The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 16

I have to stop myself from punching the air in delight. No gym! No muscles screaming at me to stop. No agony tomorrow morning. And more importantly, no Sy sneering at me from behind his over-developed pecs.

My delight is short-lived as we jog a further two hundred yards along the promenade, beneath where the road slopes up towards the marina, and stop at the bottom of the longest, not to mention steepest, flight of stairs I've ever seen.

'OK,' instructs Sam, 'follow me.'

With that, she bounds up the stairs, taking them in pairs. I follow like a dutiful dog, managing the first twenty or so steps two at a time, and I'm even able enjoy the sight of Sam's pert, red-tracksuited posterior pumping away at my eye level as I do my best to keep up. But all too soon I feel the muscles in my legs start to burn, my lungs tighten, and even the lure of Sam's bouncing b.u.t.tocks can't keep me going. As they fade into the distance, I cut my stride from two steps to one step, and even have to start tugging on the handrail to get me up the final few.

When I reach the top, gasping for air and looking desperately for a place to sit down, Sam grins at me.

'Good,' she says. 'But let's keep moving. It'll help get the lactic acid out of your legs faster.'

Mercifully she heads back in the direction of the pier, and as I shuffle after her, the pain in my legs and lungs starts to lessen slightly, and I even begin to feel chuffed that I've managed the stairs without stopping or, more impressively, throwing up. We follow the pavement back down the hill, and then to my horror, Sam turns back towards the bottom of the steps.

'You can't...You're joking?'

Sam shakes her head. 'Nope. Three times. Great exercise for the heart, legs, and stomach. All top athletes do this kind of thing.'

She runs off back towards the start of my torture circuit, and I jog reluctantly after her, reasoning that as I've managed it once, if I take the first few stairs more easily rather than chasing off behind Sam's behind, then the rest shouldn't be so difficult.

How wrong I am. While Sam leaps up them without pausing for breath, the minute I hit the first one I know I'm in trouble. I just about manage to get halfway up before collapsing against the rusty handrail.

Sam reaches the top, turns round to see me, and then, annoyingly, runs back down to where I'm heaving for breath.

'You know,' I say, in between gasps for air, 'if there's ever a vacancy for a guard at Guantanamo Bay, I'll be sure to put you forward.'

She shrugs. 'Get used to this. We'll be doing it once a week. Only I won't tell you which day.'

After a moment or two's rest, I set off again, and manage to make it up the rest of the way, but only by pushing down on my knees with my hands in the way that those mountaineers you see making a final a.s.sault on the summit of Everest do, although even at 28,000 feet they can probably still climb faster than me this morning. By the time I eventually get to the top, my legs feel like jelly, and I'm not sure I'll make it home, let alone manage another go.

Sam yawns theatrically, and looks at her watch.

'Are you ready? One more time?'

My look obviously conveys my answer, but she just turns round and starts to jog back down the slope again. I stare at her retreating back, wondering whether she'd mind if I just waited for her here, and then reluctantly begin a weary shuffle after her.

When I get to where she's waiting at the corner, she stops her jogging on the spot.

'Okay,' she says, 'on second thoughts, that's enough of those for today. We don't want to overdo it. You did well.'

'Well?' I'm sure my face must be the same colour as her tracksuit. 'What was "well" about that?'

'You didn't throw up. Or fall down the stairs. Or do both at the same time. Come on, home.'

It takes another five minutes of slow jogging before I can get back to anything like a regular breathing rate. My heart is hammering in my ears, and when we eventually reach the bench on the promenade that's become our stretching point, I collapse onto it, a relieved expression on my face.

'So what was that all about?' I ask, once I can eventually talk again.

'Variety.' Sam grins, as she leads me through our warm-down. 'Keep the body guessing by pushing it with different things.'

'I thought the whole point of this training was to do the same routine every day, and after a while it'd get easier?'

Sam shakes her head. 'I find that my clients don't respond if we just keep on doing the same things, day in, day out. Eventually people get bored, and leave...' Sam's voice tails off as she realizes what she's said.

And later, as I limp back to my empty flat, I appreciate that she may have a point.

7.02 p.m.

I get back from work just in time to catch Mrs Barraclough in the street outside the flat. Literally, as she slips over on a patch of ice by the steps. Fortunately she's not that tall, which means she doesn't have particularly far to fall.

'Careful, Mrs B,' I say, helping her to her feet. 'Where on earth are you off to on a night like this? It's freezing.'

'I need a couple of things from the shops.'

I can't bear the thought of her heading out on her own. 'I've told you,' I say, 'I'll go for you when the weather's like this.'

'But...Are you sure?' says Mrs Barraclough, fumbling in her handbag for what seems like an eternity before producing a shopping list.

'No buts,' I order her good-naturedly. 'Hand it over.' Which gets me a funny look from a couple of pa.s.sers by, who quite possibly think I'm trying to mug an old lady.

'That's very sweet of you, Edward.'

With a smile, I take the list, stuff it into my pocket, and head out to Tesco's. Normally I'd take the car, but Sam's told me to walk wherever possible, and so despite the fact that I can still feel this morning's stair session, I decide to go by foot. Any chance to burn those excess calories, as she constantly reminds me.

