Twenty Something (7 page)

Donned my lucky boxer shorts, applied some of the aftershave that Lucy gave me for Christmas and went for a drink with Leila straight after work.

It started off so well. Did she want a double? Of course she did — that more than doubled the chances of her sleeping with me. We talked about everything and anything. I delivered my top five anecdotes with exquisite timing. I laughed when she
laughed, smiled when she smiled, and listened for over twenty minutes before drifting off and imagining what she would look like naked.

We didn't mention the
Prunus subhirtella
or the Valentine's card or my granny. Leila's endearingly oblivious to the effect she has on men. She's sweet and funny and modest. It was fantastic.

But then, at 10.30, she dropped the bombshell.

‘Jack, I've got something I need to tell you.'

Check me out. Three double G&Ts and the most beautiful girl in the world is about to say that she likes me.

‘OK.' I smile my most boyish, charming smile. ‘You can tell me anything you want.'

‘I fancy Buddy.'

She could tell me anything she wanted apart from that.

‘As in Buddy Wilton-Steer Buddy?'

‘Yep, I just think he's so cute. He's so direct, so confident, so lacking in British cynicism.'

‘Right.'

No Jack, not right: wrong, wrong, wrong.

‘I mean, I know you're mates with him. I was wondering if you could perhaps find out subtly for me. In whatever way you blokes do that kind of thing. Just don't embarrass me — I couldn't carry on at work if I messed something up.'

And just how does she expect me to carry on at work knowing this?

‘Sure,' I say, just about holding myself together. ‘I can do some research. But you should know that he's already got a girlfriend that he cheats on regularly.'

Was that the right thing to say?
I muse, as I walk home. If she's the kind of girl I'd like her to be, then that would put her right off. If she's not, then it might just stoke the fire. Either way, I'm in trouble. Buddy is as single and as desperate as I am, and she prefers him to me.

Round five: Failure.

Bugger.

Buddy swings by my desk at work.

‘Jacko, my son,' he appears to be adopting a more British vernacular. ‘How about a coffee?'

Leila looks up expectantly from the other side of our desk. She gives me the tiniest of nods.

‘Sure, Buddy. Let's go.'

Buddy's idea of a coffee is four espresso shots and five lumps of sugar. I wonder idly whether he might die of a heart attack before he finds out that Leila likes him. He did ninety hours in the office last week. His hands are already shaking.

‘Jackie, my boy, I really like that Leila chick.'

‘You like her, or just want to screw her?'

‘Don't be a jerk, Jacko. Of course I just want to screw her. You had a drink with her last Monday. Did she say anything?'

I meet Buddy's gaze.

‘No, mate. Nothing at all, I'm afraid.'

‘Are you sure? You can tell me.'

‘Well, actually mate,' I put on my best doctor-breaking-bad-news face, ‘I did ask her if she fancied anyone at work, and she said no. Sorry.'

As I walk back to my desk, Leila raises her eyebrows and I give her a sympathetic little shake of my head. There's already a one-word email waiting for me from her: ‘So?' No kiss this time.

So I explain that Buddy is very much in love with his current girlfriend and wants to remain faithful to her. I also write that he doesn't fancy anyone at work.

Leila emails back: ‘You're a star, Jack. Feel much better now that I know. Always better to get these things sorted out, don't you think? I loved our drink on Monday. Let's have lunch tomorrow.'

Am I a star? I feel more like a shitbag. I console myself with the thought that I was trying to protect her from Buddy's predatory one-track mind. But I know deep down that I was motivated by rancid jealousy, and that they're both going to find me out.

Talking of finding people out, I came home slightly early from work today to find a flushed Flatmate Fred desperately trying to close all the windows on his computer. It was his first day of broadband internet access and his first day of work.

‘Aha! Welcome to the world of work. How goes the data entry?' I ask, craning my head forward to look at his screen.

‘Oh, good. Yeah — tiring,' he blushes traffic-light red.

