It strikes me there might be an upside to this – I’m back in the running for the job. Well, if there’s still a company in two weeks’ time, that is…

  ‘People who aren’t responsible for this monumental fuck up – ideas?’

  Amanda puts up her hand hesitantly. ‘Obviously, we need to put it by New York, but my feeling is we should probably just… apologise.’

  ‘Fuck New York. They don’t get our culture and they won’t be up for another two hours anyway.’ He says it like it’s evidence of laziness, rather than a consequence of the time difference. ‘I’m taking the lead on this. This company has flourished under me for twenty years. We don’t need New York to come and bail us out.’

  By the end of the day, we’ve lost 60% of our clients.

  New York coming to bail us out might not actually have been so bad.

  Tuesday

  I go up to the office at ten like normal, only to find the whole place buzzing with activity. Everybody looks like they’ve been in for ages, and at the centre of it all is this incredibly handsome guy, going round the office giving people things to do. JC’s skulking next to his assistant, trying to look like he’s busy, but it’s pretty clear he’s been outranked and is trying to pretend otherwise. The handsome guy looks weirdly familiar. It could be just that he’s reminiscent of every billboard I’ve seen in the last six months. Then, I suddenly recognize him from his LinkedIn page. It’s Vin. It’s bloody Vin. He’s not in New York. He’s here. And he’s even more handsome than his bloody photo.

  He turns to me.

  ‘You?’ he says in a full-on American accent. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Um… downstairs – JC likes me to do an hour in Accounting before I come up here.’ Why do I feel like I’m not the alpha male in this situation?

  Vin rolls his eyes in disgust. I’m pretty sure it’s at JC’s management rather than me, but I’m not 100% sure.

  ‘OK – Amanda’s got the briefs – I’ve managed to persuade about twenty clients to delay their decisions to leave, but we need to wow them with new stuff, so no more accounting till this is over, OK?’

  I nod and head to Amanda’s office, stealing another glance at Vin. He’s so handsome. Like a bloody Scandinavian model or something. Of course Amanda prefers him to me. He’s like a Greek god – the nearest I get to that is having white bits in my beard. And a dad with a temper. I’m more like the Greek bloody economy.

  Vin notices me looking and gives me a smile, as if to say – ‘Yes, I am better than you’. I smile back to try and avoid the implication, but feel like a complete beta loser. It’s strange; I never really cared about being ‘manly’, but now that I seem to have been massively out-manlied by a sexual competitor, I feel awful. Like I’ve just been bullwhipped with his penis.

  That came across as far more homoerotic than I was hoping.

  That said – he is very handsome.

  Wednesday

  The office has calmed down a bit, although everyone seems to have developed a new American-style work ethic under Vin’s rule. As much as I resent him for coming here and wrecking any hopes I had with Amanda, he’s actually pretty decent as a boss. Maybe he doesn’t realise I’m on a trial period, but he seems to be treating me more like an equal member of the team than JC ever did. Maybe it’s because now, the whole company’s on a trial period.

  What’s worse is Vin’s stolen Amanda to help him spearhead the comeback, so I’m working exclusively with Hans. Hans is a nice guy and all, but, from the few weeks we’ve worked together, it’s clear he’s possibly the least creative person I’ve ever met. I mean he looks creative, he dresses creative, but by the time he gets to the office he’s got nothing. It’s like he just spunks it all out at the wardrobe every morning. Maybe one day he’ll come in wearing a shirt and V-neck jumper and spend the rest of the day blowing our tiny minds. But until then, he’s useless. We did some word association the other week when we were first talking about washing powder. His contribution went, ‘Detergent, white, powder, cleans, clothes.’ I’m pretty sure that’s just a sentence describing what washing powder does that’s been over-punctuated with commas.

  Anyway, we’ve got a pitch for a custard ad to sort out and, unless it’s going to consist of the words, ‘Yellow, sauce, for, puddings,’ it’s sort of my responsibility. That said, it’s the biggest client the company’s got left, so there’re four other teams on it as well. But it’d be nice if we were the ones that cracked it. Cracked… Real custard isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Nah, rubbish. Agggh.

