The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook (21 page)

9.31 a.m.

With little more than two weeks to go before Jane gets back, I can put it off no longer. My hands are shaking a little as I pick up the phone and dial the number Dan’s given me.

‘Good morning. The Tooth Hurts.’

I almost put the phone down again when I hear the cheerful receptionist on the other end. ‘Er. Hi. I was recommended to you by Dan Davis. I’d like to make an appointment for some,’ I read off Dan’s bit of paper, ‘“cosmetic dentistry”, please.’

I can almost hear her simpering at the mention of Dan’s name. ‘How is Dan? Such a lovely smile.’

‘He’s fine. Especially since he came out of the closet.’

There’s an astonished pause. ‘Dan? Came out?’

‘I know. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But anyway, back to
my
appointment?’

‘Oh, yes, right. When would you like to come in?’

I’m not sure that ‘like’ is the right word. ‘As soon as possible, I suppose.’

I hear a rustling of paper. ‘We’ve just had a cancellation for eleven o’clock this morning, if you can make it.’

This morning? Gulp! I nervously agree, and then walk round to the local chemists to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste and some dental floss, before heading back into the office washrooms and spending the next twenty minutes carefully brushing and flossing my teeth in preparation.

10.55 a.m.

The surgery is above a bank in one of the trendy shopping streets in the North Laines. I walk into the expensively furnished waiting room, and give my name to the stunning receptionist, who smiles as she takes my details, revealing the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.

After a few minutes nervously flicking through the glossy magazines scattered around the waiting room, a door opens in front of me and a chap my age walks out, wearing the kind of teeth braces that wouldn’t look out of place on a James Bond villain. He’s accompanied by a gorgeous Chinese girl in a white coat, who shows him to the door, then walks over to reception, and picks up the clipboard with my details on.

‘Good morning, Mr Middleton,’ she says, as I’m ushered into the treatment room. ‘I’m Amanda.’

‘Edward,’ I say.

‘No, Amanda,’ she replies, smiling at her own joke. If it’s meant to put me at ease, it doesn’t.

As I sit apprehensively in the chair, distracted a little by the extremely pretty nurse, I’m amazed at how attractive all the staff here are. And it’s then that I suddenly realize that the reason Dan comes here is nothing to do with the fact that they’re good dentists. I clamp my mouth shut, and wonder whether it’s too late to get up and leave.

‘Now, there’s no need to be nervous,’ says Amanda, as she electronically reclines my chair, thus making all thoughts of escape impossible. ‘I haven’t had a patient die on me. Yet. Now open wide…’

Gripping hard onto the armrests, I open my mouth. Amanda picks up a small silver instrument and starts probing.

‘When was the last time you went to the dentist?’ she asks, pressing my tongue down with a wooden spatula.

‘Gaa gaa agga,’ I say.

‘Five years ago?’

‘Ga.’

‘And do you smoke?’

‘Ag ga gaga a ug.’

‘Good for you,’ she says, removing the spatula and handing me a beaker of pink liquid. ‘Smoking’s very bad for the teeth. Could you just rinse for me and then spit?’

I do as instructed.

‘Into the bowl, please.’

‘Sorry.’

Amanda probes and pokes a bit more, making copious notes as she does so. Eventually, she returns my chair to the upright position.

I clear my throat anxiously. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’

Amanda consults her clipboard. ‘Well, you’ve got a couple of fillings that need attention,’ she says. ‘But we’ll need to start with a thorough clean to get rid of the build up of tartar and plaque. And then there’s that chip on your front tooth—anyone would think you’d been trying to open beer bottles, or something. And then we can get started on the colour.’

I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the unpleasant fluoride taste in my mouth.

‘And will it be expensive?’

Amanda’s teeth, I notice, are perfect too. ‘Well, we can fit veneers. That will work out to about three hundred pounds.’

‘That doesn’t seem too bad.’

‘That’s per tooth, Edward. And we’d have to do at least twelve of them if you want to get a decent smile back. Alternatively…’

I do a quick sum in my head. ‘I’d like alternatively, please.’

