Blue Collar (23 page)

She’d been born to rich parents whereas I’d been born to a couple that had met on a hop-picking holiday?

She’d gone to a posh school whereas I’d gone to a comp? Occasionally.

She mixed with actors and producers, doctors and lawyers whereas I mixed with a shovel?

She liked lentils and grown-up grub whereas I still liked the odd can of Fanta?

These weren’t reasons for ending a relationship. They were actually pretty stupid in themselves if I’m honest here. I knew
this, but that didn’t matter because they weren’t the real reasons we were splitting up. The real reason we were splitting
up was… er… er… For a moment there, I almost couldn’t remember, but then it came back to me. It was all down to Charley. She
was the one who was getting ready to dump me (possibly for Hugo or Domino? Not sure, I was confusing myself now), not the
other way around. I just got in there first, which, when all was said and done, was the real reason she felt aggrieved. That
yet another horse had thrown her off her back before she could shoo him away.

That I’d noted the differences between us and decided that they weren’t for me, when really I should’ve been the one down
on bended knees thanking her for even looking at me.

This was the real reason my announcement had come as such a blow to her. I’d simply beaten her to the punch.

This was all this was and this was what I had to keep telling myself. Because if I lost sight of it even for a second, I’d
be leaving myself open to one hell of a fall when the ball was back bouncing in her court.

Still, there was no reason to be horrible about it. I didn’t want to be horrible and I didn’t want to upset her, no matter
what the reasons were, because I seriously did care about her. After all, it was the reason I was doing what I was doing.

‘Charley, please, I don’t want us to part on bad terms,’ I said, genuinely meaning every last syllable of it. ‘Because I
really did… do like you. I’ve had so many good times with you – even just being with you – but nothing lasts for ever. And
it’s just time to call it a day,’ I muttered, the lump in my throat making me barely audible, even in the Whispering Gallery.

‘I just wish you’d tell me why,’ Charley insisted, but I’d said all I could without the whole thing turning personal.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all I replied. ‘Really. I’m really, really sorry.’

Which didn’t say the half of it.

We stood in silence for a moment, neither knowing what to say next and neither wanting to be the one who lost their composure,
and eventually Charley accepted the situation.

She collected her wits, nodded, then shook her head a couple of times and told me she had to go.

‘OK,’ I unhappily agreed, almost accidentally telling her that I’d give her a call in the week. But then I remembered I wouldn’t.
Not this week. Not next week. Not any other week. This was the last time I’d ever see Charley. And it was breaking my heart.

Just what the hell was I doing?

‘Bye, then,’ Charley frowned. We paused for a moment, wondering whether or not to kiss, but dilly-dallied for so long that
the moment and kiss were lost for ever.

‘Bye,’ I replied, just as she turned and walked. ‘Take care.’

I watched Charley head back around the Whispering Gallery to the exit and got ready to wave when she looked back from the
doorway. But she didn’t look back. She just darted on through and disappeared from my life for the very last time. Utterly
gut-wrenched and exhausted, I slumped back into the wooden seat to give her a fifteen-minute head start, feeling absolutely
sick to the stomach.

I’d just dumped Charley.

Oh my fuck!

I’d just dumped the woman of my dreams.

I couldn’t help but wonder why.

No, it was no good thinking like that. What was done was done and done for a good reason. I knew that. And while I didn’t
exactly take comfort in the knowledge, I knew that I knew it. Which was about the best I could say about it.

And if you like, I’ll tell you something else I knew. About this place, St Paul’s. I knew that Sir Christopher Wren had designed
it back in the 1600s after the old cathedral had been destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. I knew that Nelson was buried in
the crypt downstairs. As were Wellington, Florence Nightingale and Lawrence of Arabia. I knew that the great dome had been
a symbol of Britain’s defiance during the Blitz, that Prince Charles and Lady Diana had got married here in 1981 and that,
after Big Ben, St Paul’s was the most instantly recognisable landmark in London. It was certainly the most blatant, towering
some three hundred and fifty feet above the Square Mile and being easily visible from Hampstead Heath to Crystal Palace.

I knew all of these things and more, but most importantly, I knew that every time I saw St Paul’s Cathedral from now on, I’d
think of Charley.

Just as I knew (or at least hoped) that Charley would think of me.

25 :-( ?

