch of hacking politicos.

  I mean, what do I know about politics? The student politicians I met at university were a bunch of talentless arseholes. They were prematurely balding, prematurely middle-aged and perennially fat. Then, at least, I had very little in common with any of them.

  Monday 11th July

  Felt jet-lagged when I woke up this morning. Realised that for the last six weeks I’ve been operating on Islamabad time — getting up at midday and going to bed at 4am.

  When I eventually emerged bleary-eyed from Westminster tube station, I found myself in the middle of a full-blown war between the Countryside Alliance and a bunch of animal rights’ protesters. Will they ever give up?

  ‘You only married your wife because she reminds you of your horse,’ went up the shout
from the soap-dodgers on one side of Parliament Square.

  ‘Hunting foxes is a right, is a right, is a right, hunting foxes is a right, not a privilege,’ came the chanted retort from a very privileged group of green wellies and Barbours on the other side. The black Labradors whinnied in time.

  Why can’t you all just get a job? I thought as I strode purposefully into Portcullis House in my pinstripes and dark blue tie.

  Felt less purposeful when I had to undergo a full body search (‘Sorry, guv, we can’t be too careful after what happened last time’), and then wait two hours for de Montfort’s private secretary, Kim, to let me into the complex.

  Kim, though, was lovely and gave me a whistlestop tour of both houses before showing me to de Montfort’s plush private office.

  ‘You sit here, Jack, in Frankie’s seat, as he’s away on holiday, next to Dominic, who’s Alex’s diary secretary. Penelope here manages the press office, Nicola coordinates the international policy unit, Marianne liaises with CCO, and Arabella and Isabella help with correspondence.’

  I feel like I’m being introduced to the board of the local pony club gymkhana.

  ‘Hello, everyone.’

  They’re all in their forties, but they’re all very attractive (apart from Dominic, who looks like the product of a few hundred years of inbreeding).

  ‘And Kim What exactly do I do?’

  ‘Ah, glad you asked that. When this phone rings, you answer it. Ninety per cent of the time it will be a complete weirdo. Try to get rid of them firmly but politely. Occasionally, it will be someone important, although you won’t always be able to tell the difference. Put them on hold by pressing this button and then dial the necessary extension. Otherwise, I’m afraid your job consists of photocopying, filing and envelope-stuffing.’

  ‘And how much do I get paid?’

  ‘Paid? Jack, this is politics. We’re all believers. But we’ll give you a bit of money for lunch every now and again.’