‘Alternatively, we can just file down that rough front tooth and then do laser gel whitening. It’s quite a new technique, but the results aren’t too different from veneers.’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred pounds. And we can do it today.’

‘You mean I won’t have to come back?’

Amanda rests a comforting hand on my arm. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

‘Do it,’ I say.

Amanda presses a buzzer and speaks into the intercom. ‘Jules,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘Can you rearrange my next two appointments, please?’

‘Fine,’ says a metallic voice.

When I smile back at Amanda, she presses the buzzer a second time. ‘Jules—on second thoughts, make that my next three.’

Amanda picks up the clipboard, fills in a few more details, then hands the pen to me.

‘If you could just sign here, please.’

‘What’s this? A consent form?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. A credit-card slip.’

1.00 p.m.

I’ve been injected, drilled, filled, sanded, rinsed, water-blasted, gel-coated, and shot at by a laser; my mouth feels like someone’s been working on each tooth with a chisel and they’ve not been too careful around the gums, and I’ve paid nearly six hundred pounds for the privilege, but I’m smiling. And the reason I’m smiling is because I’ve got something to smile with! Not quite Dan’s sunglasses at fifty paces variety, but a million smiles away from the uneven, nicotine-stained one of old.

I’m so tempted to try it out that when a girl walks towards me on the pavement, I wait until I get directly in front of her, then give her the full beam, only to be a little surprised when she makes a face at me and crosses the street. Surprised, that is, until I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window; half of my face is still paralysed, which makes me look like something out of an asylum, plus I’ve been drooling down the front of my shirt.

I shut my mouth and hurry home.

7.21 a.m.

We’re in the gym, and I can’t quite believe what Sam’s suggested.

‘Boxing?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Boxing?
’

Sam nods. ‘How many fat boxers do you know?’

I want to tell Sam that I don’t know any boxers. I’m not the kind of person who has boxers as friends. I don’t even like the dogs.

‘But isn’t it a little…’

‘Dangerous?’

‘No, unfair. I mean, I’m twice your size. Besides, I’ve just had my teeth done.’

‘We’re not actually going to be boxing each other, Edward. Just doing the training.’

Sam leads me downstairs and through a door labelled, ominously, ‘Dance Studio’. Against one wall, next to a large pile of mats, there’s a punch bag hanging from the ceiling. She walks over to the cupboard in the corner and retrieves a pair of boxing gloves and a skipping rope.

‘Come on, Rocky. Lets get going. Five minutes of skipping to start with.’

‘Skipping. Isn’t that something little girls do?’

‘Well, it should cause you no problems then,’ she says, handing me the rope. ‘Off you go.’

Now, I’ve seen all of the
Rocky
films. Recently, in fact, in the case of
Rocky III
. I’ve sat and watched the training scenes as Sylvester Stallone manages to lift trees, do impossible things on the sit-up bench, catch chickens, and even skip at a hundred miles an hour, and he’s an
actor
, so how hard can it be? I grin confidently at Sam and take a handle in each hand.

Two seconds later, Sam is helping me to my feet.

‘Right. Let’s try again, shall we?’ she says. ‘But this time the idea is to
jump
over the rope. Not trip over it.’

After five minutes, during which I’ve probably managed no more than three continuous skips, I hand the rope back to Sam. I’m well and truly red in the face now, although this could be due more to shame than my exertions with the rope. She passes me the gloves and I slip them on.

‘Ok, bag work.’

I saunter over to the punch bag and give it a push. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I’m unable to make it swing more than a few inches. I give it a tentative punch, which hurts me more than the bag.

Sam looks at me pityingly. ‘Like this,’ she says, planting her feet firmly and unleashing a jab into the bag, followed by two left hooks. I wince as the bag rattles on its chain.

‘Remind me never to get on your bad side.’

Sam stands behind the bag to steady it, and gets me to work a few combinations: right, right, left, right, right, left, and after a few minutes, I start to get into a rhythm. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, not to mention unexpectedly tiring, but when I start to slow down, Sam has an idea.

