The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook Read online

  ‘So why this new healthy regime?’ she asks.

  ‘Dan’s idea. He seems to think I’ve got a chance of winning Jane back.’

  Wendy looks a little surprised. ‘Really? Why? I mean, what did she say in her note?’

  I recount Jane’s letter, surprising myself that I seem to know it off by heart.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask, hopefully.

  Wendy smiles sympathetically at me. ‘I think if you love her, it’s got to be worth a try. Anyway, what can I get you? The usual?’

  Sadly, it’s time for me to try the unusual. I look back over to our table, where Dan, back from the gents, is typing away again.

  ‘Another glass of wine for Bill Gates over there, and I’ll have…What do you have that isn’t beer?’

  Wendy scratches her head. ‘Well, there’s wine, obviously, spirits, the usual array of soft drinks…Or how about a coffee?’ She points to a gleaming contraption behind the bar. ‘We’ve just got this brand new machine.’

  ‘It doesn’t have alcohol in it?’

  ‘Not the way I make it.’ Wendy walks over and presses a button, causing the front to light up. ‘What sort would you like?’

  I gaze at the impressive piece of machinery. ‘What kind do you have?’

  Wendy consults the laminated menu card. ‘Espresso, latte, cappuccino, mochaccino, frappuccino, latteccino…’ She looks up mischievously. ‘Al Pacino…’

  ‘Doesn’t it just do normal coffee?’

  Wendy stares at the array of buttons in puzzlement. ‘Probably. But I couldn’t guarantee it.’

  ‘Okay. Forget it. I’ll just have a glass of water, please.’

  Wendy switches the machine off, not a little relieved. ‘Ice? Slice of lemon?’

  ‘Oh, go on then. Push the boat out.’

  When I carry the drinks back to our table, Dan looks approvingly at my choice of beverage.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says, taking a sip of his wine. ‘So. The diet is one thing. How about the exercise part?’

  I light up a cigarette and inhale deeply. ‘Exercise?’

  Dan does a bad Michael Caine impression. ‘“You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape.” Yes, exercise.’

  ‘But I don’t know the first thing about exercising.’

  ‘Well, I’ll help you.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Unfortunately, I can’t think of a reason quickly enough. ‘What do you know about training someone?’

  ‘I keep myself in pretty good shape, don’t I?’ says Dan, tensing a bicep.

  Oh no. I can just imagine where Dan’s going with this. He’s probably already thinking of making his own workout video.

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘So let’s start tomorrow. I run most mornings. Why not come with me?’

  I hurriedly try and think of an excuse, as the idea of trailing along the seafront behind Dan hardly appeals.

  ‘Er, I’ve got to work,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, we’ll go before work then. That is, unless you’d rather stay in bed with…Oh no, she left you, didn’t she. Because you got too fat.’

  ‘All right. No need to rub it in. Tomorrow morning it is.’

  Dan grins at me. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. I expect you to be ready to go, in your sports gear.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’ll have to do something about the smoking as well.’

  I take a long drag and stub my cigarette out. ‘Okay.’

  Dan shuts his laptop. ‘That’s that then.’

  ‘Great. Only one slight problem regarding tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t have any sports gear.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Why would I? I don’t do any sport.’

  Dan sighs, and looks at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We should just about make it.’

  ‘Just about make what?’ I say, a little alarmed.

  ‘Late-night closing,’ he replies. ‘We’re going shopping.’

  7.46 p.m.

  We’re in Brighton Marina, where the shops stay open later than in Churchill Square, heading for Sports Shack, one of those large chains that’s always staffed by spotty adolescents, and frequented by people looking for the kind of running shoes that will only ever be used to run away from the police. We wander round for a few minutes, ignored by the assistants, until I accidentally knock over one of the trainer displays.

  A spotty adolescent materializes instantly. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need to buy some sports gear.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, disinterestedly, ‘you’ve come to the right place. For what sport?’

  ‘Er…I’m not actually sure.’

  ‘Fitness training,’ says Dan.

  The assistant gives me a look that seems to say ‘about time too’. ‘Second aisle on the left.’

  I follow Dan to the aforementioned section, where he walks up and down, passing me a selection of jogging pants and sweatshirts.

  ‘How do you know my size?’

  Dan doesn’t say anything, but just points to the label, where I can quite clearly see the letters ‘X’ and ‘L’.

  I pick up a sweatshirt with a hood, slip it on, and turn to Dan. ‘What do you think?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you planning to sell drugs on the street corner?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, take that off then.’

  Dan finds a pair of shorts, holds them up, looks round at me, then seems to think better of it, quickly putting them back on the rack.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Trainers. Size?’

  ‘Nine and a half.’

  He selects a pair of brightly coloured Nikes and throws them at me.

  ‘Catch!’

  I, of course, drop them, and nearly do again when I see the price. ‘Ninety pounds? For a pair of trainers?’

  ‘If you’re going running, it’s important to have good shock absorption. That’s what you’re paying for.’

  ‘So I don’t damage my knees?’

  Dan grins. ‘Or the pavement.’

