Scratch (4 page)

‘Okay, three.’

‘Wow, we
are
going back a bit, then.’

‘I believe I already acknowledged that fact.’

‘Right,’ Terry said, standing up. ‘I’m going to the bar while I think about this. You must have told me some stories about number three. Lager?’

I nodded, smiling to myself as Terry went to get the beers in. I knew for a fact I had never, not once, no matter how drunk I had been, told Terry a story about number three. It wasn’t a rule; it wasn’t something I ever had to remind myself of - I just didn’t talk about Paula, simple as that. Those memories were mine, alone.

I knew Terry would keep digging, but I wasn’t worried. I was about to change the subject.

I could see he’d been distracted by the sight of four youngish guys who burst noisily through the door and hurried to the bar. They all wore tracksuits emblazoned with a
Power Hut
logo, marking them as staff members from a nearby Gym I’d joined briefly the year before (it had only taken three sessions of beetroot-faced misery before I admitted my stupidity and cancelled the direct debit). Terry’s eyes hung on the four wistfully for a second as they ordered their drinks. They were, as far as my private deductions could tell, just his type - fit, young and without an ounce of body fat between them. The exact opposite of Terry himself, in other words, who readily admitted he could afford to shed a ton or two. Possibly his tastes would change when he finally entered the world of the out, but until that happened I supposed there was no harm in him fantasising, however subconsciously, about only physically perfect, above-average-in-every-way specimens. If he wasn’t going to do anything about it, he might as well not do it with good-looking guys.

‘So, number three. Was she the witch?’ Terry said as he sat down, spilling his pint all over the table in his haste.

‘Number five,’ I said. ‘And she preferred
Wicca
.’

‘The junior doctor?’

‘That was four.’

‘Okay, was she the—’

‘Terry, forget it. I’m handing in my notice tomorrow.’

That shut him up.

 
One of Terry’s chins wobbled as he stared at me.

I smiled and took a drink. ‘And for the first time in this nation’s history, Mr Terence Kendal is lost for words.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Oh yes.’ I was enjoying this.

‘Have you got another job?’

‘Nope.’

‘What the fuck are you going to do?’

‘Don’t have a clue.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘Simple,’ I said. ‘Because I’ve finally admitted I don’t have an adequate answer for the question
why not?
The closest I’ve got to happy since I was twenty-one is
too drunk to worry
, Terry. That’s a terrible state of affairs. I want another go at being an adult.’

‘But … you’ve got a mortgage.’

‘I know. Not a good enough answer.’

‘Debt!’

‘Fuck it.’

‘Food, beer, fags!’

Okay he had a point there, but I wasn’t for shifting. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

‘Which means you haven’t figured anything out yet?’

‘Not as such, but I’ll get there.’

‘I can’t believe you’re putting me in this position, Jim. This is really unfair.’

‘What?’

‘You’re making me be sensible, you’re making me be the one who says you’re being irresponsible. That’s harsh.’

‘Terry, I’ve come to the decision that utter irresponsibility is the only responsible course left to me.’

‘Well, when you put it like that.’

And so, we drank.

Four pints later, Terry said: ‘Are you sure you’re sure about this, Jim?’

‘As sure as I’ve ever been about anything,’ I slurred.

‘That’s not exactly saying much, is it?’

‘
Plossibly
not.’

‘
Plossibly
?’

‘Sorry.’

‘This is about number three, isn’t it?’

‘
Pfff
, don’t be daft.’

‘I may be stupid, but I’m not stupid, James my boy. I’ve figured it out. Number three was the one you met again a few years ago, wasn’t she? The one you tried to
rekindle
the magic with, and it didn’t work. Am I right? Am I right?’

‘No Terry, you’re not. That was six, then nine. Number three isn’t someone I’m ever going to meet again. Sorry to disappoint.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

I knew because I’d found out on my last date.

I had met an attractive girl called Judith at a work’s night out the previous year. It was one of those tragically choreographed evenings with quizzes and karaoke, but being relatively new to the company at that point, I was eager to make a good impression. Long story short - my team won the quiz, I did a Meat Loaf duet, and I got a phone number.

I plucked up the courage to call and Judith agreed to go out for dinner.