‘Picture the face of someone you’re angry with on the bag,’ she says. ‘What about that boss of yours?’

As I concentrate, imagining Natasha staring at me, I unleash another combination, a little faster this time. I pick up the pace, and follow a series of jabs with a huge roundhouse right hand that even has Sam looking surprised. I’m dancing around now; rocking the bag from side to side as Sam struggles to hold it steady, and I’m dripping with sweat, but still keeping up the onslaught. Finally, it’s Sam who’s had enough, and she lets go of the punch bag.

When I jog round the studio, gloved hands raised in celebration. Sam just looks at me pityingly.

‘Okay. Let’s call it a day,’ she says. ‘Impressive work. You must really have it in for her.’

But the funny thing is, by the end of the session, it hadn’t been Natasha’s face I was picturing in front of me.

It was Jane’s.

3.22 p.m.

I’m in the office, in the middle of one of Natasha’s outbursts. I can’t even remember what started her off, but what I do know is that I’ve been working hard all week trying to put the Go-Soft campaign to bed whilst she’s been doing the same to their managing director.

So when she tells me that I’m lazy, I don’t know what it is, but for some reason it gets to me. Really gets to me. I sit there as she rants on, clenching and unclenching my fists for a few moments, before wordlessly standing up and packing my briefcase. When I walk towards the door, Natasha looks up sharply.

‘Where do you think you’re going? I haven’t finished.’

‘Yes you have,’ I say quietly.

‘What did you say?’ she snaps.

‘I’ve had enough. That’s it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

I stand in the doorway, and keep my voice level. ‘For nearly ten years I’ve put up with your complaining, never-happy attitude, knowing that the complexion of my day was going to depend on what side of the bed you got out of that morning, or rather, what side of whoever’s bed you got out of, whenever you finally deigned to grace the office with your presence. And now, just when things couldn’t be going any better business-wise, you have to come in and pick on me just because your latest married “boyfriend” doesn’t want to leave his wife and take a chance on your psycho bunny-boiling behaviour.’

‘Hold on a minute. That’s…’

‘Be quiet.
I
haven’t finished. For the last few years it’s been me who’s kept this company afloat. Me. And what acknowledgement do I get? Nothing. Just, “Any messages, Edward?” or “Get me a coffee, Edward.” Well, you can get your own coffee from now on.’

Natasha sits, open-mouthed, at her desk. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I quit. Goodbye. Have a nice life.’

‘Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke?’

‘It’s no joke,’ I say. ‘And the only fool here is me, for putting up with you for so long.’ And with that, I turn around, and walk right out of the office.

‘Edward.
Edward
. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Come back.’

As I stride along the corridor, I can hear Natasha calling after me. But I don’t come back. I just keep on walking.

And it feels good.

11.15 a.m.

In two days’ time I’m due to pick up the Mini. I think about taking the Volvo through the carwash before I trade it in but I’m worried I’ll dislodge some more of the paintwork, or even a door, and that the garage will decide to charge me for taking it off my hands. I’m slightly concerned about the amount of money it’s going to be costing me, particularly since I’m now unemployed, but despite this, I’m still quite excited when I call my insurance company to arrange a cover note. The chap on the phone goes through some preliminary questions with me, and then the next question he asks stops me in my tracks.

‘So that’s for you and the same named driver, is it? Miss Jane Scott?’

Blimey. I hadn’t thought about that. ‘Er…Can I add her on later?’ I can sense confusion at the end of the phone and feel a sudden need to explain. ‘She’s gone away for a while, you see.’

‘Well, when is she coming back?’

‘I’m not sure. I mean, in about two weeks. Saturday April sixteenth, to be precise.’

‘And will you want her to be driving your new car when she gets back?’

This, of course, is a metaphor, as well as a jolly good question, so I decide to tackle Dan about it. He doesn’t answer his mobile, so I go round to see if he’s in.

When Dan opens the door, he’s holding a large plastic spatula and sporting a white smudge on the end of his nose. More worryingly, he’s only wearing a pair of shorts.

