by Matt Dunn
It is a bit of a wreck; the aerial’s mangled from where I took it for its yearly car wash and forgot to retract it beforehand, there’s a large scratch along the passenger side where one of Brighton’s youth decided to run a key down it, two of the wheel trims are missing, and there’s a bollard-shaped dent in the rear bumper thanks to Jane’s parking ‘skills’. She’d done well to dent a Volvo.
‘So what if it’s a bit old?’ I put an affectionate hand on the Volvo’s wing, dislodging a few more rust flakes in the process. ‘Classic cars are cool.’
‘You’re right’ says Dan. ‘Classic cars are. Clapped out ones aren’t. Tell me again, what on earth made you buy a Volvo?’
‘I didn’t buy it, if you remember. It was my mother’s. She gave it to me when she bought her new Micra.’
‘Aargh. Even worse. You’re driving your mother’s old car.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
Dan looks at me incredulously. ‘Well, apart from the obvious, you’re driving a car that a sixty-year-old woman rejected. In favour of a Nissan Micra.’
We walk in silence to the pub, where I’m still reluctant to concede defeat.
‘Stop sulking,’ says Dan, as we head in through the door. ‘It’s true. Women notice this kind of thing. They’re impressed, even.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Okay. Let’s get an independent opinion.’ Dan beckons Wendy across. ‘Wendy, you’re a woman. You’ll do.’
Wendy makes a face. ‘Is that the best chat-up line you can come up with?’
‘In your dreams, sweetheart.’
‘My nightmares, you mean.’
I hold up my hand to stop this escalating. ‘Wendy, we were just talking about cars.’
Wendy pretends to nod off. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘No, seriously. About the kind of car I drive, and what it says about me.’
Wendy leans on the bar next to me. ‘Go on then. What sort of car do you drive, Edward?’
‘It’s a Volvo.’
‘A Volvo? What sort of Volvo?’ she asks.
‘It’s an estate.’
Dan laughs. ‘You’re telling me. Rusty piece of junk.’
‘Shut up, Dan. A Volvo estate, Wendy. What does that say to you?’
‘Ah,’ says Wendy, pouring our drinks. ‘Safe, practical…’
‘Boring?’ suggests Dan.
Wendy frowns. ‘No, not boring, exactly. Just not very…’
‘Exciting?’ interrupts Dan.
‘Will you stop trying to put words into her mouth?’
Wendy turns back to me. ‘Sorry, Edward. But he’s right. It doesn’t sound like the most exciting of cars.’
Dan clears his throat. ‘I drive a BMW, by the way.’
Wendy considers this for a moment. ‘Wanker.’
Dan looks hurt. ‘Just because I drive a BMW?’
‘No, just generally.’
‘It’s a Z4. Sports.’
‘Oh,’ says Wendy, pretending to be impressed for a moment. ‘You have got a small willy, then.’
I laugh. ‘It’s quite nice, actually.’
Wendy frowns. ‘Dan’s willy?’
I blush. ‘His car. It’s a convertible.’
Wendy smirks. ‘Oh, sorry. Small and circumcised.’
Dan bristles. ‘Okay smartarse. What kind of car do you drive?’
Wendy puts on a girly voice and sticks her finger in the corner of her mouth. ‘A white one,’ she answers, before scampering off to serve another customer.
As we take our drinks and go and sit by the window, Dan seems determined not to let it drop.
‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘What on earth do you need an estate car for? When do you ever need to carry anything large?’
‘Apart from your ego? Well, now, for example. New furniture.’
‘Which you’re getting delivered,’ says Dan. ‘And even if that were the case, that’s just like one occasion every few years. Whenever you get dumped. Which, thinking about it, might be fairly often. But what about the rest of the time, when it’s just you in the car?’
‘And Jane.’
‘Sorry,’ replies Dan, patronizingly. ‘Just you and Jane. But you still don’t need an estate car. Volvo or not.’
‘Well what should I get then? I can hardly afford one like yours.’