A pop-up page flashes on to the screen: ‘Free tits here', it screams.

‘Oh yes,' mumbles Flatmate Fred. ‘One or two teething virus problems with the broadband connection.'

I look closer and discover exactly why he is so tired by the world of work. He has at least ten pages open that have something to do with sex. Lolitas, uniform, teens, lesbians, facials, anal, threesomes, toys. The deviant list is seemingly endless.

‘Who's the data entry actually
for
?' I ask. ‘Hugh Hefner?'

‘Er, no. I was doing some research for my book.'

‘I thought you'd given up writing for Lent.'

Poor Flatmate Fred. Well and truly stumped, he ran out for a much-needed shower.

But it got me thinking. The internet is for porn. Everyone knows that. Sure, it might be useful every now and again to pay
a bill online or book cheap flights, but essentially it's a convenient way of looking at naked girls without the old-fashioned embarrassment of walking into a newsagent's and trying to reach the top shelf. Even the shortest of short-arses can access a mouse.

I'm always struck by the hypocrisy of anyone who uses the internet in this way. Broadband service providers write a great deal of guff in their contracts about using the internet in a non-offensive way. But they know perfectly well that the biggest selling point of a broadband connection is the fact that you can access porn much faster. No one cares if it takes a little while to book your cinema tickets. It does bother you if a porn clip keeps stalling halfway through because your dial-up connection is too rubbish to deal with it.

Access someone's computer and it will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about them. Which keywords have they typed into Google? How many times a week have they whacked off while watching two people they don't know have sex?

My parents' generation, and the generation before them, is always going on about the lax moral standards of today's youth. But it was much easier to be moral back then. You had to go out looking for temptation. Nowadays it's only a right click, left click, double click away.

Second lunch in a row with Leila and people are beginning to gossip in the office. Most people here don't socialise together. It hurts more if you get promoted and have to sack a friend.

But let them gossip. All the little details that normally bore me about someone are fascinating when it comes to her. I'm genuinely interested to hear about her dad's army career, her love of Damien Rice, her phobia about stickers and the adventures of her first pet — a half-blind guinea pig called
Nelson. It's mundane, but she's so fit, fun and amusing that I could listen to her all day. I don't even mind that she was born in Yorkshire.

‘I went to the north once,' I told her, ‘when I missed my tube stop at Moorgate.'

And she even laughed at that. I spent two hours in the gym to celebrate.

I was carrying out my monthly check in the shower this morning when I chanced upon a lump in my left testicle. I'm going to die a slow and horrible death, unloved and unmourned.

I tell this to Flatmate Fred.

‘Jack, you're the biggest hypochondriac in the world.'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘No, I'm not.'

Aren't we a little old for this?

‘No, seriously, Jack. What do you do every time you have a headache?'

‘I put my chin on my chest to check if I've got meningitis.'

Hmm, maybe he has a point.

Mothering Sunday, and it was back home to see my ‘vacuous, petty, pretty and snobby' mother. Whom I love dearly.

I gave her a bunch of flowers, which delighted her, even if they were the wrong colour for the time of year. How was I meant to know that there was a March colour? I'm reminded of Lucy's comments about magenta pink.

Speaking of Lucy, that's exactly what Mummy did, all day long. But it was Mothering Sunday so I let her practise her
mothering as she laid into me about the huge mistake I was making. I let it wash over me. I mean, what could I say to placate her?
Don't worry, Mummy, on Thursday 17th February I bent Lucy over her kitchen table and made her come within thirty seconds, so it's all going to be OK
. I may have spent nine months inside her womb, but there are many topics parents and their offspring should keep to themselves.

Brother Ben also came home, which was nice, as I hadn't seen him since Christmas. Ben is better-looking than me, younger than me, more intelligent than me and generally nicer than me, but he wears his effortless superiority with such good-natured charm that I love him almost as much as I hate him. He's a medical student, so I asked him about the little lump in my bollock. He didn't have a clue — he's only done the kidney and the right leg so far.

