Who is Tom Ditto?

by Danny Wallace

  They don’t always stamp them, of course, I told myself.

  But there – look – there.

  SOUTH AFRICA. A visa. Stamped.

  She’d had to apply for visas. That put the leaving do in perspective. I sat down.

  Soul aching. Stomach sinking.

  I turned the page.

  DUBAI. Stamped. Same month.

  Disgusted, heart punched, I sat in the dark until I heard the key in the lock.

  thirty-two

  I was still holding it when she got in, Sainsbury’s bags under her arm, milk in hand.

  She saw me, saw the passport, put the bags down, slowly.

  ‘Baby, I can explain.’

  ‘So you were in King’s Lynn with your dad, yeah?’ I said. ‘And you were in Brighton with Annie?’

  ‘Tom …’

  ‘But actually you were all over the place,’ I said, holding back my killer blow until now. ‘With Jeremy.’

  I spat that name out, and she looked weak now, pale. Like her knees might buckle. Her hands were raised, maybe to placate, maybe to defend. I’d said the name she never wanted me to know.

  ‘How?’ I said. ‘How did you even afford this?’

  And then I realised.

  ‘It was a business trip, wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘Good hotels, nice wine, expenses, insurance broker bonuses …’

  She swallowed. Defeated. Busted.

  ‘It was a business trip,’ she said.

  ‘Too good to pass up? Better than another night in Stoke Newington?’

  ‘I … it sounded …’

  ‘You went off with some guy, Hayley.’

  My voice was flat, emotionless, drained.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Tom,’ she said, and she sat now, her head in her hands, all the signs pointing to tears, but none appearing. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It just happened.’

  ‘Yes, no worries, I often join strangers on business trips, it’s such an easy trap to fall into.’

  ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, but also, you shouldn’t have gone.’

  ‘I know. I know. I hate myself. I do. Please believe me, this wasn’t supposed to … I just got carried away, I …’

  ‘So why did you do it? Because this wasn’t just an impulse decision, this affair, Hayley. This kind of spontaneity takes planning.’

  She shrugged. I sounded more bitter now, more lively, gunning for a fight. Because come on, Hayley, why don’t you tell me why you did this? Hurt me, be brutal, I don’t care, just tell me.

  ‘He was different.’

  Wow. That should have sent me scuttling, made me think of my pills, but I was finding a different way through it now, I was doing what the doctor ordered …

  ‘Different from me?’ I said.

  ‘From anyone. From me, as it happens. He was different from me. Confident. It all seemed to make sense. I wanted to see what would happen.’

  ‘So you quit your job and left me a note.’

  ‘I hated my job, Tom. I hated it. It’s so boring. It was killing me. I was trapped.’

  ‘Yet you want to do it again in Chelsea?’

  ‘I want to be normal again. Normal with you.’

  The words made me shudder. I didn’t want to be normal any more. I didn’t want to be anybody’s ‘normal’.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave you, Tom. I knew I was making a mistake, which is why the note I wrote you—’

  ‘Left your options open.’

  ‘I needed to make sure that there wasn’t … I don’t know …’

  ‘A better option?’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘I love you. I do. I ended that other … thing. But our life, I mean, is this it? Is this flat the best flat we’ll ever have? Are our jobs what we’re meant to be doing? You’re asleep when I go to bed, you’re gone when I wake up, we never saw each other …’

  ‘All that crap about how you were when you were growing up, how you never knew yourself …’

  ‘That was true! I just …’

  ‘You just used the jigsaw pieces to let me come to my own conclusion. You were just doing it again – telling me what you thought I wanted to hear. But the truth was so much more mundane. So much more disappointing.’

  She sat, cowed, dumb, caught.

  ‘So you should have talked to me,’ I said.

  ‘You were always so tired. You had a routine you had to stick to.’

  ‘I moved here for you,’ I said. ‘This was our routine.’

