The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 31

Sam shakes her head. 'No-it's just that he's a collie.'

'So-Ollie the collie?' At the mention of his name, Ollie jumps up on me again, but I manage to fend him off before he can do any more damage.

'Sorry,' says Sam. 'He's just a bit excitable.'

'That's okay,' I say, scratching Ollie behind one ear. 'I love dogs. Jane would never let me have one in the flat.'

Sam looks at me strangely. 'I thought it was your flat?'

Ollie picks that moment to bolt back into the garden, returning a second or two later chased by a smaller black and white ball of fur.

'And that's my cat,' says Sam. 'Obviously.'

'Strange name for a cat?'

Sam looks puzzled for a moment. 'What-Felix?'

'Never mind.'

'Sorry,' says Sam, again. 'I'm not quite with it this morning.'

'They could be related,' I say, looking at the two animals, who are currently chasing each other round the furniture.

'How do you mean?'

'Both black and white.'

'I know,' says Sam. 'But at least their licences were cheaper.'

'Than what?'

'Colour.'

Tuesday 15th March.

11.31 a.m.

The office phone goes only once this morning. It's Natasha.

'Hi, Edward. Any messages?'

'Hold on.' I go through the usual pretence of searching my desk for yellow Post-its. 'Nope.'

'Okay,' she says, sounding a little tetchy. 'I'm on my way in.'

Natasha lives in one of those ostentatious mansions on the main approach road to Hove. It's less than two miles from the office, but it normally takes her a good hour between the 'I'm on my way in' call and actually walking in through the door. That's not because of the distance, or even the traffic, but mainly because I've learned over the years that Natasha's 'I'm on my way in' actually means 'I've just got up and got rid of whoever was spending the night,' or even 'I've just got home.' I therefore know that I've got at least sixty minutes while she has some breakfast, puts on whatever designer creation shows off her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the maximum effect, and shouts at her cleaner/gardener/pool man, before pointing her Mercedes in the direction of the office.

When Natasha eventually arrives, it's clear she's in a bad mood again. She seems to think the fact that she hasn't got any messages is actually my fault, rather than simply that no one wants to speak to her, and decides to take this out on me. If she was a boy she'd have been the cla.s.s bully and, thinking about it, I'm not sure that she wasn't anyway. Today, her line of attack is the Go-Soft campaign, and she's on at me before she's even got her coat off.

'Have you spoken to them yet about the CVs we sent through?'

'No, I-'

'Why not?'

'I was just about to explain. Because on Friday you said to hold on until-'

'And what about going through the database to find some back-up candidates just in case?'

'But normally we wouldn't do that until they've interviewed our first pa.s.s-'

'Well, they're not going to be doing that unless you call them, are they?'

This typically goes on for at least five minutes, each of Natasha's questions rising in volume and pitch until she's practically screaming at me. As usual, I try and ride out the onslaught until something distracts her, usually I hope it will be a coronary. This time, mercifully, and just before she gets to full volume, the phone rings. When I pick it up with more than a little relief, a man's voice asks to speak to Natasha.

'Who's calling please?'

'Terry.'

Ah. This could mean a complete change in Natasha's mood. Either she'll switch into sweetness and light mode or, more likely if Terry is calling to cancel an a.s.signation, she'll go completely nuclear and things will be thrown around the office, and possibly at me.

I press 'hold', and announce this welcome diversion to Natasha, who gestures angrily towards her desk, then transfer the call to her phone. As she turns her back to me, I hear her spit the words 'This had better be good' into the receiver.

Now, more than ever, I could murder a cigarette-otherwise I might just murder Natasha. I pick up my jacket and hurriedly make my escape, annoyed that she treats me like this, but even more angry that I let her. Jane used to tell me I should tell Natasha where to stick her job, and go and work for someone else, or even set up on my own. And you know, after some of Natasha's more unreasonable onslaughts, I'd threaten to leave, and even get as far as writing my resignation letter. But then the next day it would be a completely different Natasha in the office, all friendly, buying me coffee, telling me how she couldn't run the company without me, and I'd tear it up. I'm a bigger person that this, I'd think. I can handle her outbursts every now and again.

