The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 9

'It's one pound forty, isn't it?' she says, reaching into to her purse.

'What is?'

She points to the magazine I'm holding. 'The Big Issue. One pound forty.'

'Yes,' I answer without hesitating-after all, I've bought enough copies to know-before even wondering why on earth she's asking. But just as it occurs to me to say something, the girl smiles at me sympathetically, and presses a couple of coins into my palm.

'Here's one pound fifty. Keep the change.'

I unthinkingly take the money she's offered me before my brain finally clicks into gear, and I try to give it back to her. 'No, I'm not...'

She clasps my outstretched hand. 'You poor thing. You're freezing. Here-a nice hot cup of coffee for you too.'

As she grabs hold of my Big Issue and tries to exchange it for her cup, I suddenly realize what's happening.

'What are you doing? Let go.'

I pull the magazine out of her grasp with a sharp tug, nearly spilling coffee on her shoes in the process.

'I've just paid you for it,' she protests, starting to look a little alarmed.

'But it's not for sale. Here.'

I try and hand her money back, but it's too late, and she just backs away from me. As the words die in my throat, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn round to see Sally standing next to me. She looks good-a little older, sure, plus she wears gla.s.ses now, although I'm pleased to see that her figure's still the same. But it's her expression I can't seem to work out, as it's hardly the friendly recognition I was expecting.

'My G.o.d, Edward. Has it come to this? I know you said on the phone that you'd been through something, but...'

'No, you don't understand. I'm not homeless.'

Sally frowns at me. 'Well, what are you doing selling the Big Issue, then?'

'I'm not selling it.'

'You just sold one to that girl. And then s.n.a.t.c.hed it straight back off her.'

'No, I didn't sell it to her.'

'Yes you did. I saw you.'

'No. She...tried to buy it from me. But it's not the same thing.'

Sally shakes her head slowly. 'And she tried to give you a nice cup of coffee too. Which you practically threw back in her face.'

'No. You've got it all wrong. I'm not homeless. I have a flat. In Brighton. And I've got plenty of money. Look.'

I reach into my jacket and get out my wallet to show Sally, much to the disgust of a middle-aged couple and their teenage son standing nearby, who have witnessed the whole incident.

'How could you?' says the woman. 'Taking money from those who really need it.'

'Shame on you,' adds her husband.

'w.a.n.ker,' says the son, followed by 'Ouch!' as his mother gives him a clip round the ear.

A small crowd is beginning to form. 'What's wrong?' asks a large donkey-jacketed man, walking up to the couple.

The woman points at me scornfully. 'He's pretending to be homeless so he can sell the Big Issue!'

'Disgraceful.'

'Shouldn't be allowed.'

'You need help, you sad git.'

'I-I'm not...' I look around in vain for the young girl so I can give her money back and clear this whole mess up, but she's disappeared somewhere into the throng of commuters. To be honest, I'm wishing I could do the same, before the crowd light torches and chase me along the platform. Fortunately, Sally takes control and leads me away.

We walk quickly out of the station and find sanctuary in a nearby pub, where I explain my dilemma with Jane. But once I've finished, instead of the sympathy I was hoping for, Sally starts to laugh.

'So, let me get this straight. The girl you dumped me for ten years ago has suddenly dumped you?'

'That's right.'

'And so you want the girl you dumped's advice, on how you've "lost your way", so you can try and win back the girl you dumped me for?'

When I nod hopefully, Sally stops laughing abruptly. 'I don't know whether to be angry or feel sorry for you.'

'Please, Sally. I need your help.'

'And just why should I help you, Edward? After all, I'm the injured party here. And besides, I never liked that Jane Scott. She stole my boyfriend, don't forget.'

'Sally, that was a long time ago. And we'd been going out for, what, three weeks? We hadn't even...'

Sally folds her arms defiantly. 'That's not the point.'

'Well, if it makes any difference, I apologize for treating you so badly. I did feel guilty about it at the time.'

'Well,' sniffs Sally, 'that's something, I suppose.'

'Even though...'

'Even though what?'

'From what I remember, you got over me pretty quickly.'

Sally gets all defensive. 'What do you mean? How exactly did I get over you "pretty quickly"?'

'By getting under Dan Davis. That night. On the lawn.'

It's Sally's turn to look guilty. 'You knew about that?' she says, blushing.

'Sally, we all knew about that. Quite a few of us saw it. Some even took photos. I think Dan still has the negatives.'

For a moment, a dreamy look pa.s.ses across her face. 'Dan Davis. Whatever happened to him?'

'I don't know,' I say, fed up with constantly having to answer that question. 'Prison, I think.'

'Prison?'

I nod, and offer Sally a cigarette, but she waves the pack away disapprovingly. I light one for myself, and take a long drag. 'Anyway, back to me. Please. Just tell me-how am I different?'

Sally leans forward in her chair, puts her elbows on the table, and studies me over the top of her gla.s.ses.

'You want me to be honest?'

I swallow hard. 'Brutally.'

