Twenty Something (18 page)

I recover quickly.

‘Lancaster, Jack Lancaster. Just started here. We spoke on the phone.'

De Montfort takes my outstretched hand.

‘Pleasure to have you on board. Cripes, Jack — job's driven you to drink already, has it?'

I look down at the four bottles in my left hand. One of them is leaking into the cream carpet.

‘No, sir. Ha ha, sir. Sorry, sir.'

I went and hid in the kitchen for an hour and dreamed about having a proper, well-paid job in a large corporate bank.

My skill basket has been widened to include correspondence. Not sure if this signifies a promotion from tea-making,
wine-recycling and phone-answering, but it adds a bit of variety to the tedium.

De Montfort gets a postbag of well over a hundred letters per day. Some of these are from concerned, well-meaning pillars of society who just want to make a point:

‘Dear Mr de Montfort, I'm sorry to bother you as I'm aware that you're a very busy man. I wouldn't normally write to a public figure, but I've been driven to my wits' end and I don't know where else to turn '

However, the vast majority are from absolute nutcases:

‘Dear Mr Monty, Not many people are aware of this but Mr Blair is in fact an alien clone run by Martian puppeteers. I was wondering what the Conservative Party policy is on this distressing phenomenon '

‘Dear Mr de Montgomery, What are you going to do about the vast amount of dog faeces on the streets of Milton Keynes?'

These are often in green ink and can run to many pages. But the most distressing thing is that every letter merits a full and detailed reply. It's the same principle as being pleasant to all callers, however barmy. And we're not even allowed the pleasure of writing entertaining replies. We have to use a template for every conceivable scenario which leaves little scope for individual flair.

Dear [
name
],

Thank you for your letter of [
date
]. Mr de Montfort has asked me to reply on his behalf.

I was interested to read your views on speed cameras/Europe/asylum seekers/dog faeces/Martian puppeteers.

As Conservatives, we [
insert policy template
]

[
insert personal message, if appropriate
]

I hope we can count on your support at the next election.

Yours sincerely,
Kimberly Dimsdale
Private Secretary to Rt Hon Alexander de Montfort MP

This is then photocopied for the file (by me) and posted using taxpayers' money (by me). And they wonder why they don't have enough money to pay me.

Jean phoned but I was too scared to answer. She left a voicemail.

‘Hi Jack, it's Jean. Remember me from Claire's party? Sorry I've taken ages to get back to you. I've been away on holiday. Anyway, I'd love to have a drink sometime. Sunday is definitely the new black, but guess it's a bit last minute now. How about this Wednesday?'

Wahey, she sounds like a nice girl.
Was too scared to ring her back, so texted instead. We're going for a drink on Wednesday.

Had a truly huge number of weirdos phone me up in the morning at work.

One batty old lady: ‘Hello. Is that Mr de Montfort?'

‘No, but you're through to his office. Perhaps I can help?'

‘Oh, Mr de Montfort, what an honour to speak to you personally.'

‘Sorry, this isn't Mr de Montfort. I'm one of his researchers (
sounds better than “unpaid tea-maker
”). What can I do for you?'

‘Oh, Mr de Montfort, how are you? I saw you on telly last night. You were magnificent.'

‘Listen, I'm not him, OK?'

‘Oh, Mr de Montfort, you do sound sexy when you raise your voice.'

I heard a titter at the end of phone. The batty old lady was Flatmate Fred. The bastard.

‘Fred, fuck off.'

‘It was my flatmate,' I explained, as Arabella looked over quizzically in my direction. ‘Bit of a japester.'

Five seconds later and the phone rang again.

‘Look, Fred, please just fuck off, I've got work to do Oh, Sir Geoffrey I
am
sorry, we've had a host of prank callers Yes, I'll make sure that gets passed on to Mr de Montfort and I am sorry again for telling you to fuck off All's forgiven? Thank you very much, sir.'

Arabella shook her head in matronly disbelief as if I'd just pulled a thirteen-year-old at the gymkhana.

Dating day. I am entering the adult world of London singletons.