  I can see Vin and Amanda in their office. I try not to look, but I can’t help it occasionally. They’re super touchy feely. Kind of like JC and Amanda, but OK because both people are doing it. God, I wish I was really handsome. How great would life be if you looked like that? David Gandy-level great, that’s how.

  But I’m starting to accept the fact that Amanda and I aren’t going to end up together. I wish I wasn’t such a dreamer – imagining what it’d be like to grow old with someone before the end of a first date. I was the same way at school. Staring at some girl across the classroom, completely unable to ask her out. Feeling that pain in your stomach that’s sort of like a sickness that won’t go away until you fall asleep. But I’ve never had that before as an adult. Not that I’ve never fancied anyone – but if someone rejects you, you just don’t see them any more…

  I need to get out of here. I’ll finish the trial period, so I’ll know if I can get the job, but then I’ll leave. Whether that be to the Accounts department or somewhere else, I don’t know. But I can’t feel like this any more.

  So I have to go.

  Thursday

  I’ve got the day off to go to the nursery/school nativity plays. The ones my kids are in – I’m not a weirdo. And by ‘weirdo’, I don’t mean paedophile. Seeing a children’s Christmas show that doesn’t include your own flesh and blood would be a whole other level of deviancy. But for a parent, they’re… interesting. A combination of theatre and an insight into the level of childcare your kids experience on a daily basis.

  A non-parent might think these are simple affairs – a basic retelling of the nativity story, cute children struggling to remember their lines – nothing could be further from the truth. The modern nativity is an extravaganza – pre-recorded songs, dance routines, and a mash up of the Christmas story with something random to give the show a ‘twist’. Whether that’s a lamb with a dicky leg, or a Pynchon-esque narrative telling the whole thing from the point of view of the manger doesn’t matter. It’s what keeps the audiences coming back. Well, that and parental obligation.

  I bed myself in at a Starbucks five minutes from Carrie’s nursery and order a flat white, ready for a few hours of thinking about custard.

  Right: Custard… Custardy… Cus-tardy. Tardy. Never too late for custard. Something about non-instant custard taking a long time… Ugh. Custurdy more like. I’ve got nothing. Why is it that everyone wants to be creative, but when it comes to doing it, it’s like pulling teeth? Except someone who’s pulls teeth actually does what they get paid for.

  At 11:00 am, I head down to Nursery. The door doesn’t open till half past and there’s already a massive queue. Fuck.

  I join the back, depressed. I’ll still be able to see, but that’s not the point. The kids need to see you. Anything except front row and you’re in unchartered territory. Sure, you’re only a few metres away, but when you’re talking about creatures who can’t spot a pair of slippers three feet in front of them, normal rules of perception don’t apply.

  I get a third row seat in the end. Well, fourth but the front row are on baby chairs, so they won’t block Carrie’s view and they look stupid. There was a lone chair, which I guess is one of the upsides of being a single parent. Society is so quick to condemn us, but they really do downplay the advantages.

  The play starts a few minutes later, and the whole thing is fucking chaos. At one point, Joseph steals the baby (which technically hasn’t been born yet), and makes a break for the bathroom. Luckily, Mary is faster than him and grabs unborn Jesus’s leg, pulling repeatedly until Joseph lets go. Joseph responds by hitting her, at one point with the baby, all to the tune of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Ah! Christmas!

  Carrie spots me while they’re singing the third song. Well, not singing exactly; more opening and closing their mouths while the teachers carry the tune, like some weird piece of performance art. She seems happy to have spotted me, and keeps waving for the rest of the show. You know, like an angel would in real life. I have to plaster on a grin for the rest of the play, like I’m watching the world’s most insecure stand-up, but it pays off – after the show, Carrie seems really proud.

  ‘Did you see me?’

