Twenty Something

by Iain Hollingshead

  It certainly is. Rick’s holding her hand and kissing her delicately on the nose across a plate of oysters. She’s looking sufficiently aroused not to require the aphrodisiac.

  Daddy, bless him: ‘Shall we leave?’

  We left.

  JUNE

  Wednesday 1st June

  The first day of the rest of my life. I have escaped the bank for ever and I’m not going to die.

  On Daddy’s advice, I finally went to see Dr Singh yesterday.

  ‘Hello, Dr Singh, I’ve got testicular cancer. I think I’m going to die.’

  I looked across at my computerised notes as Dr Singh fiddled down below. ‘Perennial hypochondriac’, he had written. ‘Regular patient. Receding hairline. Overweight. Moderate alcohol abuse.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Dr Singh, after he’d resurfaced from the depths of my crotch. ‘You have mistaken your epididymis for a suspicious lump. And you’ve touched it so much that it’s become inflamed.’

  I feel almost as stupid as I do relieved. I am alive. I have a new lease of life. Nothing else matters.

  Thursday 2nd June

  Summer is in the air, and I’m loving it.

  Summer is about one thing — girls. Girls in short, floaty skirts looking incredibly attractive. Girls giggling in the bronzing sun. It notches up their desirability by at least three points. It’s like being permanently a little bit tipsy.

  When I was at university, we used to call it ‘exam term goggles’, as anything looked sexy when you’d spent ten hours in a library cramming Latin grammar. Now I can see that it’s really the sun that transforms everything. It brings hope, health, happiness and the vague possibility that you might get laid before the nights start drawing in again.

  And summer is particularly good when you don’t have to spend it in sweaty tube trains and air-conditioned offices.

  Summer is in fact made for the unemployed, I mused, as I meandered contentedly through Hyde Park this afternoon. Kites flew, children played, couples strolled, tourists pointed, pedalos pedalled. Here I was enjoying this little Eden while thousands of office workers drafted crap PowerPoint presentations and checked the BBC weather website to see if it was still going to be sunny at the weekend. (It’s not; I’ve already looked. Ha!)

  I also like walking through the park, as it gives you time to think in a way you can’t in a busy street or a claustrophobic flat.

  (1) Lucy and Rick

  Don’t want to dwell on this too much, but I’ve found it almost impossible to get the image of them in the restaurant together out of my head. Hearing that they’d slept together was one thing. Learning the precise condom details from Rick was another. But actually seeing the two of them together, schmoozing over oysters while the ginger toss-rag kissed her on the nose was something else altogether.

  I know I dumped her. I’m aware that they’re both free agents. I do want her to be happy. But I’d slightly prefer it if she spent the next five years cooped up in a small village in Yorkshire — emerging only occasionally in full purdah to buy groceries from the eunuch in the local post office — before marrying someone shorter, uglier and poorer than me (and with a tiny penis). The fact that Rick is ginger only mitigates the pain slightly.

  I know it’s stupid and irrational, but the concept of Lucy and my best mate going out together seems to make a mockery of our own three-year relationship. Did she only go out with me to get to him? Was I merely a useful intersection on the way to the ginger with the todger that shatters condoms? Jack Lancaster — the Clapham Junction of relationships.

  On the other hand, Rick and Lucy being together might work out very well. It gets me out of the awkward baby situation. If they’re together, it presumably means that he’s told her about the condom. It might even mean that he’s accepted the baby as his and she doesn’t have to go through with an awkward abortion. I could be off the hook.

  (2) Leila

  Screwed up a bit there, didn’t I? Not the smoothest way of declaring my affection for her: drunk, with an expletive, in front of her ex-boyfriend and thirty of her colleagues. She still hasn’t rung.

  (3) Money

  Thanks to last year’s Christmas bonus (bumper year) and a generous payoff to keep me quiet about a number of Rupert’s (bald) fraudulent indiscretions to which I was an accidental witness, I am currently in the black. I am also fortunate to be one of the few city bankers without an expensive cocaine habit. This puts me in the enviable position of not only having bucketfuls of dosh, but also masses of time in which to enjoy it. I don’t need to head to the Job Centre just yet.

