Yes Man

by Wallace, Danny

  Plus: Result! If I say yes to upgrading my mobile phone to a new, fancy Siemens one, my phone company will give me a free return flight to any major European city! What a cracking Yes!

  Also sent off for an information pack on learning flemish within twenty-eight day. I guess I could have chosen a different language, but I had a waffle yesterday, and I suppose the feeling just stuck.

  October 16

  Paul Lewis has e-mailed again. Tust to say hello.

  October 17

  Another e-mail from Paul Lewis. He wants to know if I want to meet up again soon. I am a bit scared of Paul Lewis.

  Chapter 18 In Which Daniel Finally Has a Polite Conversation

  It was 7 a.m., and my phone was ringing. What kind of society do we live in, when someone can make your phone ring at 7 a.m.? There should be rules.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice gruff and my eyes bleary.

  But no one spoke.

  “Hello?” I said again.

  I could hear what sounded like trains in the background, and the bing-bong of a tannoy.

  “Who’s there?” I said, but there was no answer. I was about to hang up, when …

  “It’s Paul,” said a man. He had a northern accent and what sounded like caution in his voice. “Why? Who’s this?”

  “It’s Danny.”

  “Right …,” said Paul. “And what do you want?”

  I was confused. What did I want? I thought about it. I didn’t know. Why was I speaking to Paul? What did I want?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought you called me”

  “I did,” said Paul. “I wanted to find out what you wanted.”

  This isn’t the kind of conversation I’m used to having at seven in the morning.

  “I’m afraid I am very confused,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know what I want. Why? What do you want?”

  “Er … Well, I found this sticker, saying ‘Call Me,’ and then this number, and it was playing on my mind, so …”

  “Oh!” I said, sitting up, suddenly on top of the situation. The mere mention of my sticker was like a slap on the face. “Yes! That’s mine! Don’t hang up!”

  Amazing! It was someone who genuinely wanted to have a polite conversation!

  “Right … so … what’s it all about?”

  And I told him.

  * * *

  It turned out that Paul didn’t want to have a polite conversation. At least, not right then. He’d love to have one at some stage, but it’d have to be a bit later. He had to get on his train to go to work, he said, and he had a meeting first thing, which was about European strategies and business integration, and he had to go to it, because he was going to be taking the next meeting, and he wanted to make sure he knew the form, because they had a very different approach at his last company, but he did wonder whether I’d like to have a polite conversation after work, when his train got back in, which should be about a quarter past six, but could just as easily be a quarter past who-knows-when these days, what with one thing and another, but he’s been putting the hours in after work a lot recently, so he should be able to get away without any problems, really, oh look, there’s his train, he should be on his way.

  To be honest I somehow felt like I’d had about six polite conversations with Paul already, but he sounded like a nice man who just wanted a chat, and I was excited to have finally had some success with the scheme. So we quietly and politely arranged to meet.

  I was happy. That was precisely the kind of thing I should be doing with my life. Throwing open the doors. Seeing who walks in. Saying yes to a new friend.

  I’d been doing a lot of thinking about things like this these past few days.

  And much of it had been to do with what Hugh had told me. When you think about it, probably some of the best things that have ever happened to you in life happened because you said yes to something. Otherwise things just son of stay the same.

  It was true. The more I thought about it, the easier it was to trace almost any of the best things that have ever happened to me back to one single moment of Yes. Maybe you can too. I mean, think about the best thing that ever happened to you. And now think about how that thing happened.

  I tried it one night with Wag, over a pint.

  “Wag, mate … What’s the best thing ever to have happened to you?”

  “Nineteen ninety-eight. Newbury. The hour was late. Domino’s brought the wrong order round. We got four pizzas instead of—”

  “Apart from that?”

  He thought about it. “My girlfriend.”

  “Your girlfriend. And how did you meet your girlfriend?”

  “A stroke of good luck. I happened to be at a gig, and so was she, and that was that.”

  “Why did you go to the gig?”

  “Someone asked me to cover for them. I was playing bass.”

  “Okay. And you said yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did you really want to do it?”

  “No. But it was a favour.”

  “Yevel three. Right. And who asked you?”

  “Ben.”

  “Who’s Ben?”

  “A guy I met at a party.”

  “Who invited you to that party?”

  “Neil.”

  “How did you meet Neil?”

  “University.”

  “You nearly didn’t go to university, though, eh?”

  “Well … yeah … but …”

  “So, by saying yes to going to university, you ended up meeting Neil, and he in turn helped you end up with, in your words, the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Wag looked a bit affected by it.

  “Do you think I should get him a card?”

  The thing I instantly realised was that at first, Wag had blamed all this on luck. But he’d made that luck happen. He just hadn’t realised it. He’d made a series of “correct” choices, which led him, bass in hand, to his girl. Maybe we can all do that. Maybe we can all change our fortunes. Maybe there’s no such thing as destiny. There’s just a series of choices we create ourselves. I guess it’s only when we look at how a No could have changed our lives for the worse that we realise the value of the tiny Yeses that fly at us each day.