‘Your father and I are off skiing next week,' announced Mummy as she was clearing away the pudding.

‘But you've never been skiing before,' said Brother Ben.

‘Oh no, not real skiing,' replied Mummy. ‘I mean SKI-ing. Spending the Kids' Inheritance. It's all the rage these days. We're going on a five-star safari in Tanzania.'

And parents think it's traumatic watching their children grow up? It's far worse the other way round.

After we'd all had enough of Mummy, Ben, Daddy and I escaped in the afternoon for the golf course — a blessedly girlfriend-/Mother-free zone. I lost seven balls and went round in 118.

Not a good day.

The lump has gone. Hallelujah — I'm not going to die.

Another nineteen days of my Lent fast, and my flawless testicle and I will be sleeping with Claire, Mel and Susie.

I've been helping out with graduate recruitment a little bit this year — that unrivalled process which puts the likes of Rupert (bald), Buddy, Leila and me together in the same office.

We finished the first round of interviews a couple of weeks ago and it was my job to send out the rejection letters. I rather liked this riposte, which came back from a student at Oxford today:

Dear Milkround Company,

I did enjoy jeopardising my degree to meet with you on multiple occasions during December, January and February. However, despite the large quantities of expensive alcohol, food and hotel rooms you forced upon me, I have decided not to extend you an offer this time.

I know this news will come as a disappointment to you, but I must stress that I have an unprecedented number of better things to do with my life. The competition was harder than ever this year. You should focus on the positives. I'm sure you will have plenty of other debt-ridden eager beavers clamouring to take you on.

I am collating some feedback on your performance, which should be with you just after it can be of any use for other applications. In the meantime, however, I think you need to work on the standard of your employees' chit-chat at post-presentation mingles. I did enjoy meeting Buddy, and hearing his views on the excellent work–life balance that your company offers, but frankly his chat stank. Also, the impact of his message was somewhat diluted by his colleagues' glazed eyes and the continual muttering of ‘Need sleep, need sleep' before an HR woman (remarkably fit, I give you) rushed over to wind up the cogs in their backs.

You see, my experience with you has been remarkably like a bad relationship. I'd heard good things about you; I'd admired you from afar. Your exes sang your praises. We met and plied each other with alcohol in the hope that we would get along. We were on our most charming, courting behaviour. I only knew about your good points. True, I was two-timing you (eight-timing, to be exact), but you were the one I really wanted, the one I was holding out for. And now, just as we were on the verge of real commitment, I find myself brutally dumped. No consoling words, no regrets of what might have been, just a telephone call midway through my evening in the pub. Well, the feeling's mutual. I was going to dump you, too. You just got in there first.

But I'd like to emphasise again how much I enjoyed meeting you. I hope you will not be put off bombarding me again with inane brochures and yo yos embossed with your delightful logo. I wish you all the best for your banal, soulless future.

Best wishes,
Nigel O. T. Bitter, Esq.

PS I was wondering what your policy would be on my reapplying next year?

Mr Bitter is definitely one to watch, in my opinion. I gave the letter to Leila and it's now pinned up on her desk.

Flatmate Fred is sinking into a deeper and deeper depression. He's bored by his data entry and doesn't want to write his books any more. He doesn't fancy any of the girls who like him, and he hasn't met anyone he likes for ages.

I suggest that he gets dressed like everyone else in the
morning and goes out and interacts with people while the sun is still up. He could copy Rick's example of using offices like a dating agency. Rick stays in a job just long enough to fall for a hopelessly unsuitable colleague before moving on and beginning the cycle all over again. He's a collegiate whore, a workplace slapper.

Talking of Rick, we have decided to repeat our boys' night out on Friday. I'm a little apprehensive. Buddy will soon have every reason to hate me, Rick is acting oddly around me and Flatmate Fred and Jasper are flirting more outrageously than ever before. It could be interesting.