by Drew Davies
Patrick nods, ‘I heard they were hiring. But I thought they were focusing on digital displays?’
‘They’re diversifying,’ Adam replies. It’s one of his interview go-to words. That and ‘extrapolate’.
Patrick mulls over this new piece of information.
‘You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you, mate?’
If I couldn’t pay the rent, you mean, thinks Adam, but he mumbles something in the affirmative and takes a swig of beer.
Adam misses the good old days when Patrick was fresh off the boat and finding his feet in London. When Patrick first moved in, replacing Adam’s old flatmate Tori, who had eloped to America with her boyfriend, Adam had felt a sense of brotherly protection towards him. He’d guided Patrick through the red tape of setting up his first British bank account, patiently explained the pronunciations of Leicester Square, Marylebone and Southwark, and given him a detailed profile on English women (get them drunk, but not too drunk – there was a fine line). But as the weeks and months went by, Adam was surprised to see how well Patrick took to everything. He excelled at his job, made friends with ease, and seemed to be getting browner. Adam’s minor bouts of depression hadn’t helped either. The cycle had begun years ago: Adam’s brothers bullied him mercilessly, he developed a stutter (causation or correlation, no one could say), he was teased even more for visiting a ‘retard therapist’, his speech impediment grew worse, and by thirteen he was diagnosed as clinically depressed (personally, he just felt fed up). A prescription for antidepressants followed, which only made him drowsy, and his stammer worse – rinse and repeat until university, where Adam decided enough was enough, and he went cold turkey. His studies and his career would be his salvation, he decided. Only, every year since graduating, there was always a dark month, and some kindly doctor, reading Adam’s notes, would suggest a return to medication. Adam would resist, but that was seen as just another symptom, and before long he was in a groggy fug, until he summoned enough energy to detoxify again. Patrick had been through one such cycle with him nine months ago, and the status in their relationship had irrevocably flipped – so now it felt like Patrick had been sent to monitor his wellbeing, especially after Adam lost his job too.
And now jail, thinks Adam. Probably. He might get community service. But he’d definitely get a criminal record, which he’d be legally obliged to reveal at every job interview – as if they weren’t difficult enough. Breaking and entering. Well, not really breaking. Entering and staying then.
There had been no sign of the security guard at the front desk when Adam crept out in the morning, but he had spied a steaming cup of coffee behind the reception counter. It had been cold outside and Adam was ravenously hungry after his meagre muesli bar dinner, but there was another sensation too, something that took him a few minutes, walking to St Paul’s Tube station, to identify. And it was this: now he was back in the real world (which seemed oddly less real to him), Adam felt surprisingly calm. Serene even. He mentally rattled off his usual list of fears and worries, most to do with money, and not one of them gave him that familiar pain in his gut.
Huh? he’d thought.
Patrick picks up the last slice of pizza, folds the dripping tongue of cheese back onto itself and takes a huge bite. He’s polished off two thirds of the pizza already and there’s a small barrel of ice cream waiting in the freezer for dessert, but Patrick never seems to gain any weight. Hollow legs and a fast metabolism, he says by way of explanation, but Adam suspects it’s the twelve cups of Italian coffee Patrick drinks a day. A sleek, grey coffee machine sits on the kitchen counter like a metallic lozenge. Adam can never get it to work – he’s more of a tea man anyway. Tea with a dash of soy, as milk upsets his stomach.
