Staying Alive. Matt Beaumont

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 believe it either,’ Brett says. ‘He was in denial until the baby came out. No need for DNA—she was his Mini Me. She’s three now.’

      ‘What’s she called?’

      ‘If Vin had had his way, she’d be Diddymu.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Name of a nag. Came in for him at forty-to-one on the day she was born. Mum obviously wasn’t having that. They couldn’t agree and rowed about it for two months. In the end they compromised. Went for two names. Mum chose Scarlet.’

      ‘What about Vince?’

      ‘Bubbles.’

      ‘That’s the name of—’

      ‘Yeah, Jacko’s chimp. I told him he was mad; he was writing out a permit for adult therapy right there on her birth certificate. I mean, if they had to have two names the least they could’ve done was make one of them Kate.’

      ‘Does he have custody?’

      ‘Fuck, no—he makes Fagin look like a model carer. But he’s very hands-on. Takes her to toddler ballet every Saturday and brings her to all-night edits at Moving Pics.’

      Bang on cue, Vince reappears with Jakki. His hand is on—what else?—her bum and I’m trying—struggling, frankly—to picture him cosseting a tiny bundle of humanity; his pride and joy.

      ‘Here, Jakks, do something with your soppy boss, will you?’ he says, shoving her in my direction. She lands in my lap, where she stays, giggling. She smells icky-sweet—Dune mingling with the Bacardi marketing department’s notion of passion fruit, which at least masks the sardine sandwich she had for lunch. I pull her upright and she slides off onto the bench seat beside me.

      ‘Leave him alone, Vince, he’s lovely,’ she slurs, putting an arm around my shoulder. He takes her advice and leaves me alone, heading back to her mates. Jakki looks me in the eye and says, ‘You OK? You’ve been very…distant lately.’

      ‘Have I?’

      ‘Yeah…I notice stuff, you know. I’m like a radio. I pick things up.’

      ‘I’m fine, Jakki. Just a bit under the weather…You know, tired.’

      ‘You wanna pull yourself together,’ she snaps suddenly, pulling her arm from my shoulder. ‘You don’t know how bloody lucky you are.’

       What did I say?

      She starts to cry.

       What did I say, for heaven’s sake?

      ‘My uncle’s got cancer,’ she says through drunken sobs.

      ‘I’m sorry, Jakki,’ I say, though she’ll never know how truly sorry I am.

      ‘He had this lump on his forearm for ages. He used to joke about it—said it was his extra muscle—but it’s cancer. They cut his arm off at the elbow last week. He’s having chemo now. They reckon he’ll be OK, but you’re never OK after that, are you?’

       No, I don’t suppose you are.

      ‘It’s like a knife hanging over you—’

       OK, I get the picture.

      ‘—a ticking time bomb—’

       Shut up, for God’s sake.

      ‘—a death sentence. It’s so sad.’

      Sad? It’s tragic, girl. You do not want to know how much that little nugget of family news is churning me up inside.

      ‘I’m sorry about your uncle, Jakki, really sorry, but…’

      But what? She looks at me for a morsel of comfort.

      ‘…But I’ve got to go.’

      I stand up, grab my jacket and leave the bar.

      10.01 p.m.

      Outside the icy air whacks me in the face. I suck