  ‘But routine’s not what I want …’

  Turns out we both wanted the same thing in the end. Something else.

  ‘And what about Jeremy?’

  ‘Jeremy is not what I want,’ she said. ‘Please believe me. I never thought he was, I just wondered if that life was. But it isn’t, Tom.’

  ‘So it didn’t work out.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘It didn’t work out with this guy so you’ve returned to your fallback.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘You slept with him, Hayley.’

  She said nothing, now. There was no comeback to this. No justification. I realised, in that moment, that this girl had something right. She’d gone looking for herself. But she’d never find herself. Because as sad as it was, she was absolutely nothing.

  ‘I’m surprised it took you this long,’ she said, leaning against the frame of the bedroom door, wine glass in hand, wounded pride across her face, as I packed a bag. ‘Considering your little girlfriend knew about it all along.’

  ‘She’s not my little girlfriend,’ I said. ‘She’s my friend.’

  And then I stood. Stopped. Turned.

  Took the bait.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

  ‘She knew,’ she said. ‘They all did. Andy. That little weakling Felix. Your friend, Pia. Surprised she didn’t drop me in it. She can be a judgmental little bitch.’

  ‘They knew?’

  ‘It started with a follow. I talked about it every week. They tracked it. It was like their own little soap opera for a while. But they never thought I’d go through with it. Well, I did. Sad – they just wanted to live vicariously through me.’

  She looked defiant; proud, almost.

  ‘Imagine that,’ I said. ‘Imagine only living through other people.’

  Her eyes fell a little. The words were a dent in her armour, a scratch on her new car.

  I was done here.

  ‘Goodbye Hayley,’ I said. ‘Just try and carry on as normal.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Are you coming back?’

  I walked out.

  ‘Tom, are you coming back?’

  The cabbie asked me where to.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘The Holiday Inn Express, Wandsworth.’

  The ride through London was fast at this time of night. The lights bouncing off the river, the blue neon of lit bridges, the orange of the streetlamps, the white of St Paul’s, each a floating moment in an ink-black sky that seemed to stretch on and on forever.

  thirty-three

  ‘It’s 6 o’clock, I’m Tom Adoyo with the stories you’re waking up to …’

  I had several missed calls on my phone.

  Hayley, Hayley, Home, Home, Blocked.

  The Blocked, I reasoned, was her again, hiding her number this time, trying to fool me into picking up. She’d fooled me enough.

  There was that, of course, to keep my mind occupied. But there was also the fact that Pia had known about this guy, this Jeremy, yet she’d chosen not to tell me. She’d made stuff up to hide it from me. Whose side was she on?

  ‘Arsène Wenger insists he made the right choice with the starting line-up on Saturday …’

  There was a picture of Leslie James on Digital Spy this morning.

  He’d arrived for his first show on Sunrise. A couple of photographers had turned up to document his fall from grace. He’d made a statement saying how
proud he was to be starting his brand new afternoon show for Kent, especially on such an exciting online platform.

  Then, with both his arms still in plaster, he’d become trapped in the revolving doors of the building.

  He batted back and forth in there like a moth against a window.

  The photographers must have taken a thousand pictures before anyone thought to get help.

  A passer-by made a video and it was starting to get some real traction on YouTube.

  ‘And in showbiz, multi-award-winning pop star Aphra Just says her next album could well be her last …’

  Yeah? Good.

  I paused.

  ‘And now you’re up to date.’

  Straight after the show, I took my phone off silent and sat at my desk.

  It was empty, as always. It wasn’t even my desk, really.

  A desk as metaphor for life.

  Ding.

  * * *

  FROM: MAUREEN THOMAS

  TO: ALL STAFF

  Will you PLEASE REMEMBER our CLEAN DESK POLICY. Personal items are FORBIDDEN. We are a PAPERLESS ENVIRONMENT. Any personal items found on desks AFTER OFFICE HOURS will be DESTROYED.

