The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook

by Matt Dunn

  Wendy nudges me. ‘For one night only.’

  Dan shrugs. ‘So? Why do you have such a problem with that?’

  ‘Because real women have feelings. And they’re easily hurt.’

  Dan shakes his head. ‘So what? That’s not my fault. I mean, it’s not as if I’m promising them anything, is it? I don’t say to them “let’s go out for a drink some time” intending it to mean we’re now an item. If it came up in a court of law, I think you’d find it implied only the once. Anything more is just a bonus.’

  Wendy sighs with exasperation. ‘Dan, women don’t think like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. You treat them as if it’s a test drive, one quick go round the block, and then if you don’t like it, you can just walk away. But by that time they’ve already got their hopes up.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because most women don’t see dates as one-nighters, unless you’re paying them. If a woman agrees to go out with you, it’s usually because she’s decided that you might be boyfriend material, and because of that, she’s watching you carefully for the whole night to decide if you can fulfill that role. Whereas because you’re only going out with them for the one night, you spend the whole evening trying to get them into bed.’

  ‘So why do they all sleep with me then?’

  ‘God knows. Perhaps they’re drunk. Or desperate. Or more likely, perhaps the impression you give is that you’ll only consent to seeing them again if they go to bed with you.’

  ‘Or,’ says Dan, ‘perhaps they fancy me, and want sex as much as I do?’

  I laugh. ‘Dan, rabbits who’ve been fed oysters laced with Viagra don’t like sex as much as you do.’

  Dan folds his arms. ‘All I’m saying is, it’s not the Victorian times any more. Women are just as sexual as us blokes, and if they’re up for it, well, who am I to deny them a basic human urge?’

  ‘“Up for it”?’ says Wendy. ‘You silver-tongued devil. Tell me exactly how it is you manage to talk them into bed again?’

  ‘I don’t talk them into bed. At least not straight away. I talk them onto the sofa. Or the kitchen table.’

  I grimace. I’ve sat on Dan’s sofa. And eaten at his kitchen table, come to think of it.

  Wendy sighs. ‘Sorry Dan, but you’re wrong. Assuming that at least some of these women are the type who only want to sleep with you because you’re on television…’

  ‘And that’s a bad thing?’

  ‘…the majority of them sleep with you because they think it’s the only way to move the relationship forward.’

  Dan waves a finger at Wendy. ‘But who wants to go out with a woman who’ll sleep with you on the first date? Ea-sy!’

  I shake my head. ‘Dan, have you ever heard the phrase “double standards”?’

  ‘Tell me something,’ continues Wendy. ‘How do you feel the next morning, when you’ve got rid of them?’

  Dan pretends to ponder this one. ‘Well, let me see. I’ve had a good night out, and then I’ve had sex. How do I feel? Hmm. That’s a tricky one.’

  ‘Let me turn this around then. Do you know how my flatmate felt the morning after?’

  Dan shrugs again. ‘Tired but happy, hopefully.’

  ‘I mean, when you didn’t call her? Like you promised you would.’

  Dan shifts uncomfortably on his stool. ‘Part of a growing number?’

  ‘And what are you going to do when you’ve slept with all the women in Brighton?’

  ‘Move, probably,’ he says, nudging me, and I can’t help but smile. Wendy, however, fails to see the funny side.

  ‘Don’t you care about their feelings at all?’ she asks, indignantly.

  ‘Jesus, Wendy. If ever there was someone in need of a damn good shag it’s you. Lighten up a little, please. It’s only sex.’

  ‘It’s only sex to you. It’s something more to us women. And it’s obviously something more to Edward. Have you got no other goals in life apart from sleeping with as many women as possible?’

  Dan thinks about this for a moment. ‘Well, there’s world peace, obviously. And I’d like to cure poverty. My own, that is.’

  Wendy stares at Dan in disbelief. ‘I’m wasting my time here, aren’t I? You just don’t realize the damage you’re doing.’

