The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp

by The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp (retail) (epub)

  Molly took herself and the two extra inches of her love handles back to East Dulwich just in time for New Year’s Eve. She always found the daytime bits between Christmas and New Year’s Day to be spookily eerie. Everyone was still coming down from indulgent, decadent mornings of opening John Lewis-bought presents in silk pyjamas and snaffling smoked salmon pinwheels. The usually chirpy residents of her South London village stumbled about like large, unsatisfied children, grumpy that they’d have to wait a whole year to be so greedy again. They squeezed their organic squashes with little real enthusiasm and there was hardly any jostling in the queue at the posh butcher’s. But the day before New Year’s Eve, everyone suddenly found the zeal to panic-buy sparkly tops and hundreds of cocktail sausages, preparing for parties galore. Molly was exhausted just watching them. She preferred the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ approach to New Year’s Eve parties: don’t think about it, just throw yourself in one direction and see if you can stick it. She had a few invitations to house parties dotted around South London but had already lost her partner in crime Rachel to a very ‘mature’ sounding dinner party in Brixton.

  ‘Sorry, but the jogging guy asked me last week. You know, the skinny Americano one,’ Rach explained on the phone as Molly took the slow train from Windsor into London that morning. ‘I kind of thought, you know, a big “event” date with his friends is a good sign, so I said yes. Sorry, chuck. I’ll kiss you at midnight next year, promise.’

  Molly hung about the flat on her own that afternoon (John was still enjoying his mum’s cooking at home in Leeds and making the most of non-London pub prices) and thought she might have a little pre-party slob out. If she did anything energetic now she’d burn out before the Mayor’s fireworks did that night. It was all about thinking tactically, like so many things in life.

  Just as she put on her grape-purple tracksuit bottoms, a baggy jumper of Sam’s she’d found in her laundry basket and rubbed lots of heavy-duty and very shiny face cream onto her chops, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Bugger.’

  Molly shuffled over to the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, it’s Patrick. Not the other one; the naked one.’

  ‘Hey, Patrick. Happy New Year, almost. Are you looking for John? He’s still ooop north, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, can I come in? He’s got a shirt of mine I need for tonight in his room. Plus, I feel like Major Tom speaking to you like this. Please let me in.’

  Molly laughed and pressed the door release key, then opened the flat’s front door as she heard Patrick stride up the stairs, two at a time.

  ‘I’m not going in his room for you, Patty. He may be less of a health hazard to the community these days but I bet there’s old footie gear in that washing basket, nonetheless. I’m not woman enough for that.’

  Patrick smiled. He ruffled his hand through his dark hair to shake out the rainfall which had collected outside, splattering the wall behind him like a very tall puppy. Molly held back a frown, just.

  ‘It’s OK, I brought radioactive-proof gloves and a visor. You should stay well back and keep your arms inside at all times.’ Patrick took a big step in John’s room and closed the door behind him. ‘So, how was your Christmas?’ he called through the balsa wood.

  ‘Good, thanks. The usual – eating, TV, eating, Queen’s speech, eating. Drinking. More eating.’ There was only quiet from the other side of the wood. ‘Have you found it?’

  Patrick opened the door. His lips were pushed up right under his nose, causing a small wrinkle just on the bridge. His deep brown eyes were crinkled in a mix of revulsion and mirth. ‘I had to go through several sedimentary layers of old pants, but I found it. Problem is, it’s got something sticky on it. A sort of orangey-brown colour. I’m really hoping it’s mango chutney.’

  Molly didn’t even peer in the crumpled shirt’s direction. She wanted to keep her thin crust Parma ham pizza in her stomach if she could. ‘I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Patrick rubbed his chin and squinted. ‘Thing is, I was hoping he’d have washed it. I’m going on to Roy’s party in Brixton and I don’t have time to go back into North London again. And …’ Patrick stopped himself before he finished his sentence.

  ‘And?’

  He sighed. ‘And, not to sound like Scarlett O’Hara, but I don’t have anything else to wear. That shirt is pretty much my best and only going out shirt.’ Patrick pointed in with both hands at his broad chest, nicely covered up by a stripy polo shirt. Come to think of it, Molly had only ever seen him in polo shirts. ‘Nice reference there, Patty.’