Adam had brewed himself several cups of tea at Mercer and Daggen, and it had felt strange, making something so comforting as tea in such an illicit situation, like one of those stories you hear of a burglar breaking into a house and cooking a roast dinner before making off with the silverware. He had opened all the cupboards in the office kitchenette to find the one containing cups, discovering a shelf with the usual motley selection of crockery – chipped ‘I Love My Dad’ mugs and client freebies (‘Systemax – Leaders in Fiscal Tech Procurement!’), all with blotchy stains inside. He’d chosen a plain green cup at the back of the cupboard, imagining it to be the least used – it was a bit dusty, so he rinsed it out and tossed in a teabag from the bulk box he’d found next to the sink. There were six plastic cartons of milk in the fridge, at various stages of fermentation, but no soy, so he scooped the teabag out with a teaspoon, flicked it into the sink, and filled the cup with some cold water from the tap. He was about to head back into the corner office (‘his’ corner office, he’d thought automatically), when he hesitated, and put his cup down again. Adam picked up the hot teabag with his thumb and finger and, with his other hand poised underneath to collect drips, moved it to the bin and dropped it in. Best not to leave a trace, he’d thought, taking his cup from the bench and walking through the channel of cubicles, unknowingly dripping tea onto the cable-strewn carpet as he went.
‘You know,’ says Patrick, reaching for the TV remote and flipping the channel, ‘we might have something going in my office again. The role would be a bit more junior, so the money isn’t great, but we’d get to work in the same building?’
Adam gets up to fetch another beer and buys himself some time. They’ve gone down this path already – Patrick offering to help Adam with work in his office, but somehow the good intentions have never paid off, leaving Adam feeling even more deflated.
‘Actually,’ he says, opening the fridge, the door shielding his face, ‘I didn’t want to jinx it, but I had a job offer today. It’s in-house at a financial services company. Nothing’s set in stone, but they’re p-pretty keen.’
‘Mate! You kept that under your hat! No wonder you’ve been on tenterhooks. Where is it?’
Adam takes two beers out of the fridge and shuts the door again.
‘Mercer and Daggen. Do you know them?’
Patrick raises his eyebrows.
‘Know them? They’re the big boys. How did you land that?’
‘Nailed the interview,’ says Adam, throwing a beer to Patrick. ‘They made me an offer right there in the room.’
‘I heard Mercer and Daggen were monsters in their interviews. Did they give you a psychometric test?’
‘Yeah. Aced it. Said I was exactly what they want. Even gave me a cup.’
Patrick cocks his head. ‘They… what?’
Adam takes a big gulp of his beer and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘They gave me a c-cup. That green cup.’
He nods in the direction of the drying rack, where the green cup is sitting.
‘I wondered where that came from,’ says Patrick, frowning. ‘They gave you a cup in the interview?’
Adam starts to rip the label off his beer.
‘Yeah. Not just a cup, it was a whole goody bag. They gave one to everyone they interviewed. There was a notepad, a pencil, a c-c-calculator…’ he trails off.
Patrick nods slowly.
‘When do you start?’ he asks.
‘Monday,’ replies Adam, and takes such a long swig on his beer he almost drains the bottle.
Three
The mythical second date! What greater prize exists for the cosmopolitan singleton? First dates come and go, most like a bad dream, but a few – a very few – stick. It might be the promise of sex (or the result of promising sex), or the recognition of some sort of ‘connection’ that shoots, beam-like, into the sky: a beacon of potential compatibility. Now the singleton runs to their window, throws it open and shouts: ‘We have something in common!’, ‘I don’t hate him (or her)!’ and more quietly, ‘I might not die alone.’
Unlike their New York counterparts, Londoners are never really sure of the rules of dating. Dating isn’t really a thing, is it, except in romantic comedies? Did they date in Notting
Hill? In Four Weddings, he just kept showing up at events until it finally wore her down. And here the gold standard is revealed: Londoners aren’t direct in their romantic relationships, they sidle up to them. They’ll organise to be at the same bar as that girl they like, but if they do finally talk to her, it’ll only be to ask her out for another drink. Drinks beget drinks, but a date is too formal, too exact. A date implies being picked up at eight, buying flowers, organising a fancy restaurant, standing when she leaves for the bathroom, and that’s not really in their blood. A drink is less commitment, which is exactly the problem. A drink is not much to pin your future on.
* * *
For our lovers, though, the countdown begins.