I suggested a posh (yet inexpensive) new restaurant in
Shawlands
. We met in the bar and it was all going well until we were ushered to our table. The waitress who ushered us was Paula Fraser’s big sister, Andrea. We recognised one another at the same time and, I’m ashamed to say, spent a good five minutes talking animatedly about Paula in the most positive of terms. I could probably have got away with it if I hadn’t answered Judith’s query of ‘who’s Paula?’ by saying:

‘
Aahh
, she’s my ex.’ The huge grin probably didn’t help.

Anyway, that’s how I learned Paula was happily married and running an English language school in Munich.

That’s also how I screwed up the most promising date I’d had in years. The remainder of the evening was spent exchanging the tiniest of small-talk. If memory serves, the tuna was lovely, the wine was pleasant, the potatoes were cooked to perfection and the both of us had to get up early the next morning.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Terry said.

‘What?’

‘It’s bourbon time, boy.’

‘No, honestly, Terry. I’ve got to think.’

‘Wild Turkey helps you think; Woodford Reserve is a proven brain aid; Maker’s Mark helps you make your mark.’

I loved them all, but this wasn’t the night. If ever I needed a clear(
ish
) head. ‘Just a tequila, salt and lemon, mate.’

Chapter 3

I rarely tended to do to-do lists at work, I found predicting failure depressing. I made an exception the next day, though the things I had to do had nothing to do with work, apart from the first one.

1.
   
Chuck job (try not to laugh in Patrick’s face)

2.
   
Total all debts, credit cards and loans

3.
   
Arrange valuation of flat

4.
   
Pray equity is enough to pay-off previously totalled debts

5.
   
Spend four week notice period planning what to do with rest of life

I resolved to get the first three tasks sorted out before lunchtime, thus giving me as early a start as possible on the last two.

‘Jim, can I speak to you in the office please?’ Patrick barely slowed as he strode past my desk, and made no attempt at eye contact.

‘I was about to suggest that very thing, boss.’ I sprang up and fell into step a few inches behind Patrick.

‘Oh, eh, okay.’ Patrick picked up his pace in an effort to put more distance between us. I adjusted my own speed accordingly.

At our last departmental training morning, the ‘enabler’ from the training company had insisted on doing a ‘personal space’ exercise. This involved half of us standing in a row against one wall while the other half faced us from the opposite side of the office. My row had to walk across the room towards our counterparts and they were to raise their hand and tell us to stop when they felt we had invaded their comfort zone. I ended up opposite Patrick. Everyone else got to within two or three feet of his or her colleague before being stopped. Patrick thrust out his hand before I was even halfway across the fifteen-foot space. Since then I had made a point of getting as close to him as possible during all our discussions.

He had to stop to open his office door, and went rigid as I walked into his back.

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Yes, okay, Jim.’ Patrick visibly squirmed as he pushed open the door and scurried to the safety of his office chair. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ I walked passed Patrick to the window behind his desk and perched on the sill, forcing him to twirl his chair round to face me.

‘I meant on the chair, Jim.’ Patrick waved a hand towards the plastic chair sitting four feet from the front of his desk, a tiny, orange island surrounded by the sea of his insecurities.

‘I’m fine here, thanks. Been on my arse all morning.’

‘James, please sit down. I have something I need to discuss with you and I would prefer that discussion to take place in a professional manner.’

I knew when to stop pushing it. I went back round his desk and took a seat. On any other day Patrick’s tone would have had me worried. Like my mother, he only called me James when I’d been naughty.

‘What’s up, boss?’

Patrick lifted a sheet of A4 from his desk but didn’t look at it. ‘According to yesterday’s end of day reports a piece of customer correspondence allocated to you for response is unaccounted for. What can you tell me about that?’

The distaste with which he said the word ‘unaccounted’ would have made it obvious he was a trained accountant even if I hadn’t already known. Patrick Barry was 31-years-old, with the mind of an 82-year-old and the body of a pre-pubescent 11-year-old. He was the only person I knew who still wore those blue striped shirts with the plain white collars. Rumour had it he wanted to be a virgin when he grew up.

‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘Sorry about that. After my wee episode yesterday I got a bit off track. I know the letter you’re talking about - Mr Fraser. It’s on my desk; I’ll get it sorted today.’

‘Make sure you do, Combined Utilities has a reputation to protect.’ Despite my to-do list I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Is something funny?’

‘Sorry boss, private joke.’ Patrick’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The scary thing was, he believed himself. He honestly did think that, despite the lies and subterfuges we were practically ordered by head office to employ to prevent or put-off customer refunds or admissions of culpability, as long as everything was logged and filed properly the reputation of the company would be protected.