style="font-size:15px;"> “Course it is. Buy your conk candy at source. Cut out the middleman—’
That isn’t what I had in mind, as it happens.
‘—Here, you fancy joining me in the gents for a toot?’
I’m stunned. Is he offering me a line? Of cocaine? Because I don’t believe he’s suggesting we repair to the toilets for an impromptu trumpet recital. Either would be unprecedented, actually. Vince only has me around to pick up the tab. I’m not here to join in—with drug-taking or lavatory jam sessions.
‘Er…no thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’m…um…detoxing.’
He looks at me as if I’m mad.
Well, I’m hardly going to tell him that few things are more terrifying to me than the prospect of snorting white powder of indeterminate origin up my nostril. A very, very, very occasional joint is the furthest I’ve ever dared travel down the road to junkie hell. And my answer wasn’t a lie. I am detoxing. Since my visit to Saint Matthew’s my body has been, while not exactly a temple, a lot more spick and span than usual. I haven’t had a single burger and right now I’m drinking Sprite—though there is no reason for Brett, Vince and Kenny to suspect that it isn’t a Vamp;T. The new regime isn’t because I think I’m actually ill, as in ill ill, really it isn’t. But these things—lumps and what have you—serve as a warning, don’t they? Shape up or ship out, so to speak.
And, well, I’m shaping up.
Vince arches a brow and says, ‘You don’t even burn the candle at one end, do you, matey?’ Then he turns to his partner. ‘What about you, B Boy?’
‘I’ll pass,’ Brett replies. ‘I’m sick of waking up with the three a.m. nosebleeds.’
‘Kenny?’
‘Drugs is for mugs,’ Kenny replies, draining his eighth pint of mind-altering lager. ‘Reckon I’ll be off.’
‘Whatever,’ Vince says as he staggers off in the general direction of the gents. I watch him go, envying his complete inability to live beyond the moment. As Kenny hauls himself to his feet and takes his leave, Brett asks, ‘You OK?’
Well, I’ve got a lump in my trousers that may or may not be cancer and I’m on the eve of visiting the hospital to get the verdict, but, that apart, I’m absolutely dandy.
‘I’m absolutely dandy. Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve seemed a bit spooked lately. And you asked for that last lot of script changes like you couldn’t give a toss. I kind of missed your usual cheery Hey, guys, the client’s made a tiny suggestion that’ll improve the core idea immensely bollocks.’
‘That was because I couldn’t give a toss…I’d just had my assessment.’
‘Not good?’
‘Haye reckons my career might be helped by a visit to the Job Centre.’
‘He’s firing you?’
‘No, but I guess my name’s pencilled in for the next efficiency-focused downsizement.’
‘Take it as a compliment. The man’s dull as fuck. I’ve had livelier conversations with the automated menu on the Odeon booking line.’ He gives me a hearty slap on the back—I think I’ve just risen in his estimation. ‘Know what you need?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A fuck,’ says Vince, back from the bog and full of the joys of Colombia.
This—their uncanny ability to complete each other’s thoughts—is what marks them out as a team.
‘I was going to suggest a new girlfriend, but it amounts to the same thing,’ Brett says.
‘You wanna grab your secretary,’ Vince goes on. ‘She’s gagging for it.’ He gestures in the direction of Jakki, who’s on a Breezer binge with her mates from the office. I like Jakki, even if she has given her name its pop-star spelling. But I don’t fancy her any more than she fancies me.
‘I couldn’t,’ I say.
‘Gimme one good reason,’ says Vince.
Well, she works ten feet away from me which would make things awkward the morning after, she’s a bit on the plump side, she likes Enrique Iglesias, which isn’t the end of the world but it could form a potentially insurmountable stumbling block six or seven months into a relationship, and she loves sardines which, though they’re a rich source of omega acids, have an unfortunate habit of repeating…Oh, and her first name isn’t Megan and her second isn’t Dyer.
‘I dunno…I just don’t think it’s a good idea to get involved with girls you work with,’ I say.
‘What’s the fucking point of having birds at work if you ain’t gonna get involved with ’em?’ Vince says.
‘Murray’s a one-woman man, Vin,’ Brett says. ‘Even when the one-woman done gawn left him fucking weeks ago. He deserves our sympathy.’
‘Deserves a slap on the arse more like. Spineless twonk. Fucking suit.’ Having whacked the nail painfully on the head, Vince stands up and heads for Jakki’s crowd.
Like a fly heading for shit.
I don’t mean that at all. Vince is a bit fly-like—certainly when it comes to attention span and personal hygiene—but the girls are not shit. They’re extremely nice, if slightly the worse for wear. I’m just not feeling too grand at the moment—entirely because of my dire assessment (reiterated so succinctly only moments ago by Vince) and nothing to do with the…you know…lump. I’m sure that if I were drunk I wouldn’t feel like dragging everyone down with me. Perhaps I should trade in the Sprite for a grown-up drink.
‘Bevy?’ asks Brett, reading my mind.
‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I reply, changing it.
‘Vin isn’t the cunt he makes out, you know.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘He’s got his sensitive side. Did you know he’s a dad?’
‘You’re kidding,’ I say, watching him work Jakki and her friends like they’re King’s Cross hookers.
‘Yeah, he got this flaky PA at Miller Shanks pregnant. Bit of a shock at the time. Vin’s never been too choosy, but she’s the type who’d look at Prince William and think he’s a common little twat. How she ended up in a locked toilet with the V-Bomb is one of the great unsolved mysteries. Mind you, she’s the most staggeringly stupid person I’ve ever met. She thought Doctor Pepper was a Hungarian tit surgeon on Harley Street…You think I’m kidding? I read the letter she typed trying to book a consultation.’
‘Vince, a dad,’ I say, still unable to wrap my brain round the concept.
‘He couldn’t
