by Matt Dunn
‘What was “interval” about that?’ I ask her, once I’ve got my breath back.
‘The jogging parts,’ says Sam. ‘Obviously.’
‘When you go to the theatre, the interval is the bit where you stop and have a break. Not keep watching a slightly slower play.’
‘Stop complaining,’ orders Sam, ‘or I’ll make you do it again.’
I salute her. ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.’
‘So, are you starting to enjoy the training yet?’ she asks me, as we jog back home.
‘Well, “enjoy” is pushing it a bit, but I can see that I’m making progress. And that’s the important thing.’
And funnily enough, as well as feeling fitter, I feel more alert too. I’m sleeping better, though possibly because I’m so tired from a combination of the training and my early starts, not drinking, and not smoking—strangely, Dan’s ‘don’t buy cigarettes’ seems to be working. And while I really miss the cigarettes, and the beer, and of course the pizza, I still miss Jane more.
And that’s what makes the difference.
Friday 18th February
8.54 a.m.
Although I can just about manage the training sessions, the walk to work afterwards is the thing that kills me. What’s more, I’m so stiff from the workouts that I’m not nimble enough to avoid Billy any more. As a result I end up almost doubling my usual purchase of Big Issues.
‘You’ll be able to retire soon,’ I tell him, as he tries to sell me my fifth copy of the week.
‘Very funny,’ sniffs Billy. ‘Besides, why would I want to give all this up?’ He gestures across the road, where a pair of seagulls are ripping a dustbin bag to shreds on the pavement.
‘Come on, Billy. You must dream about the time when you can finally get off the city streets.’
He laughs. ‘What, a nice little doorway in the country somewhere?’
Billy has got himself the homeless person’s de rigueur accessory—a dog. True to form, it’s one of those canines whose breed defies classification, and for whom the word ‘scraggy’ seems to have been coined. To cap it all, Billy’s tied one of those standard issue red bandanas round its neck.
‘Who’s this then?’ I ask.
‘’S’Eddie,’ mumbles Billy, reaching down to give the dog a protective scratch, as if he’s afraid I might suddenly try and take him.
‘Eddie? I’m touched.’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Well, you know. His name.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Eddie. Your dog. You’ve named him after me.’
Billy grins up at me mischievously. ‘That’s your name, is it? Edward? Big Ed?’
‘Where did you get him?’ I say reaching down to stroke Eddie, which provokes a growl. From Billy.
‘Found him, didn’t I? Scavenging in those bins over there.’
I snatch my hand away quickly, then wonder whether it was Eddie or Billy who’d been doing the scavenging.
‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be good company for you.’
‘Yeah, but I dunno if I can afford to keep him,’ says Billy, waving a Big Issue under my nose. ‘Two mouths to feed, and all that.’
As Eddie gazes up at me with his big brown eyes, and Billy looks down at me with his bloodshot ones, I reach into my pocket for a couple of pound coins.
11.15 a.m.
Billy s not the only person to get someone new in his life. When Natasha comes bounding in mid-morning, she’s got a spring in her step, and a smile on her face, two factors that make me reach the only possible conclusion: she’s just had sex.
‘We’ve got a new client,’ she announces, triumphantly flinging a copy of Computer Business on my desk. ‘Page forty-two.’
I pick the magazine up and find page forty-two as instructed. There’s a feature about the latest hot-to-trot UK dot-com company, Go-Soft Technologies, complete with a picture of their chairman—the fat, balding, forty-something multimillionaire Terry Woodward.
I look at Natasha and raise one eyebrow. ‘Go-Soft? Unfortunate name.’
‘They make software for the travel industry, Edward,’ she tuts. ‘And anyway, he wasn’t last night. Or this morning, come to think of it.’
I can’t help but shudder. ‘So, is it a big one? The campaign, I mean.’
‘Oh yes.’ She smiles. ‘Advertising in the Sunday Times, no less.’