Dan ponders this for a moment while he stares out of the window. ‘You want something a bit classy. A car that says: “I could have bought any car I wanted, but I chose this.” Not too ostentatious, or over the top. A city car. Something that suggests you’re a man of the moment. Trendy. A man about town. Something…’ Dan points out into the road, as a new Mini Cooper flashes past, ‘like that!’
‘But aren’t they expensive?’
‘What are you saving up for?’ asks Dan. ‘Your wedding?’
‘Ouch. But…A Mini?’
Dan sighs, and lowers his voice. ‘Okay. To use Wendy’s example, what would a Ferrari say about you?’
‘Small, you know, thingy.’
‘Precisely. So if you’re working on reverse psychology?’
‘Aha.’
‘Exactly.’
I sip my water thoughtfully. ‘How much are they?’
‘New? Around sixteen grand, give or take an accessory or two.’
‘Sixteen thousand pounds? But that seems rather expensive.’
‘Expense is a relative term, Edward. Compared to your old banger, yes they are. Compared to my car, no they aren’t. And the question isn’t really “can you afford it?” Its more a case of “can you afford not to?’”
‘It just seems like rather a lot of money to waste on a car. And besides, I’ve got better things to spend it on.’
‘Like what? You’ve hardly got a huge mortgage, your idea of a holiday is to not go in to work, you’ve not, as far as I know, got an expensive drug habit…Now I think of it, you must be loaded.’
‘Well, not loaded, exactly.’
‘Come on,’ says Dan. ‘How much cash have you got?’
I do a quick tot up in my head. ‘About fifty, give or take a few thousand.’
Dan’s eyes widen. ‘Fifty? Grand? As in “pounds”?’
‘No, drachma, Dan. Of course pounds.’
‘Where on earth did you get all that?’
‘Dan, there’s a concept you probably haven’t heard of before. It’s called “saving”. That’s when you put any extra money you earn into the bank and don’t spend it on’—I wave my hand at him—‘expensive cars, for example. Or designer watches. Or naff clothes with Italian men’s names embroidered on the front.’
Dan whistles. ‘Fifty grand. Did Jane know about this?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. We always kept separate bank accounts. I paid for my stuff, she paid for hers. There’s no reason that she would have.’
‘She might not have left so quickly if she did.’
‘Bloody cheek. Women aren’t attracted by money.’
‘Sure,’ he mumbles. ‘And mice don’t like cheese either.’
‘What?’
‘Mate, there’s no such thing as a rich single guy. And I’m not saying women are attracted to money per se. It’s more that the fact you have money generally means you’re successful. And success is attractive to women.’
‘So what am I supposed to do? Carry a copy of my bank statement around with me?’
Dan sighs. ‘No. But if you’ve got it, flaunt it. And one way to do that is to trade in your crappy old motor for something a little bit flashier.’
‘But, sixteen thousand pounds…’
‘What are you saving it for, again?’
‘I dunno. A rainy day, I suppose.’
‘Well, get out your umbrella. Because when Jane left you, it started pissing down.’
2.23 p.m.
Dan and I are at the Mini dealership in Kemp Town, in the heart of Brighton’s gay community, walking around the forecourt. We’re there for ten minutes without anyone coming out to see us, Dan poring
over the assembled cars on offer, me following him round reluctantly while trying not to recoil at the prices. Eventually, Dan pretends to look shifty, and starts trying a few of the car doors. Straightaway a salesman strolls out of the showroom.
‘Can I help you, gents?’
‘My friend needs a new car,’ says Dan, pointing to a gleaming black Mini parked rakishly in front of the window. ‘And I think this might be it.’
When I peer in through the window, it does look rather nice inside: black, leather seats, the dashboard all funky dials and chrome switches, gear knob glinting in the afternoon sun. What’s more, it’s second hand, and therefore ‘only’ eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds, as Dan takes great pains to point out to me.
We manage to convince the salesman that we’re bona fide customers, due largely to the fact that the middle-aged receptionist recognizes Dan from Where There’s a Will, and he agrees to a test drive, squeezing into the back seat while Dan and I jump into the front. With a squeal of tyres we shoot out of the garage, and head off down Marine Parade. As we speed along towards the pier, weaving in and out of the traffic, I must admit that I’m certainly impressed with the little car’s handling.
