Six Months to Get a Life (15 page)

I have spent the last couple of days filling in application forms and feeling sorry for myself. Dave provided a welcome distraction last night when he invited me out for a beer.

Over the first few pints we concentrated on Dave’s problems. It turns out that Louise only wanted rock and roll for a fortnight whilst her librarian went to study some ancient Peruvian temples. As soon as he landed back at Heathrow, Lou was there waiting for him with open arms – and open legs too according to Dave. You have to give it to her, she has got some chutzpah. Dave has now been ditched twice for a librarian. It was quite refreshing to be able to laugh at someone else’s life for a change rather than him taking the piss out of mine.

We then went on to my issues. I told Dave first about Amy. He was impressed that I had found myself someone that sounded so classy. I then told him about Julia and the episode the other night.

‘Bloody hell mate, I didn’t think you had it in you,’ was Dave’s considered comment on the subject.

When I asked him what I should do about my situation, he asked me whether there was likely to be a repeat of Saturday night with Julia. ‘No way,’ I told him; it’s Amy I want to be with, not Julia.

‘Then just don’t tell Amy and you’ll be fine,’ he advised.

I wish it were that simple. I have never really understood the term ‘wrestle with your conscience’ before. I do now. My conscience is beating the living daylights out of me every time I think of Saturday night.

‘Chill out Graham, no one’s died,’ was Dave’s final word on the subject as we stumbled out of the Brook at chucking out time.

The two of us were so wrapped up in our women problems that we managed to totally miss one of the most amazing football matches ever. Germany’s seven-goal thrashing of Brazil totally passed us by.

They are offering me an extra month’s salary ‘in recognition of your exemplary commitment to the firm over the past ten years’. Well that’s nice. That just about gives me enough redundancy money to live on until September. Or maybe October if I cut my maintenance payments to my ex.

The letter from Michelle also officially put me on ‘gardening leave’. I thought only football managers and highly paid executives who held company secrets got put on gardening leave. But I didn’t argue the toss. I’ll gladly take the leave. Even if I haven’t got a garden.

To celebrate receiving this letter, I wrote a goodbye email to work:

That is called burning bridges.

Except for the odd sporadic visit for a cup of dad’s hot chocolate or a piece of cake on their way home from a school function, the boys haven’t been to the flat much in the past fortnight. They tell me they have had things on but until they came to stay this weekend I was beginning to wonder whether they were avoiding the flat. They are away with my ex next weekend too so I was determined to make the most of this weekend.

Their exams have now all finished so there was no homework to be done, no annoying distractions. The boys and I could spend some quality time together. I was thinking of dropping the dog off at my parents’ and going to the beach for a day, or maybe doing something less ambitious like a trip to the cinema. When I asked the boys what they wanted to do, they told me they wanted to paint their bedroom. ‘It’s boring, dad,’ Jack explained. ‘Who wants to live in a dirty grey bedroom?’ Maybe the flat was the reason I hadn’t seen much of them after all.

After a bit of debate over colours, the boys couldn’t agree on a uniform colour scheme so I nipped out to the shops and picked up two pots of paint. Jack is painting his half of the room sea blue. Sean opted for a virtually fluorescent orange. These two colours weren’t meant to be used in the
same room or even the same flat but so what. The landlord might moan but Albus can see him off.

More debates were had about where one half of the room stops and the other starts, but eventually we set out painting.

Lots of mess was made before the kids got the hang of how much paint to put on their respective brushes. We had some laughs along the way. Jack used his paint brush to write rude words over the wall. That was ok by me so long as the rude words were painted on Jack’s own side of the room with Jack’s own paint. When Sean used his orange paint to write ‘Jack is a penis’ on Jack’s sky blue side whilst Jack and I were out of the bedroom, things became a bit problematic. It was nothing a couple of extra coats of blue as the day went on wouldn’t cure though.

I was making lunch in the kitchen when I overheard a conversation between the boys in their bedroom (it isn’t a big flat). Jack was telling Sean that he liked being at my place because I was happy and didn’t snap at them all the time like I used to.

‘It’s because he is in luuuvvv,’ Sean announced.

‘I am not sure he is,’ Jack responded. ‘Lucy’s mum hasn’t talked to him in ages. She thinks he might have ditched her already.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Sean asked.

‘God knows. Because he is a prat. Who knows why dad does what he does.’

Who knows indeed. Who knows why I slept with Julia. Who knows why I haven’t pulled my finger out and phoned Amy. Actually I know. It is because I am ashamed of myself. But as Dave said, no one died. I need to get over it and move on. I left the chicken sandwiches half-made and went into my bedroom and phoned Amy.