‘Blimey. You must have been good.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If he wants to brag about it in the Times!’
Over the years I’ve realized that, although admittedly rare, there are occasions when I can actually take the micky out of Natasha without her having a fit. The day after the signing up of a new client, i.e., the day after she’s had sex, is usually one of them.
Natasha sits herself down at her desk, and I think I can detect the slightest tinge of embarrassment on her face.
‘Yes, well, he’s coming in later to take me out to lunch, so I’d keep those comments to yourself if I were you.’
I grin across at her, grateful for the upswing in her mood. ‘Yes boss.’
12.45 p.m.
An hour or so later, the aforementioned Terry arrives. In truth, I hear him before I see him, or rather hear the roar of his Porsche’s engine as he blips the throttle before double-parking it outside, leaving the hazards on in the hope Brighton’s Parking Nazis won’t get him. Some chance.
I peer down into the street below, getting a perfect view of the sun glinting off the top of his bald head. He’s dressed expensively, in that dot-com new-money kind of way, as if he’s been told to go out and buy some style. It nearly works, too, apart from the bright red tie that I’m guessing someone else has picked out for him. And I can imagine who that someone else is, especially when I catch sight of the wedding ring he’s wearing.
I’m bending over by the filing cabinet when he breezes in, so he doesn’t see me. Instead, he walks over to Natasha, and kisses her full on the lips.
‘Last night…’ he starts to say, before Natasha can stop him. ‘You were…it was…I’ve never…’
Natasha clears her throat. ‘Terry, I’d like you to meet Edward. Edward works for me,’ she adds, although possibly more for my benefit than Terry’s.
Terry wheels round, catches sight of me, and turns the same colour as his tie.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, walking over and shaking his hand. ‘You were saying?’
‘I was?’
‘About last night?’
Terry turns a shade or two redder. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Natasha’s…sales pitch, I mean. She made a very firm case as to why I should use her, or rather, Staff-IT’s services.’
‘Really?’ I say, thinking I bet she did. And more than once, probably.
Natasha glares at me. ‘We better hurry,’ she says, picking up her handbag and leading Terry towards the door. ‘I’ve booked us a table for one o’clock.’
‘Lovely,’ replies Terry. ‘I’ll be able to brief you fully on my requirements.’
As I look at the two of them, thinking that there’ll probably be more in the way of de-briefing going on, Natasha smiles sweetly at me.
‘Edward. You’re welcome to join us,’ she says, but her tone tells me that actually, I’m not.
5.30 p.m.
I’m just packing up and getting ready to leave when I hear the Porsche again. It roars off after a few seconds, and a flushed Natasha arrives back in the office.
I look at my watch. ‘Must have been a good restaurant.’
‘More of a liquid lunch, actually.’
I grimace. ‘Too much information. And in a Porsche? You have my admiration.’
Natasha shrugs. ‘Convertible. More head room, so to speak.’
I pick up my briefcase, trying hard to get rid of the image Natasha’s just conjured up in my mind.
‘And will you be seeing him again? After the campaign’s finished, I mean?’
‘I hope so,’ she says, perching on the corner o
f her desk. ‘I like this one.’
You like them all, I think, until the business dries up. Or you scare them back to their wives.
‘And he’s married, I take it?’
Natasha sighs, and for once seems to drop her guard. ‘Edward, they always are. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to them. You know, wanting something that I’m not supposed to have. Or can’t have.’
‘Have you tried, you know, going out with someone who isn’t? Married, I mean.’
‘It’s not as straightforward as that. Look at me—I’m attractive, successful, financially independent, no “baggage”. You’d think that men would be queuing up to go out with me. But oh no—it’s me who has to do all the chasing. The younger, good-looking guys who I might fancy physically can’t deal with the fact that I earn more money than them and want to enjoy it—it makes them feel insecure, apparently. The older guys who earn more money than me and are divorced, I don’t fancy, because they think that their money makes them attractive, which it might do, but only to someone who doesn’t have any. The other guys my age, my level, my status, if you like, are usually married, and can’t, or won’t, leave their wives either because of the children, or they’re scared it’ll cost them too much money in the divorce courts. So who does that leave for me? Very few options, I can tell you. And of those few that are available, of course every other single woman out there is competing with me for them.’