I couldn’t decide whether I was surprised, disappointed, suicidal or monumentally relieved at this. Probably, if I’m honest
here, disappointed, with just a dash of wrist-pondering for effect, because deep-deep-deep-deep down, at the back of my mind,
in a corner of my brain I usually reserved for lottery-winning daydreams and flying-saucer fantasies, I’d half hoped she would
call. I know it’s nonsense. After all, I had just unceremoniously dumped her out of my life, so the chances of her calling
were right up there with lottery wins and flying saucers, but still, I hadn’t completely given up hope. Which was totally
the wrong frame of mind to be in but, human nature being what it is, was all but inevitable. I mean, don’t we all hope and
pray for a happy ending when everything goes tits up? Don’t we all pray for last-minute miracles? Whether we find ourselves
up the financial Swannee without a penny to paddle with, in dire health straits, seven goals down to our arch-rivals or in
midair following an ill-thought-through balcony short cut. Don’t we all hope and pray for six beautifully bouncing balls,
a revolutionary breakthrough in deathitis tablets, five minutes of utter insanity from the referee or a passing mattress
lorry to save us from that terrible onrushing reality we’re bracing ourselves to pancake across?

I know I did.

I hated it when shit things happened to me. And yesterday had been about as shit as I’d ever known. And contrary to all my
expectations, it didn’t soften the blow that at least I’d been the one who’d done the dumping because this just scribbled
one enormous fucking question mark right over everything I’d done yesterday.

What if I’d been wrong?

What if I’d been wrong about everything?

Fuckkkkkkkkkkk…!

It didn’t even bear thinking about, which was ironic really because up until yesterday, when I could’ve done something about
it, this particular question hadn’t even occurred to me, yet the next morning, when everything was too late and sunk beyond
salvageable, I suddenly couldn’t stop thinking it. Which did leave me wondering just whose side my brain was meant to be on
anyway because the bastard seemed to have it in for me.

And all of this misery, all of this agony, all of this uncertainty could’ve been so easily wiped away with one call from Charley.
Even a single text.

Hi T, how r u? :-(. U 3? Wnt 2 >@ me& % wth £ if thts
;-/!!! Cxxx

I would’ve loved to have got one of Charley’s bizarre hieroglyphic texts the following day, not least of all because I could’ve
read absolutely anything I liked into it.

But she didn’t text. She didn’t call. And she didn’t race around to bang on my door in the pouring rain until I swept her
up into my arms and promised her I’d never bin her again.

Charley was gone.

And that was the way she was going to stay, no matter how she felt. If indeed she did feel otherwise. See, in my parents’
day, perseverance was seen as a quality, faint heart never won fair maiden and that whole heap of false hope, but these days,
if you showed the slightest bit of interest in someone who didn’t respond exactly the same way, all your courageous heart
ever won you was a restraining order and a caption in your local paper informing the rest of the community that you were a
‘nuisance’.

And this wasn’t just true for blokes. Any girl who’s ever sent her ex-boyfriend a conciliatory card at Christmas to show there
were no hard feelings has never been seen as anything other than a dangerous bunny-boiler ever since Glenn Close did her bit
for broken-hearted women everywhere.

And who wanted that?

It was humiliating enough to be dumped by some stupid thicko tradesman who wasn’t fit to kiss your Guccis, without everyone
thinking you were desperate to win him back. After all, Charley could do ten times better than me. Maybe even twenty times
if she really pushed the boat out. She knew it. Her friends all knew it. And I knew it too. She could’ve had anyone she wanted.
Guys with money. Guys with good jobs. Guys with flashy cars, fancy Armani suits and their own skiing equipment – that they
actually owned. No problem. A girl like Charley. That was how great she was.

Why would she even think about calling me again?

She wouldn’t. It was as simple as that. Of course not.

And as if to prove it, she didn’t.

Not once. Not even by accident while deleting my number from her phone.

In three days’ time, I would finally come to accept this and move on with my life. I wouldn’t move on very far, admittedly,
only from desperation to devastation, but it would still be a step away from where I found myself Monday morning when Jason
came calling for me.

‘All right, squire. Fuck me, you look rough. Late night, was it, you old bastard?’

‘I didn’t get much sleep last night,’ I explained.

‘Oh yeah,’ he winked, nudging me in the ribs from the safety of the driver’s seat. ‘Back in Charley’s good books are you,
then?’

I turned my bloodshot slits in his direction and caught the full force of his chirpy smirking worry-free delight and immediately
realised today was going to be the worst day of my life.

And it was still only a quarter to seven. There was so much of it left.

‘Here, pull over here so I can pick up a few beers, will you?’ I told him when we passed a parade of shops. ‘You want any?’

‘Yeah, get us a …’ he started, only stopping when he saw I was serious. ‘Here, Tel, are you all right? What’s the matter,
mate?’

I swallowed a few times to try and summon up the words, but they had such a long way to crawl from the pit of my stomach that
it took almost a full thirty seconds before I was able to spit them out.

‘Me and Charley… we split up,’ I choked, then let out a blub of misery before I was able to slam down the hatch again.

‘Oh no, Tel, you haven’t, have you?’ Jason responded, shaking his head with deep regret. ‘I’m so sorry, mate. Get rid of you,
did she?’

