The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook Read online

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  Billy shakes his head. ‘She didn’t understand me.’

  ‘What was it? The drinking?’

  ‘No you deaf git. She didn’t understand me. She was Polish. I just married her so she could get her visa. Paid me three hundred and fifty quid, they did. Only two words of English she knew were “I” and “do”.’

  Billy tilts his head back and roars with laughter, and as a waft of stale beer reaches me, I look at my watch, and realize that I am in fact quite late for work.

  ‘Yes. Well. Very funny, Billy. Lovely talking with you, as ever.’

  I make to walk towards my office, but Billy stops me. ‘Do you want one or not?’ he says, offering me the copy in his hand.

  I catch sight of the cover. It’s last week’s edition. ‘I’ve already got that one.’

  Billy looks at me accusingly. ‘You got yourself another bleedin’ supplier? Whatever happened to bleedin’ customer loyalty?’

  ‘Billy, I bought it from you last week,’ I reply, reflecting that ‘bleeding’ is obviously Billy’s favourite adjective.

  He peers at me suspiciously. ‘I don’t remember that.’

  It occurs to me that given the amount of Special Brew Billy regularly consumes, he probably doesn’t remember anything much—but then he probably has a lot of things that he’d rather forget. I find a couple of pound coins in my pocket and hold them out towards him.

  ‘Here, just take the money.’

  Billy stares at my outstretched hand. ‘I can’t do that,’ he says. ‘That’s begging. I’ve got my pride.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll take one. Happy now?’

  I grab the copy he’s thrusting into my face, and give him the two pound coins. As I hold my hand out for my change, Billy looks at me as if I’m simple.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  I redden slightly. ‘My change?’

  ‘Change? Do I look like bleedin’ Barclay’s Bank?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I…The magazine only costs one pound forty.’

  ‘So? You didn’t want one in the first place.’

  ‘But…’

  Billy shakes his head slowly. ‘You’re worried about your miserable sixty pence change and I don’t know where my next meal is coming from.’

  In truth we both know the answer to that question; from the off-licence across the street, but that thought makes me feel even more guilty. I give up, turn around, and walk down the street towards my office.

  I work as a head-hunter for an IT recruitment consultancy: the imaginatively named Staff-IT. I say consultancy as if we’re a big operation, but in reality there’s only the two of us in the office: myself and my boss, Natasha, who owns the company. And when I say that there are two of us in the office, most mornings it’s usually just me; Natasha will still be in bed, or out seeing new clients, or sometimes combining the two activities.

  Natasha has an interesting philosophy when it comes to new business development. She’s quite ‘glam’—all cleavage and blonde hair—and once she’s targeted a new company or, more specifically, the man in charge, she’ll go for him, both guns blazing. I like to joke that the more she goes down, the more our profits go up. But not to her face, obviously.

  And although I’m more than a little scared of her moods, can’t stand the way she’s constantly rude to me, and hate the fact that she treats me like her dogsbody, in truth, we have the perfect business relationship: she gets the clients, I do the work, and that seems to suit us both fine.

  I head in past the reception desk and take the lift up to my office where unusually, and unfortunately, Natasha is already there, talking animatedly on the phone. I walk through the door just in time to hear her shout, ‘Well, just piss off back to your wife, then!’ into the receiver, before she slams the phone down. Oh great. The start of another fabulous week.

  When she sees me, Natasha glances theatrically at her Rolex, a present from our most recent ‘satisfied’ customer.

  ‘Morning, Edward,’ she says, sternly. ‘Or should I say “afternoon”?’

  ‘Morning,’ I mumble, depositing my Big Issue in the bin beneath my desk just as I had done with Friday’s identical copy. I’m hoping she doesn’t do her usual Monday morning going off on one. Even though it might defuse her mood, I’ve decided not to tell her that Jane’s left me. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  Natasha peers across at me as I slump down into my chair. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you today?’

