by James Bailey
“Ah, it’s tails. Sorry, you’ve got to buy your own. You know I’d normally buy you a pint, but I can’t go against the coin. Those are the rules.”
“You know you’ve never bought me a pint, and we’ve been coming here every week for over three years.”
“It’s just not meant to be.”
“OK, so do you want to buy Jessie a drink?”
“This isn’t fair. You’re abusing the system now. It’s not a game. It’s only to be used for real decisions. I was never contemplating buying Jessie a drink.”
“Oh, thank you very much.”
Maybe it was better when they weren’t interested.
“Anyway, before I forget, Josh. I’ve decided I’m going to help set up a Tinder account for you,” Jake says as he places his jacket over the back of the chair.
“I am not sure Josh is ready for that. It’s only been a few weeks.”
“No, it will be good for him to move on. He can’t just sit and mope around for the rest of his life.”
I listen as Jake and Jessie discuss me as if I’ve become invisible.
“Hello, guys, I am here. I’m not sitting and moping around but I agree with Jessie, I don’t really feel like going on a date right now, to be honest.”
“Nonsense, it will be good for you. I thought the whole point of the coin was to help you find love.”
“Yes, I’d like to find love, but Tinder wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“You can just have some fun, then. Isn’t that the benefit of being single again? I know you’re old, but you were not really old enough to be getting married yet, anyway.”
I let the inevitable old joke go.
“But Tinder? Really?” I reply.
“That’s how everyone meets these days. Either on a dating app or at work. Seeing as you don’t have a job, you only have one option. Plus, it’s not up to you. . . .”
“How come it’s up to you?” I interrupt, starting to get fed up with Jake’s interference.
“It’s not up to me either. It’s up to the coin, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I say begrudgingly.
Jake performs a victory dance as it lands heads. The coin that saved me buying a round of drinks has now turned its back on me.
Traitor.
“Why do you have to help me with my account? Can I not just do it myself?”
“No, you can’t be trusted. You need both of our expertise.” Jessie sticks the knife in.
“Give me your phone, and I’ll find the best photos we can use. Now, weren’t you meant to be getting us all a drink?”
6
As I stand in the kitchen getting a glass of water, Mum hands me a pink envelope with my name and address printed on the front.
“I just found this out in the porch for you. It was under the mat. The postman must have delivered it earlier.”
I look down at it, confused, mainly wondering how it evaded Dad’s postal inspection. I presume it’s another wedding invite from a university friend. I am starting to receive wedding invites as often as bills these days, and the requests that I buy a happy couple some new crockery are worse than the impersonal charges from the phone company.
“Are you OK to turn all the lights off before you head up? Dad and I are going to bed,” Mum says.
“Yep, that’s fine. Night, Mum.”
I wait until she has reached the top of the staircase before opening the envelope.
It is not a wedding invite. Or a bill. It is a red card decorated with a cartoon bear holding a heart-shaped balloon. The flowery text reads “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Who is sending me a Valentine’s Card?
It must be from Jade?
She must be apologizing for everything?
Wanting me back?
My heart beats rapidly.
I anxiously open it, expecting to see a long, handwritten message inside explaining everything.
“Dear Josh, Happy Valentine’s Day, from your secret admirer, xx.”
I read it again. I know the handwriting. It’s not Jade’s. It’s not even a secret admirer’s. It’s Mum’s.
If there is anything more tragic than not receiving a Valentine’s card, it is receiving one from your mum. At the age of twenty-eight.
I grab a whole tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream from the freezer and head to my room. As I reach the landing, I hear Mum and Dad lock their bedroom door and I immediately grab the remote, to switch the TV on and turn the volume right up. At least when I lived here before I was oblivious to what the sound of their bedroom door shutting meant.
