The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 46

'He obviously hasn't seen Brighton yet.'

"'You have freed me from my prison",' continues Dan, '"so in return, I grant you one wish".'

'One? I thought it was usually three.'

'Are you going to let me finish this or are you just going to keep interrupting?'

'Sorry. Go on.'

'And so the guy thinks for a bit, and then says "Tell you what. I'm afraid of flying, but I've always wanted to visit America. Could you build a bridge across the Atlantic so I can drive there?" Well, the genie scratches his head, and says to the guy, "Do you realize just how complicated that would be? It's miles, and I'd need to make sure it was high enough for the s.h.i.+ps to go under, and secure enough to resist the waves...It would take ages. Are you sure there's nothing else you want?'"

'And?'

'And so the guy thinks for a minute, and then replies, "Okay, there is one other thing. I've always wanted to understand women." And the genie looks back at him and says, "How many lanes wide did you want that bridge?"'

I sit there patiently while Dan finishes chortling to himself. 'You mean I'll never understand women?'

'None of us will. And shouldn't waste our time trying, mate.'

'So, I've been spending all this time trying to work out what it is exactly that women want, and then trying to mould myself into that person, when what I should have been doing is thinking about the specific woman I wanted, and trying to make myself attractive to her, instead of turning myself into some generic attractive-to-most-women clone like you? No offence.'

Dan shrugs. 'Well that's a good theory. Only trouble is that first of all you'd have had to decide whether that woman actually was Jane, and if it was then you'd have to see if you could work out exactly what it was she really wanted, and that's a.s.suming a) that she knew herself, and b) that you could actually have found that out from her while she was in Tibet. And if it wasn't Jane, but someone else, well you would've had to have reached a certain level of attractiveness before you could have got close enough to her to then find out what it was she was looking for, and then moulded yourself to that.'

Strangely enough, the drunker Dan gets, the less he seems to talk rubbish. And after all this time, he's finally beginning to make sense to me.

'So have I just been wasting my time for these last three months? Why couldn't you have told me that at the beginning?'

Dan looks a little sheepish. 'Because I've only just worked it out. And besides, even you've got to think that it's all been worth it, hasn't it?'

'I'll let you know tomorrow.'

'You're back to at least that base level where you managed to attract Jane in the first place, right? So at the very least, you should be able to attract the likes of her, if not actually her, again.'

'I suppose so.'

Dan picks up his empty gla.s.s. 'Another?'

I check my watch. 'No thanks, mate. As appealing as one last gla.s.s of fizzy water might be, I think I better head on home. Big day tomorrow. Someone's got an important decision to make.'

Dan looks confused for a moment. 'You mean Jane, right?'

And it's only when I'm halfway home I realize that perhaps I should have corrected him.

Sat.u.r.day 16th April.

7.00 a.m.

The arrivals hall at Gatwick is teeming with people. Red-faced holiday-makers, some wearing souvenir sombreros, most carrying clinking bags of duty-free, swarm through customs and out towards the car parks, where they s.h.i.+ver in the biting spring wind, cursing the fact that there's another fifty weeks before they can head back to their sun loungers.

Jane's flight is on time, the notice board tells me, which means I've probably got about fifteen minutes to fight my way through to the front of the arrivals gate, where I'll hopefully be able to spot her as soon as she comes through.

Eventually she appears, pus.h.i.+ng her trolley along the 'nothing to declare' channel, through the swing doors, and out into the main concourse. Her hair's a little lighter than when she left, maybe she's lost a little weight, but apart from that, she looks like the same Jane who left me three long months ago.

As she scans the crowds, searching for a route through, her gaze briefly meets mine, before moving away. Her face crinkles in puzzlement and she turns back towards me, eyes widening with surprise, before abandoning her luggage in the middle of the airport and rus.h.i.+ng over to meet me.

Jane stares at me for a few seconds, lost for words, before bursting into tears. She kisses me hard, and tells me that it was all a stupid mistake, how much she's missed me, that she's sorry for the whole Martin thing, and how unbelievably great I look. I take her into my arms, effortlessly hoisting her heavy suitcase with my new-found strength, and we pile into the Mini and drive off into the sunset.