* * *
On Wednesday, Daisy makes two appointments – one for a waxing (with her favourite beautician Trina, who wears adult braces and barely speaks) and another for a haircut. The trim will be almost unnoticeable, not even an inch off the length – anything too dramatic now will show over-keenness. Subtle embellishments: new and expensive makeup carefully applied or a more structured bra can raise the stakes just enough without setting off alarm bells. Even though she understands the rules, Daisy doesn’t particularly like living by them. She’s never considered herself a ‘girly-girl’. Yes, technically, she does work in the fashion industry, creating backdrops and props for editorial shoots, but she’s always the one in the basement, wearing a pair of beat-up overalls and hot-gluing feathers to a punch bag, and has never let herself feel ‘fashionable’. Fashion for Daisy is like artillery to the army: it helps get your point across, but only in extreme circumstances – such as war… or a second date.
* * *
The week slips by for Chris, but on Friday, he manages a visit to the barber. Returning to his flat afterwards for a shower, he takes in his new hairstyle in the full-length bathroom mirror. He likes it, much tidier, but does it make him appear rather woolly down there?
After hunting around his apartment for an old newspaper, Chris lays the sheets on the bathroom floor and sets about taking to his pubic region with the electric trimmer he usually keeps for his sideburns. Things go well for a few swipes, but then the confident hum of the motor turns to a whine and soon stops altogether. Cursing in several different languages for good measure, Chris brushes the hair off his feet and goes back into his bedroom to search for the charger. One of the joys of living by oneself is being able to walk around naked from the waist down with no one any the wiser, but Chris hasn’t factored in the ability of newly severed pubes, always the wiliest of hair, to disperse. Three weeks later, he will still be finding curly hairs, but never, unfortunately, the charger. After ransacking his bedroom and coming up empty-handed, he returns to the bathroom to assess the situation in the mirror. In his haste, he has somehow carved out two distinct patches of hair, like two separate crops on a farm. Or eyes, he thinks, it’s like I’ve shaved eyes above my penis.
He has an idea and heads into the kitchen, returning with a pair of scissors. Holding something sharp so close to his genitals makes his eyes water, but Chris carefully snips away at the pubic hair until it’s a uniform length. He steps back and takes a look in the mirror again. Terrible. Not only is it patchy but it somehow makes his testicles seem exceptionally hairy. He’d always thought of them as averagely fuzzy, but now they are like two strange furry gourds hanging there. Carefully, carefully, he takes a few snips at the surrounding hair with the scissors, but only succeeds in making them look even more like the Gallagher brothers.
Chris sits down on the edge of the bathtub, the ceramic cold under his buttocks, and hangs his head. He’s completely ruined his crotch now. He will become one of those anecdotes Daisy will tell for years: ‘My date with Mr No-Pubes Hairy Balls.’ Unless… he spies his wet razor on the cabinet shelf and stands to pick it up. This blade is rather grubby but he has spares. Is it better to use a slightly blunt blade that might take longer, or a new one that could accidentally slice, he wonders? Slightly blunt, comes the answer quickly as Chris feels the blood drain from his extremities, slightly blunt. He scoops warm water onto his groin and then squirts a palmful of foam onto his hand, applying it liberally (this isn’t so bad, he thinks). With the razor poised, he considers where he should start. He has to meet Daisy in twenty-five minutes, but he can’t rush the job now. Flat sections first, he decides, and makes short work of the pubic hair stubble before moving on to the more technical areas. Carefully, carefully, he glides the blade over the skin. It’s like shaving a walnut, he thinks. A very important walnut.
* * *
Daisy is walking briskly up Central London’s Tottenham Court Road exactly one week to the minute that she met Chris at Embankment last Saturday. She is moisturised, plucked and preened – even the cramps from her protein diet seem to have calmed down. All she needs to do now is break up with her boyfriend. Not my boyfriend, she chides herself mentally as she hurries along the footpath. Just… someone. Someone I was seeing, sometimes.
She’s left it to the last minute, but Daisy has fashioned herself a dating code of conduct over the years, which states you should always let a person know if you stop seeing them. No ghosting. It’s only polite.
She takes out her phone and selects Warren’s number. Daisy hopes he won’t pick up so she can leave a message, but his familiar Manchester brogue answers on the second ring.