I decide there and then that Valentine’s Day is the worst day ever invented in the history of mankind. If single life isn’t bad enough for the rest of the year—when you must eat two meals by yourself to take advantage of offers, or you have to take a homeless person to the cinema to use your 2-4-1 code—then February 14th truly takes the biscuit. The heart-shaped, candy-coated biscuit.
This time last year, Jade and I were spending Valentine’s Day at the Bristol Lido, snuggling up in the hot tub, enjoying a couples’ massage. Now, I lie on my single bed, in my parents’ house, crying while watching a 1990s rom-com next to Jeremy the Rabbit, who is defecating all over my teenage Bristol City duvet set. The coin loves Phish Food and Hugh Grant and doesn’t care that I feel sick immediately afterward.
It is ironic that I’m spending Valentine’s with a rampant rabbit when I’m not getting any. The most action I’ve had since Jade’s leaving me was at the optician’s, when I struggled to decide whether the image was clearer using my right or left eye, and the optometrist wouldn’t let me use my coin to decide. He then leaned in too close, lingered, and whispered sweet nothings (or instructions) into my ear.
It’s just as well that he said I have twenty-twenty vision, as the box television at the foot of my bed is vintage now, with its small screen the size of a mobile phone screen. As the film draws to an end and Hugh Grant inevitably gets the girl, I flick through the channels to see what else can upset me. A series of Valentine’s-themed reality shows. Skip. More rom-coms. Skip. After rejecting hundreds of stations, I land on one of the adult channels, where some semi-naked, overly tanned woman is writhing around and inviting me to call her. She’s wearing matching red underwear, with the tiniest tartan skirt worn around her waist, barely covering her tiny thong. Her ensemble is completed by thigh-high stockings and high heels. Her straight, dark hair flows down her back.
I’ve not sunk to this level, have I?
“Hi, guys, so the phone line has just become available. Select option number one to get horny with me, guys. Why don’t you be my next caller?” the model asks with a suggestive wink.
I twist the coin through my fingers before launching it into the air.
Heads.
I tentatively reach for the phone and dial in the number.
“Press one to speak to the sexy girl on screen, or press the hash key if you just want to listen in,” a pre-recorded voice says.
What am I doing?
“Unfortunately, that girl is currently busy with another caller. Remember, you can press the hash key to return to the main menu or press the star key to switch to another girl.”
I look at the screen of my phone. I’ve already been on the call for over ninety seconds. All of a sudden, I hear a man’s voice.
“Oh yes, baby, I would fuck you so hard, I would destroy you.”
Is this what women want?
“Yes, I love it rough, baby.”
Apparently so.
“I’d grab your throat and choke you while I’m fucking you.”
Is this what George does with Jade?
“Yes and I’d love you to spit on my face,” the woman instructs him.
Should I have been spitting on her? Is that where I went wrong?
“Yeah. I want to turn you over and fuck you,” he grunts, sounding like he’s going to have a heart attack. He coughs and splutters so much down the phone, I can almost feel the phlegm landing on m
y face.
Jeremy looks at me disapprovingly. I think he preferred watching Hugh Grant.
There’s a lengthy delay between the call and the screen, so her actions don’t match with her words. It’s like watching a film with subtitles where you know everything that’s about to happen. Fifteen seconds after announcing it, she removes her bra, climbs onto the office table, crouches down on all fours, and spanks her bum.
The phone line goes silent.
“It is your lucky day. In just a moment you will be talking live with one of our sexy babes . . .”
Crap. What do I say? How do I follow that?
“Hello, baby, what’s your name?”
“Jo . . . hn.” I decide to give a fake name just in case someone else I know is listening.
“What did you say, baby?”
“John,” I reply hesitantly.
She sits back down on the table and makes an exasperated face as she throws her arms into the air. I think she’s taken an instant dislike to me, but then I realize with the delay she’s just unhappy with the last caller for hanging up so abruptly.
“Oh hey, John, have we spoken before?” She speaks in a strong Essex accent, but it’s hard to hear what she’s saying. For a premium phone line the connection is very poor.