Or that's how I imagine it would have happened, had I actually gone out to meet her from where I've been hiding behind the pillar next to the magazine rack in WH Smiths. Instead, when Jane appears through customs, I duck down behind my copy of Health & Fitness, pretty sure that she won't think of looking for me there.

As she makes her way past the entrance to Smiths, I sneak a peek at her over the top of my magazine. She looks great, radiant even, as if the last three months have done her the power of good, and I realize that it's important for me to be here to see this. To know that she's happy, healthy, and safe.

As I watch her stride confidently on her own through the busy airport, it occurs to me that I was wrong last night. I don't owe Jane a chance. I don't owe her anything, apart from an apology, maybe, for the last few years: for letting myself go; for making it seem like I'd stopped caring about myself; for not caring about her; and for not caring about us. And, more significantly, for not realizing what that meant.

Perhaps there'll be an opportunity to give her that apology, face-to-face, in time. But not here, not today. I don't need a reaction. I don't want revenge. I don't even require what I believe is known as 'closure'. And at the same time, I'm relieved that I'm not going to have to make a choice. After all, if I don't want her back, then there isn't a choice to make.

I wait until I'm sure she's a respectable distance away before leaving the safety of WH Smiths, then freeze as I feel a tap on my shoulder. Fortunately, it's only one of the a.s.sistants-I haven't paid for the magazine I'm absent-mindedly holding-so, red-faced, I hand it back. By the time I get to the walkway that links the airport to the car parks, Jane's already making her way towards the escalators that lead down to the Gatwick Express.

And the funny thing is, despite how hard the last three months have felt, how tough the training has seemed, and how difficult the dieting, not drinking, and giving up smoking has been, watching Jane walk out of the airport and out of my life is actually surprisingly easy.

7.50 a.m.

I race back home and change quickly into my workout gear, before heading off on my usual seafront loop. After about ten minutes I spot them in the distance, one a shambolic limping figure, and wince at the recollection of how similar that was to me just three short months ago. They're heading slowly in my direction, so I decide to sit in the nearest shelter and wait for them.

As they draw level, Sam's client collapses onto the bench next to me, breathing heavily. He must be about fifty, and at least that many pounds overweight, and I'm slightly jealous that he doesn't seem to be feeling sick, although I can almost hear his heart hammering through his chest. Mine is too, but it's nothing to do with my morning run.

When Sam sees me, she looks puzzled for a moment, before making the introductions.

'Lawrence, this is Edward. He's one of my success stories.' She looks at the two of us, sitting side-by-side. 'You two look like a "before" and "after" poster.'

It's turning into a warm morning, and perspiration glints off Sam's top lip as she talks. I have to resist the temptation to reach across and wipe it off for her.

'Which of us,' wheezes Lawrence, 'is which?'

Sam ignores him. 'Edward, haven't you got something important you should be doing?'

'Yes,' I say. 'Which is why I'm here. There's something I need to ask you.'

Sam looks nervously down at Lawrence, who's obviously grateful for the interruption. 'I'm kind of on somebody else's time right now.'

'Take all the time you need,' he gasps from his sprawled position on the bench. 'Please.'

'I won't be long,' I say, standing up and leading Sam away, out of Lawrence's earshot. 'I just wanted to check something.'

'Which was?'

'When you said to me a while ago that you'd never go out with a client.'

Sam frowns. 'Yes?'

'Well, yesterday was our last session, wasn't it?'

'I suppose so.'

'So, I'm not a client any more?'

Sam thinks about this for a moment or two, then leans forward and kisses me, but it's on the lips this time.

'I guess not,' she says, with a smile.

About the Author.

Matt Dunn was born in Margate in 1966, but escaped to Spain, where he worked as a newspaper columnist and played a lot of tennis. After a stint in Brighton, he now lives in London.

Previously he has been a professional lifeguard, fitness-equipment salesman, and an IT headhunter, but he prefers writing for a living, so please keep buying his books.

Visit the author at www.mattdunn.co.uk.

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