I'd say that it's because of professional pride that I stay, and that I don't want to give up on a job I love, but really, it's the money. That's why I put up with the shouting-because Natasha pays me so well. I'd like to think she does it to reward me for my selfless dedication to the company, but in reality, I think it's the only way she feels she can stop me from leaving. And so far, it's worked.

I take the stairs down and walk out into the street, at a bit of a loss. I haven't yet figured out what my alternative to the cigarette break should be now that I've stopped smoking, and I feel silly just standing in the street outside, so instead I go and peer longingly through the window of the Cookie Shop round the corner, until the staff give me funny looks from inside. It's still too early to go back into the office-Natasha normally takes about fifteen minutes to defuse herself-so instead I take a walk around the block where, of course, I b.u.mp into Billy, Eddie sitting devotedly by his feet, gnawing on a bone. It's a cold day, and Eddie's wrapped in a blanket, well insulated against the chilly sea breeze. So is Billy, judging by the pile of empty Special Brew cans by his feet.

As I stand there, waiting for Billy to make the usual big show of rooting around in his pockets for my change, a question suddenly occurs to me.

'Billy, can I ask you something?'

He eyes me suspiciously. 'S'pose.'

'Where did it all go wrong?'

Billy thinks for a moment. 'Well, if you ask me, probably when you stopped caring about how you looked...'

'No, not with me and Jane. With you, I mean.'

Billy looks at me strangely. 'Whaddya mean by "wrong"?'

I indicate his bags, and the cardboard sheeting behind him in the doorway. 'All this. The homelessness. The drinking.'

For a minute, I think he's going to get angry. Instead, he reaches down and pats Eddie affectionately.

'Edward, you've failed to realize something. For a lot of us, this isn't because it went "wrong". There's the odd day when I want what you've got-well, not what you've got, exactly-but when I think it might be nice to have a home, a family, money, a proper job. But then I think about the life you lot all follow. Cooped up in a bleedin' office, doing the same thing all day every day, going home to your boring existences where all you do is collapse in front of the telly every night because you're too knackered to talk to each other, or stuck in a c.r.a.p relationship, always arguing, worried about the future. Well, I wouldn't swap this for that, I can tell you. I've got my freedom, I'm out in the fresh air,' he clears his throat noisily. 'I've got my 'ealth. And, quite frankly, from where I'm standing, there's a lot of people worse off than me.'

When I get back to the office ten minutes later, Natasha is sitting at her desk, smiling to herself. I'm guessing either that the phone call has gone well, or she's dreaming up new ways to cause Terry pain.

And as I sit and stare at my computer screen, I can't stop thinking about what Billy's said. I'd always thought that he'd been forced into what he's doing-a cycle of drink and despair finally pushing him into a life on the streets. But the fact that he's chosen to live this way...

From my point of view, I can't work out what on earth he must have been running away from to live like he does now, but one thing I can respect. It's his decision.

6.04 p.m.

By early evening I've had enough, and pack up ready to leave. Natasha has been calmer all afternoon since the Terry call, and seems fairly ensconced at her desk. She tells me she's doing a late interview, so I might as well leave her to lock up.

I get most of the way home before I realize that I've forgotten my keys. Normally Jane would be there to let me in, but of course this isn't 'normally' any more. I think about calling Natasha to check that she's still there, but if she's doing a late interview then she won't appreciate the interruption. Muttering obscenities under my breath, I turn round and walk briskly back to the office.

I get there by half past, and breathe a sigh of relief; the lights are all still on. The real reason for Natasha's continued presence in the office also becomes clear-Terry's Porsche is double parked outside, a parking ticket flapping underneath the windscreen wiper. Late interview? Yeah, right.

I bypa.s.s the lift; again, ever mindful of my instructions from Sam, and jog up the stairs to the third floor. By the time I reach my office, I'm a little out of breath, but it's nothing compared to the panting sounds I can hear coming from inside. Oh no. Terry and Natasha are s.h.a.gging. I just hope it's not on my desk.

At least I think they're s.h.a.gging, but after a few moments I begin to wonder whether he's murdering her, such are the screams that are coming out of Natasha's mouth.