“Nope.” My voice cracks up. This feels wrong.
“What can I do for you this evening, then?”
“Umm, I just fancied a chat,” I say quietly so that my parents can’t hear, not that they are concerned about me hearing their own antics.
“Oh yeah, you want a naughty chat. Are you nice and hard for me there?”
“Ummm.”
“Am I turning you on?”
“Ummmm.”
She begins to mime lewd actions with her hands as she tells me what she would do. I cover Jeremy’s ears.
“Oh John, fuck me, John. Yes, just like that.” She moans in a most exaggerated fashion, which sounds more like she is having her leg amputated than pleasuring herself.
The phone line breaks up, and the call is disconnected. I see her huff, annoyed at someone else cutting her off in mid-flow. I don’t want to think how much my next phone bill is going to be.
I decide I will stick to talking to Jeremy instead.
I take a tissue out of the pack of Kleenex in my drawer and use it to wipe away my tears.
Spring
7
The Uber driver clearly doesn’t know what to think when he picks us up from outside Jake’s house. He must be used to seeing plenty of unusual sights driving around Bristol on a Saturday night, but he does a double take when he sees us two.
I’m dressed as James Bond, wearing a tuxedo and toting a toy gun, while Jake is dressed in a dog onesie complete with floppy ears.
“You’re going to Woodfield Road?” he asks very hesitantly as we clamber into the back seats.
“Yes, that’s right, thank you,” I reply, avoiding the temptation to impersonate Roger Moore.
We certainly don’t look as if we should be going to the same event.
“Why are they holding it at Dan’s house this year?” Jake asks as we drive across town.
“Apparently his place is a bit bigger, and presumably it’s his turn to host. It’s been at Jessie’s the last two times, hasn’t it?”
This is Jessie’s third fancy-dress birthday party in a row, and it’s always a joint party with Dan, one of her university friends, who shares the same birthday. It’s become something of a tradition. Following on from Disney and Harry Potter, the theme for this evening is the London Underground. The coin chose for me to go as Bond Street rather than Oxford Circus, and me having to dress up like a clown.
“Drop off Josh,” the automated voice of the satnav instructs the driver as we pull up on the side of the road. He’s not spoken to us during the ten-minute ride, presumably worried that we are complete psychos.
“I bet you he’s going to give you a bad rating,” Jake says as we walk along the pavement, looking for where we’re meant to be going. We’re somewhere in Redland, but I’m not familiar with this area.
“My rating is already bad from when I took Jade to Longleat Safari that time. I had to get an Uber, as neither of us could drive.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that. Didn’t the car get damaged or something?”
“Yeah. One of the monkeys pulled the wing mirror off. The driver went mad. I thought he was going to kick us out in the lion enclosure.”
“Oh God.” Jake looks around to find where Dan’s house is, as the driver has seemingly taken us too far. “Do we know what number his house is?”
“Number three, wasn’t it?”
Jake trails behind me, adjusting his dog costume as I ring the doorbell. I get into character and point my gun at the door, waiting for Jessie or Dan to answer.
As the door opens I realize it’s not Jessie. Or Dan. Rather, I’m pointing a gun in the face of a horrified old lady, who starts to scream.
“Oh no, Josh, it’s number five,” Jake, looking down at his phone, calls out from around the corner.
Thanks, Jake, thirty seconds earlier would have been lovely.
To my right, I see a group of nuns filing into a house a few doors down. There are one, two, three . . .
Seven Sisters. That’s the house.
I realize I’m still pointing the gun toward the woman, who is now cowering.
“I’m very sorry, madam, I believe we have the wrong house. Sorry to disturb you.” I put the gun back into the inside pocket of my dinner jacket and leave the gray-haired lady rooted to the spot.
She looks out into the street in horror as I walk away.
After we eventually arrive at the right house, we make our way inside and are immediately swarmed by bakers and bankers.