  Don’t tell her, don’t tell her…

  ‘Well?’ she demands, her face darkening.

  ‘Jane and I have split up.’ Damn.

  Natasha doesn’t quite know how to process this piece of information. She’s not good with personal small talk, unless it’s of the ‘pillow’ variety, and certainly not with me.

  ‘Oh, Edward. I am sorry,’ she says, her expression softening a level or two from its normal ‘turn you to stone’ one. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  I shake my head miserably. ‘Not really, thanks.’

  Natasha looks visibly relieved, and picks her phone up to make a call, but when I just sit staring at my computer screen without bothering to switch it on, she puts the receiver back down.

  ‘Come on, Edward. What happened?’ she asks me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get a woman’s perspective?’

  ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘Well for one thing, it might help you to work out why she left you.’

  I look up sharply. ‘Why does everyone assume that Jane left me? Why couldn’t it have been the other way round?’

  Natasha opens her mouth to answer and then thinks better of it. Instead, she stands up and walks towards the door.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’

  Now I know that she’s genuinely concerned. Normally it’s only ever me who fetches the coffee from the deli across the street.

  ‘Okay. Why not? Thanks.’

  Natasha reaches into her handbag that’s hanging on the back of the door, and produces a handful of loose change. ‘Could you get me one too?’ she says, sweetly. ‘My shout.’

  When I walk back into the office a couple of minutes later carrying two cups of cappuccino, Natasha’s whispering into her mobile. ‘Call you back,’ I hear her say. ‘Crisis at work.’

  I hand her a coffee, and she comes over and perches on the edge of my desk.

  ‘So,’ she says, doing her best to look interested. ‘What happened?’

  ‘There’s not that much to tell. She’s left me. And left me a note telling me why.’

  Natasha rolls her eyes. ‘A note? I hope she didn’t give you any of that “it’s not you it’s me” rubbish?’

  ‘Er, no. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  I explain the events of the previous evening. Natasha, to her credit, actually seems to listen, raising one carefully plucked eyebrow when I mention where Jane’s gone.

  ‘And you really had no idea?’

  I stir my cappuccino dejectedly. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Edward. For someone who makes a living listening to what other people are looking for, you’ve been pretty oblivious to what’s been happening in your own life, haven’t you?’

  I nearly drop my coffee in my lap in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  Natasha takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Obvious? It’s not obvious to me.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  I’m wondering how many more times we can say the word ‘obvious’ when Natasha looks at me and sighs. ‘Two words. Status quo.’

  I look at her blankly. Even though she’s nearly forty, I’m fairly sure she doesn’t mean the rock group. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘Okay. Consider how your job works.’

  ‘My job? What on earth do
es that have to do with it?’

  ‘Well, think about what it is you do. You approach people who work at one company, and try to get them to go and work for someone else.’

  ‘Thank you for explaining that to me. I always wondered what it was I did.’

  Natasha ignores my sarcasm. ‘So, how do you convince them to move?’

  ‘Offer them more money, usually.’

  Natasha sighs. ‘Okay, more money, perhaps. But think beyond the money.’

  ‘Beyond the money?’ I’m finding this hard, because in my experience, most people in our industry are only interested in the money.

  ‘Yes. Fundamentally you’re trying to convince them that the benefits of a new position outweigh the benefits of their current one. Maybe it’s more money, maybe it’s a promotion. Maybe both.’

  ‘And this has to do with me and Jane how?’

  ‘Well, think about those people who come to us and tell us they’re looking for a new job, but don’t really want to leave their old one.’

  ‘The tyre-kickers?’

  ‘That’s right. They go through the whole interview process and then, even though they’ve got no intention of actually leaving, resign from their current position and tell their existing company that they’ve got a job offer somewhere else.’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘And how do their employers usually respond?’

  I think about this for a second. ‘Well, if they want to keep them, they’ll usually offer them more money, or a promotion, or something.’

