Free The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook by Matt Dunn Page B

Jane is right. I have ‘let myself go’ in the fullest sense of the words.
    Eventually, thankfully, Sally announces that she has to get back to work, so I walk her back to Victoria and flag her down a cab, pecking her on the cheek before she climbs in. I take the tiniest bit of comfort when she doesn’t flinch.
    As I close the taxi door behind her, she’s possibly feeling a little guilty, because she tells the driver to wait, and winds the window down.
    ‘Listen, Edward, I hope I wasn’t too hard on you. At college you were, I mean, you were never…like this. Girls fancied you. I fancied you. But now…’ Her voice tails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘What’s happened to you since then?’
    I shrug dejectedly. ‘I don’t know. Life, I guess.’
    ‘Or Jane’s influence, maybe?’ suggests Sally, archly. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘it was nice seeing you again. Despite the circumstances.’
    ‘You too, Sally. And thanks.’
    ‘Has it been any use?’
    I nod, gratefully. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
    She smiles. ‘Do that. How long have you got until she comes back?’
    I look at my watch. ‘Two months and twenty-seven days.’
    Sally stares at me for a moment, then starts to whistle something and it’s only as the cab pulls away that I recognize the tune.
    It’s the theme from Mission Impossible .
    2.15 p.m.
    I’m sitting on the train back to Brighton, flicking through the selection of glossy magazines I’ve just bought at the station. I’ve got GQ, FHM, Arena, Esquire , and even a couple that seem to be soft-porn publications, judging by the number of barely clad women adorning their covers. I’ve also raided the women’s section, hoping that by the time we get to Brighton I’ll be able to put together a profile of my age group’s ideal man. But even before we’ve pulled into East Croydon, I’ve managed to confirm what I’ve been starting to believe: I’m so not him.
    As I stare miserably out of the window at the Sussex countryside, a young couple get on and sit down opposite me. They’ve obviously spent their lunchtime in the pub, and can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. After a few nauseating minutes, they head off towards the toilets, and I don’t see them again until we’re disembarking at Brighton, by which time they’re red-faced and giggling furiously. I can’t wait to get off the train, and push my way past the other passengers. Ah, young love. It’s enough to make you sick.
    And how do I cope with this blow I’ve been dealt? This pit of despair I find myself wallowing in? I go back home, unplug the phone, and chain-smoke a packet of cigarettes while listening to my Queen albums at such a high volume on my portable stereo that even Mrs Barraclough has to bang on the ceiling to complain.
    I turn the music up even further to drown her out, but when I remember that the next track is in fact ‘Somebody To Love’, which will only add to my depression, turn it back down again, only to realize that the banging has got even louder, and is now coming from my front door. I sheepishly open it, expecting to have to apologize to Mrs B, but instead I find Dan standing there, mid knock.
    ‘What the hell are you playing at, not answering your phone or the door?’ says Dan, pushing past me and into the flat. ‘And why is that crappy music on so loud?’
    ‘It’s not crappy music.’
    Dan ejects the disk from the machine and looks at it scornfully. ‘Haven’t you got any music from this century?’
    ‘Not any more,’ I say, nodding towards the still-empty CD rack.
    ‘Remind me to add “music” to the spreadsheet.’
    ‘What are you talking about? Queen are one of the foremost…’
    ‘Well, I don’t see them releasing many new albums.’
    ‘Perhaps because their lead singer is dead? That usually stops musical flow.’
    ‘Oh really? When did he die?’
    ‘I don’t know. Some time in the early nineties, I think.’
    ‘Ah,’ says Dan,