Twenty Something (12 page)

‘Very good, Jack. And in what kind of bank do you work?'

‘An investment bank, Mr Cox.'

‘‘Excellent. A
Proxime accessit
answer, if not a First Class one. And what kind of banks close on a bank holiday?'

‘A high-street bank, Mr Cox?'

‘Eureka, young Lancaster.
Quod erat demonstrandum
. So why weren't you here yesterday?'

‘Personal problems, Mr Cox.'

‘
Plus ça change
. Pray, who was the lucky recipient of your youthful affections this time? Ms Sid-day-bot-tome?'

‘No, Mr Cox, a former girlfriend.'

‘Jack, what do I pay you for?'

It has not been an amusing week. I sent Lucy a very long email on Tuesday outlining a toned-down version of my thoughts from 2nd May. She still hasn't replied and time is running out for her to have a safe and effective abortion. I'm hanging on for Rick's return next Monday.

More depressing still, they appear to have given up censuring me at my work. Even my comic attempt at dress-down Friday today — ripped jeans, trainers and a T-shirt which said ‘Fcuk the system' — raised nothing more than a wry eyebrow from Mr Cox.

Bad things come in threes, I mused, as I went to bed with no plans for the weekend. First, Leila and Buddy. Second, a lumpy testicle. Third, a pregnant ex-girlfriend.

It's all plain sailing from here.

Or maybe it's
not
plain sailing.

‘No plans for the weekend' turned into a very long weekend with Flatmate Fred in Amsterdam. I smell, I'm tired and I've got horrendous memory loss. Even if I do decide to go in tomorrow, I'm not sure if I can remember where I work. I've been AWOL for three days.

It all started when we woke up at lunchtime on Saturday.

Flatmate Fred: ‘What shall we do this weekend?'

‘I rather thought I'd read the papers until mid-afternoon, shower, get dressed, go out, drink eight pints, get into a sissy fight and then crash and burn with half the female population of our great capital.'

‘Isn't that what we do every weekend?'

‘It's what I do every weekend. You do it every weekday, too.'

‘Ha, very funny. I just find that every week in London
merges into the next one. I can't think of a single weekend that's really stood out. Why don't we do something properly different this weekend?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know.'

We sat in contemplative silence for a while.

‘We could go to a museum.'

‘Five minutes' sustained thought and you've come up with that brainwave. You're a crazy party-pooper, Fred.'

Another longer silence.

‘Jack, do you have a passport?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right, line your stomach. We're going to Amsterdam.'

And so we did.

Amsterdam is truly the armpit of Europe (and it's an unshaven smelly one, too). I'm told there are nice parts, but we stuck to the fun areas with entire streets of small windows lined with semi-clad women. It was like the Hammersmith Palais, but more honest (and probably marginally cheaper). The eldest, fattest women were placed at the end. Flatmate Fred coined the term ‘last-window girl'.

We tried to assimilate ourselves slowly into the culture by having a Coca-Cola in an English pub. It seemed a safe bet — we hadn't banked on the barman making us clarify what we meant by ‘coke'.

So we decided to go and get stoned. I'm sure the coffee-shop tenders could spot the novices a mile off. We were the ones sidling up to the bar and mumbling, ‘I'd like a, y'know [
cough
], joint, if that's OK.' ‘Which joint do you want?' ‘Shh, not so loud — there might be teachers around,' etc., etc.

But, once we'd convinced ourselves that we weren't going to be writing out lines in detention, we were the happiest people in the world. Flatmate Fred was spouting lines of pure golden comedy. ‘Last-window girl — rahahahahaahaha.' My left testicle stopped aching, I stopped worrying about Lucy and I
had a warm, glowing feeling that I was going to end up with Leila.

I still had this warm, glowing feeling on Sunday evening, so we decided to stay a little while longer. Work and Mr Cox could take a running leap. The next two days passed in a contented blur. Some events stand out clearly; I remember the ‘only gay pancake shop in Amsterdam' very vividly. (How do you have a gay pancake shop? It's like having heterosexual recycling bins.) Other events merged into a confused collage. Others still, flowed past, unrecognised and forgotten. The whole experience felt like a few minutes. It also lasted an eternity.