‘Hello?’
Daisy’s face blooms with a reactive smile. She’s read somewhere that people can hear a smile in your voice, and has trained herself to grin on difficult calls.
‘Warren, hi, it’s me,’ she says, and yes, her voice does sound bright and smiley.
There’s a pause.
‘Who’s this?’
Confused, Daisy quickly checks the phone display to make sure she’s dialled the right Mancunian Warren (she has).
‘It’s Daisy.’
‘Of course, Daisy!’ (She can hear the exclamation mark in his voice.) ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks, good.’ She weaves her way through the oncoming pedestrians, mostly commuters who haven’t been lured into a post-work drink. ‘Did you get a new phone?’
‘What?’
Daisy’s cheeks are hurting now from the rigour of smiling.
‘Did your phone get stolen or something?’
‘No, why?’
‘Oh, I just thought… No reason. How are you?’
‘I’m good, our kid. Yeah, I’m good. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I’ve just had a lot of stuff on.’
It was true, she knew. Warren was very much in demand, being a whizz at lighting anorexic models in a way that didn’t make them appear too translucent or veiny. They’d met on a shoot nearly a year ago and Daisy had liked the way he called himself ‘the electrician’ in a self-deprecating way, unusual in a room filled with wall-to-wall ego. After the shoot, they’d sat chatting in the corner of the pub together, knees touching, till closing.
‘I’ve been busy as well,’ she says. ‘It’s no problem.’
‘Yeah, but I never replied to your last text message. Bit shitty of me, to be honest.’
‘Really, Warren, it’s fine.’
‘But I can make it up to you. Actually, I’m free tonight. Any plans?’
Daisy doesn’t want to be drawn into what she’s doing tonight. She spots the cinema further up the street and reminds herself to take the next left.
‘Warren, I just wanted to say how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with you these past few months. You’re a really great guy, I hope you know that.’
He snorts.
‘Sounds like you’re breaking up with me.’
Daisy changes the phone to her other hand.
‘Yes, I guess I am,’ she replies. The line goes quiet. ‘Are you there?’
Warren makes a huffing noise. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Daisy thinks of all the clichés she could use here: it’s not you, it’s me, I’m just not in ‘that’ place now – anything but the real reason: I think I’ve fo
und someone better. But before she can reply, Warren speaks again:
‘I don’t need your charity, Daisy. And anyway, why call me up just to tell me that? You’ve never phoned any other time.’
‘Sure I have,’ says Daisy, but there’s doubt in her voice. ‘I just thought you deserved to hear it from me. After all, we were dating for a while.’
‘Dating?’ Warren splutters. ‘We were never dating.’
‘Alright,’ she says, through gritted teeth, ‘what would you call it then?’
‘We had dinner twice. After that, we’d just hook up. You know, booty calls.’
‘Booty calls? You can’t be serious?’
‘You tell me,’ replies Warren. ‘You were the one calling the shots.’
Daisy opens her mouth to refute this, but the words don’t come.
‘You’d go out and get drunk,’ he continues, ‘and then message me to come over – always after midnight so I’d have to pay for a taxi. Occasionally, if I was lucky, I’d get breakfast in the morning but afterwards I’d be sent on my way, job done.’
Daisy winces, but it’s true. The last few times she’s seen Warren, she’s woken up beside him in her bed, head pounding. When he leaves (after the sloppy fry-up she cooks – yes – out of guilt), she has to check the drunken messages on her phone to piece together the events of the previous night. She does keep meaning to meet Warren for a nice grown-up drink because she likes him (and she’d always suspected he liked her quite a bit). He’s tall and has good hair and he’s easy to be with. She just never got around to calling him – and now, frankly, she’s regretting she did.
‘Whatever we had,’ Daisy says, trying to keep her tone light, ‘isn’t it better we end it like this, rather than just never speaking to each other again?’
‘No, I would have preferred that,’ replies Warren curtly.
‘Fine, I thought we could be grown-ups, but obviously…’