‘No she didn’t, actually, you big cunt, I got rid of her!’ I snapped back, prompting Jason to furrow his brow and ask a question
I’d been asking my pillow all night long.

‘Really? What d’you do that for?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, my head almost fit to burst. ‘You told me to.’

‘Uh? You what?’

‘On Friday. You said I should bin her if I wasn’t happy with her,’ I said.

Jason looked suitably confused and told me he never said any such thing.

‘All I said was, if she wasn’t making you happy, you had to ask yourself if it was worth the effort, or something like that.
I never meant for you to bin her. I just meant for you to have a think about what you wanted.’

‘Oh right, tell me that now,’ I exaggerated.

‘Don’t give me this,’ Jason countered. ‘You’ve never done anything I’ve told you to do in your life, so don’t come the old
“I was only following orders” bit with me. You did what you did because you decided to do it. Now you’re all gutted and looking
for someone to grumble at so you’re grumbling at me, but if you’ve given Charley her marching orders then it was for more
than something I said in the pub on Friday night that I can just about remember. At least, I fucking hope so for your sake,
mush,’ he told me, turning us south on to the Sydenham Road.

Of course, he was right. My relationship with Charley had come a cropper on the rocks and I was trying to blame the seagulls
when I’d been the one at the wheel. Actually, that wasn’t true. Charley had been the one at the wheel, I’d been the one stoking
the boiler down below. But then stoking the boiler was just as important as turning the wheel, as you couldn’t steer if you
didn’t have a stoked boiler, so if the boiler stoker down below downed his shovel, then it amounted to much the same thing
as turning on to the rocks.

Oh, what was I talking about? I knew even less about boats than I did about women, so what was with the seafaring analogies?
I wasn’t sure. I think I was just a bit bored with my usual bricklaying analogies, but the seafaring ones hadn’t worked out
as well as I’d hoped so I decided to switch back for the time being until I grounded myself in something else.

‘You’re right,’ I finally admitted to Jason. ‘Sorry, mate. It wasn’t nothing to do with you.’

‘That’s all right, I know how it is,’ he accepted, before asking me how I went about calling it a day with Charley, then.

I told him all about it. My lunchtime date, St Paul’s Cathedral, the Whispering Gallery and her reaction, omitting only the
real reason I’d picked somewhere so memorable to do the dirty.

‘Well, it’s a shame, I know, but if it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be, mate,’ was Jason’s opinion, as he pulled up at Thornton
Heath roundabout next to a yawning Robbie.

‘Tel split up with Charley,’ Jason quickly gossiped, clearly unable to wait until I was out of earshot to spread the breaking
news.

‘Nah, you ain’t! Shit, that’s bad news, man. What reason she give?’ he asked, more or less answering his own question, in
roundabout terms.

‘No reason, Robbie. No reason at all,’ I told him, too finished off to even put him straight.

I wondered how many of Charley’s mates would make the same assumption when the news broke up in Islington. Pretty much all
of them, I guessed, which meant that stupid old predictable Tel had managed to somehow catch a lot of clever people off guard
with his weekend’s work.

It was absolutely no consolation.

CT was waiting for me from the off. As was Barrie and Joel with camera and boom. They normally didn’t arrive until after ten
o’clock but today they were here at half seven. What a coincidence.

‘They’re starting early, ain’t they?’ Robbie said, climbing out of the van with the mixer handle to start knocking up.

‘You don’t think that CT’s here to film you, do you?’ Jason asked, staring at the film crew through the van’s dusty windscreen.

‘That’s exactly what I think,’ I replied glumly, when I saw Barrie shoulder the camera at our arrival.

‘What, because of you and old Charley?’ Robbie couldn’t believe it. ‘No! That’s bang out of order. You want to knock his fucking
lens in if he points it at you.’

‘No, don’t do that. Don’t give ’em the satisfaction,’ Jason advised. ‘They’re looking for a reason to paint you as the villain,
mate, make you look like a wanker for dumping Charley. Don’t give it to ’em. That’s the best way to give it to ’em.’ Jason
then turned to Robbie. ‘You neither, Rob. Sunday best, boys. Pass the word.’

‘Hang on a minute, you dumped Charley?’ Robbie double-checked.

‘Yes, I dumped Charley. Is that so unbelievable?’ I replied.

Robbie didn’t respond, he simply shot Jason a pair of raised eyebrows, slid out of the van and went to give Dennis a knock.

‘Chin up, mate, chin up,’ Jason said.

‘What the fuck’s he even doing here this early?’ I wanted to know, incensed that I had CT to deal with on top of everything
else.

‘He’s just nosing around, just like last week. Rise above it and don’t give him anything you’ll regret six months down the
line. Be bigger than him.’