  It was a revelatory moment—maybe we really did all have the power to change our lives for the better by using this one simple word. Yes had made me fall for Lizzie, true, but rather than mope around, pining after a dream, maybe a Yes could help. Maybe it could at least help me get over her. Maybe it could even work again. There was now a hole where she’d been, and somehow I felt I needed to fill it. It was down to me to say yes.

  I found the number Hanne had given me for her friend Kristen, I took a deep breath, and I gave her a call.

  * * *

  I found it difficult to sleep that night. I was anxious. There were a few things to be anxious about. I’d had a slightly stilted conversation with Kristen, and she’d suggested a time and a place, and I’d said, “Yes, great, that’d be nice.” But was it the right thing to be doing? It was something I would never, ever have done before—a blind date, essentially. Hanne seemed to think it was for the best. But then Hanne used to think it was okay to make smoothies at five in the morning with the loudest blender in the world. But what would Lizzie think? Fair enough, we had no future, but wasn’t it all a bit … soon? Something else was on my mind too. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Challenger had up his sleeve next. The need to unmask him was pressing. Every couple of weeks there was something else—something worse—and I was due for another sometime soon. Plus it was clear that Jason—if it was, indeed, Jason—was slowly upping the pace of his challenges. From “wear this” to “drive there” to “change your rules,” I had to find him quickly and efficiently, and before he reached the next level of mischief and intrigue. And what would that be? “Fly there”? “Run here”? “Kill that”? It was time to be proactive. To stop him rather than just react to his whims.

  I got up and switched
on my Mac. First, I e-mailed his Hotmail address again.

  To : whoisthechallenger@hotmail.com

  From: Danny

  Subject: Stop

  Look here,

  Why aren’t you writing back to me? I know exactly who you are and what you’re up to. I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, but once I’ve unmasked you, you will have no choice but to stop. So you may as well stop now and avoid my wrath, which can be quite considerable once I’m riled. So there.

  Danny

  And then, to make sure I was covering all the angles, I e-mailed Thom again.

  Thom,

  It’s Danny again. I’m sorry to bother you, but could you let me know if you get this e-mail? Did you get my last one? I think your mate, Jason, is still playing pranks on me. I need to get in touch with him, but I don’t know how.

  Please-get back to me!

  Danny

  I pressed Send, then sat back in my chair with a sigh.

  This was a mystery I needed to solve.

  It was two evenings later, and I was sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street with Paul, the man who’d phoned me up for a polite conversation.

  He was a pleasant chap in his forties with neat hair and a blue suit. He wore a chunky watch and slightly raised shoes. Our polite conversation had started well, but somewhere along the line had taken an odd turn.

  “There’s a lot of shit talked about Border terriers,” he said.

  And that’s where I have to interrupt. Border terriers was pretty much all Paul and I had talked about tonight…. Well, pretty much all Paul had talked about. The phrase “let’s have a polite conversation” does, I hope you’ll agree, imply two people exchanging opinions and viewpoints. Paul had clearly misread that and had taken it to mean, “please deliver some lengthy monologues on subjects only you have an opinion on.” It just went on and on and on.

  “The number-one thing people say about Border terriers,” he said, which instantly made me terrified, because I knew I was in for a list, “is this: ‘Border terriers do not shed their hair.’ Well, that is a total fallacy. They do shed, and some of them shed very heavily. Contrary to popular belief, they are not a nonshedding breed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Got you.”

  But Paul clearly wasn’t finished. He pointed his finger in the air and continued.

  “Also, the number-two thing people say: border terriers are easy to train.’ Well, how exactly are we defining ‘easy’?”

  He laughed like this was the most common and ridiculous mistake a rookie in the Border terrier field could make, and he laughed as he carried on. “Do you know what I mean, Danny? How does one define ‘easy’?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “There are probably a lot of variables.”

  “Precisely, Danny. That’s right. There are a lot of variables.”

  Saying “there are probably a lot of variables” is my number-one tip for appearing to be on top of a conversation when you are really six miles out of your depth. Consider it a gift from me to you.

  “Number three: ‘Border terriers are good around small children.’ Well, to a certain extent that is true. But Danny … no dog should ever be left unsupervised with a child. That is a definite no-no.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Do you know why?”

  I didn’t even know what my name was anymore.

  “Er … lots of variables?”

  Paul just looked at me. I never said the variables thing would work twice in a row.

  “Well… I suppose so.”

  Oh. I guess it does.

  “Another pint, Danny?”

  Inwardly I collapsed.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Your round, then, maestro!”

  And I went to get them in.

  I liked Paul—he was a nice and gentle man—but after another ten minutes I do have to admit that I did wish he would stop talking about Border terriers.

  We agreed to meet again in a week or two. He said he’d call me. I didn’t doubt it. I was now the world’s second-foremost authority on Border terriers. Who wouldn’t want to hang with me?

