Best Man

by Matt Dunn

  ‘Miss Evans for you, Mr Bailey,’ announces Becky, rather formally.

  Unlike most other aspects of my life, my job isn’t a great opportunity for meeting attractive women (except, as Julia takes great pleasure in pointing out, in a two-dimensional, on-screen kind of way). However, since the agency had sent photos along with CVs, I’d been able to narrow the candidates down to three, more on the basis of attractiveness than qualifications, of course.

  The first two, whom I’d met last week, appeared to have used someone else’s picture when applying, but when Charlotte Evans turns round to greet me she more than makes up for the others. She’s short, verging on what I guess is known as ‘petite’, slim, and dressed well, an open-necked silk shirt under a cream business suit, showing just enough cleavage to stay on the nice side of tarty. A cascade of dark hair frames her face, which is dominated by slightly oversized lips that on anyone else might look out of place. And when she smiles, it lights up the whole . . .

  ‘Charlotte. Please call me Charlie,’ she says, interrupting my reverie. She makes good – and strikingly deep blue – eye contact with me, and I have to concentrate to return the favour.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Hi. Adam,’ I say. ‘Please call me . . .’ I stop, realizing that I’ve talked myself into a corner.

  ‘Adam?’ she says, raising one eyebrow. I just nod, and shake her outstretched hand.

  Handshakes are important. In my book, you should maintain a firm grip for just as long as it takes to exchange names, or say ‘Pleased to meet you’, or whatever pleasantries you prefer. What I can’t stand is when people don’t apply any sort of pressure whatsoever, or, even worse, want to hang on for dear life, and for more than the duration of the introduction. Let go, for God’s sake! I’m not going to run off, and I can much more easily concentrate on what you’re saying if I’m not worrying about if and when you’re going to release my hand. But Charlie’s handshake is firm and she holds on for just long enough. Strangely, I find myself reluctant to let go.

  I show her into the meeting room, fetching us both a cappuccino from the machine, but decide to leave the biscuits where they are even though Becky has artfully arranged them on the plate. Her design of one shortbread finger to two cookies is a bit phallic for my liking.

  I flick through Charlie’s CV, which tells me she has a degree in geology.

  ‘So, Charlotte . . .’

  She smiles, sweetly. ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie. Sorry. Why geology?’ I ask her. ‘Bit of a strange choice—’

  ‘For a girl?’ she interrupts.

  ‘N-no, that’s not what I meant.’ I redden slightly. ‘I just, I mean, the study of rocks?’

  ‘I like rocks. Particularly diamonds,’ she says, breaking into a smile.

  Charlie talks me through her CV, covering in particular her most recent secretarial work, and then I remember why I’d been interested in seeing her in the first place.

  ‘So, you do a bit of, um, modelling?’ I ask, trying not to look at her breasts, but failing miserably.

  ‘Yes, but just part time,’ she says, folding her arms self-consciously in front of her chest. ‘Commercials, exhibitions, demonstrations, that sort of thing. It pays well, but it’s not what I want to do long term.’

  I take the bait. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Work here, of course!’ she announces, grinning broadly. She has, I notice, perfect teeth.

  From here on in I try to keep the meeting as professional as possible, as I start to worry that if she feels I’m flirting with her then she’ll think that I do that with every girl I interview. I give her the usual spiel about what the company does and the types of organizations we work with. She’s not put off by the industry we’re in, laughs at my jokes (at last – someone who does), and I’m going through my customary repertoire of career questions while pretending to make notes. Eventually, I get to my last one.

  ‘So, we’ve talked about your strengths. Can you think of any weaknesses?’

  I’ve interviewed most of our researchers, so I’ve probably heard them all by now; the standard I’m a perfectionist, or I find it hard to delegate – answers that people think make them sound indispensable – but Charlie thinks about this for a few seconds, as if she’s never considered the question before. Eventually she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Chocolate.’

  I’m halfway through writing this down before I glance up and see her smiling at me.

  I look back on this later and realize that this is the point that I become hooked. Furthermore, just before she leaves, something happens that gives me no choice.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says politely, a strange expression on her face. ‘I’m just going to sneeze.’