  ‘You see,’ says Natasha. ‘So maybe Jane’s tyre-kicking.’

  I nod for a few moments, then stop nodding abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not getting you. Are you saying that I should have given her some money?’

  ‘No. I’m saying that maybe she wanted to change the status quo.’

  ‘Ah. Which means?’

  Natasha sighs loudly. ‘I’ll spell it out for you. Maybe she wanted to get married. Ever think of that?’

  ‘But she never said…’

  Natasha smiles at me. ‘Edward, they might not admit it, but most women find the idea of marriage attractive.’

  Whereas you find the idea of married men attractive, I think. ‘You’re saying that she left me to get me to propose to her?’

  ‘Not definitely, but I’m saying that it’s a possibility. Maybe she felt she’d been there for long enough to deserve that promotion, and then when it didn’t come…Well, you can’t blame her for handing in her notice to see what you’d do.’

  ‘So I should just propose to her when she gets back then?’

  Natasha shakes her head vigorously. ‘Oh no. It sounds like it’s gone way past that point now.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Okay. In language even you can understand. She’s “resigned”, right?’

  ‘Isn’t it more of a sabbatical?’ I ask, hopefully.

  ‘Not technically. People on sabbatical expect to come back to the same job. She’s looking for something to change.’

  ‘Something? Or someone?’

  Natasha sighs. ‘Whatever. The point is, she’s gone, and you need to improve her working conditions before you even think about offering her a new contract. Assuming…’

  ‘Assuming what?’

  ‘That she wasn’t doing some other part-time work on the side.’

  Oh no. I haven’t even considered the possibility that Jane might have left me for someone else. She can’t have. Surely I’d have known? And I can’t even afford to let myself think about it. Not if I’m going to have any prospect of winning her back.

  ‘But surely she’s bound to at least give me another chance when she gets back? Especially if she isn’t seeing…hasn’t got another job yet?’

  ‘Edward, at the risk of keeping this metaphor going for too long, she emptied her desk before she left. I don’t think that’s a good sign.’

  The phone rings, and I just stare glumly at it. Natasha picks up the receiver and asks the caller to hold.

  ‘Edward, you’re going to be no use here today. Go home. Take some time off. Think about what I’ve said. And come back when you’re ready.’

  I’m a little surprised by her compassion. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘You’re welcome. So I’ll see you tomorrow?’

  I do a double take, but Natasha’s smiling as she says this.

  I collect my things and walk slowly back home, thinking about what Natasha’s said. And although I’m not so sure she’s right, I am left with a nagging doubt.

  People don’t usually resign without another offer on the table.

  12.06 p.m.

  I’m standing outside a house near Hove Park, watching the filming of next week’s Where There’s a Will. In front of me, Dan is flirting with the make-up girl, who looks about twelve years old. As she fusses over his hair, he catches my eye and makes the ‘what-can-you-do?’ face.

  I often like to kid Dan that he owes his entire television career to me. And it’s true, almost. About three years ago, Natasha had given me a couple of tickets to some charity auction she’d been invited to but couldn’t make. I’d of course asked Jane but she’d not been particularly keen—‘Some drunken piss-up where you’re supposed to pay fifty pounds for a pair of Robbie Williams’ soiled underpants? No thanks!’ had been her exact words. When I’d mentioned it to Dan, once he’d ascertained that there would be women there, he’d gone for it like a shot.

  Anyway, we’re in the bar afterwards, where I’ve accidentally (if you can call any actions induced by the imbibing of two bottles of champagne an accident) poured my drink down this girl’s top. She would have made a scene if Dan hadn’t flashed his smile and rushed to her rescue, and they immediately hit it off, if you see what I mean. It turns out that she’s a TV producer for the BBC, and the next thing you know, Dan’s screen-testing for this new antiques programme she’s working on. The rest, as he likes to say, is entertainment history.

