Twenty Something (28 page)

‘What about me?' said Mummy. ‘I've barely touched a drop. I'll take the whole lot of you there.'

So we jumped into her car and hared up an empty M4 towards West London. My mum's face was alive with excitement behind the wheel.

‘I haven't been to a birth for ages,' she beamed.

We left the car on a double-yellow line outside the hospital. Brother Ben scribbled a quick note of festive goodwill to any passing traffic warden.

We tore through the corridors of the hospital until we found the maternity ward. Rick was there, anxiously pacing up and down, while Flatmate Fred, Jasper and Katie tried to soothe him.

‘Are we too late?' inquired my Mum anxiously.

‘I'm not sure, innit,' said Rick, resorting to vernacular in his stress. ‘She wouldn't let me in. Told me to get the beeping bloody sodding hell out, in fact.'

My mother laughed.

‘I'm not surprised. I said far worse to Jack's father.'

A nurse popped her head round the corner.

‘You can come in now.'

‘What, all of us?'

She went back to check. I could hear her giving quick descriptions of us all.

The head reappeared.

‘Yes, all of you.'

We filed into a room where Lucy was cradling a tiny boy with flaming ginger hair. Rick ran over to kiss them both, dropping to his knees beside them. Katie went over, too, and kissed her nephew.

Lucy looked up and smiled.

‘I'm going to call him Charles,' she said to my mum.

I managed to persuade Leila to take time off between Christmas and New Year, which we've spent happily in the countryside — walking the dog, watching crap TV, having sex and playing Monopoly (a game she approaches with a vicious competitiveness a bit like sex).

‘You're a horrible little capitalist, aren't you?' I said this afternoon, as she repossessed my remaining houses.

‘Yep,' she replied, grinning. ‘Which is why we kind of complement each other. I'm the banker with the financial capital. You're the impoverished teacher who makes up my moral deficit.'

‘Indeed,' I agreed. ‘No one's perfect.'

In fact, nothing is ever perfect
, I mused later when Leila fell asleep in front of the fire and I sat there staring at her, thinking that she combined the independent-minded elegance of a cat with the frivolous affection of a puppy.

Enough!
I thought in horror.
No more of this slushy sentimentalism.

I realised that, ever since I've known her, I've put Leila on a pedestal of obsession which had little to do with Leila and everything to do with the construct that I'd created around her.

The reality now is a little more prosaic, but no less exciting. She has her faults; just as we all do. Anything might happen tomorrow. We're twentysomethings. But, for now, I'm happy with today.

‘What kind of tosspot plans on spending New Year's Eve with his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend's one-week old son, his best mate who's married to his ex-girlfriend, his
homosexual ex-flatmate and his homosexual ex-flatmate's current flatmate and boyfriend?'

‘Ah, Brother Ben. So young and so naive. Enjoy whichever one of your forty-two parties you decide to go to.'

It's ten minutes to midnight at Rick and Lucy's flat. Charles Fielding is happily asleep in his cot.

I go to the loo, take out my mobile and scroll idly through the phone book. This is my world, my external vital organ, my own little paradigm of names and numbers which lives its days next to me, and spends its nights, silenced, recharging its batteries on my bedside table while I recharge mine.

I count 209 names: 170 friends, 23 colleagues or former colleagues, 7 family members and 9 people I have no recollection of at all. There are 80 girls. I've pulled 30, slept with 7 and been out with 3.

‘I love you.' I tap out the little phrase into my phone. Scarcely Byronic in its flowing loveliness. Just a ‘4056830968', then ‘options', ‘send'.

I send it. I ‘send to many'. The whole lot, in fact. All 209 people who have ever touched my life sufficiently to make it into my mobile — including London Transport — have just been told that Jack loves them.

They'll dismiss it as drunken nonsense. Maybe it is. But maybe some things need to be said.

There's a knock on the door.

‘What are you doing in there, Jack? You're not attempting a long-distance release, are you?' giggles Leila.

‘No, I'm just having a think.'

I turn my phone off and walk out in to the corridor. She's standing there, smiling indulgently.

She leans forward and kisses me on the nose.

‘You're a funny one,' she says sweetly, taking my hand.

They're beginning the countdown in the other room. Maybe I shouldn't have sent that text. But sod maybes. From now on, I only regret the things I haven't done. Never the things I do.

Six, five, four, three

We kiss while Big Ben chimes. We dance, we drink, we laugh. We stay with the others until dawn and then walk back across an empty London to Leila's flat for breakfast. I write up my diary while Leila takes a shower. And then I close down the document for the final time.

‘Accept all changes?' asks the computer.

Indeed, I think I do.

If you can predict the next twelve months on the basis of your New Year's Eve, it's going to be a very good year.

I would like to thank the following people:

My wonderful family of medics, for encouraging me not to become a doctor Charlie Campbell, my excellent agent and friend at Ed Victor Ltd.

Ed Victor

Peter Mayer, for his fortunate choice of holiday reading

Everyone at Duckworth, and Caroline and Suzannah, in particular

Nikky Twyman, for her expert copy-editing

Matt, the first person to read every draft when he should have been working

Tom Wynne, my best buddy and the second person to read every draft

Lucan & Max, for playing poker with useful people

Carla & Josh, my favourite couple, for reading early drafts

Phil & Andrew, my tolerant flatmates

Simon, for his expert knowledge of credit derivatives

Dudley, for her one-person fan club in Otley

Frances, Jen, Tom, Sarah, Rick, Tim, Miranda, James, Sam,

Janet & Frankie, for helpful suggestions

Ant, for suggesting I remove the sex scene (which was awful)

Ellie, for being as good with Photoshop as she is with a lens

All my friends, (and Charlie Anson, in particular), for their support and occasional inspiration in some of the scenes

The summer of 2002, for persuading me never to work in a bank again