  There was huge and explosive excitement upon my return home that night for two reasons.

  The first was a message on my home phone. It was from Gareth, at Richard & Judy. He was apologising for the delay, but they’d finally decided to go ahead with what he called Danny’s Path to Enlightenment! He wanted to know if I was free this coming Saturday to go up to Yorkshire to film a report with a load of Buddhist monks! Of course I bloody was! Although, as I’d decided to play it cool, the e-mail I sent him read, “Should be fine, yeah, talk soon.”

  But how cool was that? My yes had come good! I was going to meet some monks! On telly!

  The second exciting event was that Thom had finally replied to my e-mails.

  * * *

  Danny!

  How’s the car?! Got your e-mails about Jason, sorry, things have been manic here with the move and all. Tried e-mailing him, but he’s apparently not there at the moment. Annoying! Have another couple of avenues to chase up, think his sister works at Lancaster Uni, will get back to you. What’s your address, by the way? And what’s Jason been doing? Sounds naughty!

  Thom

  This was fantastic news. I mean, fair enough, I was no closer to catching Jason out, but at least now I had an ally. Thom was aware of the situation and would help me bring Jason to justice. The Challenger was nearing his end.

  I went to bed, happy. Things were on the up again.

  I think Kristen had been looking forward to our intimate tête-à-tête. And so, I think, had all her friends.

  “I’m Kristen,” said a tall, attractive, Sloaney girl, when I walked in. “And this is Dan, Michael, Bri, Jane, Rudi, and Nick.”

  “Hello … everyone,” I said.

  “Hello,” they all said back.

  Kristen had suggested the time and the place. A slightly grubby pub in Islington. During the Arsenal versus Tottenham match. With just about everyone she knew. It wasn’t classic date material.

  “When Hanne suggested I met up with you for a drink,” she said, “I was, like, oh, you fucking wankersl”

  Kristen was on her feet now, shouting at the telly. As were Dan, Michael, Bri, Jane, Rudi, and Nick. Arsenal had just scored.

  “But then I thought about it,” Kristen continued, sitting back down, “and, you know, I thought, sometimes …”

  “Get a faking grip, ref. You blind bloody bastard!” shouted Nick, next to her, and she patted his knee.

  There is little I find more terrifying than girls in pubs who are really, really into football. For one thing, they are the loudest, angriest women in the world. They’re up and out of their seats quicker than my eye can move. Many’s the time I’ve thought the girl in the seat next to me had evaporated, when in fact they were now on their feet, screaming obscenities I didn’t even know existed. As you can probably guess, I’m not really very big on football. International games I love, but your normal, run-of-the-mill pub-based Arsenal versus Tottenhams I tend to leave alone. Maybe it comes from having a dad who supports Carlisle United, a team who scored once, sometime in the eighties. It somehow wasn’t enough to enthuse me to the merits of league games, although I remember the occasion well, because Dad bought some biscuits to celebrate. You can still see him to this day in empty, windswept stadiums up and down the country, standing wet and silent with half a dozen or so other retired men also old enough to remember the glory days—though old enough to know better, too.

  I sat in near-silence as the group stared intently at the screen, but I couldn’t shake my feeling of awkwardness. It felt like I was … cheating, somehow. But hey—this was only a drink. And it was only a Yes. I remembered something. I could choose to be okay. So I turned to Kristen, and I started to talk to her.

  “So is it reds versus whites?” I asked, only partly in jest.

  Kristen looked at me. “You’re not into football, then?”

  “
Not exactly. Who’s the guy in the black? One of their dads?”

  She smiled. A nice smile. All of a sudden this wasn’t so bad.

  “The referee,” she said. “But I think you knew that. To tell you the truth, I’m not all that into football either … force of habit from my dad.”

  “Ah. Me too. What does your dad do?”

  “He’s retiring next year.”

  “Oh. Are you going to get a new one?”

  She laughed. I’d scored a point.

  “Oh, come on you utter wankers!” she suddenly shouted. I guess if she’s not all that into football, she must just really love swearing in public.

  “This is bollocks,” she said. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Kristen and I sat in a bar on Upper Street.

  My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up.

  Kristen leaned forward.

  “Don’t you find it a bit weird that Hanne’s set you up on a date?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, turning my phone off. “Do you?”

  She sipped at her wine.

  “Pretty much. So why have you come?”

  “You could call it … open-mindedness.”

  “That’s a good thing,” she said. “It’s good to be open-minded.”

  There was a pause, but not an awkward one. I took a breadstick.

  “Relationships are tricky,” she suddenly said. “Sometimes you know where you are with them or you think you do, and then one day you realise that you just don’t. All of a sudden. Like it happened in an instant. Don’t you find that, sometimes?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”

  “My last boyfriend, Ben. Everything was cool. We’d been seeing each other since university. And then one day he met someone else. And that was that. Four years, over in an evening.”