‘So why do you think the Terry of this world have these affairs?’
‘That’s easy,’ says Natasha. ‘These are men who’ve been married to the same women for twenty years. They probably met when neither of them had much money, and he drove a boring car, and their life was pretty dull. Now he’s made all this money and had all this success, he thinks he can afford a flashier model, but the truth is, he can’t, because the actual costs in getting it far outweigh the benefits. The kids have left home and the guy, who’s been out moving and shaking with the movers and shakers, suddenly comes home to find his wife, who’s perhaps dedicated the last twenty years to bringing up the family while he’s been out bringing in the big bucks, suddenly saying, right—now this is our time. Trouble is, he finds out that now that the kids have gone they’ve got very little in common any more.’
For a moment, despite the fact that Natasha’s made my working life hell for the past decade, I almost feel sorry for her. Because the truth is that she does like them all. And they all like her. It’s just that, on balance, they seem to prefer their wives.
‘So what are you hoping? That you’ll suddenly meet one of these software bosses who isn’t married, and the two of you will be able to live happily ever after?’
Natasha shakes her head. ‘No. Because chances are if they get to my age and they’re not married already then either there’s something wrong with them that no amount of money can compensate for, or they decide that they want a trophy wife. And sadly, trophies only look good when they’re shiny and new.’
‘But, at the risk of playing pot to Terry’s kettle, he’s not exactly the best-looking of guys.’
‘Edward, are you learning nothing? It’s not all about looks. He may be a bit overweight, and not have much hair, but he’s funny, successful, confident, and that’s what makes him attractive.’
I point to the copy of Computer Business on my desk, still open at page forty-two. ‘And the fact that he’s worth eleven million pounds doesn’t make a difference?’
Natasha doesn’t answer, but walks across to my desk and rests a hand on the side of my face.
‘Oh, Edward. If only you were loaded,’ she says, mischievously.
‘What?’
‘I’m kidding,’ she says, noting the look of alarm on my face. ‘Of course it doesn’t make a difference. Well, not to me, anyway.’
‘Well, in that case, is now a good time to talk about my pay rise?’
7.47 p.m.
‘Why ever not?’ says Dan when we get to the Jim later, the concept of turning down sex with anybody so alien to him.
‘Because a) she was joking, b) she’s my boss, and c) I don’t think I’d get out alive.’
‘I’d shag her,’ says Dan. ‘She sounds like a fox. And she’s loaded.’
I point to the empty bar stool next to me. ‘You’d shag that if you could find a hole.’
Dan shrugs. ‘Fair cop. And speaking of which…’
I look over my shoulder where a blonde policewoman has just walked into the bar. She heads over towards a group of businessmen sat in the corner, asks for one of them by name, then proceeds to remove her uniform, much to the delight of his colleagues.
As she gets down to her underwear, Wendy walks over and, amid cries of derision from the party, and even louder cries from Dan, asks her to leave. The stripper shrugs, plants a kiss on the bemused birthday boy, and heads for the door, slipping her jacket back on as she does so.
Dan stares longingly at her departing backside. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he says, heading off in pursuit.
True to his word, he isn’t even sixty seconds. ‘Result!’ he says, hitting ‘save number’ on his mobile phone.
I look at him incredulously. ‘You’re going to go out with a stripper?’
Dan thinks about this for a second or two. ‘“Go out with”, no. “Stay in with” however…And speaking about staying in, it’s time to do something about your flat.’
‘My flat? What’s wrong with my flat?’
‘What, apart from the lack of furniture? You may have taken a vow of chastity, but you don’t have to live like a monk.’