‘What do you think?’ asks Dan. ‘Nice, eh?’
‘Not bad,’ I grudgingly admit, admiring the trendy interior, which Dan informs me is ‘retro’ styling, and therefore a good thing. ‘But do you think I could have a drive now? Seeing as it’s me who’s supposed to be buying it?’
‘Ah. Yes. Good point. Sorry.’
Dan pulls over so we can change places, and I slot myself into the body-hugging sports seat, stick it into first gear, and cautiously release the clutch. It’s certainly a lot more frisky than the Volvo, and I manage to stall it twice as I pull away.
‘Come on, Grandma,’ he says, tutting as a Day-Glo-clad cyclist manages to overtake us. ‘Give it a proper go.’
‘How do you mean?’
He leans over towards me. ‘Drive it like you’ve stolen it.’
I put my foot down, and the Mini leaps forward, the steering wheel alive in my hands. I make a fast right turn into Brunswick Square, the Mini sticking to the road like a go-kart, then cut left down a side street and back onto the seafront. When I stop to let some people cross at the zebra, they stare, and unlike when I’m driving the Volvo, it’s in admiration. By the time I reluctantly pull bade into the dealership, I’m in love, all thoughts of expense and rationality having gone out of the tinted electric window.
‘What do you think?’ asks the salesman, unfolding himself stiffly from the back seat.
The look on my face gives my answer away. ‘We’ll take it,’ announces Dan.
‘So, what’s your best price?’ I say, walking once more around the car.
The salesman points to the price tag. ‘Eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds.’
I swallow hard. ‘Do you take part exchange?’
‘Of course. What do you have?’
I leave Dan signing an autograph for the receptionist, and lead the salesman off the forecourt to where I’ve parked the Volvo, out of sight round the corner. His face falls as he sees it.
‘So what will the new price be? Including the part exchange?’
He takes a cursory look round my car, before leading me back inside the dealership. As Dan and I sit down at his desk, the salesman picks up his calculator, and taps away for a couple of minutes.
‘Eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘But that’s the same.’
‘I know, sir. Because I’m afraid it might actually cost us money to scrap your old car.’
‘You can’t go any lower?’ I plead.
He taps away at his calculator again, then looks up at me. ‘No.’
Dan folds his arms. ‘Call it eleven grand and you’ve got yourself a deal.’
The salesman thinks for a micro-second, then shakes Dan’s hand. ‘Done,’ he says, and five minutes later, we’re filling out the necessary paperwork.
‘So,’ says the salesman, ‘which one of you two would like to go on the registration document?’
‘What?’ says Dan, as he realizes the implication. ‘We’re not…I mean, I’m certainly not…’
I put an arm round Dan’s shoulders, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Come on, sweetheart. No need to be ashamed.’
‘Bugger off,’ he says, shrugging me away. ‘I mean, for one thing, if I was, I could do a lot better.’
The salesman winks at me. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says.
And I take it as a compliment. Because God knows it’s the first one of those I’ve had for a long time.
Tuesday 22nd March
7.34 a.m.
I’m struggling in the gym this morning, and have to cut my stepper session early. It’s not that I don’t want to do it—quite the opposite. It’s that I really can’t seem to find the energy.
‘You do seem a bit listless,’ says Sam. ‘Are you sure you’ve been eating properly?’
‘I think so. I was getting a bit fed up with this Atkins lark, so I bought some of those “lean cuisine” meals yesterday but was so hungry I had to eat two of them. They’re tiny.’
Sam puts her hand over her mouth and I can tell she’s trying to stifle a laugh.
‘Edward, you’re missing the point of them somewhat. They’re supposed to be smaller than normal. That’s how you lose weight—by not eating as much. And Atkins? Well, it’s perhaps not the best basis for an exercise programme.’
‘Yeah, but I’m starving all the time. And I mean, all the time.’
