The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 33

'My friend needs a new car,' says Dan, pointing to a gleaming black Mini parked rakishly in front of the window. 'And I think this might be it.'

When I peer in through the window, it does look rather nice inside: black, leather seats, the dashboard all funky dials and chrome switches, gear k.n.o.b glinting in the afternoon sun. What's more, it's second hand, and therefore 'only' eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds, as Dan takes great pains to point out to me.

We manage to convince the salesman that we're bona fide customers, due largely to the fact that the middle-aged receptionist recognizes Dan from Where There's a Will, and he agrees to a test drive, squeezing into the back seat while Dan and I jump into the front. With a squeal of tyres we shoot out of the garage, and head off down Marine Parade. As we speed along towards the pier, weaving in and out of the traffic, I must admit that I'm certainly impressed with the little car's handling.

'What do you think?' asks Dan. 'Nice, eh?'

'Not bad,' I grudgingly admit, admiring the trendy interior, which Dan informs me is 'retro' styling, and therefore a good thing. 'But do you think I could have a drive now? Seeing as it's me who's supposed to be buying it?'

'Ah. Yes. Good point. Sorry.'

Dan pulls over so we can change places, and I slot myself into the body-hugging sports seat, stick it into first gear, and cautiously release the clutch. It's certainly a lot more frisky than the Volvo, and I manage to stall it twice as I pull away.

'Come on, Grandma,' he says, tutting as a Day-Glo-clad cyclist manages to overtake us. 'Give it a proper go.'

'How do you mean?'

He leans over towards me. 'Drive it like you've stolen it.'

I put my foot down, and the Mini leaps forward, the steering wheel alive in my hands. I make a fast right turn into Brunswick Square, the Mini sticking to the road like a go-kart, then cut left down a side street and back onto the seafront. When I stop to let some people cross at the zebra, they stare, and unlike when I'm driving the Volvo, it's in admiration. By the time I reluctantly pull bade into the dealers.h.i.+p, I'm in love, all thoughts of expense and rationality having gone out of the tinted electric window.

'What do you think?' asks the salesman, unfolding himself stiffly from the back seat.

The look on my face gives my answer away. 'We'll take it,' announces Dan.

'So, what's your best price?' I say, walking once more around the car.

The salesman points to the price tag. 'Eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds.'

I swallow hard. 'Do you take part exchange?'

'Of course. What do you have?'

I leave Dan signing an autograph for the receptionist, and lead the salesman off the forecourt to where I've parked the Volvo, out of sight round the corner. His face falls as he sees it.

'So what will the new price be? Including the part exchange?'

He takes a cursory look round my car, before leading me back inside the dealers.h.i.+p. As Dan and I sit down at his desk, the salesman picks up his calculator, and taps away for a couple of minutes.

'Eleven thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds.'

'But that's the same.'

'I know, sir. Because I'm afraid it might actually cost us money to sc.r.a.p your old car.'

'You can't go any lower?' I plead.

He taps away at his calculator again, then looks up at me. 'No.'

Dan folds his arms. 'Call it eleven grand and you've got yourself a deal.'

The salesman thinks for a micro-second, then shakes Dan's hand. 'Done,' he says, and five minutes later, we're filling out the necessary paperwork.

'So,' says the salesman, 'which one of you two would like to go on the registration doc.u.ment?'

'What?' says Dan, as he realizes the implication. 'We're not...I mean, I'm certainly not...'

I put an arm round Dan's shoulders, enjoying his discomfort. 'Come on, sweetheart. No need to be ashamed.'

'b.u.g.g.e.r off,' he says, shrugging me away. 'I mean, for one thing, if I was, I could do a lot better.'

The salesman winks at me. 'Oh, I don't know,' he says.

And I take it as a compliment. Because G.o.d knows it's the first one of those I've had for a long time.

Tuesday 22nd March.

7.34 a.m.

I'm struggling in the gym this morning, and have to cut my stepper session early. It's not that I don't want to do it-quite the opposite. It's that I really can't seem to find the energy.

'You do seem a bit listless,' says Sam. 'Are you sure you've been eating properly?'

'I think so. I was getting a bit fed up with this Atkins lark, so I bought some of those "lean cuisine" meals yesterday but was so hungry I had to eat two of them. They're tiny.'

Sam puts her hand over her mouth and I can tell she's trying to stifle a laugh.

'Edward, you're missing the point of them somewhat. They're supposed to be smaller than normal. That's how you lose weight-by not eating as much. And Atkins? Well, it's perhaps not the best basis for an exercise programme.'

'Yeah, but I'm starving all the time. And I mean, all the time.'

'Well, that's because you're exercising so much nowadays. We're creating a demand in your metabolism, and where do you think we want it to go looking for calories?'

'Burger King?' I'm still new to this exercise physiology lark.

