The rebuilding of tom co.., p.4
The Rebuilding of Tom Cooper, page 4
‘Yeah,’ I say, flattered he still remembers me. Even if it is from the intercom about twenty-seven seconds ago.
‘What can I do you for?’
‘I don’t know if you remember, we met once before.’ He clearly doesn’t, so I fill him in. ‘About ten years ago, when I first came here, I originally applied for a job as a creative.’
He looks confused. ‘But you’re an accountant.’
‘I am… but… I got my accountancy qualification as a sort of back-up, and you saw it on my CV and decided you needed an accountant more than a creative so you gave me that instead.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He’s losing interest, and gets back to the fidget spinner. I’ve got about twenty percent of his attention. I reckon I have another thirty seconds to get this interview or I’m out of here.
‘Well, I think I need a bit of a change. And I’d heard someone had left in the creative department, so I was wondering if I could get an interview.’
‘FUCK!’ he says, dropping the fidget spinner for the third time since I’ve been in there. ‘Look you’re an accountant – you still work here so you’re probably pretty good – you should stick to that.’ Fuck you, goblin.
Every part of me just wants to just walk out, but I have to try. I am here to change. I am here to hustle like a Midlands-based pensioner in their youth.
‘I know, but… I’ve been doing this for a decade, and – Look, I’ve given a lot to this company. I’m not looking for any special favours. I just want a chance.’
‘I can’t work out how to do this bloody thing.’ He’s gone 100% fidget spinner. I’m fucked.
‘Um… you just need to keep your fingers a bit flatter.’
‘What?’
‘When you chuck it from finger to finger.’
‘Show me,’ he demands.
I take the fidget spinner from him and spin it on my forefinger. And then I bounce it up into the air and onto the next finger of my right hand, onto the third, and then back again. I’ve never got it back again before.
‘How’d you learn to do that?’ he asks, intrigued. I have a seven-year-old son who went through a fidget spinner craze about a couple of years ago.
‘Um… I like to mess about with things when I’m, er, thinking of ideas.’
‘Hmm. Not just an accountant…’ No, a newly single parent who can’t afford regular babysitters, has already watched most of Netflix, and uses his son’s toys to help pass the time. I’ll probably be good at Fortnite a couple of years after everyone’s lost interest. ‘Tell you what – I’ll give you an interview. You know it’ll be a lot less money if you get it, though.’
‘I get that.’
He nods and then goes back to the fidget spinner with slightly flatter fingers.
I leave his office with a massive smile on my face. Which seems strange, considering the words ‘a lot less money’ are still echoing in my ears. But I did it, I bloody did it. I’m so proud of myself. I’m being proactive – I’m not just sitting in a conservatory watching Homes Under the Hammer. I’m out here in the world, doing stuff. Making things happen.
As I walk back to the lift, I hear a voice from behind. ‘Get your memo finished?’
There, behind me, is Stair Woman. I probably shouldn’t call her that. Sounds like she’s someone who stares a lot.
‘Um… Yeah.’ Deal with that witty comeback.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she says and starts to head into Canonbury’s office.
‘Sorry – I didn’t know you worked here?’
‘That’s because you work in Accounts, loser,’ she says, making a stupid face. I can’t help letting out a little laugh. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for your next memo.’
I head back down to Accounts. I just got a job interview, saw Stair Woman (who I’m beginning to notice is kind of super sexy), and I didn’t have to fuck a goblin.
The new me is working out pretty well.
Not that the old me fucked goblins.
Evening
Idea for a band: get together all the people Sally has slept with behind my back and call it The Cuckolds – if I’m the front man and they’re all literally behind my back it has a nice poetic irony. Good PR angle too, plus might help me work through my issues if I get all the fame and don’t let the groupies anywhere near the rest of them.
Not sure if any of them play instruments. Probably put Gary on drums as he’s not cool looking and there’s less chance of him pushing to do baritone/soprano backing vocals.
Friday
Mark and Karen have invited me to a bar tonight. I’ve got this sneaking feeling they’ve set me up with someone. I’ve told them I’m ‘open to things’ but I’ve made it pretty clear I need a bit more time.
But maybe she’ll be all right. Maybe I’ll have fun.
I turn up at the pub exactly on time. That’s one of the things about having to arrange childcare. Fashionably late is not something that’s going to happen any more. You’d either have to purposefully ask the babysitter to come at the wrong time or wander around the streets for an extra fifteen minutes, neither of which seem particularly fashionable. Plus you’d end up doing bedtime, which is the main thing you pay a babysitter to get out of. Ironically, if you were actually taking your children with you, fifteen minutes late would be freakishly early.
Luckily, Mark and Karen also have children so they’re there perfectly on time too. And alone. Phew.
‘Hey stud!’ Mark shouts.
‘Hmm,’ I grunt. I don’t feel like a stud. Maybe one who’s just been taken out of banging commission and is currently waiting to be turned into glue. ‘Can we not say that, maybe?’
‘Sure,’ says Mark. ‘Didn’t really feel right, anyway.’
Karen offers a few sympathetic words and then they both start acting weird, like they’re waiting for something to happen. I decide to confront them on it.