  ‘Wendy,’ he says, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip, ‘all I am doing, if you’ll excuse my language, is fucking them.’

  ‘No, Dan,’ she replies, before heading off in disgust to collect some glasses. ‘You’re fucking with them. There’s a big difference.’

  Dan watches her go, then turns and peers accusingly at me, even though I’ve been staring quietly into my glass for the last few exchanges.

  ‘Don’t tell me you agree with her?’

  I look up, awkwardly. ‘Well, she maybe has the tiniest of points. I mean, you do seem to have rather a one-track mind.’

  Dan puts his drink down on the bar, and switches into master-and-pupil mode. ‘Tell me something, Edward. What is the fundamental difference between men and women?’

  I look at him strangely. ‘Well, there’s the—’ I make the international breasts sign with my hands—‘physical characteristics, obviously.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The fact that only women can bear children?’

  ‘Wrong again.’

  ‘Opposable thumbs? No, hang on, that’s monkeys. Er…’

  Dan sighs loudly. ‘You have so much to learn, my child. I’m talking about the mating ritual. When they go out for the evening, for example.’

  ‘They spend hours getting ready and then end up wearing the first outfit they tried on?’

  ‘Nope. Although that is true. The fundamental difference between men and women is when women go out for the evening, they absolutely know they’re guaranteed sex if they want it. Most men, however, are totally reliant on the good grace and agreement of the female of the species for that particular outlet of pleasure.’

  ‘Most men?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not most men,’ he says, without a trace of arrogance. ‘And if you’d been given a gift like this, you wouldn’t want to chuck it away without utilizing it as much as possible.’

  ‘So you’re saying that the reason you behave like a tart…’

  ‘…is the same reason that dogs lick their balls. Because they…?’

  I know this one. ‘Can.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Dan looks at me mournfully. ‘Do you think I enjoy this bachelor lifestyle? A new woman every weekend? Trawling the bars and clubs to find someone to keep me warm at night?’

  I don’t even need to think about my answer. ‘Yes. I think you do, actually.’

  Dan grins at me. ‘True. But then, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, Dan. I like being in a relationship. I like the companionship, the sameness of it all. I thought I was done with all this “battle of the sexes” stuff, which, incidentally, I’m beginning to realize isn’t a fair fight.’

  ‘It’s not even a fight for me,’ says Dan. ‘Just a standoff, until the other side lets down their guard. But I’m a realist,’ he says, pointing to his face. ‘This isn’t going to last for ever. I’m like an athlete. I’ve only got a few years in my prime before I’m going to have to hang up my boots, and until that day comes, I’m going to bloody well have some fun.’

  ‘Even if it’s at the expense of other people’s feelings?’ I say. ‘According to Wendy.’

  Dan puts his head in his hands. ‘How on earth did we get from flipping dance classes to pick on Dan time?’

  ‘But don’t you worry that you’ll be leaving it all too late. What if once you’ve found out that you’ve lost this “gift” you’re not able to attract the sort of woman that you fancy?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find a rich older woman who’ll be so grateful to have me that she’ll happily compensate me for my having to drive down the wrinkly highway. And anyway, this isn’t about me, remember. It’s about you. And your “problem”.�
��

  ‘Dan, for the last time. I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘You’re sure? Don’t want to get it independently verified?’ he says, nodding at Wendy, who’s slamming glasses noisily into the glass washer behind the bar. ‘Maybe learn a few new tricks?’

  ‘No!’

  Dan sips his drink thoughtfully for a few moments. ‘You could always go to, you know, a “professional”.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Dan, forgetting for a moment the fact that it is in fact illegal, and I don’t actually want to go to prison, are you seriously suggesting that I pay to sleep with a prostitute so she can give me a few pointers on my between-the-sheets technique?’

  He shrugs. ‘Why not? You’re paying that Sam girl to get you fit—why is this any different? All you’re doing is shelling out for a professional service, so to speak.’

  ‘Dan, how many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going to be unfaithful to Jane.’

  ‘Going to a prostitute isn’t being unfaithful.’