  However, I’ve decided that I will not squander it on selfish and indolent pleasures, but will use my economic liberation to help me seek my purpose in life.

  (4) My purpose in life

  Have absolutely no idea whatsoever.

  Friday 3rd June

  I’ve been thinking a little more about my purpose in life and have come to the following conclusions.

  While everyone wants to be happy, there are many different ways of going about this. Some go for pure hedonism — drugs, sex and rock ’n’ roll (girly equivalent — shopping, chocolate and skinny lattes). Others get their kicks out of helping others. Others like collecting stamps. It’s rather like trying to make a journey from London to Edinburgh: you could drive; you could go by train; you could fly; you could cycle; you could walk on your hands; you could canoe down the Thames Estuary and back up the Firth of Forth. The point is, we’re all trying to get to the same place.

  So what specifically makes me, Jack Lancaster, happy?

  Booze.

  Which is why — after much persuasion on my part — Flatmate Fred and I are doing the Circle Line pub crawl today.

  ‘I’m writing a screenplay, Jack. I can’t just take time off willy-nilly.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you can do when you’re writing a screenplay, you willy. You’re your own boss. “Hello boss, can I have the day off?” “Yes, course you can, employee of the month. I’ll make sure your PA picks up any important messages.”’

  ‘But Jack, I’ve got to a really key bit in the plot.’

  ‘Fred, you promised. Purleeeeeeeease. We have to celebrate my freedom.’

  He gave in. We’re just off now to exercise our democratic right to purchase and consume twenty-seven pints in a clockwise manner while the rest of the adult world queues for the office water cooler.

  Saturday 4th June

  I am never drinking again. Never, ever, ever. This is not my purpose in life. This is crap.

  Sunday 5th June

  I mean it. Never, ever, again. My hangover still hasn’t passed. I have Unidentified Beer Injuries all over me. I must have forgotten to ‘mind the gap’ on the Underground. The wrath of grapes is great.

  I’m not even tempted by a little hair of the dog.

  Monday 6th June

  Why do I drink so much when I am categorically so bad at it? Awful at Physics — give it up for GCSE. Crap at hockey — stop playing. Clinically incapable of heavy drinking — do it on a regular basis. Dr Singh was flattering my stamina when he put me down as a ‘moderate’ alcohol abuser.

  Alcohol is illogical, expensive and harmful. The cream of Britain’s youth go off to university to pickle their fine minds in cheap ethanol — a mere dress rehearsal for the rest of our destructive lives. Are we all completely socially inept? Can we not be happy until we’ve drunk enough mind-numbing poison to loosen ourselves up a bit? Are we all so clever that we need release from our tortured genius?

  I put these questions to Flatmate Fred, but he’s too busy working to reply.

  Perhaps he really is a tortured genius.

  ‘Fred, are you a tortured genius?’

  ‘Shut up, I’m working.’

  He is a tortured genius. I shut up and watch Neighbours.

  Tuesday 7th June

  Perhaps I was a little bit harsh on alcohol. A spot of internet research brought up this gem from Omar Khayyam, a Persian poet who died
in AD 1131.

  Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears

  Today of past Regrets and future Fears.

  To-morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be

  Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.

  I rather like that.

  ‘Fred, my beloved, fill my cup.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Have resolved to follow Churchill’s dictum and take more out of alcohol than it takes out of me.

  Thursday 9th June

  An email popped into my inbox today from Leila Sidebottom. Aha, I thought perceptively, it’s from Leila for me.

  It was from Leila. But it wasn’t for me alone. It was a forwarded joke email to ten people. Not a very funny forward — one of those ones comparing a perfect day for a man and a woman — but at least I’d made her top ten. She had been sitting at her desk at work, read a vaguely amusing email and thought, I know, Jack Lancaster might enjoy this, I’ll send it to him as well as nine other people.

