The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 32

I have to agree. 'Yup.'

'Okay, let's try it again.'

Dan hits 'back' followed by 'play', and the shooting starts again, but after a few seconds, he hits the 'mute' b.u.t.ton. As bullets smash silently through car doors, and windscreens shatter without a sound, he turns to face me.

'What do you think now?'

'Well, it's...I mean, it's not the same, is it?'

'Not as good?'

'What are you trying to prove?'

Dan switches the TV off with the remote, and ejects the film. 'Face it, Edward, however good the action is, if the soundtrack isn't there, it's just not quite as enjoyable.'

Sat.u.r.day 19th March.

12.10 p.m.

We're outside my flat, where Dan is staring disparagingly at my car.

'Picture the scene,' he says. 'Imagine you've just met Jane, and by some miracle, you get her to agree to go out with you. You arrange to pick her up from her house the evening of the date, and then you turn up in this old piece of junk.' He kicks one of the Volvo's tyres, then leans down to wipe the dirt off his shoe. 'Shame she didn't do you a favour and take the car as well.'

It is a bit of a wreck; the aerial's mangled from where I took it for its yearly car wash and forgot to retract it beforehand, there's a large scratch along the pa.s.senger side where one of Brighton's youth decided to run a key down it, two of the wheel trims are missing, and there's a bollard-shaped dent in the rear b.u.mper thanks to Jane's parking 'skills'. She'd done well to dent a Volvo.

'So what if it's a bit old?' I put an affectionate hand on the Volvo's wing, dislodging a few more rust flakes in the process. 'Cla.s.sic cars are cool.'

'You're right' says Dan. 'Cla.s.sic cars are. Clapped out ones aren't. Tell me again, what on earth made you buy a Volvo?'

'I didn't buy it, if you remember. It was my mother's. She gave it to me when she bought her new Micra.'

'Aargh. Even worse. You're driving your mother's old car.'

'What's wrong with that?'

Dan looks at me incredulously. 'Well, apart from the obvious, you're driving a car that a sixty-year-old woman rejected. In favour of a Nissan Micra.'

We walk in silence to the pub, where I'm still reluctant to concede defeat.

'Stop sulking,' says Dan, as we head in through the door. 'It's true. Women notice this kind of thing. They're impressed, even.'

'Rubbish.'

'Okay. Let's get an independent opinion.' Dan beckons Wendy across. 'Wendy, you're a woman. You'll do.'

Wendy makes a face. 'Is that the best chat-up line you can come up with?'

'In your dreams, sweetheart.'

'My nightmares, you mean.'

I hold up my hand to stop this escalating. 'Wendy, we were just talking about cars.'

Wendy pretends to nod off. 'Sorry, what was that?'

'No, seriously. About the kind of car I drive, and what it says about me.'

Wendy leans on the bar next to me. 'Go on then. What sort of car do you drive, Edward?'

'It's a Volvo.'

'A Volvo? What sort of Volvo?' she asks.

'It's an estate.'

Dan laughs. 'You're telling me. Rusty piece of junk.'

'Shut up, Dan. A Volvo estate, Wendy. What does that say to you?'

'Ah,' says Wendy, pouring our drinks. 'Safe, practical...'

'Boring?' suggests Dan.

Wendy frowns. 'No, not boring, exactly. Just not very...'

'Exciting?' interrupts Dan.

'Will you stop trying to put words into her mouth?'

Wendy turns back to me. 'Sorry, Edward. But he's right. It doesn't sound like the most exciting of cars.'

Dan clears his throat. 'I drive a BMW, by the way.'

Wendy considers this for a moment. 'w.a.n.ker.'

Dan looks hurt. 'Just because I drive a BMW?'

'No, just generally.'

'It's a Z4. Sports.'

'Oh,' says Wendy, pretending to be impressed for a moment. 'You have got a small w.i.l.l.y, then.'

I laugh. 'It's quite nice, actually.'

Wendy frowns. 'Dan's w.i.l.l.y?'

I blush. 'His car. It's a convertible.'

Wendy smirks. 'Oh, sorry. Small and circ.u.mcised.'

Dan bristles. 'Okay smarta.r.s.e. What kind of car do you drive?'

