Twenty Something (13 page)

Most of all, I have learned that I want to be nothing like you in forty years time.

I believe that my official notice period is one month. However, if you expect me to spend another second in this dreary shithole that I have learned to call hell, you can think again.

I wish you all the best for what remains of your soulless, humourless life. In the hope that the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits, I now end our acquaintance.

Hugs,
Jack Lancaster

Another day mooching around at home.

‘She can't really want to be celibate, can she?' I ask Flatmate Fred.

‘If you're her only option, then, yes, probably.'

‘But it's sacrilege for someone as beautiful as her to be celibate. It's one big torment for all of mankind. It's a tragic waste.'

‘Jack, I'm trying to work.'

The irony of hard-working Flatmate Fred trying to shush Jack the slacker. He's perked up remarkably recently, giving himself six months to have a proper stab at his screenplay. He's waking up before 9.30am every day, washing regularly and not allowing himself to watch any daytime TV. He seems at peace with himself.

‘But, mate, maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe I should go back into work, make my apologies, get on with everyone and get it on with Leila. It won't be so unbearable now that Buddy's out of the picture.'

‘For bollocks' sake, Lancaster.' Flatmate Fred flings down his Biro in anguish. There are ink stains on his forehead. ‘Either you're having a quarter-life crisis or you're not. Make your
sodding mind up. Even if they don't sack you — which will take a miracle — the job's still going to stink as much as it ever did. Get out now while you still can. It might be easier to say something to Leila once you're no longer working with her.'

He's right. Of course he is. But it's hard leaving a routine, even one you hate. I've been utterly miserable loafing around at home doing nothing for the last ten days. I'm like a hostage who's grown affectionate towards his captors. All I've done on the outside is watch
Neighbours
twice a day in case I've missed anything in the plot the first time. Sometimes I long for my golden handcuffs and the pearly whips of the city slave galley. (
OK, let's not get carried away here.
)

Tomorrow is D-day. Tomorrow I walk through the door into a glorious future.

Slept through my alarm and didn't wake up until
The World at One
came on the radio. Decided that it was too late to start my glorious future today.

Watched
Neighbours
. Twice. And then bugged Flatmate Fred.

‘Fred, I've just realised that I've got a few days' paid holiday left this year. Perhaps I should take them first and then hand in my resignation.'

‘Listen up, arse-for-brains. How many messages have you had on your mobile from work in the last ten days?'

‘Er, about twenty.'

‘And how many of those have been pleasant, friendly ones offering you bonuses and promotions?'

‘Er, about none.'

‘And what did your last quarterly report say about you?'

‘That I'm undermotivated, lazy, idle, obnoxious, stubborn and almost certain to be made redundant before the end of the year.'

‘Isn't that enough for you?'

‘Well, Churchill and Thatcher had some pretty useless reports when they were at school.'

‘Yep, but so did Hitler. Face it. It's over. It's what you wanted. Hand in your notice, and we'll go and do something fun afterwards to celebrate.'

He's right. Tomorrow I walk through the door into a glorious future.

Glorious future D-day.

Turned up at work just before 9am dressed smartly with my resignation letter in hand. I was going to do this properly.

Suddenly realised I was far too scared to do it properly, so I opened the champagne which I'd brought along with me for afterwards. The tramp outside the office raised his bottle of meths to me in a friendly gesture.

‘Celebrating something?' he slurred, in a remarkably posh accent.

‘Kind of,' I mumbled. ‘Kind of celebrating being too scared to hand in my notice sober, in fact.'

‘Ah, my dear young chestnut. Come sit with me and we shall resound our gongs and clang our cymbals and speak in the tongues of men and of angels.'

I'm not sure I wanted his gong anywhere near mine. Or his cymbal either, for that matter. But I sat with him anyway — me in my pinstripes, him in his rags. It turned out that he used to be a stockbroker until he was made redundant two years previously. He had lost his wife, his kids, his house, his car and his gym membership along with his job.

But Tramp — we shall call him Tramp because I have forgotten his name — had lost none of his mental faculties.