“Told you everyone would come as Baker Street or Bank—so obvious.”
“I don’t see any other dogs.”
We head through the crowded house to find Jessie, aware that the other guests are judging our costumes. The place is smaller than I was expecting and messier. The unwashed plates are stacked up beside the sink, and in the lounge there are so many shoes left lying around that it looks like Clarks’s during sale season. We spot Jessie standing next to a couple of members of ABBA. She’s dressed as Paddington Bear, complete with a luggage tag and marmalade sandwiches. Her long, straight dark hair escapes from underneath her red hat.
“Are you going to hold on to those all night?” I say, pointing to the sandwiches, which are already the worse for wear.
“They’re getting a bit soggy actually,” she says as she gives us both hugs. I try and avoid her rubbing marmalade over my tux. “You both look great—Bond Street, I presume, and . . . what are you this year, Jake?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Well, I can see you’re a dog again. I’m trying to think what station that is. Dog, doggy, puppy . . . oh, is there an Isle of Dogs?”
Jake shakes his head and woofs.
“Woofing Broadway? Woofing Bec?”
“No, I’m Barking.”
“You certainly are barking. Are you going to wear the same outfit every year?”
Jake came as Fluffy from Harry Potter last year and Tramp from Lady and the Tramp the year before.
“Anyway, happy birthday! Are you enjoying your party?” Jake says, dejected.
“Yes, I’m having a great time, thanks. Nice to see everyone has made so much effort. Or at least most people.”
Right on cue, a girl walks past wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a coat hanger draped around her neck.
“Hanger Lane,” Jessie whispers, looking highly unimpressed.
“Oh, of course.”
“Twenty-seven, then? You’re getting on. How does it feel?” I can’t help ribbing her after all the abuse she gives me for my age.
“Pretty much the same as twenty-six so far. Strangely enough.”
“Twenty-seven is a good age.”
“I’m surprised you can remember, it was quite a
while ago for you.”
“I don’t think you can make any more jokes, now you’re in your late twenties.”
“Twenty-seven isn’t late twenties. It’s still mid twenties, surely?” She looks genuinely concerned.
“Won’t be long ’til thirty,” I joke.
“But you will always be older than me.”
I can’t win this one.
Jessie turns around as Björn Borg (Wimbledon) approaches with a birthday card for her. Jake and I retreat to the corner, trying to work out who everyone is dressed as.
“Presumably the couple in cabin crew outfits are Heathrow terminals? What’s the person wearing the crown meant to be?”
“Umm, King’s Cross?”
“Yes, good shout, I was wondering why he looked so grumpy. What about the guy in the astronaut outfit?”
“What station could that link to?”
“Is there something moon-related? Space . . . ?”
“Or star something? What about Eurostar?”
“No, I’ve got it. I think it’s Euston.”
“Euston?”
“Yes, as in ‘Euston, we have a problem!’”
“Oh God, that’s so tenuous.”
“How about the guy holding the snooker cue?”
“I have no idea. Jess, what’s the guy with the snooker cue meant to be?” I catch her as she’s going to get another drink.
She looks around to see who we mean. He’s standing next to two guys wearing Arsenal and Tottenham football shirts.
“Oh, apparently he’s meant to be Kew Gardens. I think they all left their outfit choices to the very last minute.”
“Really? After all the effort we put in?” Jake says.
Jessie rolls her eyes.
“He’s probably wondering why you’ve come as a dog, to be fair.”
“It’s Barking! Zone four. Hammersmith and City, and District lines. It’s actually a very clever costume.” Jessie has gone before Jake has even finished his defense.
“Wasn’t that girl here last year?” I discreetly point to a girl standing across the room. She has also managed to repurpose her previous outfit and is again wearing a toilet seat around her neck. Perhaps I should start recycling my costumes, as my wardrobe is full of outfits worn once that I need to stick on eBay.