  ‘How on earth do you work that out?’

  ‘Like I say, because you’re paying for a service. There’s no emotion involved.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  Dan sighs. ‘Okay. Say, for example, that Jane makes really nice cakes. Then one day, you find that a friend of hers makes cakes too. Unbeknown to Jane, her friend gives you one of her cakes and you eat it. And you like it. And you start wanting her cakes more than Jane’s, despite Jane’s cakes still being available, maybe sneaking off and eating them without Jane knowing.’

  ‘That’s being unfaithful.’

  ‘Exactly. But, say Jane’s gone away for a while, and you haven’t had a cake for ages, so you go to the supermarket and buy a cake to eat. It’s just a cake, someone else you don’t know has made it, and you don’t plan to go back and keep buying cakes from the supermarket. In fact, once Jane comes back, you’ll be quite happy to eat Jane’s cakes again. Is that still being unfaithful?’

  I stare at him. ‘Where do you get this stuff from?’

  Dan grins. ‘I make most of it up.’

  ‘And it shows.’

  ‘But seriously,’ he continues, ‘it wouldn’t hurt for you to think of a way to liven things up a bit in the bedroom. You know, introduce something new. Before she introduces someone new.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, did the two of you ever talk about your fantasies? Dressing up, and the like?’

  ‘I’m a bit straighter than that. I like normal sex. And I think Jane’s the same.’

  ‘Did you ever ask her?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But she never intimated that she might like to do anything slightly…’

  ‘Risqué?’

  ‘Exactly. Unlike you, it doesn’t have to be pervy for most people to enjoy it.’

  Dan looks a little offended. ‘I’m not being pervy. It’s just that I like a bit of variety.’

  ‘Dan, you sleep with a different woman every time. You can’t get much more varied than that.’

  ‘Exactly my point. You don’t. So I can’t believe that after ten years there’s nothing you’d like to try.’

  ‘Well there isn’t.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes, honestly.’

  Dan takes a mouthful of Chardonnay, then looks at me over the top of his glass.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Okay. There is maybe one thing.’

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Something I saw in a porn film once. One of your porn films, actually.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  I check again that Wendy’s not within earshot, but lower my voice anyway.

  ‘I’d like to have sex with two women.’

  Dan looks confused. ‘Do you mean, ever? Or at the same time?’

  ‘At the same time, of course.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you better think about what I’ve said.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  Dan looks at me earnestly. ‘Because if you do manage to win Jane back, and it’s for keeps, then you may not get to achieve either of those things.’

  Thursday 10th March

  6.41 p.m.

  A week or so before I’m due to receive all my new furniture, there’s a ring on my doorbell. It’s Dan, and he’s not alone.

  ‘Present for you,’ he says, leading a woman in through my front door. She must be about forty, although she’s dressed like one of the teenagers that hang around Churchill Square. ‘Thought you could benefit from her experience.’

  ‘Dan,’ I whisper, leaping to the wrong conclusion as usual. ‘I’ve already told you I’m not interested in, you know, paying for it.’

  ‘No, dummy. This is Alexis. She’s a designer. From House Tricks.’

  ‘House Tricks?’

  ‘Fine, thanks for asking.’

  As Dan dissolves into fits of laughter, Alexis wears the expression of someone who’s heard that particular joke a thousand times. And didn’t find it funny the first time.

  ‘Ah. Sorry Alexis.’

  Dan puts an arm round Alexis’ shoulders and gives her a squeeze. ‘She’s here to give your flat the once over. As a favour to me.’

  As I show them through to the front room, and Alexis starts to look around, I can just imagine what Dan’s promised her in return.

  ‘When did you last decorate this place?’ she asks me, obviously struggling to hide her distaste.

  ‘Er, it was like this when I bought it.’

  Alexis looks horrified. ‘Gosh. How some people live. When was that? Recently?’

  ‘Fairly,’ I lie.

  Dan smirks to himself. ‘If you can call nine years ago “recently”,’ he whispers.