  * * *

  I was starting to feel these emails in my soul. I read it again. Clean desk policy?

  Let’s start by deleting your email.

  Leslie had always said there was something else going on with that.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the environment,’ he’d spit. ‘It’s so they can disappear you in the night, like a Mexican bloody cartel.’

  I sort of missed Leslie now.

  ‘“Oh, keep their desks empty so no one notices when they’ve gone.” That’s what happens! That’s what happened to Jenny Stevens!’

  Jenny Stevens, of Harmony. She was just coming up to her eleventh year on the job. Taken to one side on the Friday before her contract was up. Told she’d done her last show. They don’t let you say goodbye to the listeners; there is no time for cloying sentimentality, they say, not in a commercial operation. Doesn’t matter that these people have had you in their lives for so long. They say the listeners will find it distressing. Best just to go. Disappear. They tell you afterwards, so you don’t say anything on-air, and people leave early on Fridays – less chance of a scene. You have the weekend to calm down, think about your options, work on your statement, say you’d like to thank the station for eleven great years but the time has come to ‘explore new opportunities’. They thank you for your time and talk about how exciting the new-look Harmony is going to be. Seems a good approach to life. Send out releases to friends and family. ‘I’d like to thank Hayley for two really interesting years. I’m proud of all we achieved during our time together – including replacing an old kitchen pedal bin with a stainless steel Brabantia one with a removable plastic inner bucket which is certainly a decision I will be replicating moving forward – but the moment has come to explore some exciting new opportunities on the horizon.’

  My phone rang.

  Blocked.

  I nearly pressed Decline. Hayley again. She’d listened to the show, maybe, or just checked her watch – she knew I’d be out of studio.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  What if it was Pia?

  ‘Hello,’ I said, fumbling for it, answering it.

  ‘Tom?’

  Not Hayley. Nor Pia. Who?

  ‘This is Jo Ward, I work with Matthew Channing?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, sitting up straight. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Matthew’s filming in LA right now, but asked me to pass something on?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘He says he’s going to call you tomorrow evening and that you need to be ready.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘It means something’s about to happen.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘It means something’s about to happen.’

  ‘I need to book a studio,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Why?’ said Pippy. ‘Why tomorrow evening?’

  ‘A story.’

  ‘Ooh, I love stories.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘A big story.’

  ‘A secret story?’

  ‘A big secret story.’

  ‘I’ll book 6A.’

  The Matthew Channing story would be a good distraction. That’s what I should concentrate on. Get my name out there.

  Pia would love it if she knew. She’d laugh about how it had happened. An older man with a pipe. A tube journey. A bar. A lie. Now this.

  And maybe Hayley had been useful. Maybe her instincts had been right when she’d mentioned going back to City Sound. She was only saying what she thought I wanted to hear, but there was a reason I wanted to hear it. And this could totally help me get my old job back. But it’d be different this time. No early wake-ups. A nice cushy drivetime show. Rock up about midday. Some basic office noodling. In studio at four. Bit more noodling from seven. Dinner by the quay at eight. Maybe meet a completely normal girl who’s never followed a stranger in her life before.

  Yeah, man. Drivetime.

  Could get a flat in the centre. One of those new developments. Just a studio, or maybe a one-bed. See my friends again. Hang out with that completely normal girl who’d never followed a stranger in her life before.

  I knew what I’d do. The second the Channing story went out, I’d clip it. Send the audio to my old boss. See what was going on.

  Positive. Thinking. Can’t let this beat me. Can’t. Must be proactive. Move my own narrative forward.

  So I had my questions – straightforward, to-the-point, designed to allow Matthew simply to present the facts. That’s what he wanted from me – his nobody. But there’d be fallout as the media picked up on it. I’d probably be asked to do interviews myself. I’d be known as his confidant, and I had to be careful there. I needed to position myself as a serious journalist who landed the story. But if I wanted the follow-ups, I had to play by Matthew’s rules. Not make him look like a bad guy or the kind of man who takes his wife to an awards do and leaves the after-party with the girl he’s been seeing on the side. That disappointed me. But no. I was doing the right thing by helping him on this. The right thing for me. It was important. It wasn’t just dealing in idle gossip.