‘Is someone else coming?’
Karen and Mark look at each other. ‘There’s someone we want you to meet,’ she says.
I knew it. I bloody knew it. I said I’d try to be open about things, but I specifically said—
‘Here he is now,’ says Karen.
He? This is taking ‘being open’ further than I’d anticipated.
A man with a receding hairline and one too many buttons undone on his shirt approaches the table.
‘This is Paul. He’s single as well.’ What the hell is going on? Is there something they think I don’t know about myself? Is this why Sally left me – because everyone thought it was only a matter of time till I came out?
Paul reaches over and shakes hands with me.
‘Um…’ I’m trying to hide the fact I’m completely freaked out. ‘Hi, Paul. Er, I don’t know what they’ve told you, but I think they’ve got the wrong idea.’
Paul gives me a knowing smile. ‘They told me you had broken up with your wife and wanted to meet new people.’ What is this? Have I just Sam Becketted into a new body. I need to check a mirror to make sure I still have the same face.
I look Paul up and down. Do I find him attractive? No. Still not gay. Yeah, pretty confident on that. Don’t think he’d be my type even if I was.
‘Look Paul, you seem like a very nice guy, and I respect your sexuality, but I’m just… not gay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t fancy you. I don’t fancy men. I’m sorry – these guys have known me for years – I don’t know why they’d think otherwise.’
Paul looks at me, like he can’t believe I’d turn him down.
Karen interjects: ‘Paul…’ she says, trying to stifle laughter, ‘… is currently on the market as well, and we thought he might be able to give you an overview of the… current dating scene.’
‘Oh… well.’ I’ve dug myself so deep in this hole, I think I’m about to hit lava. ‘That is… actually a far more logical interpretation of situation.’ Paul doesn’t look impressed. ‘Lucky I didn’t just go for your cock!’ I joke.
Ice not broken. Paul looks like he may put an ice pick into my head.
Twenty Minutes Later
Everyone’s moved on from the awkwardness, thank God. Amazing what buying a round of cocktails and gastro-snacks can do. People really do underestimate the power of duck scratchings and a Scotch quail egg.
Paul holds court. ‘What you’ve got to realise is – it’s all about the app.’ I look sceptical. ‘Look, old man – things have changed since you were last on the market – if you’re not online, you’re offline.’ He laughs at this, like he hasn’t just stated a basic tautological fact.
Don’t get me wrong. I know he’s right, but I don’t like this. I remember when only weirdos met each other online. You could mock them for their great hook-up stories. ‘Tell me again. Did you see her picture and think “she looks all right” and click on her profile? That’s so romantic.’ But now it’s the other way round. Like approaching a girl in real life might be tantamount to sexual assault.
‘First up you need to download Tinder.’ Fucking hell, where else would I get this exclusive information? Thank God he’s here.
‘Put up a profile, put up a picture – choose a good one – picture’s really important,’ he continues.
‘I’d heard about that – I’m in advertising,’ I say with what I think is obvious sarcasm.
‘Awesome. Then you’ll know the deal. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.’ Sarcasm not detected. ‘No outright lies of course – just a nicely skewed version of the truth.’ He looks at me directly, ‘Hey – there’s no Advertising Standards when it comes to love.’
A few minutes later and he’s showing me his profile – complete with a full head of hair and a suit. Even his shirt’s buttoned up. He’s like a completely different person. ‘See – it’s a few years out of date, but it’s me. If it was brought up in a court of law they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Sure they’re going to know I’ve changed when they get there, but that’s when I wow them with my scintillating personality. No harm, no foul. Might have brought a few back to my place as well.’
He leans in, like he’s about to tell me his preferred brand of Rohypnol. ‘Although if you want to do the same… might need to lose those grey patches.’
Grey patches? My fingers involuntarily stray up to my temples. I have, like, a one-inch grey patch on each side. He is missing the hair from the entire top of his head. I can’t quite believe this. Unless… Maybe he’s not bald… Maybe he just spotted a bit of discolouration in the fringe and decided to go full scorched-earth on his sumptuous mane.
Paul gets up from the table, but why should that stop the patronisation? ‘Think up some good lines too. All about the text banter,’ he tells me. ‘Anyway, ‘scuse me for a sec. Off to drain the main vein.’
‘Great. I’ll write that one down, in case I need to sign off on Tinder.’ Karen puts her hand on my arm. She can see I’m angry. We watch Paul disappear into the loos, and I turn to Karen and Mark.
‘Really?’ I ask, incredulously.
‘Look on the bright side,’ grins Mark. ‘At least we’re not trying to make you fuck him.’
I shake my head, utterly unamused. ‘He’s a complete weirdo – I can’t believe you’d think I’d need advice from him. This is not exactly good for my confidence.’
Karen looks at me. ‘We don’t think you need advice from him. We just thought that if you saw Paul can get dates—’
‘…you might realise there’s women out there desperate enough to go out with you,’ Mark interrupts.
Karen smiles. ‘We thought that might do excellent things for your confidence.’
Saturday
‘I’m taking the kids this week.’