  ‘Of course I saw you. You were great.’

  ‘Thanks, Daddy,’ she beams, super-cute in her makeshift angel outfit. We hug and she goes back in for a full Christmas lunch and an afternoon’s schooling. I feel like a great father, trudging off up the road for a limp sandwich accompanied by more custard, as I wait for round two at Arthur’s school.

  Luckily, Arthur’s play is a lot better – perhaps something to do with its cast being able to pronounce words properly etc, and watching it is almost… enjoyable. The play’s called The Nativi-tea, and involves a shepherd who runs out of tea and travels from supermarket to supermarket only to find there’s no stock except in the Bethlehem Lidl. In the hot drinks aisle, he bumps into two of his colleagues who are equally uncaffeinated and they decide to pop in on Jesus. Maybe the supermarket was out of milk, and the stable was the nearest place with cows.

  As much as I want to be sarcastic about the whole scenario, it’s actually pretty fun. And quite close to one of JC’s advertising ideas. I can actually see him banking it as ‘potential idea if Twinings want a Christmas ad’.

  We’re halfway through the show when I spot Claire standing at the back on the other side of the room. I get the sense that she’s already seen me and is looking away. I catch her eye and try to give her an apologetic smile, but she looks away and chews her lip. Does she hate me? Was I an arsehole? Maybe I need to explain what happened. God, being married was great. None of this awkwardness and regret to deal with. But I guess that’s over now. Strap in for the rest of your life, single boy.

  At the end of the play, the kids come and join their parents for an early home time. A little thank you from St Mary’s Primary School – for Christmas we give you the gift of extra childcare. I guess the custard ideas will have to wait till tomorrow.

  On the way out, I end up in the crush next to Claire.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, cautious.

  ‘Hey,’ she replies.

  ‘All ready for Christmas?’ I say. Small talk seems like the best option here.

  ‘Not really. How’s the divorce going?’

  So much for small talk.

  ‘Um… I’ve got to fill in the forms this weekend. My parents are going to take the kids so I can get my head round it. Should get me in a festive mood. Nothing says “Christmas” like divorce bureaucracy.’

  She smiles a little bit. Then decides to tell me what’s on her mind. ‘What happened between us… it just went wrong because of the kids, didn’t it? I wasn’t too full-on?’

  I suddenly realise how vulnerable she is. I’d always assumed she was this confident single person a few years ahead of me in the wasteland, but underneath it all, she’s still just as damaged as me.

  ‘No, I just...’ don’t know what to say.

  I see Oliver making a nasty face at Arthur, but I decide it’s better to lie. I don’t want her feeling her dick kid is going to stop her ever having a relationship again.

  ‘I just wasn’t ready for anything serious.’

  She nods. Placated. Relieved, maybe. I don’t know if she believes it or not. But I think she appreciates it that I’ve taken the blame away from Oliver. It’s not her fault he’s the spawn of Satan. I’m pretty sure those genes came from his father.

  I feel good. Sometimes it’s better not to tell the truth. But what was the truth? That Oliver got in the way? Or that I was just falling for someone else?

  Friday

  Another day of pain at work; constant longing for Amanda interspersed with attempts at creativity that feel like trying to use the bathroom on your first three days in France (do they actually have a word for ‘fibre’?).

  We have a meeting where the custard teams pitch to Vin. Amanda sits next to him and they both give feedback. The reassuring thing is everyone else’s ideas are as bad as mine. I say mine, but Hans does contribute at one point (‘maybe something about yellow?’ Maybe, Hans… Maybe… ) But the overall outcome is that no one’s got anything we can present. We’ve still got another week. Vin gives us some smaller accounts to work on at the same time in an attempt to loosen us up.

  At the end of the meeting Amanda grabs me and takes me to one side.

  ‘Can we talk? You’ve been totally ignoring me for the last few days.’ Huh?!? Apparently, I’m better at looking away before people catch me staring than I thought.