  So …

  Can you tell me in your own words what happened?

  How do you feel about this?

  Is this something you feel you’ve learned from?

  How are you moving forward?

  I stared at the questions. I shook my head. What was I doing?

  My phone rang again.

  Home.

  I thought of Hayley. Of Jeremy, whoever he was and whatever he looked like. This man, so much better than me. So much more interesting. So different.

  Investment analyst.

  Dubai. Cape Town. Paris.

  Decline.

  I had to be the bigger man.

  I could not obsess.

  He worked in Covent Garden.

  His picture was on the board in reception, under ‘Partners’.

  Jeremy Minshall. Senior Investment Analyst. Jellico/Slade.

  He was looking off camera, smiling as if someone had just told him a joke, one finger to his brow and pointing a pen.

  Twat.

  He’d been easy enough to find. Basic googling, an hour at most. Andy’s description had been thorough, the company one of only three in the area.

  I followed him from this wide silver shark of a building where he worked – a glass lift running down the outside, an alleyway packed with smokers.

  He had an easy gait, he moved quickly, past the chuggers and homeless, this captain of industry, this master of his universe. I don’t know why but I assumed he’d be stocky. He was tall, lean, in a grey suit, shiny. Burnt orange brogues with thin brown laces. Short silver hair, tan, good skin. Big watch. Samsung Galaxy in one hand, matt black wallet in t
he other.

  He was heading for The Bear and Staff.

  I followed.

  ‘Ladies!’ he shouted, clapping his hands on the shoulders of the biggest of his friends. They looked like a rugby team that never played rugby.

  I found a chair, turned away, listened – a copy of The Times turned to the TV pages in my lap, letting me blend.

  He was seeing a girl, he said, and now my interest was really piqued. Colombian. Completely mad, apparently. Met her at Spearmint Rhino on Tottenham Court Road. Not his favourite, he prefers the gateway pubs, they’re less cynical there, more easily impressed. Anyway, took her to Paris, made her drink ’til she sicked-up cut-price shots of Grand Marnier from the hotel bar. Check out the pics on his Facebook page. No, not his actual Facebook page. His other Facebook page. She went spare when she found out but whatever. At least she didn’t call him up constantly, like that Joanna or whatever her name was. Marketing. Face like a slapped arse. How had Alec put it again? ‘Body off of Baywatch, face off of Crimewatch’, something like that.

  They all laughed like they’d never heard that before. He kept a cocked twenty between two fingers, used it as a pointer, continued: anyway, Alec was a prick who couldn’t hold his drink, Jamie didn’t have two farthings to rub together, Welshie could never get laid, Graham went to the polytechnic of the West of bloody England … and they all laughed and lapped it up, this alpha male with his opinions and his put-downs and his cocked twenty and his fat wallet and his fat head.

  And then someone asked him about that bird he was showing about the place for a while.

  ‘Nah, mate, moved on from that one. Fucking nightmare.’

  His eyes never left the girl at the next table. He sucked at his pint, his eyes on her, predatory, looking for a wound, a weak point.

  ‘Sad eyes, my weakness. Not getting what she wanted at home.’

  My hands tightened around my pint.

  ‘All I did was give her a smile, she wanted to commit!’ he said. ‘I told her, look, it’s not me – it’s you.’

  They thumped the table with joy. This guy was their king.

  ‘Food!’ he said. ‘Come on, you pricks.’

  They wouldn’t notice a guy like me, and I was now pretty good at following, but men like this don’t see the quiet. It’s like they can only register their own kind. The suits, the shoes, the watches, the only things that matter.