‘Don't think for one minute that you're not doing the right thing,' said Tramp. ‘Don't let those bestial bastards grind you down. Snipe them before they snipe you. 5.45pm, you're the
last man in, eighteen to make off the final over. Matron's arms are tightly folded under her heaving bosoms on the boundary. Father's come down to watch for the day. Play up, my boy, and play the game. Front foot forward. Jolly well give them what-for.'

I slugged the last drops of my jeroboam of champagne. It was time. It was 11.17am, in fact. It was now. I was padded up and ready for battle.

‘Thanks, Tramp,' I slur, although I think I could still remember his name at this stage.

‘Don't mention it, my boy. Don't mention it. Just do more with your freedom than I did with mine.'

He struggles to his feet and stands stock still like an umpire at the crease, left arm raised at right angles to his body. He brings it down to his side.

‘Right arm over. PLAY,' he booms.

I take a running leap at the security barrier while Tramp diverts the guard. The barrier is ten metres away. Seven sprinting strides and I take off, my left arm angled forwards towards my outstretched left leg, my right leg tucked underneath me. I am Sally Gunnell. I am an Olympic athlete.

Thwack! I am a nob.

But I roll out of my crash-landing and I'm in the lift heading up to my floor — the fifth.

The lift doors open and I stand there in front of an open-plan office, my arms and legs akimbo, my head raised heavenwards. I am like a
deus ex machina
in the final part of a play who's been slowly elevated on to the stage to save the day.

The room is quiet. I spring into action.

‘You're all fuckers,' I intone in a deep Shakespearean bass. ‘Collectively and individually, morally and spiritually, personally and socially, you all have first-class degrees in fuckdom.'

Everyone — that's almost fifty people — is looking at me. I am so drunk that I'm on the verge of passing out, but I still have a vague notion of how ridiculous I must look to everyone else. I carry on regardless.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the pissing jury, I present to you exhibit A for my fuckdom thesis — David. Negative equity going through the floor, hasn't pulled for months, hasn't shagged for even longer. Spends his evenings in Boujis trying to impress girls on their gap years by buying them crap champagne. Exhibit B – Geoffrey. Married for fifteen years, his wife is cheating on him with her personal trainer. Both his kids are being bullied at school and he still can't get his golf handicap below nineteen.'

I move around the office picking on other hapless and innocent individuals. People are laughing — some of them are even laughing with me.

I end up near my own desk. Leila is looking at me in absolute astonishment. A rapid calculation of her look says: shock (70 per cent), amusement (20 per cent, embarrassment (5 per cent), pity (3 per cent), love (2 per cent). It's a poor ratio.

I jump on my desk for the grand finale.

‘In conclusion, my beloved former colleagues, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to Jack Lancaster. He advises that you all find a mirror and have a word. He would like to close with a song.'

I'm just fumbling with my shirt buttons and launching into the first verse of ‘You Can Keep Your Hat On' when Rupert (bald) and two security guards pull my legs from under me and restrain my hands behind my back.

‘All wight, all wight, Wupert. You can keep your hair on.'

Another titter goes up round the office. I don't think they've had this much fun for years. Buddy tries to start a chorus of ‘Go, Jackie! Go, Jackie!' No one joins in. He gives me the thumbs-up and I reward him with a grin.

At which juncture, Mr Cox slides across the floor from his corner office.

‘
Quo vadis,
Mr Lancaster? Your appearance, like foie gras, is a rare and exquisite pleasure. Pray, what brings you here? And what do you have between your grubby paws? A letter, if I'm not mistaken.'

‘Piss off, you crapulent old fart.'

‘Oh Jack, how vulgar. Vulgar and erroneous. I work here; you do not. I am
in situ
; you are
ex officio
. I am the managing director; you are nobody. Ergo, I suggest that
I
remain and you “piss off”.'

Faultless logic. I look down at my desk and notice that all my belongings have been swept into a single black bin liner. The bilious remains of four years of my life.