I've put on my lucky boxers, dabbed on some of the aftershave that Lucy gave me for Christmas, checked my free university condoms haven't passed their expiry date and I'm standing at a neutral, halfway tube station trying to look sophisticated and hoping I'll recognise Jean again when she walks past me.

But how do you look sophisticated when you're frantically scanning every face for signs of recognition? Do you lean against a pillar with your legs debonairly crossed, or does that make it look as if you're dying for the loo? Do you stand outside the station or in the harsh glare by the ticket barriers? Do you bring something to read while you're waiting for your date (she's bound to be late — it's her prerogative)? And, if so, what? A newspaper — nails your political colours to the mast. A magazine — too metrosexual. A book — what kind of idiot takes a book on a date?

I do.

Oh God. Isn't that her over there?

‘Jean?' I ask, waving my copy of
Paradise Lost
for no particular reason.

‘Er, no.'

Damn. The girl who wasn't Jean was very attractive. I start chatting to the other guys who are also loitering in their lucky boxer shorts — the hordes of the desperate and the great unwashed, scrubbed up for the evening.

But when the girl who is Jean finally turns up, I'm so deeply embroiled in composing a text to Flatmate Fred about the fit girl who wasn't Jean that I miss the girl who is Jean altogether. And, just as I'm leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, the fart that I've been trying to suppress for twenty minutes escapes noisily.

It's an inauspicious start to the second stab at creating a good first impression.

But things pick up from here. The conversation begins to flow — not that it really seems to matter on a first date. It's just background white noise while you try to work out if you fancy each other or not.

But it's not really going anywhere. Perhaps some more booze? I bought some food in the pub and the first round, but she makes no move to return the favour. Can I offer another round or does that appear desperate?
I am desperate
. Will she think I'm trying to get her drunk? I
am
trying to get her drunk. But no, she holds out resolutely to the end, nursing her double G&T for three hours like it's a newborn child.

And so it comes to the awkward little walk back to the tube station, the pause, the ‘I-had-a-lovely-time moment', the launch for one cheek, and then the other, and then the split second when I wonder about throwing the face in and going for the lip jackpot.

I don't. It's a shoddy show. Now I'll have to wait a tactical two days and text her again.

Dating is crap. I want to invoice Jean for the
£
27.85 I spent on the two of us. And I still really want to shag Leila.

Claire (doctors 'n' nurses) rings.

‘Soooooo, how was your date with Jean?'

‘It was fun, yeah.'

‘Come on, you can do better than that. I want to know all the details.'

‘Come on, Claire. You're her girly best mate. She must have told you all the details already.'

‘We-e-ell, yes. So, do you like her, then? Isn't she absolutely stunning?'

What is it with girls and their friends? They always describe them as stunning even if they're the fattest, ugliest moose-bag ever to have set foot on the planet. Sure, Jean's not a moose-bag, but she's not ‘stunning' either.

‘Yeah, she's all right.'

Not a ringing endorsement, I know. Just not convinced that I'm cut out for this dating malarkey.

On a brighter note, it's Rick's stag party tomorrow. Given the short notice of the whole jamboree, I've limited the numbers to Rick, Jasper, Flatmate Fred and me. I've also eschewed traditional entertainments of eyebrow-shaving, French-maid strip-o-grams, Dublin piss-ups, paintballing, etc. in favour of a more genteel day out.

‘Sorry, where the bleeding bollocks are you taking me?' said Rick, somewhat ungraciously, when we arrived at his flat in the morning.

‘Cartier International Polo day in Windsor. I thought it would be a nice surprise.'

‘Well, it's a surprise all right. That's not even in Zone 6, is it?'

‘Come on, Rick,' chipped in Flatmate Fred. ‘It will be a laugh. Just imagine how many chinless tosspots we can laugh at. Jack's arranged a driver and a shedload of booze.'

‘And picture how proud Lucy will be when she finds out that you spent the day with royalty,' added Jasper.

Spot on, Jasper.
Rick was converted and we were soon heading west on the M4, swigging cheap champagne out of the bottle.