It was all perfect until this morning, when Flatmate Fred decided it would be a good idea to try a hash cake. I ate one and it had no effect. So I ate another. And then a third. No one told me that it takes a little while to get into your system. I smoked another joint to ease the process along.

Forty minutes later, I passed out in the loo. Flatmate Fred had to help me back to the hostel dormitory, where I spent three hours lying on my bed convinced that the slumbering backpacker opposite was going to axe me if I took my eye off him for a second. Paranoia spread all over me. I was pulling the whitie of the century. I could feel panic rising up my legs. It reached my waist. I had to stop it getting up to my vital organs or it would kill me. I had to concentrate. The walls were flying in at me, laughing at me, mocking me, crushing me.

I couldn't hold on to a thought for more than a split second. They rushed madly through my brain; wild dislocated connectors. Leila — Buddy — American — New York — apple — Garden of Eden — sex — Rick — baby — Lucy — abortion — sin — Bible — school — Daddy — Mummy — New Year's resolutions — tosspot — Buddy — Leila, etc., etc., all in half a second. I couldn't slow them down. It was like an internalised game of Timmy Mallett's Mallet on speed.

I started to sing softly to take my mind off impending death.

‘Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any hash?'

‘Sleepen or fuck off,' gargled the axe murderer.

I couldn't sleepen. It was time to fuck off. Pulling myself together, I found Flatmate Fred and bought a very expensive ticket back to London to face the music of pregnant ex-girlfriends and irate bosses.

Not the most auspicious date of the year — I decided it would be bad luck to go into work today. Actually, I decided it would be bad luck to go into work yesterday as well, but that's beside the point.

I'd deliberately left my mobile behind when I went to Amsterdam. When I came back, there were over twenty texts and voicemail messages waiting — one friendly text from Claire (doctors 'n' nurses) arranging a drink, one from Katie (first Valentine's card and Rick's twin) asking me to the theatre (she must have forgiven me), one from Daddy asking about the Lucy situation, four from Leila showing an increasing level of concern about my absence, one mocking voice message from Buddy, three irate from Rupert (bald), five whingeing from Lucy and one and a half from Mr Cox.

New message, received Wednesday, 12th May, at 10.52am:

‘
Salve
, Jack.
Deo volente
, this is Jack. My message was prefaced by a somewhat mechanised-sounding lady. Pray, are you courting her as well? What a busy life you lead. Too busy, it would appear, to come into the office This is Mr Cox Rupert Boscawen, who, as you no doubt will not be unaware, is your line manager, has informed me that you have not turned up for three days. Are you dead? Are you
in rigor mortis
? Might we dare to expect a resurrection at some point in the'

Beep. End of message.

New message, received Wednesday, 12th May, at 10.56am:

‘Lancaster, this is Mr Cox again. That bloody woman cut me off. Contact me as soon as you get this. You're in a mountain full of excreta.'

Charming.

There was also a text from Rick.

‘Easy mate, Rick here, innit. Where the hell are you? We really need to talk, izzit. R.'

Rick was right. We really did need to talk — me in English; him in Rick-speak. Right away.

I couldn't face the forced jocularity of the Friday-night crowds: the wretched office workers who'd been waiting for their weekly chance to hit expensively themed bars and forget that they hated their colleagues almost as much as the jobs they were bitching about with them.

So I went over to Rick's flat in Angel. I gave him the summary of what Lucy had told me. And I told him how I felt about it.

‘Izzit. That's exactly why I had to talk to you, Jack. That baby could equally well be mine.'

‘But she told me you guys used a condom.'

‘We did. A lemon-flavoured one, in fact.'

The vague notion of my best mate sleeping with my ex-girlfriend was just about OK. The specifics were far from OK.

I soldiered on.

‘So what happened?'

‘It broke, innit.'

Not only did Rick sleep with Lucy; his cock is so big that it shatters johnnies. How inadequate do I feel?

‘And you didn't tell her?'

‘No, I assumed she was on the pill. Thought she made me wear the johnny in case I caught any nasty diseases off you.'