  ‘Thanks. I do have three older sisters. And, you know, a mum. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously. Hey, you can always chuck it in the wash here – I’ve got a spin dryer function on my machine, too. As long as you don’t mind doing things the environmentally evil way.’

  Something twinkled in Patrick’s eyes, very briefly. ‘Thanks, if you don’t mind. You’re a lifesaver. I’ll owe you one.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Molly replied, plopping down on the sofa again. ‘You can make the tea while you choose your spin setting. One sugar for me, thanks.’

  Molly had planned a nostalgia fest for that afternoon with some classic DVDs lined up on the coffee table. First up was Back to the Future. She could clearly remember seeing it with Sam and Granny Ethel as a special treat, taking mini cans of Coke into the cinema, then dreaming of dancing with Michael J. Fox to ‘Earth Angel’ for weeks afterwards. He was swoony and handily the right sort of height for a young girl.

  Patrick came back with the tea and sat down next to Molly. ‘“Trust me, your kids are going to love it”. Brilliant movie. A classic.’

  ‘Yup, and just what holidays are designed for. You might as well enjoy some space-time-continuum tomfoolery while you wait for your shirt to get less sticky and orange. As long as you don’t talk too much when it’s on.’

  Molly wriggled down into the sofa cushions as the movie credits started, tucking her tracky-clad legs under her bum. She was vaguely aware of how slouchy she looked, but it hardly mattered in front of someone like Patrick. He gently lifted his long legs onto the coffee table. Distracted by the movement, Molly clocked his feet.

  ‘Good Lord, Patrick, how big are your feet?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty tall so …’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Size fourteen.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s like … a clown. Where do you find shoes? Ones that aren’t bright red and all rounded at the toes?’

  ‘There are plenty of specialist retailers that—’ Patrick’s gruff response was cut short.

  ‘Specialist? Like made by NASA?’

  ‘All right, all right. Thank you.’ Patrick held up his hands. ‘Nothing I haven’t heard before, though you have managed to drag the subject to new childish lows. Be quiet and let me concentrate on Marty going back to the future after going back to the past. Though he hadn’t been there before, and he nearly snogs his mum. Sssh.’

  Molly shrugged her shoulders and turned back to watch Marty McFly let himself into the Doc’s house, with a nonchalant kick-up on his skateboard.

  There’s something about the combination of time travel, perky 80s pop and Michael J Fox’s dreamy side parting that makes it very easy to lose track of the day. A pinging from the kitchen suddenly caught Molly’s attention – it was the tinkly noise the washing machine made when it was done. Cripes, they’d watched most of the film without realising.

  ‘Patty, your shirt’s done.’

  Patrick hefted his tall frame up and off the squashy sofa and then paused at the doorway.

  ‘Right, I would just like to say that I’m not happy with this “Patty” business, Mols. It’s just Patrick.’

  ‘OK, Just Patrick.’ Molly plastered a huge grin on her face, to be extra annoying.

  Patrick sighed and went off to transfer the shirt from the washing machine to the tumble drier.
He got back in time to catch Doc disparaging the need for roads.

  ‘Want to watch the first twenty minutes of Marty in his very own dystopian nightmare?’ Molly wiggled the DVD case of the sequel at Patrick. ‘It will probably take that long for your lovely pulling shirt to dry, to be honest.’

  ‘Um, it’s not my pulling shirt.’

  ‘You came all the way here for a shirt that you don’t believe has magical pulling powers? Yeah, right. Let me guess: you’ve had maybe three or four spectacular good experiences with that shirt. At least one where you considered the girl way out of your league.’

  ‘What has Sam been telling you? Did he mention Vanessa Neuswater?’

  ‘Nope. I can just read you like a Katie Price novel. Very, very easily. So, who’s at the party?’ Molly wiggled her eyebrows. This was almost as good as winding up Sam, back in the day.