I don't know what to do. I can't go home without my keys, and I obviously can't walk in and get them right now. Equally, I can't go and wait in the pub round the corner, because if I mistime it and come back later after Natasha's gone, I won't be able to get back into the office to get them. There's nothing for it-I'll just have to wait until they've finished. As unpleasant as the prospect is, I sit myself down quietly a few yards along the corridor, just far enough to be able to detect when the coast is clear.

6.44 p.m.

I'm marvelling at both Terry's stamina and Natasha's vocal ability, although I pity her poor neighbours, when finally, miraculously, the proceedings seem to come to an end, and the office falls silent. Silent, that is, until my mobile rings, loudly, from where it's sitting in my jacket pocket, from where I'm sitting near the office door. It's my new ring tone-Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now'-that I'd downloaded the other day, and had proudly demonstrated to Natasha this afternoon.

I leap up and fumble for it, hitting the 'off' b.u.t.ton just as I notice it's Dan calling. There's a pause, and then: 'Edward?'

Natasha calls my name out from inside the office, though admittedly in a different way to how she'd been calling Terry's name a few moments earlier.

I clear my throat loudly and knock on the door. 'Er, yes. Hi. I forgot my keys. I've just come back, this second, to get them.'

As soon as I say this, I realize how lame my excuse sounds. If I had just come back this second, then I wouldn't obviously have heard what was going on, and certainly wouldn't have felt the need to knock on my own office door.

'Just a minute,' calls Natasha. There's a rustling of clothing, some frantic whispered discussion, and much sc.r.a.ping of chairs, before I hear her voice again.

'Come in.'

When I push the door open slowly, dreading what I'm going to see, Natasha is, to her credit, fully dressed and standing by the window, albeit slightly flushed. I nod h.e.l.lo to Terry, who's sitting at Natasha's desk-fortunately he makes no movement to stand up when I walk in, especially since I can see his trousers draped over the photocopier.

'Edward,' says Natasha. 'We were...'

'Yes,' agrees Terry. 'I was...'

'Fine,' I say. 'I'll just...'

I head over to my desk and pick up my keys, which are sitting in my in-tray, then get out of there as fast as I can.

8.03 p.m.

I'm round at Dan's, telling him the story over a cup of tea.

'I like a noisy woman,' he says, appreciatively.

'Hmm. Not that noisy, surely? I thought she was dying.'

Dan licks his lips. 'Louder the better, as far as I'm concerned. I once went out with a girl who screamed the place down. Took her to my parents for the weekend and was worried she'd wake the whole household. You should have seen the look on her face the next morning when my mum asked her if she'd "got off all right" the previous night.'

'But it's not just about the volume, surely? I mean, Jane wasn't particularly, you know, vocal, in bed.'

'What, apart from the sobbing?'

'If you mention that once more...'

'Sorry. You were saying?'

'Just that she wasn't, you know...'

'A screamer?'

'But I know she always enjoyed it.'

Dan arches one eyebrow. 'You're sure about that, are you?'

'Yes. Of course. And can we please not go down this line of questioning again.'

Dan ignores me. 'And it was good for you too? Despite her lack of appreciation, so to speak?'

'What are you going on about?'

Dan stands up, and opens the cupboard beneath his enormous flat-screen television to reveal his DVD collection.

'Let me show you what I mean.'

'Hold on. You haven't been filming your conquests, have you?' The thought of watching Dan having s.e.x, especially on wide-screen and with surround sound, doesn't strike me as my preferred choice of Tuesday evening viewing. Or any evening viewing, come to think of it.

'Nah.' He produces a selection of DVDs. 'Pick one.'

They're all action movies: Heat, The Matrix, Terminator 3. I choose Heat and Dan sticks it into the DVD player.

'Watch this.'

He skips through to the shoot-out scene, presses 'play', then cranks the volume up. As Robert De Niro and Val Kilmer get shot at by half of the Los Angeles Police Department, I have to cover my ears.

We watch for a minute or two, until Dan presses 'pause'.

'Now, what you've just seen is widely regarded as one of the best action sequences in movie history, yes?'