  With a couple of dabs of a sponge, the make-up girl reluctantly finishes whatever it was she was doing. Dan turns and grins at the camera.

  ‘We’re rolling,’ shouts the director.

  ‘Hello,’ says Dan, smile on full-beam, ‘and welcome to this week’s edition of Where There’s a Will. As the saying goes, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” Well, this is the show where you don’t know what you’re going to get until your parents are gone. Today, we’re in Hove at the home of John and Susan Walters, to help them sort through the estate of John’s parents Ted and Renee.’

  ‘Cut,’ shouts the director. ‘Perfect, Dan. Let’s set up for the next shot.’

  The camera equipment and lights are moved into position, and Dan is joined in front of the house by a nervous-looking middle-aged couple.

  ‘And…cue Dan,’ shouts the director.

  Dan’s expression changes from sycophantic to sympathetic. ‘Hello John, hello Susan,’ he says. ‘Now, John, I believe your parents died in particularly tragic circumstances?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies John gravely, as Susan sniffs quietly behind him. ‘They were killed when a tanker from the local dairy hit their car.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ says Dan, putting a consoling arm round Susan, which causes her to perk up somewhat. ‘But still, there’s no point crying over spilt milk, is there?’

  ‘Cut,’ shouts the director. ‘Just stick to the script will you, please, Dan?’

  ‘Okay. Sorry.’

  The cameras move to close-up, and Dan readies himself for the show’s catchphrase.

  ‘So…’ he announces, letting Susan go and rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s see what you’ve been left.’

  ‘Cut,’ shouts the director, and the filming moves inside John and Susan’s modest semi, where what looks like a load of junk from a car-boot sale is spread around the lounge.

  ‘So, this is what they’ve left you?’ asks Dan, once the cameras are rolling.

  ‘That’s right,’ replies John.

  ‘Well
, as you know, we have our antiques expert Digby on hand to tell us if any of these, er, heirlooms are actually worth anything.’

  At the mention of his name, an orange-skinned man wearing a pinstripe suit and a bow tie moves into shot. He shakes everyone’s hands, then casts a knowledgeable eye over the assembled objects.

  ‘What do you reckon, Diggers?’ says Dan, as John and Susan gaze on expectantly.

  Digby picks up a Charles and Diana commemorative wedding mug and holds it reverentially up to the light, as if he’s just stumbled across the Holy Grail.

  ‘Well, it’s too early to tell, but these, for example, are very collectible.’

  ‘Great,’ says Dan, turning back to the unhappy couple. ‘And what are you hoping to do with the money?’

  John speaks up first. ‘We want to buy a new car.’

  ‘Or perhaps do up the house,’ says Susan.

  John doesn’t miss a beat, and picks up a photo of his parents. As he gazes at it, the camera zooms in to catch the tears welling in his eye. ‘It’s what they would have wanted.’

  Dan turns back to camera. ‘Okay. But will it be a new Porsche or a new porch? We’ll let Digby get on and do his stuff. Join us after the break, and remember, where there’s a will…’

  ‘There’s a way!’ shout the assembled crew, somewhat unenthusiastically.

  ‘Cut,’ shouts the director. ‘Take five, everyone.’

  Dan ambles over to where I’m standing, looking a little disgruntled.

  ‘Bloody amateurs,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘Well, I liked your ad-lib,’ I say. ‘Very funny. New director, is it?’

  ‘No, these people we work with every week. The “public”. They sniff a few times in the right places but quick as you know it they’re ready to bin the sentiment, flog the family jewels, and spend the cash. I sometimes think the only thing they really want is to be on TV.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ I decide not to point out to Dan the irony of what he’s just said. Apart from his constant pursuit of the opposite sex, his whole life is dedicated to increasing his screen time.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here? You haven’t got the sack as well?’

  ‘I should be so lucky. No, Natasha’s given me the day off. Thought I’d try and sort out a few things. You know, work out where to start.’