  I scanned down the list. I recognised nearly all the names — mainly other people in the bank, or girlfriends I’d heard her referring to. There was no sign of Buddy. Result. If he’s not on her joke forwarded email list, then there’s no way she’s still shagging him.

  But hang on, who is this Olli Wynne character at the end of the list? I’d heard her refer to Bens and Toms and Sams, but never an Olli. Is he a new boyfriend? Oh god, has she met someone else already? Have I missed my (very small) window of opportunity?

  I email her back to clear this up. ‘Hi Leila, how are you doing? Hilarious email! Life on the outside is great. Let’s have a catch-up drink soon. Btw, who’s Olli? Friend of yours? Jack x’

  A cool, calm, electronic communication.

  Olli wasted no time in replying.

  To: Jack Lancaster [unemployed@hotmail.com]

  From: Oliver Wynne [oliver.wynne@kpmg.co.uk]

  Subject: Leila

  Thursday 9th June 11.35

  Hi Jack, did you press ‘reply all’ by mistake?! Oops. I’m just a friend of Leila’s.

  Met her in a club last weekend. Great girl. Hope we’ll meet up sometime.

  Cheers, Olli

  Cheers Olli — you can sod right off. And ‘Wynne’ — what kind of surname is ‘Wynne’? Wynne the Wynner. Works at KPMG. Accountant. Wynne the Loser.

  Saturday 11th June

  Rick phones in the morning and I decide to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Rick.’

  ‘Easy now, dude. How’s it going, izzit?’

  ‘If you’re asking how I am, I am very well indeed.’

  ‘Right, shut up you arse, innit. I’ve been trying to call you for ages. Why do you keep putting me on to answer machine?’

  ‘I don’t put you on to answer machine. I’ve got a clever button on my mobile that silences you instead. Saves me having to smother you under a cushion until the ringing tone dies out.’

  ‘Très drôle, mate. Très drôle.’

  He pronounces the ‘s’ at the end of très so it sounds like ‘trezz’. I feel like I’m in Only Fools and Horses.

  ‘But seriously, Jack, I’ve got something I really need to talk to you about. That’s why I’ve been ringing nonstop for the last two weeks, izzit.’

  ‘Is it, Rick? I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh please, shut up. Can I come round, dude?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can you?’

  ‘Oh sod off. I’ll see you in half an hour.’

  I’m going to enjoy this

  Rick turns up looking really nervous. Flatmate Fred is out food shopping (for once).

  ‘Horrible weather, innit.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Much nicer during the week, izzit.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

  He meanders aimlessly through the sitting room in our flat, picking up bits of newspaper and replacing them, fingering CDs and reordering them.

  ‘Keane, Hopes and Fears. Overproduced and overrated if you ask me, innit.’

  ‘I quite like it actually.’

  Long pause.

  ‘Jack?’

  No answer.

  ‘Jack? Dude?’

  ‘Yes, Rick.’

  ‘Jack, the thing is’

  ‘What’s the thing, Rick?’

  ‘The thing is’ He reverts to radio advert voice here.

  ‘ThethingisthatIreallylikeLucyandImseeingher.’

  I try to look crestfallen and seething with quiet anger, but I’m a crap actor. I have to turn away so that he can’t see me sniggering under my hand. But the snigger sounds like a sob.

  Rick rushes forward, ‘Oh, Jack. Dude. Dudos. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Dude, I’m only playing.’ I turn round and clap him laughingly on the back. ‘That’s bloody fantastic news. I’m so happy for you.’

  Understandably he looks more confused than normal. Rick is a fine friend, but his IQ rarely rises above room temperature.

  ‘So you knew already, innit?’

  ‘I certainly did. Remember that evening the two of you were eating oysters together in St James’s two weeks ago? I was in the same restaurant with my dad.’

  ‘Yeah, those oysters were a little aphrodisiac for later. Not that we needed them, innit.’

  ‘Rick.’

  ‘Sorry, dude.’