Wendy puts on a girly voice and sticks her finger in the corner of her mouth. 'A white one,' she answers, before scampering off to serve another customer.

As we take our drinks and go and sit by the window, Dan seems determined not to let it drop.

'Anyway,' he says. 'What on earth do you need an estate car for? When do you ever need to carry anything large?'

'Apart from your ego? Well, now, for example. New furniture.'

'Which you're getting delivered,' says Dan. 'And even if that were the case, that's just like one occasion every few years. Whenever you get dumped. Which, thinking about it, might be fairly often. But what about the rest of the time, when it's just you in the car?'

'And Jane.'

'Sorry,' replies Dan, patronizingly. 'Just you and Jane. But you still don't need an estate car. Volvo or not.'

'Well what should I get then? I can hardly afford one like yours.'

Dan ponders this for a moment while he stares out of the window. 'You want something a bit cla.s.sy. A car that says: "I could have bought any car I wanted, but I chose this." Not too ostentatious, or over the top. A city car. Something that suggests you're a man of the moment. Trendy. A man about town. Something...' Dan points out into the road, as a new Mini Cooper flashes past, 'like that!'

'But aren't they expensive?'

'What are you saving up for?' asks Dan. 'Your wedding?'

'Ouch. But...A Mini?'

Dan sighs, and lowers his voice. 'Okay. To use Wendy's example, what would a Ferrari say about you?'

'Small, you know, thingy.'

'Precisely. So if you're working on reverse psychology?'

'Aha.'

'Exactly.'

I sip my water thoughtfully. 'How much are they?'

'New? Around sixteen grand, give or take an accessory or two.'

'Sixteen thousand pounds? But that seems rather expensive.'

'Expense is a relative term, Edward. Compared to your old banger, yes they are. Compared to my car, no they aren't. And the question isn't really "can you afford it?" Its more a case of "can you afford not to?'"

'It just seems like rather a lot of money to waste on a car. And besides, I've got better things to spend it on.'

'Like what? You've hardly got a huge mortgage, your idea of a holiday is to not go in to work, you've not, as far as I know, got an expensive drug habit...Now I think of it, you must be loaded.'

'Well, not loaded, exactly.'

'Come on,' says Dan. 'How much cash have you got?'

I do a quick tot up in my head. 'About fifty, give or take a few thousand.'

Dan's eyes widen. 'Fifty? Grand? As in "pounds"?'

'No, drachma, Dan. Of course pounds.'

'Where on earth did you get all that?'

'Dan, there's a concept you probably haven't heard of before. It's called "saving". That's when you put any extra money you earn into the bank and don't spend it on'-I wave my hand at him-'expensive cars, for example. Or designer watches. Or naff clothes with Italian men's names embroidered on the front.'

Dan whistles. 'Fifty grand. Did Jane know about this?'

I shrug. 'I don't know. We always kept separate bank accounts. I paid for my stuff, she paid for hers. There's no reason that she would have.'

'She might not have left so quickly if she did.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y cheek. Women aren't attracted by money.'

'Sure,' he mumbles. 'And mice don't like cheese either.'

'What?'

'Mate, there's no such thing as a rich single guy. And I'm not saying women are attracted to money per se. It's more that the fact you have money generally means you're successful. And success is attractive to women.'

'So what am I supposed to do? Carry a copy of my bank statement around with me?'

Dan sighs. 'No. But if you've got it, flaunt it. And one way to do that is to trade in your c.r.a.ppy old motor for something a little bit flas.h.i.+er.'

'But, sixteen thousand pounds...'

'What are you saving it for, again?'

'I dunno. A rainy day, I suppose.'

'Well, get out your umbrella. Because when Jane left you, it started p.i.s.sing down.'

2.23 p.m.

Dan and I are at the Mini dealers.h.i.+p in Kemp Town, in the heart of Brighton's gay community, walking around the forecourt. We're there for ten minutes without anyone coming out to see us, Dan poring over the a.s.sembled cars on offer, me following him round reluctantly while trying not to recoil at the prices. Eventually, Dan pretends to look s.h.i.+fty, and starts trying a few of the car doors. Straightaway a salesman strolls out of the showroom.

'Can I help you, gents?'