‘Well, that’s because you’re exercising so much nowadays. We’re creating a demand in your metabolism, and where do you think we want it to go looking for calories?’
‘Burger King?’ I’m still new to this exercise physiology lark.
Sam punches me playfully on the shoulder. ‘No, you idiot. Those reserves of fat built up around your stomach.’
‘But what can I do?’ I ask her. ‘It’s getting so bad that I can’t sleep.’
This, in fact, isn’t strictly true; after all these early morning starts and heavy exercise sessions I’m usually asleep as soon as, no, make that before my head hits the pillow. But I do feel hungry pretty much every night.
‘Have you tried drinking a large glass of water before each meal? That usually works as a pretty good appetite suppressant.’
‘Yes, well, that’s another problem. I’m drinking so much water now that my boss thinks I’ve got a bladder problem.’
Sam decides to cut the session early and we jog back to my flat, so she can take a look at my food diary.
‘Edward,’ she says, after skimming through a few pages, ‘I think I see the problem. You’re actually eating too little.’
‘Too little? I thought I was supposed to be dieting.’
‘No. You’re supposed to be watching your diet. There’s a difference. If you just eat sensibly and keep to your training programme, then you’ll lose weight gradually but safely. What you’re doing is not eating enough to give you energy for your workouts. And all this processed, pre-packaged stuff isn’t really that good for you.’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Try cooking some healthy, low-fat food.’
I frown. ‘Come again? I’m not sure what that means.’
‘Which—“healthy” or “low fat”?’
‘No. Cooking. Heating up I can do. Cooking, however, is a bit of a mystery to me.’
Sam looks at me pityingly. ‘Tell you what,’ she says. ‘I’m free this evening. Why don’t I come round and show you how? Shall we say seven o’clock?’
I’m a little stunned by this, not in the least because I’ll probably have to spend a good hour or two cleaning the kitchen. But I still manage to answer almost immediately.
‘Seven o’clock will be fine.’
3.24 p.m.
I’m in the office, speaking to Dan on the phone.
‘It’s not a date,’ I protest. ‘She
’s just offered to show me how to cook a healthy dinner, that’s all.’
‘Ah, the old “show you how to cook something healthy” ruse. These women will stop at nothing.’
‘Listen, as far as I’m concerned, anything to get me off this lousy Atkins diet.’
‘I thought you liked bacon and eggs?’
‘Not any more.’
7.00 p.m.
Sam arrives, prompt as ever, carrying an Asda shopping bag containing some suspiciously healthy-looking contents. When she shrugs off her coat and hands it to me I have to try hard not to stare; it’s the first time I’ve seen her out of a tracksuit, and her tight-fitting jeans and polo-neck jumper show off her figure perfectly.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she dumps her bag onto the work surface that I’ve spent the last half hour scrubbing clean, then heads over to the fridge to check my fat photo is still pinned to the door.
‘Good boy,’ she says, before starting to unpack the contents of her shopping, which includes a rather large bag of green stuff. ‘Right, watch and learn.’
I lean on the counter next to her. ‘Okay, Delia. What’re you making?’
‘What are we making, you mean,’ she says, correcting me.
‘But I don’t know how to…’
Sam smiles, and rolls up her sleeves. ‘The secret of healthy eating isn’t rocket science,’ she announces, opening up the bag of strangely shaped leaves. ‘It’s rocket salad.’
11.35 p.m.
‘Omigosh,’ says Sam, catching sight of her watch for the first time this evening. ‘And we’ve both got an early start tomorrow.’
‘You should have just brought an overnight bag,’ I quip, before blushing furiously. ‘I didn’t mean…’
Sam puts a hand on my arm. ‘I know you didn’t, Edward.’
I walk her into the hallway and help her on with her coat. ‘It’s late,’ I say. ‘I better walk you home.’
Sam frowns up at me. ‘What on earth for?’
‘In case you, you know, get attacked or something.’
She grins. ‘Edward, that’s really sweet of you, but to be quite honest I’d probably have more success beating them off than you would.’