I’m woken by the first proper words Sally’s spoken to me since she left. I’ve rehearsed this conversation a million times in my head. How I was going to approach it, keep my cool – poised, urbane, a latter-day Cary Grant: ‘Ah Sally? How nice of you to call.’
It does not come out like that.
‘What the fuck, Sally? You haven’t talked to me for six weeks and then you just call and say you’re taking the kids!?’ Ah, Cary, how you’ve changed.
‘Are you recording this?’ she demands. ‘Because I didn’t give you permission, so if you’re recording it, that’s illegal.’
‘Of course I’m not recording this – you called me.’ I’m also massively hung-over, which means I wouldn’t have thought of it even if I’d wanted to.
‘OK.’ She calms down slightly. ‘Well, my boss has invited me down to Cornwall for a few days with her family, so I need the kids.’
‘Um… slow down. Where are you? I don’t even know where you are.’
‘It doesn’t matter where I am. It’s none of your business. I’m not taking them here – I’m taking them to Cornwall.’ My head is spinning. Why do you pass the age of thirty-five and start getting hangovers from three drinks?
I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. ‘Look – I just need to know what’s going on. Where are you living? Are you with someone? Are you coming home?’
I immediately wish I hadn’t said that.
‘I’m not coming home.’ Was I even hoping for that? I didn’t think that was in my head. ‘The rest of it, we’ll talk about it when I’m ready.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Look – I want to pick them up at eleven tomorrow. Is that OK?’
I don’t have a choice. They’re her kids too. Even if she did just fuck off and now wants to use them as an accessory while she schmoozes with the head of TV Commissioning.
‘Fine. When will you drop them back?’
‘Friday probably… I’ll let you know.’
‘But Arthur’s got school.’
‘I thought it was half-term. Fuck. Theirs must be different because it’s a private school. Well, we can just tell them he’s ill. I’ll sort it out,’ she says.
I’d be perfectly within my rights to tell her no, but I don’t want to be the bad guy. Kids need to spend time with their mum. Given the amount Arthur seems to learn in a week’s worth of school, I doubt it’s going to hamper his education.
‘OK.’ There’s a few seconds of silence, then we both hang up the phone.
I wander through to the living room, where Carrie is wearing no top, flying goggles and angel wings. Arthur is sitting upside down on the sofa reading a Spider-Man comic. This hangover is very much reminding me of every morning-after from my twenties. Hope the kids aren’t on the pot…
‘Guess what, guys. You’re going away with Mummy tomorrow.’ They suddenly light up.
‘Mummy! Mummy, Mummy, Mummmmyyyy!’
‘I don’t want you being weird with her ‘cos she left and destroyed our family,’ I mutter under my breath.
Even if it was at full volume the kids wouldn’t have heard me. They’re dancing round, like they’ve just heard the Good News from John the bloody Baptist.
It’s so annoying, they’ve never been this happy to see me in their lives.
But at least I’ll get a fucking break.
Sunday
With Sally turning up in a few hours, I have to get the kids dressed. Now this may sound pretty straightforward, only the last few times Sally’s picked them up, she’s seemed a little… judgmental – rolling her eyes at what Carrie’s wearing and dropping her back six hours later in totally different clothes, her new outfit set off by a doggy bag containing her previous ensemble.
So this time I’m going to up my game. Show that it’s not only love that I can provide. It’s also style.
Now this may seem like a pretty simple task, but there’s a problem; over-coordination runs in my genes. My mum’s outfits are like a frame from a Wes Anderson film. And by that I do not mean cool and quirky. Bits of colour from one piece of clothing are reflected exactly in another. There’s even a chance she may match the background. Now, whereas this looks brilliant in an indie film, it does not on a pensioner.
Not that I can judge. Before I met Sally, my clothes weren’t much better. Sure, I didn’t have a matching neckerchief and belt (for this I have the drabness of men’s fashion to thank), but well… let’s just say my get-ups didn’t require separate wash cycles. I had a dream the other night where I found myself in a burgundy roll-neck and scarlet/burgundy cords and woke up in horror. I think it was a dream. It may have been a memory. This is not something I can inflict on my kids.
Luckily for them, Sally dresses the kids REALLY WELL. They look fucking cool. When we were together this was great. Now it’s also a bit annoying. But there’s no reason I can’t do it too. That I can’t learn.
I open Carrie’s drawer feeling like a monkey with an IKEA flat pack. I know I have everything in front of me that I need to make something good. I just have no idea how to put it together.
Right – there on the top, I spot a dress I like; it’s dark green with small yellow birds. Yeah, that’s a good one. I just need to find some tights to go with it, then I’m golden. It’s October I’m pretty sure that’s tights time. Carrie’s next to me, expectant.
‘Do you need to wear tights? Are you cold?’ I ask.
‘Really cold.’
I start to get a few pairs out of the drawer, then I remember – don’t listen to your kids. Rule number one of parenting. Discount every opinion your child gives you. They have literally no idea about anything. Carrie’s also standing next to me in her pants and the window’s open, so that might affect things. Still – I’m going for tights.
