The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 35

'I've had enough. That's it.'

'What are you talking about?'

I stand in the doorway, and keep my voice level. 'For nearly ten years I've put up with your complaining, never-happy att.i.tude, knowing that the complexion of my day was going to depend on what side of the bed you got out of that morning, or rather, what side of whoever's bed you got out of, whenever you finally deigned to grace the office with your presence. And now, just when things couldn't be going any better business-wise, you have to come in and pick on me just because your latest married "boyfriend" doesn't want to leave his wife and take a chance on your psycho bunny-boiling behaviour.'

'Hold on a minute. That's...'

'Be quiet. I haven't finished. For the last few years it's been me who's kept this company afloat. Me. And what acknowledgement do I get? Nothing. Just, "Any messages, Edward?" or "Get me a coffee, Edward." Well, you can get your own coffee from now on.'

Natasha sits, open-mouthed, at her desk. 'What are you saying?'

'I quit. Goodbye. Have a nice life.'

'Is this some kind of April Fool's joke?'

'It's no joke,' I say. 'And the only fool here is me, for putting up with you for so long.' And with that, I turn around, and walk right out of the office.

'Edward. Edward. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. Come back.'

As I stride along the corridor, I can hear Natasha calling after me. But I don't come back. I just keep on walking.

And it feels good.

Sat.u.r.day 2nd April.

11.15 a.m.

In two days' time I'm due to pick up the Mini. I think about taking the Volvo through the carwash before I trade it in but I'm worried I'll dislodge some more of the paintwork, or even a door, and that the garage will decide to charge me for taking it off my hands. I'm slightly concerned about the amount of money it's going to be costing me, particularly since I'm now unemployed, but despite this, I'm still quite excited when I call my insurance company to arrange a cover note. The chap on the phone goes through some preliminary questions with me, and then the next question he asks stops me in my tracks.

'So that's for you and the same named driver, is it? Miss Jane Scott?'

Blimey. I hadn't thought about that. 'Er...Can I add her on later?' I can sense confusion at the end of the phone and feel a sudden need to explain. 'She's gone away for a while, you see.'

'Well, when is she coming back?'

'I'm not sure. I mean, in about two weeks. Sat.u.r.day April sixteenth, to be precise.'

'And will you want her to be driving your new car when she gets back?'

This, of course, is a metaphor, as well as a jolly good question, so I decide to tackle Dan about it. He doesn't answer his mobile, so I go round to see if he's in.

When Dan opens the door, he's holding a large plastic spatula and sporting a white smudge on the end of his nose. More worryingly, he's only wearing a pair of shorts.

'I hope that I haven't interrupted some cocaine-fuelled, pervy S&M session?'

Dan grins. 'Chance would be a fine thing. I'm baking.'

'Hence the lack of clothes?'

'No, "baking", as in "a cake", not hot. Although most of Brighton's female population may disagree with me on that one.'

He beckons me inside, and I follow him through to his kitchen, which resembles something of a disaster area.

'At the risk of asking an impertinent question, why on earth are you baking a cake? Has the supermarket run out?'

'Nope. Career enhancement. Today, Ready Steady Cook, tomorrow, the world.'

'What are you talking about?'

He looks at me as if I'm just off the boat. 'Celebrity chefs. They're the latest thing.'

'Just like antiques presenters were last year?'

Dan ignores me. 'You can't walk around television centre nowadays without b.u.mping into some garlic-smelling t.w.a.t in a tall white hat with a packet of sun-dried tomatoes sticking out of his pocket.'

'So, let me get this straight.' I survey the mess in front of me, including what looks like a cowpat on a plate. 'You've decided to teach yourself how to cook so you can become a celebrity chef?'

Dan nods. 'That's about the size of it. Before you know it, I'll be moving to rural France, feeding up the locals, s.h.a.gging their daughters, all with a film crew up my a.r.s.e.'

'Dan, without wishing to sink your souffle, don't most celebrity chefs actually start out as chefs? You know, cook for people for a living, before becoming famous?'

Dan's face falls as flat as his Victoria sponge. 'You're kidding?'

'Nope. Most of them even own restaurants.'

'What about that one who swears all the time?'

'Yup. Several, I think.'

'The one with the hair like a toilet brush?'

'At least a couple.'

Dan throws his spatula into the sink in disgust, picks up a knife, and attempts to cut a couple of slices of cake, but can't seem to make much of an impression. He ends up having to chisel some off the edge.