I wasn’t sure I was capable of saying anything trivial without giving my indiscretion away so I launched straight in when
she answered. ‘Do you fancy going away somewhere with me next weekend?’ No ‘hello’, no ‘sorry I haven’t phoned.’

‘Are you offering to take me on a dirty weekend, Mr Hope?’ Amy asked.

‘No, er, um…’ I stuttered.

‘That’s a shame, I quite fancy the idea myself,’ she said. It turns out that Lucy’s dad is taking Lucy to Paris for the weekend to see some horse-related show so my timing was ideal. My parents used to take me to Bognor Regis if I was lucky.

I went back to making the chicken sandwiches with a smile on my face.

The boys are staying with me until school tomorrow. They wanted to watch the world cup final with me. Argentina, my sweepstake pick, played Germany. Germany won which didn’t bother me too much because I couldn’t have faced making another trip in to work just to pick up my sweepstake winnings.

So the destinations on the short-list for the dirty weekend were Bournemouth or Ambleside in the Lake District. I suggested Bournemouth because it is nearer and cheaper but Amy turned her nose up at spending a weekend away from her daughter in a place that would be teeming with kids. Fair enough. So Ambleside it is.

It occurred to me today that I had better do some shopping before we go. There was a little detail that I didn’t share last week about my encounter with Julia. When she was ripping my clothes off, she nearly changed her mind when she saw my ‘off-white’, fraying and saggy underwear. To be fair, I wasn’t anticipating having to display my Tesco three-for-a-fiver briefs to anyone else. It didn’t put Julia off for long but I don’t want to take the same chance with Amy.

My ex used to buy all of my underwear and I don’t think I have bought any nightclothes since, well, ever. So off I went to M&S (surely one step up from Tesco?). I thought about asking Dave whether I should go for briefs or boxers but he would have told all my mates down the pub so I decided not to go down that route. I even went as far as to google men’s underwear fashion before I went but I was still none the wiser about which I should go for. In the end I opted for
briefs – large, of course, as I couldn’t bring myself to go up to the pretty shop assistant holding anything other than large.

The boys came to see me this evening because my ex had to work late.

I was in the kitchen washing up when Jack called to me from the front room.  ‘Dad, is there something you want to tell us?’

‘What do you mean, is there something I want to tell you?’

‘You know, about your sex life?’

That stopped me in my tracks. What could Jack mean? Julia? Or maybe going away with Amy this weekend?

‘I can’t think of anything I want to tell you about my sex life, son,’ I said in as calm a voice as I could muster as I walked in to the front room to see what the boys were on about.

‘Did you split up with mum because you are gay?’ Jack asked. Where had that come from?

‘No, I am not gay,’ I responded, ‘whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Well, your sister is gay, and I just found these pictures of buff men in their underwear on your browser on your phone.’

I took the phone from my son. He was looking at my Google search for men’s underwear. I sighed with relief as I explained to him that I was buying new pants. Amy and I had elected not to tell our respective children about our planned dirty weekend. At that point I was glad that Jack
didn’t make the connection between my new underwear and my attempts to please Amy.

My boys and I had take-away pizzas for dinner – the ones Jack was supposed to be ordering when he was using my phone.

My dirty weekend with Amy didn't go exactly as I had planned.

I was quite nervous about the whole thing. Other than a few evenings drinking and a few strolls with our dogs, Amy and I hadn't spent much time together before this weekend. We had only kissed a couple of times. I haven't even been to her house. She hasn't been to my flat either but I don't mind that. Maybe it was a bit soon to be going on a dirty weekend?

Would I be able to hide my guilt from my adulterous escapade? Would we get on? Would we have enough to say to each other? OK, maybe those things weren't at the forefront of my mind. Would the sex be any good? Could I keep going for more than a minute? Would I manage more than once a day? Would we even have sex?

All these questions were bouncing around in my head as we travelled up to the Lake District in Amy's Porsche. I am not a real petrol-head but what bloke wouldn't look forward to travelling in a Porsche? Amy even let me drive. Driving the Porsche made driving in my crappy old people carrier feel like steering a motor scooter through treacle. A couple of times I had to put the brakes on quickly because I hadn't anticipated the power of the acceleration.

My driving experience didn't last long though. My contact
lens blew out on the A3 so we had to settle for roof up and Amy driving the rest of the way. That wasn't exactly the most auspicious start to the weekend. And things got worse as the M something-or-other was an effing nightmare. We were aiming to find a nice country pub somewhere a fair way north of Birmingham to have lunch. In the end we had to settle for a service station snack.