  After I’ve staggered to the cash desk, and handed over the best part of two hundred pounds, Dan and I pile back into his car and head home.

  ‘See you in the morning, then,’ he says, as he drops me off. ‘Eight o’clock?’

  I grunt a reply, retrieve my bags from the boot of his car, and head inside, not relishing the prospect of the morning run, as even just carrying all my new gear is hard work. Once I’m sure Dan’s gone, I head out to the video store and rent Rocky III for inspiration, then on the way back buy a packet of cigarettes, a six-pack of lager, a large bar of Dairy Milk, and order a large meat-feast pizza with extra cheese. This is my farewell meal to the old Edward, my goodbye to all my old vices; and as I watch Stallone do his stuff I relish every mouthful, savour every drop, and appreciate each unhealthy puff, and when I’ve finished, I pack the rubbish into a large black bin liner, head off to bed, and sleep like a baby.

  Tuesday 18th January

  8 a.m.

  Suffice to say, I’m not feeling my best after last night’s indulgences, and I’m sitting on my bed, trying to work out how to lace up my new running shoes, when Dan rings the doorbell. In an attempt to be colour coordinated, I’m wearing my new red tracksuit on top of a red sweatshirt, which strains a little over my stomach.

  Dan snorts with laughter when he sees me. ‘Bloody hell, mate. All you’d need is a white beard and you’d pass as Santa.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Don’t you mean “ho ho ho”?’

  ‘Dan, please, it’s too early.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  While I pull my trainers on, Dan unzips his spotless Tommy Hilfiger top and does a couple of energetic stretches. Even though it’s a chilly January morning, he’s wearing shorts, no doubt to show off his muscular, hairless legs, which seem to be suspiciously
tanned given the time of year.

  ‘So, what’s the plan then?’ I ask him nervously.

  ‘Like I said. We’re going for a run.’

  ‘Which involves?’

  Dan sighs. ‘Well, it’s a bit like walking. Only faster.’

  ‘No, Dan. I meant where are we going, how far, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Need-to-know basis,’ says Dan, leading me out of my front door and down the steps.

  ‘Don’t we need to warm up or something beforehand?’

  ‘Nah. Best warm-up for running is running. Come on.’

  Dan hits the pavement and takes off at a light jog in the direction of the seafront, me following about five yards behind. By the time we reach the end of my road, I’m already starting to feel the pace, and it’s with some relief we have to stop at the crossing.

  ‘So…how…far…?’

  ‘See the cafe over there?’ says Dan, jogging on the spot as we wait for the lights to change.

  I look across at where he’s pointing, about four hundred yards away. That doesn’t look so bad.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, my usual run is past that, along to the marina, and then back.’

  ‘What?’ I say, horrified. ‘That took us ten minutes last night. Driving.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘In the car,’ I add, just in case he hasn’t got me.

  Dan looks at me with disgust. ‘Don’t be such a wuss. I thought you wanted to get fit?’

  ‘Fit, yes. Not train for the London Marathon.’

  As the green man beeps at us, Dan sprints across the road, followed by me at a somewhat more leisurely pace. My new trainers are already beginning to hurt.

  8.05 a.m.

  Brighton’s West Pier is a shadow of its former glory—a hulking, sagging wreck that’s losing the battle against the relentless tide and the passage of time. In many ways, it’s just like me this morning.

  For the next few minutes our ‘run’ consists of Dan alternately jogging forwards, then turning and sprinting back to where I’m hobbling slowly along. We get as far as the Angel statue that delineates the Brighton/Hove border before Dan turns around to see me in a state of near collapse. He jogs back over to where I’m fighting for breath by the side of the road.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asks, still hardly breathing himself.

  ‘Badly,’ I pant.

  ‘Come on. You’re bound to get your second wind soon.’

  ‘Second wind? I’m not sure I’ve even had my first one.’

  ‘Just try to keep it going.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I puff, my face the same shade as the rest of my outfit. ‘I’m flagging—’

  ‘I can see that,’ interrupts Dan, ‘but if you just keep moving…’

  ‘No. Flagging down a cab. To take me home. This is ridiculous. We’ve only been at it five minutes, and already every part of me aches.’

  Dan punches me playfully on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Edward. You know what they say: “No pain, no Jane”.’

  I shake my head, partly to keep me from further humiliation, but mostly to avoid any more of Dan’s awful puns on my girlfriend’s name.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, in between gasps for breath. ‘I appreciate you coming out with me this morning, but this just isn’t going to work.’

  Dan shrugs, starts to say something, and then is distracted by two attractive girls jogging past in the opposite direction. He looks at me, then at them, then back to me, a pleading expression on his face.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Fetch.’

  As Dan sprints effortlessly off in pursuit, I wait by the road for a taxi. The first two drive straight past, obviously reluctant to pick up someone who looks like they might expire on their back seat, but eventually one takes pity on me, and I climb awkwardly in, mumbling some excuse about having twisted my ankle while out jogging.

  It’s only a short distance back to my flat, but ironically I find myself realizing something. I’m actually at the beginning of a very long road.

  9.51 a.m.