  ‘Um, I dunno… I really need to get on with things.’

  ‘It’s just a couple of minutes. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘It’s OK. I kind of worked it out. Seeing you and Vin, I kind of put two and two together.’

  She seems a bit surprised. ‘Oh. Right.’ I think part of me is hoping she’s going to say I’ve got the wrong idea, that she’s not interested in Vin – that for some fucked-up reason she prefers me. But no. She just nods and takes in the fact that I got everything exactly right.

  ‘Is that why you’ve been ignoring me?’ she asks.

  ‘I dunno. Look – I just don’t want to talk about it, OK?’

  I walk back to my desk and do some brainstorming with Hans. Well, braindrizzling. I can sense Amanda behind me. This incredible bloody woman who ‘just wants to be friends’. But I can’t take that at the moment. Sure, we get on amazingly. But that twisting in my gut. I can’t live like that. I wouldn’t be friends with Mark if hanging out was always accompanied by the symptoms of E. coli poisoning. I need to move on. I really need to move on.

  Evening

  I come home to an empty flat. My parents picked up the kids from school to give me some space. A romantic weekend of just me and some divorce forms.

  I pull a beer out of the fridge and look through the pages. They’re not that long, and most of the questions are pretty straightforward, but it just feels so… final. Like turning off the life-support. When this is over, I won’t just be moonlighting as a single dad. I’ll be one for real.

  And I’m not even really thinking about Sally. I’m doing the paperwork for the dissolution of my marriage, and what I’m actually trying to accept is the end of me and Amanda. Something that never even happened in the first place. I need to get my head together. This Sally thing is real and we’ve got mediation next week, so I have to get these finished.

  Two hours later, and I’ve filled in my personal details, and ticked the box saying ‘adultery’. I’ve also drunk four more beers, eaten a Chinese takeaway and watched the first episode of Ozark, so the evening wasn’t a total loss. But I’m depressed. The world feels so empty. With the kids here, at least I would have had something to take my mind off things. But, without them, I’m in a vacuum again.

  At ten o’clock the doorbell rings. Must be someone for the other flat pressing the wrong buzzer. It doesn’t stop, so I hit the intercom and declaim a sort of, ‘Leave me alone,’ before I remember it’s broken. I head downstairs – angry, but with some mild booze munchies – hoping that someone else has ordered takeaway and I can intercept it and have a second one.

  Buzz. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I say, switching on the light and stumbling down the corridor to the front door.

  I open the door, hoping it’s an Indian rather than a Chinese. I mean having a second Chinese would seem greedy, but a curry… that’s not so bad. Should probably check it hasn’t been paid for. Intercepting someone’s takeout is one thing, but expecting my neighbour to foot the bill, well… I’m not an animal.

  But it’s neither an Indian or a Chinese.

  It’s Claire.

  I instantly sober up. Well, about ten percent. Enough not to lead with my planned, ‘Have I already paid for this?’

  ‘Oh… hey…’ I stammer.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I’m drunk, lonely and not thinking straight.

  So I tell her yes.

  There’s a voice in the back of my head saying something, but it’s got all slurry and is also asking, ‘Where’s my bloody curry?’, so I ignore it, and two minutes later we’re sitting on my sofa with glasses of wine. Claire’s telling me about how she always feels really lonely this time of year, trying to give Oliver a proper Christmas, and she’s got her hand on my leg and is snuggling in. The voice is shouting now. And not about samosas. But I’m not backing away. It just feels so nice and cosy and sexy, and the world that had seemed so empty twenty minutes ago seems full again.

  She looks up at me and starts to speak.

  ‘You said you weren’t ready for anything serious. What about something not serious?’ and with that her hand slides up my leg and the voice in my head could be speaking in a different bloody language for all the attention I’m giving it. I’m weak. I’m so bloody weak. I hate being a man. God I hate being a man.

  I lean in and kiss her and suddenly, it’s like every bit of me is switched on, and I’m lost to rational thought.

 

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