It's the first time I've been in Tesco's without Jane, which strangely makes me both sad and excited at the same time. I'm sad because even though our weekly shopping trips were sullen affairs, me reluctantly pushing a wonky-wheeled trolley behind her up and down the aisles while she consulted her list, or spent ages deciding which of two identical b.u.mper-sized packets of toilet rolls were actually the best value, it was one of the few things we used to do together. As a couple. And that realization in itself makes me sadder still. But I'm excited too, because with Jane not here, I can, theoretically, buy anything I want without her tutting over the calorie content, or more likely the alcohol content. Except that of course I can't, and ironically the reason I can't, is because Jane's not here.

But on balance, I feel pretty okay being here on my own, and the reason I feel okay is because I'm doing someone else a favour. A good deed. And this feeling lasts approximately thirty seconds, until I take Mrs Barraclough's list out of my pocket.

Though I don't need any shopping myself, I realize that before I can even contemplate braving the checkout with these things in my basket I'm going to have to buy a few additional items, just to disguise the slightly sinister nature of my purchases. A pair of tights. A jar of Vaseline. A packet of batteries. A tin of boiled sweets. A box of tissues. As the shopping list of an old lady, this isn't so bad. As the shopping list of a thirty-year-old male, however, it smacks of something akin to perversion. And the worst part is that just as I'm looking in horror at them all, and frantically deciding what else to get, Wendy taps me on the shoulder.

'Gosh, Edward,' she says, peering mischievously into my basket. 'You do miss Jane, don't you?'

Thursday 27th January.

3.09 p.m.

After my nightclub nightmare, I'm mindful of any other opportunities I can find to talk to women. Fortunately, today we're interviewing for a marketing manager for a local software company, and, again fortunately, this means that most of the candidates will be female.

I pa.s.s on the first two, partly because they've both, to borrow one of Dan's phrases, 'fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down', but mainly because my nerves get the better of me. The third interviewee, however, looks promising. Her name is Emma, she's about my age, relatively attractive, and, it says on her CV, single. Once I've finished the interview proper, I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

'So, Emma. Can I just ask you a couple of personal questions?'

She smiles. 'Fire away.'

'Age?'

'Twenty-nine.'

'Marital status?'

'Single.'

I keep staring at my note pad, as if I'm checking her answers off against a list.

'Any children?'

'No. Not yet.'

'Not yet? Does that mean you want them?'

Emma frowns at me. 'Are you allowed to ask me that?'

'It's just for our records, you understand.'

'Well, I haven't decided yet. Possibly.'

'Interesting.' I pretend to make some notes. 'And you say you're single?'

'Yes.'

'And why is that?'

Emma shifts uncomfortably in her chair. 'What's any of this got to do with the job?'

'I'm just trying to build up a more rounded picture of you. It helps us to present you as a candidate.'

She seems to just about buy this, and settles back down. 'Well, I've just come out of a relationship.'

Perfect. 'And did you end it, or did he?'

'That's really none of your business.'

'Okay. Not to worry. What would you say is the most important factor you look for in a man?'

'I beg your pardon? Do you mean as a boss?'

'No.' I start to appreciate that I haven't really thought this through. 'As a, um, boyfriend.'

Emma stands up angrily, and starts to gather her things together. 'This is the weirdest interview I've ever had.'

'But we've nearly finished,' I say, trying to calm her down. 'Just one last question...'

'Is it about the job?'

'Er...no.'

As Emma storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her, I can't help feeling that this approach isn't going to work either.

Sat.u.r.day 29th January.

6.15 p.m.

I'm leaning on the bar at the Admiral Jim, filling Dan and Wendy in on my week. Although I've graduated to having my mineral water in a pint gla.s.s, it still feels funny to be stood in a pub and drinking something that isn't beer-flavoured.

'I still think you should have given my nightclub idea more of a go,' says Dan, munching cruelly through a packet of mixed nuts in front of me.

'You don't get it, do you? Look at you, Dan. You're the male equivalent of Bo Derek in the film Ten. Women chat you up. The sad fact is, however nice I am, however considerately I behave, however good a listener I am, the first thing they'll notice in an environment like that is how good-looking I am. Or, how good-looking I'm not, to be correct.'

'That's not true,' says Wendy, loyally.

'Yes it is. I'm the sort of person who has to grow on people.'

Dan laughs. 'What-like a fungus?'

'You know what I mean.'

'But that's a.s.suming people are really fickle,' says Wendy. 'And that they'd only be interested in someone of their "level", looks wise.'

Dan nearly chokes on a cashew. 'Dur.'

'What do you mean, "dur"?'

'Basic laws of dating, isn't it?' he replies.

'Have you ever gone out with anyone who's not been a "ten", then?'

Dan doesn't even have to think about this. 'Nope.'

As Wendy rolls her eyes at me and heads off to serve someone at the other end of the bar, I turn back to Dan.

'So the only thing that makes you fancy someone is how they look?'

'Is this your first day here?' he says, giving me a look which suggests I've just asked the stupidest question in the world.

'You're saying that if you met someone who you thought was funny, charming, intelligent, successful, and yet didn't quite match up to your expectation in terms of physical perfection, you wouldn't even think about going out with them?'

Dan throws a pistachio into the ashtray, not wanting to risk splitting a nail trying to get it out of its sh.e.l.l. 'Nope.'

'But wouldn't you want to marry someone like that?'

'Well, that's pretty academic, isn't it?'