Sam punches me playfully on the shoulder. 'No, you idiot. Those reserves of fat built up around your stomach.'

'But what can I do?' I ask her. 'It's getting so bad that I can't sleep.'

This, in fact, isn't strictly true; after all these early morning starts and heavy exercise sessions I'm usually asleep as soon as, no, make that before my head hits the pillow. But I do feel hungry pretty much every night.

'Have you tried drinking a large gla.s.s of water before each meal? That usually works as a pretty good appet.i.te suppressant.'

'Yes, well, that's another problem. I'm drinking so much water now that my boss thinks I've got a bladder problem.'

Sam decides to cut the session early and we jog back to my flat, so she can take a look at my food diary.

'Edward,' she says, after skimming through a few pages, 'I think I see the problem. You're actually eating too little.'

'Too little? I thought I was supposed to be dieting.'

'No. You're supposed to be watching your diet. There's a difference. If you just eat sensibly and keep to your training programme, then you'll lose weight gradually but safely. What you're doing is not eating enough to give you energy for your workouts. And all this processed, pre-packaged stuff isn't really that good for you.'

'So what should I do?'

'Try cooking some healthy, low-fat food.'

I frown. 'Come again? I'm not sure what that means.'

'Which-"healthy" or "low fat"?'

'No. Cooking. Heating up I can do. Cooking, however, is a bit of a mystery to me.'

Sam looks at me pityingly. 'Tell you what,' she says. 'I'm free this evening. Why don't I come round and show you how? Shall we say seven o'clock?'

I'm a little stunned by this, not in the least because I'll probably have to spend a good hour or two cleaning the kitchen. But I still manage to answer almost immediately.

'Seven o'clock will be fine.'

3.24 p.m.

I'm in the office, speaking to Dan on the phone.

'It's not a date,' I protest. 'She's just offered to show me how to cook a healthy dinner, that's all.'

'Ah, the old "show you how to cook something healthy" ruse. These women will stop at nothing.'

'Listen, as far as I'm concerned, anything to get me off this lousy Atkins diet.'

'I thought you liked bacon and eggs?'

'Not any more.'

7.00 p.m.

Sam arrives, prompt as ever, carrying an Asda shopping bag containing some suspiciously healthy-looking contents. When she shrugs off her coat and hands it to me I have to try hard not to stare; it's the first time I've seen her out of a tracksuit, and her tight-fitting jeans and polo-neck jumper show off her figure perfectly.

I follow her into the kitchen, where she dumps her bag onto the work surface that I've spent the last half hour scrubbing clean, then heads over to the fridge to check my fat photo is still pinned to the door.

'Good boy,' she says, before starting to unpack the contents of her shopping, which includes a rather large bag of green stuff. 'Right, watch and learn.'

I lean on the counter next to her. 'Okay, Delia. What're you making?'

'What are we making, you mean,' she says, correcting me.

'But I don't know how to...'

Sam smiles, and rolls up her sleeves. 'The secret of healthy eating isn't rocket science,' she announces, opening up the bag of strangely shaped leaves. 'It's rocket salad.'

11.35 p.m.

'Omigosh,' says Sam, catching sight of her watch for the first time this evening. 'And we've both got an early start tomorrow.'

'You should have just brought an overnight bag,' I quip, before blus.h.i.+ng furiously. 'I didn't mean...'

Sam puts a hand on my arm. 'I know you didn't, Edward.'

I walk her into the hallway and help her on with her coat. 'It's late,' I say. 'I better walk you home.'

Sam frowns up at me. 'What on earth for?'

'In case you, you know, get attacked or something.'

She grins. 'Edward, that's really sweet of you, but to be quite honest I'd probably have more success beating them off than you would.'

'Supposing there's two of them?'

'I'll outrun them. Benefits of being a personal trainer, you see.'

'Well, at least let me call you a cab.'

'That's okay. I'll walk.'

'Sam, it's nearly midnight, the pubs will have emptied out, and there's no way I'm going to let you walk home on your own. So either I come with you or I get you a taxi.'

'But...'

I hold up my hand to stop her protestations. 'No buts. That's the deal. You're on my time now.'

We stroll to the taxi rank at the end of Lansdowne Place, and fortunately there's a cab already waiting there, its 'For Hire' light s.h.i.+ning brightly through the darkness.

'Thanks for dinner,' I say, getting out my wallet to pay the driver.

'Thank you. It was fun.' She smiles, and holds out her hand. 'And that was five hours. At forty pounds an hour, I think I can pay for the taxi.'

I'm still trying to process this information when Sam grins, and jumps into the back.

'Sucker. See you in the morning.'

As I wave the taxi off, and a group of drunk lads walk round the corner, I find myself wondering who's going to walk me home.

Wednesday 30th March.