  I suddenly remember Mark’s theory, and watch her with interest, but when it comes I’ve never seen anything like it, and sit opposite, watching in fascination as Charlie sneezes. And sneezes. And sneezes. In all, a total of seven, in succession (I count silently, but with rising interest and amazement), the first six identical, but building in volume slightly, the seventh a gigantic, whole-body sneeze that almost takes the froth off the top of my untouched cappuccino.

  ‘Bless you!’ I say, passing her a tissue.

  Charlie blows her nose. ‘Sorry about that,’ she says, with an embarrassed sniff.

  I walk her out of the office, give her my business card in case she has any further questions, thank her for coming in, and tell her I’ll be in touch.

  ‘I hope so,’ she says, and with a last smile she makes her way through the rotating doors and out on to the street. I stand and watch through the spinning glass as she disappears into the King’s Road crowds, until a cough from Becky sends me scurrying back into my office.

  Some hours later, I’m sitting in Bar Rosa with Pritchard and Rudy, telling them about Charlie.

  ‘There’s nothing sexier than an intelligent woman, in my opinion,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ smirks Rudy. ‘Especially one with big breasts, I bet.’

  Pritchard decides to put me on the spot. ‘So, have you asked her out yet?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nope. I didn’t feel it was appropriate, given that it was a job interview and all that.’

  Rudy laughs. ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘True.’ In fact, I can’t think of a reason why I didn’t, except perhaps that I’d actually wanted to make a good impression.

  ‘So, what should I do?’ I ask them. ‘She’s perfect for the job, but I can’t take her on and then ask her out. If she says yes and we get on I’d feel funny about her working for Nick and going out with me. If I tell her she hasn’t got the job and then ask her out she might say no just because she’s miffed at not getting it. On the other hand, if I tell her she’s got the job and then ask her out and she says no, then there might be an awkward atmosphere in the office.’ Their eyes, I notice, are beginning to glaze.

  ‘Or,’ I continue, ‘if I ask her out before I tell her whether she’s got the job or not she might feel she has to say yes just so she doesn’t jeopardize her chances of getting it. But then if she takes the job and I ask her out and we don’t get on and I chuck her, then it will be even more awkward in the office. Alternatively, if she takes the job and I ask her out but she turns out to be no good but we get on, then I can’t sack her—’

  ‘What was the first one again?’ interrupts Pritchard.

  I stop talking, pick up my beer and take a sip, hoping that they can impart some wisdom.

  Rudy rests a fatherly hand on my shoulder. ‘Do you want my advice?’

  ‘Is it any good?’

  He gives me a withering glance. ‘Call her, tell her the job’s been put on hold but you’d like to see her again.’

  I frown. ‘Surely she’ll then think that the interview was just a ruse?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But it does mean that you can apologize for wasting her time and say you want to make it up to her.’

  ‘And in her disappointment you can console her,’ adds Pritchar
d.

  ‘Or,’ begins Rudy, launching into a huge discussion of potential scenarios, each worse than the previous one. After half an hour of this, I call a halt to the subject.

  But later that night Charlie solves at least part of the dilemma herself. She calls me on my mobile, and I excuse myself from Pritchard and Rudy’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘I may be some time,’ I tell them, walking outside with a swagger to take her call; but my heart quickly sinks when she tells me she’s been offered a promotional job, which she’ll be taking instead.

  ‘I thought I’d better let you know as soon as possible,’ she says, ‘just in case you’d short listed me at the expense of another candidate.’

  I try to swallow my disappointment. ‘It was good of you to call. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one of those people who string people along when they’re not really interested, you know. What are they called?’ She searches for the right words.

  ‘Prick-teaser?’ I blurt out.

  Charlie laughs. ‘No, actually, I was thinking of “hypocrite”.’ I hope she can’t hear me blush.

  We exchange a few pleasantries, and then I’m unusually tongue-tied. ‘Well . . .’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Adam.’