When we eventually arrived at the bed and breakfast, our first impressions were good. The view was spectacular. But that is about the best that can be said for the B&B. The worst that can be said for it is that the room only had twin beds. And they creaked, even when you just sat on them.

‘Do you want me to moan?' Amy asked.

Yes, yes, yes. It took me a while to work out that Amy meant complain to the manager about the twin beds.

In any event, by this point I wasn't feeling exactly horny. In fact I was feeling decidedly dodgy. Was it nerves? I don't think so. Nerves imply butterflies in your stomach. What I had in my stomach felt more like flesh-eating reptiles. I blame the pasty I had picked up from the service station. Maybe they should tax them more?

My first night with Amy should have been a thing of beauty. Instead I spent most of it trying to be discreet whilst throwing up or worse in the toilet. Amy was almost certainly glad of the twin beds in the end. She was also glad she had chosen a cheese sandwich rather than the pasty.

I was still feeling fragile in the morning and we were a bit late going down to breakfast. On walking in to the dining room, we were somewhat surprised to be given a standing ovation by a group of blokes sitting in the corner. A tad self-consciously we waved to them and got on with choosing our fruit juices – actually, water for me, on account of my dodgy stomach.

The establishment's proprietor, a buxom old goat with a
mischievous grin on her face, wandered over and asked us for our breakfast order. Once we had put in our requests she whispered to us conspiratorially. ‘Do you know, I haven't seen the chandelier wobble like that since the vicar and his wife came to stay in 1985.'

‘What are you talking about?' I asked.

‘Say no more, say no more,' she said with a nod and a wink.

A few minutes later a clinically obese couple waddled in for breakfast looking rather red-faced but contented. I pushed my solitary piece of toast aside and gave up on breakfast.

Amy made a decent job of hiding her irritation at being called on to be a nursemaid rather than a lover for the first day of our trip. Instead of tackling Helvellyn and Striding Edge we ended up sitting in tea rooms and putting our world to rights. ‘Do you know, you're the most gorgeous person I have ever spent the night with in the Lake District,' I told her.

‘How many people have you spent the night with in the Lakes before?' she asked.

‘Never mind that,' I told her.

‘Do you know, Mr Hope, you are the only man who has managed to keep me awake all night on a dirty weekend,' Amy responded with her tongue firmly stuck in her cheek.

With my recovery almost complete, we decided to walk to Troutbeck and have an early dinner in a pub. Our kids and dogs would have loved the walk but I confess I was quite happy without any unnecessary distractions.

We had a very pleasant early pub dinner. I ordered a jacket potato, the blandest thing I could find on the menu. As the bill arrived Amy went off for a loo break. Convenient timing. Anyway, whilst I got my credit card out I took the opportunity to give myself another pep-talk. ‘Come on Graham, pull yourself together. Get a grip and start showing your kahunas, metaphorically speaking at least. Think Ben
Affleck not Benny Hill; Billy Crystal not Billy no mates; George Clooney not George and Zippy. At the moment you are Hugh Grant without the charm or the looks – i.e. nothing. Come on, man up.' Churchillian stuff, even if I do say so myself.

‘Darling, I am feeling much better now,' I announced as Amy returned from the ladies. ‘Why don't we take a scenic walk back to our room and then see if we can stay awake all night for the right reasons?'

‘Sorry Graham,' Amy replied, looking disappointed, ‘I have just discovered Aunt Flo has come to visit earlier than I had expected.'

‘Aunt Flo? When? You didn't say anything about an Auntie visiting us in the Lakes?' I was confused by this unexpected development.

‘Aunt Flo, my time of the month. It must have been all that walking,' Amy clarified. I probably blushed slightly at that point. Another difference between my ex and Amy is that my ex called a spade a spade. She would warn me that her period was coming. Mind you, my ex didn't need to warn me because her mood swings gave me all the warning I needed.

Instead of a night of unrestrained passion, Amy and I shared a single bed. We did continue to get acquainted with each other but I won't go in to details.

Yesterday was a relaxing day. We spent it strolling around quaint little villages with the million other tourists. We must now be famous in Asia, having appeared in the background of hundreds of Japanese tourists' photos. In some ways, removing any possibility that we were going to have sex on our trip helped us, or at least me, to relax more on the final day of our stay.

All in all, despite the earth not moving, Amy and I had a
great few days away. Amy is great fun to be with. I feel like I have known her for years. I will miss her when she and Lucy fly off on their holidays on Wednesday. I also think I was a bit harsh when I likened her to Spurs. After spending more time with her this weekend, I am now thinking Liverpool at least.