'Just as well, really. It's harder than you'd think.'

'What? Your sponge?'

'Try some?'

'Can't. Diet. Sorry...'

Dan picks up a piece, sniffs it, then stamps open the pedal bin and deposits his culinary efforts, plate and all, inside. 'Anyway, what are you doing here?'

I repeat my dilemma about putting Jane on the Mini's insurance. Dan just laughs it off.

'Nah. You can always add her on later. If you want to let her drive it, that is. And speaking of driving, I'm off to hit some golf b.a.l.l.s.'

'Dan, is all your conversation like a television link?'

'Want to come?'

I pick a ladle up out of Dan's unused utensil jar and attempt to swing it, nearly denting the stainless-steel fridge door in the process. 'I don't know the first thing about golf.'

Dan s.n.a.t.c.hes the ladle back. 'Easy, Tiger. Well come along and watch me, then. You might learn a thing or two.'

I sit flicking through a couple of magazines in the lounge while Dan gets ready. When he eventually appears, he's dressed as if he's about to contest the Open.

'Look at you, mister all-the-gear-but-no-idea. I thought you were only going to the driving range?'

He shrugs. 'Got to look the part, Eddy-boy. That's half the battle. As you'll find out in a couple of weeks.'

Dan removes his clubs from the cupboard under the stairs and we head outside and into his car. I jump into the pa.s.senger seat, only to have Dan dump the bag on my lap.

'What's wrong with the boot?'

'Don't fit, I'm afraid. They'll have to ride up front with you.'

'Practical, these cars, then?'

As it's not raining, Dan lowers the roof, and we head off towards the range. On the way, we pa.s.s Wendy, who's heading in to work.

'Oh look,' she calls, as we slow down and beep her. 'It's Thelma and Louise.'

When we get to the range, Dan buys a bucket of b.a.l.l.s, and I sit there as he thwacks them effortlessly into the distance.

'So, what am I learning here, exactly?' I ask, stifling a yawn.

'Well, here's how I see it,' says Dan, fishing a ball out of his bucket and placing it on the mat in front of him. 'Women are like golf b.a.l.l.s, really.'

'How so?'

'Well, you tee them up, address them carefully, and then, if you make a good enough connection...'

I can hardly wait. 'Ye-es?'

Dan grins. 'In the hole!' he shouts.

Wednesday 6th April.

9.33 a.m.

I'm back in the office. This isn't as wimpy as it may seem, even though I had started to panic a little that my not having a job might not sit too favourably with Jane's request for me to 'sort some things out'. But for the last few days Natasha's been leaving me messages everywhere, telling me how sorry she is, that she's been doing a lot of thinking, how what I said was right, and that things would definitely change.

And although I've heard this all before from her, something has changed. I can sense it. She's in the office more, there's a new respect in the way she speaks to me, and she's invited me to her fortieth birthday party next week, dropping hints about some announcement that she's going to make. She's even been bringing me coffee.

And yet I find it more than a little ironic that for all these years, every time I've threatened to leave, not much has actually come of it. It's only now that I've actually walked out of the door that it's made a difference.

Thursday 7th April.

7.35 a.m.

I'm in the gym with Sam, surprising myself that I'm managing to work out and talk at the same time, and telling her about the amazing difference in Natasha.

'She's even invited me to a party next Thursday,' I say, in between repet.i.tions on the leg press. 'At her house.'

'Are you going to go?'

'I'm not sure,' I say. 'It's one of those posh affairs: marquee, champagne, band, and all that. Not really my scene.'

'What?' says Sam. 'That sounds lovely.'

'Maybe. But...'

'But?'

'Well, I'd feel a bit silly going on my own.'

'Ah.'

Sam suddenly looks awkwardly at her feet, and it takes me a good few seconds to realize why.

'Oh no, I didn't mean...I wasn't suggesting...I mean, if you want to...But don't feel...' I shut my mouth, feeling rather uncomfortable myself now.

'Edward, that's very sweet of you, if you're saying what I think you're saying. But I'd better not, don't you think?'

'Yes. I mean, no. Of course,' I stammer, not sure quite what line I've crossed, but pretty sure that I've crossed one.

We work out in silence for a few moments, before Sam regains her composure.

'So tell me. What made you finally stand up to Natasha?' she asks.

'I was just fed up of being told what to do all the time. And by a woman.'

'Well, good for you,' says Sam. 'Now ten more. And then on to the bench press.'