'Well, there's the cigarettes, for a start.' She waves my smoke away from her face. 'Disgusting habit.'

I get the hint, and stub my Marlboro out reluctantly. 'Sorry.'

'Much better,' says Sally, taking a deep breath. 'Now, are you sitting comfortably?'

1.51 p.m.

I'm wishing I'd brought a pen and paper, so comprehensive is Sally's dismantling of my present self. Fortunately, though, from memory it's not too dissimilar to Dan's list, and while the details may be a little blurry, what is clear to me is that Jane is right. I have 'let myself go' in the fullest sense of the words.

Eventually, thankfully, Sally announces that she has to get back to work, so I walk her back to Victoria and flag her down a cab, pecking her on the cheek before she climbs in. I take the tiniest bit of comfort when she doesn't flinch.

As I close the taxi door behind her, she's possibly feeling a little guilty, because she tells the driver to wait, and winds the window down.

'Listen, Edward, I hope I wasn't too hard on you. At college you were, I mean, you were never...like this. Girls fancied you. I fancied you. But now...' Her voice tails off, but she doesn't need to finish the sentence. 'What's happened to you since then?'

I shrug dejectedly. 'I don't know. Life, I guess.'

'Or Jane's influence, maybe?' suggests Sally, archly. 'Anyway,' she adds, 'it was nice seeing you again. Despite the circ.u.mstances.'

'You too, Sally. And thanks.'

'Has it been any use?'

I nod, gratefully. 'I'll let you know how it goes.'

She smiles. 'Do that. How long have you got until she comes back?'

I look at my watch. 'Two months and twenty-seven days.'

Sally stares at me for a moment, then starts to whistle something and it's only as the cab pulls away that I recognize the tune.

It's the theme from Mission Impossible.

2.15 p.m.

I'm sitting on the train back to Brighton, flicking through the selection of glossy magazines I've just bought at the station. I've got GQ, FHM, Arena, Esquire, and even a couple that seem to be soft-p.o.r.n publications, judging by the number of barely clad women adorning their covers. I've also raided the women's section, hoping that by the time we get to Brighton I'll be able to put together a profile of my age group's ideal man. But even before we've pulled into East Croydon, I've managed to confirm what I've been starting to believe: I'm so not him.

As I stare miserably out of the window at the Suss.e.x countryside, a young couple get on and sit down opposite me. They've obviously spent their lunchtime in the pub, and can't seem to keep their hands off each other. After a few nauseating minutes, they head off towards the toilets, and I don't see them again until we're disembarking at Brighton, by which time they're red-faced and giggling furiously. I can't wait to get off the train, and push my way past the other pa.s.sengers. Ah, young love. It's enough to make you sick.

And how do I cope with this blow I've been dealt? This pit of despair I find myself wallowing in? I go back home, unplug the phone, and chain-smoke a packet of cigarettes while listening to my Queen alb.u.ms at such a high volume on my portable stereo that even Mrs Barraclough has to bang on the ceiling to complain.

I turn the music up even further to drown her out, but when I remember that the next track is in fact 'Somebody To Love', which will only add to my depression, turn it back down again, only to realize that the banging has got even louder, and is now coming from my front door. I sheepishly open it, expecting to have to apologize to Mrs B, but instead I find Dan standing there, mid knock.

'What the h.e.l.l are you playing at, not answering your phone or the door?' says Dan, pushing past me and into the flat. 'And why is that c.r.a.ppy music on so loud?'

'It's not c.r.a.ppy music.'

Dan ejects the disk from the machine and looks at it scornfully. 'Haven't you got any music from this century?'

'Not any more,' I say, nodding towards the still-empty CD rack.

'Remind me to add "music" to the spreadsheet.'

'What are you talking about? Queen are one of the foremost...'

'Well, I don't see them releasing many new alb.u.ms.'

'Perhaps because their lead singer is dead? That usually stops musical flow.'

'Oh really? When did he die?'

'I don't know. Some time in the early nineties, I think.'

'Ah,' says Dan, wrinkling his nose at the overflowing ashtray before opening a window. 'About the same time as the air in here. Come on. Let's get you out and about.'

'Well, what's "hip" nowadays, then?' I ask him, picking up my jacket.

Dan looks at me and sighs. 'Well you quite patently aren't if you're using language like that.'

'Hip's a current word.' I think for a moment. 'Hip Hop. There you go. I've heard you play that in your car.'

'It's not quite the same thing. But in language you can understand, yes, my musical tastes are "hip". Yours, on the other hand, are more hip replacement.'

I fold my arms defiantly. 'I've got two words for you. "Bohemian Rhapsody".'

Dan just shakes his head. 'How did you become so middle-aged? It's like you just leapt from your twenties into your forties.'

'Dan, you don't understand. When you're part of a couple, all this stuff becomes less important. Why do you need to listen to the latest bands if you already know what you like? In my day, a DJ was someone who stood behind a bank of flashing lights and played other people's records. Not someone who made his own.'

Dan grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. Hard.

'Edward. You don't get it, do you? It's still your day.'