  ‘You too, Charlotte.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie. Thanks for the call.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t.’ Aargh! Just ask her out, I’m thinking.

  ‘Well, goodbye then.’

  ‘Yes, bye.’

  I listen to her breathing for a few seconds, as if she’s waiting for me to say something, and then she hangs up. I stand there like an idiot for at least a minute with the phone up to my ear before walking disconsolately inside.

  Back at the bar Pritchard and Rudy offer to buy me another drink in an attempt to drown my sorrows. In actual fact, it takes nearly a whole bottle of wine before they’re in need of a lifebelt, which turns up in the shape of Fiona, who happens to walk into the bar with a group of her friends.

  Fiona and I went out two years ago, for about a month. It wouldn’t even have lasted that long if the sex hadn’t been so good, but every time I thought about breaking it off we ended up getting it on. I can’t remember exactly what it was that made me finally go off her – I think it was the way she said ‘pound’ instead of ‘pounds’ as in ‘it cost twenty pound’ – but eventually I realized that we didn’t really have anything in common apart from an amazing compatibility between the sheets.

  When I finally dumped her she went mental, delivering one of those ‘You’ll never find anyone else like me’ speeches. I should hope not, I recall thinking. If I wanted someone like you I wouldn’t be breaking up with you. And if I don’t want you, why would I want someone like you? Of course, I was too much of a gentleman to explain this, rather I took the cowards’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ stance, which, to my surprise, she actually bought. And when I told her I wasn’t looking for commitment right now, she said, ‘Okay. Let’s just sleep together then.’

  So nowadays Fiona is my regular ‘sex ex’. Everybody should have one. I suppose it’s a bit like being a social smoker. You can get by on a daily basis without wanting a fix, but given a particular set of circumstances, a certain time of day, a couple of drinks perhaps in the company of other ‘smokers’, you catch sight of the cigarette machine out of the corner of your eye, get that sudden craving, and the next thing you know you’re preparing to stick your money in the slot. You always wake the following morning with a strange taste on your tongue and swear never again to yourself. Until the next time.

  That’s how it is for me and Fiona, apart from the funny taste of course, and it’s a habit we’ve both been happy to keep up. But every time it happens (and I use the phrase like it’s something I have no control over) she insists on having the ‘Why did we ever split up? We’re so good together’ conversation, and, although I’ve never been one for faking it between the sheets, I find myself pretending to be asleep just to avoid it.

  I wake up at around 7.00 a.m. in Fiona’s bed, my head suffering from the wrath of grapes, and suddenly find myself wishing I was anywhere but here. Fortunately, she’s sleeping like a baby, so I extricate myself from the tangle of limbs and duvet, get out of bed without disturbing her and stagger to the bathroom. Fiona has one of those mirrors that you see in theatre dressing rooms, with the light bulbs around the edge, and the vivid reflection that this throws back at me is not pleasant: hair like a crop circle, puffy eyes and, oh no, what looks like a bite mark on my left shoulder, which I’m both pleased and shocked by at the same time. I make a mental note that it’s T-shirts rather than vests for me in the gym this week.

  I don’t like to shower at other people’s houses so I damp my hair down into something approaching dishevelled respectability, find last night’s clothes at their various locations around her flat and let myself out of the front door. It would have been wholly inappropriate to kiss her goodbye.

  I spend a few moments looking up and down the street for the Impresser before I remember that I left it outside my flat, so I start to walk home, but at that moment a black cab drives past with its For Hire light shining, so I stick a hand up and wave it over. When I give the driver my address he gives me that Good night last night was it? look, and drives me home wordlessly, which I’m quite pleased about.

  Walking up the stairs, I nod to my neighbour, who’s coming out of his flat on the floor below mine. He is, I suppose, a bit of a minor celebrity – a ‘gangsta rapper’ who’s had some moderate chart success with a group called Uzi Street. He calls himself 2-Tuf – you might have heard of him. But I know him better as Kevin, thanks to the time when I answered my front door to a lovely old Afro-Caribbean lady who introduced herself as Mrs Wilson.