  Patrick studiously inspected the coffee table corners in turn. ‘No one. Just put the movie in, Mollypops.’

  ‘Hey, if nicknames are off-limits on you, then leave Mollypops out of it!’

  ‘Fair play, but don’t talk too much while the film’s on.’

  * * *

  Molly felt a small, wet sensation spreading on her cheek. Wha—?

  Prising open an eye, she recognised her lounge, bathed in a dim light and The Karate Kid playing in almost-mute on the TV. The Karate Kid 2, she corrected herself. But she could have sworn she had been watching …

  Wiping away the mini paddling pool of dribble in the corner of her mouth, Molly raised herself up on one arm from her cosy little dozing position. And saw Patrick.

  ‘Hey, I was wondering when you might wake up. Hope you don’t mind but I kind of had to see the Back to The Future trilogy out, seeing as I’d started it. Then I saw that Sam had The Karate Kid box set, and it felt like the natural next step.’

  ‘Actually, it’s my box set, but I’ll forgive you. When did I fall asleep?’ Molly yawned and stretched her hands over her head.

  ‘I think right around the time Marty goes back to the past, for the second time, because the future was not his future, and finds the Doc, though it isn’t his Doc, and he has to avoid running into himself. I was waiting for my shirt to dry still, so I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Momentarily caught off-guard by a comment of Patrick’s that wasn’t dipped in sarcasm and sprinkled with cheek, Molly mumbled, ‘Um, thanks. So, what time is it?’

  With a quick look at his old-school Casio, Patrick replied, ‘Twenty to two.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So I just slept through New Year?’ Molly was suddenly conscious that she had her purple tartan blanket tucked around her. The one that lived on the end of the bed and the one she couldn’t remember fetching herself.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bums. Well, that pretty much sorts out my dilemma of what party to go to. But what about your party?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. It took ages for my shirt to dry – think your machine’s a bit slow, so I turned up the heat setting. Then when it was dry, it came out all tight and little. By then, Daniel-san was doing the fence, so I just felt a bit too cosy to go. Shall I…?’ Patrick half stood up and nodded his head towards the door.

  ‘God, no. I’m not going to chuck you out this late. Wait, this early. Sod it, you know what I mean. Um,’ Molly looked at Patrick, ‘Happy New Year.’

  Patrick went in for a cheek kiss as Molly put out her hand to be shaken. There was the merest sliver of a second when her hand went forward and touched his chest at his ribs at exactly the same time as his face was millimetres from hers.

  Molly sat right back into the sofa cushions.

  ‘Ooh, er, sorry there, I thought—’

  ‘Yes, no, ahhh. Never know what to—’

  ‘Anyway, so it’s late …’

  ‘Yup, I’ll get you in bed. I mean, I’ll get the bedding so you can go to sleep. Right. Night!’

  Molly darted off to her bedroom and took a shaky breath.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Have you been told you’re a bad boyfriend?

  Or do you have a boyfriend who is sweet and harmless but utterly hopeless?

  Want to learn what women are thinking and why?

  At The Boyfriend Bootcamp, we’re here to help. We’re turning loafing lads into responsible Romeos. Once we’ve put you through your paces, you’ll be perfect boyfriend material – in conversation, in dress sense, in athletic ability and in dating know-how. You’ll be as attractive as a Prince William/George Clooney hybrid, but with none of the emotional baggage.

  All we ask is that you follow our simple Bootcamp rules:

  The first rule of Bootcamp: You DO NOT talk about Bootcamp.

  The second rule: Only joking, you can tell anyone you like. In fact, sign up a friend and receive 10% off your membership fee.

  The third rule: Players need not apply. We’re about treasuring women, not tricking them. If you want a lasting relationship that makes you truly happy, then you’re the kind of guy for us, no matter how smelly your socks or how annoying your friends. If you’re up for just copping a feel and never calling again, this is not the site for you. And we don’t do refunds.

  And finally: The word of The Colonel is law.

  Click on apply now to start your training. For just £6.99 a week, plus a £25.00 signup fee, you’ll get a one-on-one session with our dating mentor to assess your personal goals and challenges, a deep-cleansing wardrobe analysis from our fashion guru and an all-over body detox and toning plan with our fitness expert.