‘Right you are, Mr Cox, you flatulent segment of lower intestine. Here is my resignation letter, ergo I'm resigning.'

Mr Cox opens the letter with a small silver knife. His brow furrows as he reaches the second paragraph.

‘What's an
Arschgeige
, Jack?'

‘That's you, Mr Cox. German for “arse-fiddler”.'

‘And
gilipollas
?'

‘Spanish for “dickhead”. Also you.'

The whole office is still listening and tittering.

‘My goodness, what a talented linguist you are.
Manyak
?'

‘Arabic for “wanker”.'

He reads on, tutting about a misplaced comma in the third paragraph.

But then his good humour appears to desert him. Turning to the security guards, he says in a dangerously quiet voice, ‘Get this little turd out of my sight.'

I am man-handled — foot-dragging, expletive-hurling — towards the lift by the two brutes. I wriggle free just long enough for a parting
Braveheart
moment.

‘Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedom.'

The windows shake. Leila runs up to me.

‘Jack, go quietly, please. And ring me when you've sobered up.'

‘Leila, I love you. I fucking love you.'

She reddens. I can't tell why.

‘No, you don't, Jack. Just go.'

She turns away.

‘Who is coming with me?' I yell, as the guards grab hold of me again.

No one is coming with me. I'm not as good-looking as Jerry Maguire.

‘They can take your P45s, but they can't take your freeeeeeeeeeeedom.'

I am bundled into the lift and then into a waiting taxi. I hold tightly on to my bin liner, my head seemingly unattached to my neck as it nods backwards and forwards. As the taxi draws away, I see Tramp struggle to his feet and salute me. I salute him back and he grins from ear to ear.

I wind down the window and I can just make out his ringing plummy tones.

‘That's the over. And stumps.'

Indeed, I think it is.

Daddy, the solid man-mountain of integrity and bonhomie, came up to visit me in London. We went out for dinner in a quiet restaurant in St James's. I love it when it's just the two of us together.

‘Your mother's well. She sends her love.'

‘That's great. Send it back.'

Daddy frowns.

‘No, I don't mean it like that. I mean, send her my love, too.'

‘Ah, I will. So, how's work?'

‘Hmm, there's something I've been meaning to tell you.'

He listens patiently while I give him an edited version of the last three weeks. I expect him to hit the roof, but he's smiling. When I get to the bit about Tramp, he breaks into a broad grin.

‘Jack, I'm the proudest father in the world.'

‘You're not utterly ashamed of me?'

‘No, I'm the proudest father in the world. You were so excited when you first got that job in the bank, but I always had
misgivings about it. I didn't want to watch my eldest son grow into a city boy. It just wasn't you. The people there weren't your people. You're so much better than that.'

Am I? I'd like to be
.

He continues: ‘So, what are you going to do now?'

‘I have absolutely no idea. I'm thinking about going travelling for a bit. Maybe do a bit of work experience somewhere. Find out what I really want to do. Find my purpose in life — you know, that kind of thing.'

He's smiling at me benevolently. I'm painfully aware of how immature I must sound to him.

‘Give it time. You'll work it out. But let's keep this from Mummy for a bit, shall we? You know what she's like. She loves telling the Gauges how much money you're Hold on, Jack, what's wrong?'

He's aware that I'm hurting before I am. Something in my face must have twitched. I can't keep it bottled up any longer.

‘Daddy, I think I've got a lump in my testicle.'

‘How long have you had that?'

‘Well, I've been aware of it since March, but I've been trying to ignore it.'

‘Jack, you can't do that. You've got to go and see someone. You have to nip these things in the bud. It's my biggest regret that Hang on; isn't that Rick Fielding over there?'

I look over there. It certainly is Rick. There's no mistaking that ginger bob.

‘And isn't that Lucy he's with?'

It is.

‘Hmm, that's interesting,' says Daddy.

It certainly is. Rick's holding her hand and kissing her delicately on the nose across a plate of oysters. She's looking sufficiently aroused not to require the aphrodisiac.