‘I hope that I haven’t interrupted some cocaine-fuelled, pervy S&M session?’

Dan grins. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. I’m baking.’

‘Hence the lack of clothes?’

‘No, “baking”, as in “a cake”, not hot. Although most of Brighton’s female population may disagree with me on that one.’

He beckons me inside, and I follow him through to his kitchen, which resembles something of a disaster area.

‘At the risk of asking an impertinent question, why on earth are you baking a cake? Has the supermarket run out?’

‘Nope. Career enhancement. Today,
Ready Steady Cook
, tomorrow, the world.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He looks at me as if I’m just off the boat. ‘Celebrity chefs. They’re the latest thing.’

‘Just like antiques presenters were last year?’

Dan ignores me. ‘You can’t walk around television centre nowadays without bumping into some garlic-smelling twat in a tall white hat with a packet of sun-dried tomatoes sticking out of his pocket.’

‘So, let me get this straight.’ I survey the mess in front of me, including what looks like a cowpat on a plate. ‘You’ve decided to teach yourself how to cook so you can become a celebrity chef?’

Dan nods. ‘That’s about the size of it. Before you know it, I’ll be moving to rural France, feeding up the locals, shagging their daughters, all with a film crew up my arse.’

‘Dan, without wishing to sink your soufflé, don’t most celebrity chefs actually start out as chefs? You know, cook for people for a living, before becoming famous?’

Dan’s face falls as flat as his Victoria sponge. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope. Most of them even own restaurants.’

‘What about that one who swears all the time?’

‘Yup. Several, I think.’

‘The one with the hair like a toilet brush?’

‘At least a couple.’

Dan throws his spatula into the sink in disgust, picks up a knife, and attempts to cut a couple of slices of cake, but can’t seem to make much of an impression. He ends up having to chisel some off the edge.

‘Just as well, really. It’s harder than you’d think.’

‘What? Your sponge?’

‘Try some?’

‘Can’t. Diet. Sorry…’

Dan picks up a piece, sniffs it, then stamps open the pedal bin and deposits his culinary efforts, plate and all, inside. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’

I repeat my dilemma about putting Jane on the Mini’s insurance. Dan just laughs it off.

‘Nah. You can always add her on later. If you want to let her drive it, that is. And speaking of driving, I’m off to hit some golf balls.’

‘Dan, is all your conversation like a television link?’

‘Want to come?’

I pick a ladle up out of Dan’s unused utensil jar and attempt to swing it, nearly denting the stainless-steel fridge door in the process. ‘I don’t know the first thing about golf.’

Dan snatches the ladle back. ‘Easy, Tiger. Well come along and watch me, then. You might learn a thing or two.’

I sit flicking through a couple of magazines in the lounge while Dan gets ready. When he eventually appears, he’s dressed as if he’s about to contest the Open.

‘Look at you, mister all-the-gear-but-no-idea. I thought you were only going to the driving range?’

He shrugs. ‘Got to look the part, Eddy-boy. That’s half the battle. As you’ll find out in a couple of weeks.’

Dan removes his club
s
from the cupboard under the stairs and we head outside and into his car. I jump into the passenger seat, only to have Dan dump the bag on my lap.

‘What’s wrong with the boot?’

‘Don’t fit, I’m afraid. They’ll have to ride up front with you.’

‘Practical, these cars, then?’

As it’s not raining, Dan lowers the roof, and we head off towards the range. On the way, we pass Wendy, who’s heading in to work.

‘Oh look,’ she calls, as we slow down and beep her. ‘It’s Thelma and Louise.’

When we get to the range, Dan buys a bucket of balls, and I sit there as he thwacks them effortlessly into the distance.

‘So, what am I learning here, exactly?’ I ask, stifling a yawn.

‘Well, here’s how I see it,’ says Dan, fishing a ball out of his bucket and placing it on the mat in front of him. ‘Women are like golf balls, really.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, you tee them up, address them carefully, and then, if you make a good enough connection…’

I can hardly wait. ‘Ye-es?’

Dan grins. ‘In the hole!’ he shouts.