‘But what happens when Jane comes back? What is she going to do with all her stuff?’
‘That load of old junk?’ Dan makes a face. ‘Take it to the dump.’
‘This is going to be expensive, isn’t it?’ I say, resignedly.
Dan attempts a bad American accent. ‘You want Jane? Well, Jane costs. And right here’s where you start paying.’
Saturday 19th February
11.14 a.m.
Brighton town centre on a Saturday morning is not my favourite place, jammed full of groups of scary teenage lads, and even scarier teenage girls. As I make my way through the melee that is Churchill Square Shopping Centre, mothers not much older than the screaming kids they push around in oversized pushchairs block my way. A couple of times they bang painfully into my ankle; when I turn around to remonstrate, their scowl suggests physical violence, and it’s an encounter from which I might just come off worse. I eventually reach the peaceful sanctuary of Sofa So Good, the huge furniture store on the ground floor of the centre, where Dan is locked in conversation with one of the gorgeous female assistants.
‘About time too,’ he says, when he sees me.
‘Sorry. Traffic was bad.’
‘Never mind. Edward, this is Susie. Susie, this is Edward. He’s the one I told you about. No girlfriend, no style, and more importantly, no furniture.’
Susie scrutinizes me for a moment or two. ‘So this is Mr MFI?’
Dan nods. ‘That’s right. And he needs your professional help.’
She whistles. ‘It’ll be tough, but I’ll see what I can do.’
I look disbelievingly at the two of them. ‘I am standing within earshot, you know. Besides, what’s wrong with cheap self-assembled furniture from MFI?’
‘Made For Idiots,’ she says, leading us through to the middle of the store. ‘Where would you like to begin?’
Dan smiles at her, though to me it looks more like a leer. ‘I thought we could maybe start on the sofa, and then move into the bedroom?’
As Susie blushes and giggles, I stare incredulously at Dan. ‘Don’t you ever switch off?’
Susie shows us various pieces of furniture, Dan nodding or shaking his head where appropriate. Whenever I try and make a comment, he shushes me quickly.
‘Aren’t I allowed an opinion? It is my flat, and more importantly my money, don’t forget.’
Dan takes me to one side, and tells me to sit down. I settle into
a calf-skin sofa so luxurious that almost immediately my leather jacket tries to mate with it.
‘Think of it this way,’ he says. ‘If you were ill, you’d go to the doctor, right?’
‘I guess.’
‘And if he prescribed you some tablets, would you question him, or suggest a different type of medicine?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Well, this is just like that. So shut your face and listen to the experts.’
Susie shows us funky tables with unpronounceable Scandinavian names, beds that look like sleeping is the last thing you’d want to do in them, and lamps that seem to be more like pieces of sculpture. After an hour or so, we’ve been through the whole store, and a good part of my bank balance. But to his credit, Dan has picked out some particularly nice pieces, and we arrange delivery for the following month.
‘You,’ Dan tells me, ‘owe me lunch. And you,’ he adds, turning to Susie, ‘owe me dinner.’
I stand there mutely as Dan and Susie swap numbers, before we head out of the store and down into the Lanes in search of food.
‘What do you fancy?’ I ask Dan.
‘Apart from Susie? Dunno.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve seen it all now. You don’t even bother to ask them out any more. You just tell them they’re going out with you. “You owe me dinner.” Amazing!’
Dan doesn’t hear me, as he’s suddenly distracted by an attractive girl walking past in a sari.
‘How about Indian?’
I shake my head. ‘Is everything you do influenced by women?’
Dan doesn’t even have to think about this. ‘Pretty much,’ he says, sheepishly.
We head back along the seafront then cut up Preston Street, Brighton’s Asian-restaurant-heavy road, but can’t decide between the all-you-can-eat buffet at Bombay Mick’s or a more traditional curry at Aloo, Aloo. In the end, we do what we always do, and head off to the Admiral Jim.