  Alexis rolls her eyes. ‘Incredible. Just look at the colour scheme. And those curtains.’ She shudders, as if she’s just discovered a rotting corpse beneath the window.

  As I dig Dan in the ribs, Alexis walks around the flat, simultaneously making notes in a green leather Filofax and tutting as she goes. When she comes back to us, she’s obviously not happy.

  ‘Are you sure we can’t use this?’

  Dan shakes his head. ‘Best not.’

  ‘Not even for the Christmas out-takes reel?’

  I clear my throat. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  Alexis takes a deep breath. ‘Well, structurally, it looks fine. And the layout’s not bad. But the carpets? Very seventies. The colour scheme? Very eighties. The curtains? Very nineties. You need to make it more…’

  ‘Noughtie?’ suggests Dan.

  ‘And now’s the time to do it,’ continues Alexis. ‘When you’ve got no furniture.’

  ‘So, what’s the quick fix?’ I ask, meaning ‘What’s the cheap fix?’

  Alexis consults her Filofax. ‘Bin the carpets, sand and seal the floorboards. Strip the walls and repaint neutrally. Chuck the curtains, replace with blinds and, as the kids say, sorted.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’

  ‘You? Ages. The House Tricks team? One weekend. We can rush it through and pretend it’s a rehearsal. But it’ll cost you.’

  Fortunately she’s addressed this last comment to Dan, who puts his arm back around her shoulders, and walks her out through the door.

  Friday 11th March

  7.07 a.m.

  I’m in my flat, waiting for Sam, who’s uncharacteristically late this morning, when my phone rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  I hardly recognize the gruff voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘It’s me,’ croaks Sam. ‘I’m ill.’

  I don’t know what to make of this news. On the one hand, it’s great, because I might get the morning off. On the other hand, with just over a month to go, I can’t afford to miss any sessions.

  ‘So…you’re not coming?’

  ‘No, Edward. Not this morning,’ she says
, hoarsely.

  ‘But…I’m all dressed and ready.’ Sometimes I sound like a five year old.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to go on your own.’

  On my own? This wasn’t part of the deal. ‘Well, what should I do?’

  Sam clears her throat, which does sound rather sore. ‘Just the usual. Twenty minutes warm-up jog along the seafront, followed by two circuits round the gym. Sy will help you if you get stuck.’

  Oh no. Sy? I think briefly about going back to bed, but reason that as long as I’m up I might as well train.

  ‘Okay. I’ll give it a go. Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, sounding anything but.

  7.31 a.m.

  It feels funny, being out running on my own. I miss having Sam there to encourage and cajole me, I miss the way she knows just how to keep me working hard, and what’s more, I miss the sight of her in her tight tracksuit bottoms.

  I manage the usual run to the pier and back fairly easily, but can’t say I enjoy it in the slightest. It occurs to me to bypass the gym and head straight home, mainly because I’m scared of Sy, but I’m worried that Sam will find out if I do, and I’m more scared of that.

  When I walk in through reception, Sy smiles up at me from the desk; a smile which quickly fades when he sees that Sam’s not there.

  ‘On your own today, Big Ed?’

  God I hate him. ‘Afraid so. Sam’s not well today. She said you’d help me if I got stuck.’

  Almost immediately, I regret saying those words, as a mischievous grin crosses Sy’s face.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says, stripping off his sweatshirt to reveal the smallest of vest tops over a perfectly toned, immaculately tanned, but somewhat acned physique. ‘We’ll train together.’

  And so begins my worst training session ever. Sy spends the next half an hour systematically trying to humiliate me, intent on showing me just how fabulously strong and fit he is, rather than helping me through my own personal programme. Where Sam would normally be motivating, Sy’s whole approach seems to be one of belittlement. I find myself called a ‘wuss’ when I can’t lift the weights that Sy seems to throw effortlessly around; I’m a ‘big girl’s blouse’ when I can’t match his total on the stepper; and even a ‘fat poof’ when I have to sit down after an unusually heavy set of squats.