  If you have ever been dumped and you couldn’t figure out why, we can tell you. You shouldn’t ask yourself, ‘Can I afford to join the Bootcamp?’ The question is, can you afford not to?

  At ease, gents,

  The Colonel x

  ‘Don’t you want to put your actual name in, Mols?’ Kurt asked as he finished typing up the final line from Molly’s handwritten notes. ‘I can change it, even when it’s gone live, but it’s best to get it as right as you can on the first go.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Molly brushed some mince pie crumbs from her lap. It was the best thing about January, in her eyes: Sainsbury’s made excellent mince pies that didn’t go off till February, but they marked them all down to 50p on January twelfth. Bargainous! ‘Nope, I like having a corporate character to pin things on. Like Ronald McDonald or Alan Sugar.’ She leant over Kurt’s shoulder as he clicked and dragged and ticked various boxes. His IT smarts were certainly paying off and it made Molly feel really chuffed to see that her bits and pieces of advice were having a sterling effect on his confidence with the ladies. The last time they’d gone to the pub, Kurt had actually taken up the challenge of approaching a woman he didn’t know. OK, so her girlfriend had come back from the loos and politely put an end to it, but it was a major leap forward.

  The front door slammed downstairs. ‘Aha, the other guinea pigs are here!’ Molly rubbed her hands together in barely concealed glee.

  ‘Not sure that’s the best term to get things started with. They’ve probably been at the pub for a pint and a psych-out session. Like Celtic hoards going into war. Wish I’d thought of that.’ Kurt saved what he was doing and started to shut down the computer.

  ‘Well, I’m hardly an invading Roman army, though I do favour a gladiator sandal from time to time. There’s nothing to be scared of here.’ Molly gestured to the living room around her – a comfy sofa, a coffee table laden with mince pies and biscuits, a six-pack of Carling ready to be popped open and one eager female about to make all their relationship problems go away.

  ‘Mols, we’re going to be talking about breakups, emotions and stuff. Most guys pretend in front of their friends that they couldn’t give a toss if their girlfriend leaves them. In reality, they’re probably wearing her T-shirt to bed every night and crying at the sight of her half-empty Special K box. Sharing might not come easily.’

  Molly pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I’m ready for that, don’t you
worry. I’ll keep talking to a minimum. This is all about actions, not words.’

  John’s key turned in the lock; he walked in with Simon just behind him. The members of Molly’s first group session were all assembled.

  Kurt came forward with a shrug and a sort-of half-smile, as if to say, Yes, it’s weird, but it’s too late now.

  Molly ushered the guys to take a seat on the sofa or on one of the dining table stools. Picking up some stapled A4 sheets from the table, she took up a prime presenting position in front of the telly. It was, after all, the classic focal point of every living room up and down the country; she wanted these guys’ full attention when she gave her prepared speech.

  ‘OK, so welcome to the very first Boyfriend Bootcamp strategic planning session. I’m not sure what you imagined this afternoon might be like, but let me just reassure you right now that they’ll be no sitting in the lotus position, drinking fresh mint tea and discussing whether our mums loved us enough.’ At this, Molly did get a few throaty, relieved laughs, so she figured they were loosening up. Offering them a can each was obviously a wise move. ‘We’re going to approach this like a real army unit – we’ll see where you’re having problems and we’ll drill that bad behaviour right out of you. Saying or doing the wrong thing with women will no longer be a problem: the best course of action under fire will be reprogrammed into your system and you’ll do the right thing without even thinking about it.

  ‘But, like being in an army corps, the training won’t be easy. It won’t be cosy. It will be hard: physically, mentally, financially. But I guarantee it will be worth it when you find that long-term relationship that gives you real happiness and fulfilment. And if you get some advice from me, or our other training supervisors, Josie and Rachel, that you consider ignoring along the way, let me plant this idea in your heads right now: you’ve been following your own advice for years and if it had been that great I’m sure you wouldn’t sitting on my sofa right now.’