  When I eventually limp into work, having decided that I can’t sit at home and mope around all day, unbelievably there’s an email in my inbox from Sally Hall. She’s still using the same surname, which suggests to me she’s not married, and when I nervously click ‘open’ there’s a phone number—her work number, I guess—and just one word: ‘Intrigued’. I call Dan for advice.

  ‘Well, phone her, dummy.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘That you’d like to meet up. And that it’s important, but you can’t tell her why over the phone.’

  ‘But what if she says no?’

  ‘She won’t. Trust me.’

  I put the phone down, and after I’ve steadied my nerves with a guilty cigarette, pick it up again and dial Sally’s number. Her secretary—she has a secretary—puts me through, and although I nearly bottle out when she asks, ‘Will Ms Hall know what it’s concerning?’ after a few seconds, Sally comes on the line.

  ‘Well, well. Edward Middleton. To what do I owe this honour?’

  I’ve not spoken to her for ten years, but recognize her voice immediately, even though it’s heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Hi, Sally. How are you?’

  ‘As I said in my email. Intrigued,’ she replies. ‘Nothing for ten years and then, out of the blue…’ She leaves the sentence hanging.

  We chat a bit, about people we knew at college mostly, and then I remind her that I need a favour.

  ‘So you mentioned. What kind of favour?’

  I clear my throat. ‘I can’t really tell you over the phone. But something’s happened to me, and I need your help. Can we meet?’

  Sally leaves a suspicious pause. ‘Okay. Just let me check my diary.’ There’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard, then, ‘How does Thursday next week sound to you?’

  ‘Can’t you do any sooner?’ I ask, conscious that my three-month clock is ticking.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ says Sally. ‘I’m away tomorrow on business. I don’t get back for a week.’

  So, not only does Sally have a secretary, she also has a job where she’s away on business. And for a week at a time. The closest I get to being away on business is walking to the end of Ship Street to post a letter.

  ‘Well, how about today? Lunchtime? It won’t take long.’

  Sally sounds hesitant, ‘I don’t think I can…’

  ‘Please,’ I say, putting as much urgency into my voice as I can muster. ‘It’s really important.’

  There’s an even longer pause, and then, ‘Fine. Somewhere public, though.’

  I have to think fast. She works in Pimlico, so… ‘How about Victoria Station? One-thirty? In front of WH Smiths?’

  Sally laughs. ‘Ooh. How romantic. And how will I recognize you?’ she asks, playfully. ‘Do you still look the same?’

  I’m about to laugh myself, and nearly tell her that that’s the point. Thinking about it, Jane doesn’t seem to recognize me any more, so why should Sally? My eyes flick to my waste bin, where yesterday’s Big Issue is still sitting, and I have an idea.

  ‘I’ll be carrying a magazine,’ I say. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see you at one-thirty, then,’ says Sally.

  As I put the phone down, it suddenly occurs to me that there’ll probably be rather a lot of people carrying magazines in the vicinity of Victoria Station’s biggest newsagent, and I’m wondering whether to call Sally back when a voice from the doorway makes me jump.

  ‘Making a date already?’ asks Natasha, who’s come in at the tail end of my phone conversation.

  ‘Not a date, exactly. More of a second opinion,’ I say, explaining Dan’s theory to Natasha. When I’ve finished, she shakes her head.

  ‘What on earth are you doing that for?’

  ‘I thought it might help me find out where I’ve gone wrong. And what I should be aiming for.’

  ‘But you’re assuming that Jane is still looking for the old Edward. The
one she met at college. Maybe her tastes have changed since then?’

  And while I worry that Natasha might be right, I don’t have anything else to go on.

  1.07 p.m.

  I’m sitting on the 12.19 to London, reading through the second copy of the Big Issue that I’ve had to buy from Billy in as many days, as, unfortunately, while I’d been nervously primping myself in the toilet, the cleaners had come and emptied my bin of the one I’d been planning to take with me. I’ve already had a dilemma about what to wear, but realized I’d left it too late to go home and change, so the jeans and jumper I wore into work today have had to do.

  I get to Victoria a little early for our rendezvous, so lean on the window outside WH Smiths and scan the crowd, trying to spot her. The station’s pretty busy, Smiths turns out to have two ‘fronts’ and, as I feared, there seem to be lots of people carrying magazines, so I’m wishing my choice of a meeting place had been a little bit more specific. Never mind how I’ve changed, will I still recognize her, I wonder? What does ten years do to any of us, unless you’re Dan and you dedicate your life towards the pursuit of youth? Female youth, that is.

  I’m a little nervous, I must admit, not to mention cold, and I’m cursing the fact that my leather jacket has seen better days, so I’m hopping about, trying to keep myself from shivering, while simultaneously trying to display my magazine as prominently as possible. All of a sudden, I hear a female voice.

  ‘I’ll take one of those. Your last one, is it?’

  I look up, startled, to find a pretty young girl standing in front of me. She’s dressed smartly, and holding a Starbucks cup in one hand. For a second, I think it might be Sally, but if so, she’s been spending even more time on her appearance than Dan.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘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.’