  ‘I’m looking for my son Kevin,’ she’d said. ‘I think he lives in one of these flats but I’ve forgotten which bell to press.’

  At the time, I only knew the old couple who lived upstairs and 2-Tuf, and as there are only three flats in the building it therefore wasn’t too hard to guess who Kevin was, or should I say who 2-Tuf really was. It was with great pleasure that I’d met him on the stairs the following day – well, I’d been listening out from my flat just to catch him, actually.

  ‘Yo, Adam, my man. How’s it going with the beaches?’ he’d said. Or something like that.

  ‘Beaches? Oh, bitches. Women, you mean? Fine,’ I’d replied. ‘By the way, I, er, met your mother yesterday.’

  He’d stopped in his tracks. ‘Yeah? And?’

  ‘Oh nothing. See you, Kevin,’ I’d said, moving to go back inside my flat.

  ‘Yo yo yo, hold on, man,’ he’d called after me, his accent becoming less homeboy and more home counties. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, Kev,’ I’d repeated, smiling.

  ‘Er, Adam, this is just between you and me, yes?’

  ‘Sure, Kev. I mean 2-Tuf. Anything you say.’

  ‘And anything I can do for you just ask,’ he’d said. Which is how Nick and I had found ourselves backstage at an Uzi Street concert the following weekend.

  I unlock my front door and pick up my post from the hallway, but it’s just a letter from a bank I’ve never heard of telling me I’ve been pre-approved for their latest nought per cent APR titanium super credit card. Life is full of these kinds of offers, and whilst they may all look attractive up front, it’s the ‘zero interest’ part which always turns out to be my problem.

  I head straight for the shower. Standing there under slightly-too-hot water, trying to wash away that morning-after feeling and a sudden sense of world-weariness, it occurs to me – just for a moment – that maybe this is what Nick’s trying to avoid. Turning the tap round to cold I look down at my tooth-marked shoulder and decide that I really must call Charlie back.

  Chapter 6

  But first things first. It’s Wednesday
afternoon, Nick’s slipped out of the office, and I need to get hold of Mark to have the conversation I tried to start with him on Saturday. He’s not at work, and his mobile doesn’t seem to be responding. Eventually I catch him at home.

  ‘Networking or not working?’ I ask him.

  ‘Not working,’ he replies, sounding a little depressed. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, I’m really busy, actually,’ I reply.

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘You started it! What are you doing at home?’

  Mark sighs. ‘It’s a long story. What can I do you for, anyway?’

  ‘Just checking you’re on for Bar Rosa tonight.’ We go there most Wednesday evenings – well, I’m there most weekday evenings, actually, but Wednesdays is one of our more regular slots, and about the only thing in Mark’s life that Julia still lets him do on his own. Nick has cried off this evening, so it’s a perfect opportunity for Mark and I to have a chat.

  He’s thinking about my question when his doorbell rings. ‘Hold on, mate,’ he says, keeping me on the line. ‘I’m just going to answer it.’ I hear his footsteps as he walks down the hallway, obviously carrying the handset with him, and opens the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ I shout down the phone at him.

  ‘Hold on. Who are you?’ he repeats to whoever is in front of him.

  I hear a muffled exchange, and then Mark comes back on the line.

  ‘They say they’re from the King’s Church.’

  I think about this for a second. ‘Watch out, Mark. They might be con artists,’ I advise him.

  I can almost hear him frown. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, we don’t have a king.’

  I hear Mark splutter with laughter, apologize to his visitors and close the door.

  ‘What time shall I meet you?’ he asks, giggling like a child.

  ‘Well, I’m going there now,’ I tell him.

  ‘Give me an hour,’ he says, and hangs up.

  Two hours later I’m nursing a drink at the bar and cursing Mark’s usual timekeeping. As I sip my beer I’m watching Pritchard, who’s scaring a couple of hoorays with double surnames and chins to match who had tried to complain about their food. They’d been quite rude to their poor waitress, who was struggling to deal with them in her broken English. In truth, she was really a drama student who did a good Spanish accent but didn’t want to drop out of character, hence the problem.