  And then we sit and talk for ages and I’m left in no doubt that Rick really does feel for Lucy. She wants to keep the baby and he’s told her that there’s a strong likelihood that it’s his. He seems so enchantingly besotted by the luscious little frollop that I don’t have the heart to tell him that the entire baby charade was an elaborate ruse by said frollop to lure me back. We’re having a better conversation than we’ve had for months and I don’t want to spoil the moment.

  ‘This has been a little bit strange, innit,’ says Rick as he stands up to leave after several hours.

  ‘Yep. It has. Strange, but nice. Bizarre, but therapeutic. I’m very happy for you both. Send my love to Lucy.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I’m sure she’d love to see you some time, now that things are settling down a bit.’

  Rick’s just walking down the stairs when he turns on his heel.

  ‘Just one more thing.’

  ‘Yes, Rick.’

  ‘She does give the most fantastic head, izzit.’

  I know this should enrage my alpha-male jealousy, but I really don’t care any more. He’s also hit upon an irrefutable fact: Lucy gives the best head known to man or beast.

  ‘Yes, mate, she certainly does. She certainly does.’

  And with a wink and a ‘toodle-pip’, he trots off for his next one.

  Monday 13th June

  I’m really not superstitious, but there’s definitely something portentous about the date thirteen in my life. In March it was me telling Lucy’s dad to fuck off on the phone. In April it was my first major dressing-down from Mr Cox. In May it was my conversation with Rick about my/his/our baby.

  And in June? Why, Leila again, of course.

  After my little ‘reply all’ fiasco last Thursday she eventually emailed me today to suggest a drink in the evening. Was I free? No, I wasn’t, but I’d make sure I was free for her. Claire (doctors ’n’ nurses) would just have to postpone. Sorry.

  She comes bounding into the bar, all laughter and smiles and looking, well, looking downright shaggable.

  ‘Jack, how are you? Sorry I haven’t been in touch for ages. It’s been hell at work. Absolutely run off my feet.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, barely able to hide my smirk.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ she laughs, ‘you lazy good-for-nothing. How is life on the outside, as you put it? One of my friends in your “reply all” email thought you’d just been released from jail.’

  ‘Ha ha. No, life away from the office is good. I’ve been working out my purpose in life. Mainly I’ve been reading and walking and shopping and writing and drinking and visiting museums and doing all those little things you don’t have time for normally.�
��

  This is almost true. Mainly I’ve been drinking.

  ‘So, what is your purpose in life?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Have one point eight children, drive a Volvo, get a mortgage, be a godfather to someone That kind of thing.’

  We laugh, and then she looks serious for a moment.

  ‘Jack, I want to ask you something.’

  Oh god, this seems to be the week for people asking and telling me things.

  ‘Yes, Leila. Anything.’

  ‘When you came into the office drunk last month and said that you, erm, fucking loved me, you didn’t mean it, did you?’

  Hearing her say the word ‘fucking’ is so beautifully dirty.

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ I laugh nervously. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course, I think you’re brilliant and stuff, but no, I was just really wasted.’

  ‘That’s such a relief. I was so worried. I didn’t want to spoil our friendship with awkwardness.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Leila. You and I would never be awkward together. We’re just great friends.’

  What the bloody bollocks am I thinking of? I am managing to say the exact opposite of what I feel.

  We chat on through this hiatus. Olli keeps on coming up. She’s got a definite case of mention-itis.

  ‘So, who exactly is this Olli?’ I ask eventually. ‘I’ve never heard you mention him before.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve only just met him. We’re kind of dating, I guess.’

  ‘Kind of dating? How does that work?’

  ‘It’s what grown-ups do in London, Jack. They go out to drinks and dinner and theatre shows.’

  I don’t want to be a grown-up in London. It sounds rubbish.

  ‘That sounds fun. Perhaps we should go on a date sometime.’

  ‘But we’re having drinks now, aren’t we? In a non-date-date type of way.’

  ‘True, good point. Anyway, I thought you were meant to be celibate. How can you date celibately?’