‘This is fantashtic,' said Rick, as the car swung into Windsor Great Park. ‘You are the most fanstashtic fwends in the entire world. Have I ever told you that?'

We walked through the rows of parked Ferraris and sports cars. Fuel injection penis substitutes on all sides.

‘So how does polo work?' asked Jasper.

Flatmate Fred: ‘Well, essentially what happens is that you get really drunk and then chat to fit girls by the side of the pitch. When the teams change ends, all the spectators get to walk on the pitch and replace the divots. This is called “treading in”. It's basically a way of mingling with more fit girls before heading back to the bar for the second half.'

‘Awe-bloody-some,' said Rick, ‘I like polo already.'

It was awe-bloody-some. We were in totty wonderland. Promotional girls in tight T-shirts and short skirts strutted their stuff. I have no idea what they were selling — probably more Ferraris — but they could have sold ice to Eskimos. It was paradise.

But by mid-afternoon Rick was getting restless.

‘Come on guys, I want to do something really crazy. This might be the last time we're all together like this. This is one of my last tastes of freedom, innit.'

Flatmate Fred: ‘Izzit. Rick, you're getting married, not joining a monastery, innit.'

‘It's my stag party and I'll say “innit” if I want to.'

‘OK, Rick, OK,' I simper. ‘Why don't we all get naked and run across the pitch?'

What am I thinking of? I am a responsible member of the private office of Her Majesty's Official Opposition. For God's sake, the Queen herself is here watching.

‘Jack, you're a bloody genius.'

‘Yes, marvellous idea, simply marvellous,' says a pink-shirted toff next to us.

‘Shut up, you toffee-nosed wanker. No one asked your inbred opinion.'

‘Isn't it rather cold for you boys?' giggles one of the promotional girls.

It was at least thirty degrees.

‘Right, that does it,' says Rick.

And the next thing I know the four of us are naked and ducking under the pitch's perimeter fence. There's not a thread on us and we're streaming towards the middle of the action. Rick is leading the way like a bucking young stag. I am the responsible best man bringing up the rear. And Jasper is just in front of Flatmate Fred, who appears to be struggling with a half-mast erection. There is a huge cheer from the crowd. Win the crowd and we will win our freedom. We are gladiators. We are the four naked musketeers. We're young, we're free and we're very, very drunk.

One of the horses looks so intimidated by Rick's approaching manhood that it whinnies and bucks its rider. Rick leaps on to its back and starts to trot towards one of the goals, his bits hanging down the saddle towards the crowd. Jasper and Flatmate Fred collapse in a heap of laughter and are dragged off the pitch by security guards. I manage to sidestep two other guards — the crowd roars again — before I am brought to the ground by a bone-crunching tackle. The crowd groans.

I'm a slain gladiator. I'm just being led off the pitch by the centurions when I hear a familiar voice in the front row of the corporate stands.

‘
Salve,
Jack Lancaster. What a delightful surprise. It was only the other day, if not the day before the other day, that I was
thinking to myself, open brackets, the managing director of a successful investment bank, close brackets, I wonder what young Lancaster is doing to advance his
curriculum vitae
these days.
Et voilà
, it would appear that we have an answer.
Ecce
, behold, bear witness: a trouserless Lancaster on the playing fields of Windsor.'

‘Mr Cox, you crapulent piece of manure. I was hoping I might see you again one day.'

‘Indeed. We must stop meeting like this — you with security guards restraining you, me with better things to do with my time. You have entertained the crowds. Leila Sid-day-bot-tome and I are entertaining clients. This, I'm afraid, is
vale
, if not
au revoir.'

And, rod a dog, there was Leila, waving and grinning from a pitch-side table while one of the bank's corporate clients stared at her cleavage. I looked down at my muddy and reticent Mr Happy and he winked back at me. Nothing for it — I was busted in more ways than one. I waved back to Leila and was led off to the police station for a reunion with the others and an official caution.

On balance, an excellent day.

‘How was your weekend?' asked Arabella, as I stumbled rather inelegantly into the office this morning.

‘Oh, you know, the usual,' I mumbled.