‘Cheers, Rick.'

‘So what are we going to do?'

‘Fuck knows.'

If only ‘Fuck' did know.

Deciding that Friday 13th was no day to go about making life-changing decisions, we played five hours of FIFA football on the Xbox instead.

Am not convinced that either of us is sufficiently mature to be a father.

Still haven't been into work post-Amsterdam. I think I have hit upon the perfect way to get sacked — don't turn up. This is a great deal easier than showing my face and performing elaborate ruses with email footers and trade union postcards. The only irony is that I can't be sacked without a written warning, and they don't have my home address to give me one. I find this incredibly amusing.

Leila finds it less amusing. Because she's supremely fit, I'm always willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She came round for a drink this evening.

‘Jack. Oh Jack, Jack.'

I love it when she says my name.

‘Jack, I thought something serious had happened to you. What on earth is going on?'

‘I'm so sorry, Leila. I should have told you everything.'

So I told her everything. Everything about Lucy and Rick and Amsterdam, at least. The bit about wanting to wrap her up into a cute little bundle of perfection because I like her so much — that I left out.

‘That's awful. Oh, God — poor you. But you can't let Lucy ruin your life and your career. You've got to come back to work. You don't really want to leave, do you?'

‘Leila, we've had this discussion a thousand times. You know how much I hate working there. You know I have to move on.'

‘I'm sure if you apologised now, they would forgive and forget.'

‘Forgive and forget? Mr Cox? Now come, Leila Sid-daybot-tome, I don't think it would be amiss of me to suggest that the man has neither forgotten nor forgiven anything in his life.
Mea culpa
is not his favourite Latin expression.'

‘Oh Jack, you're so funny.'

Yes, I am rather, aren't I?

‘Please come back to work and entertain me.'

‘You don't need me, Leila. You've got Buddy. Three's a crowd. Too many bankers spoil the broth, etc.'

‘Too many bankers spoil everything, Jack. And Buddy? Well, if you'd deigned to pop into the office at some point during the last ten days, you'd know that we've split up.'

Oh Frabjous day. I'm chortling in inner joy.

‘Oh, Leila, I'm so sorry to hear that. That's awful. Poor you.'

Can I give her a hug? Of course, I can — it would be rude not to.

I can feel her breasts against my chest. It feels very nice. Very nice indeed. Hmmm, have to break away now.

‘Yep, the office is hell,' she sniffs. ‘Everyone knows about it. All he wanted was sex, and now he's bad-mouthing me to everyone.'

‘I'm so sorry. What are you going to do?'

Now is the time, Lancaster. Now is the bloody time. Tell her how you feel, you arse.

‘I'm going to tough it out. I've done nothing wrong. And I'm also going to be celibate for a very long time. Men are crap.'

She's not wrong. None of us deserves her.

‘Sure, most of us are.'

‘Not you, Jack. You're different. You're a good friend. Well, if you do have to leave, can't you just go quietly? Hand in your notice like everyone else?'

‘I think it's a little too late for that, Leila. I plan to enjoy myself along the way.'

‘You're a funny one,' she says. ‘I guess that's why I like you.'

She reaches up and kisses me very delicately on the cheek and then skips out.

Spent the weekend composing my resignation letter. I know there's no possible way that they're not going to sack me, but I'd like to nip in there so I can say I dumped them first.

I'm rather pleased with it. It goes like this:

Dear Mr Cox,

I'm delighted to be able to inform you that I am handing in my notice. I trust that this news is neither surprising nor unwelcome. I hope that this letter makes up for that.

You are a fat tart, an
Arschgeige
, a
gilipollas
, a
manyak
, an
espèce de salaud
and a nob-jockey of the premier rung. You are a pitiful excuse for a human being. You were the last to be picked in the playground. Your mother — if, indeed, you have one — swims out to troop ships.

However, I would like to thank you for giving me the unique opportunity to start my career with Citicorp. I have learned many things. I have learned how to lie, how to deceive and how to flatter. I am au fait with hypocrisy, fraud and selfishness. You have taught me greed, envy and boredom. I am skilled in meaningless apologies, time-wasting and email banter.