Yes Man (41 page)

I got up and switched on my Mac. First, I e-mailed his Hotmail address again.

To : [email protected]

From: Danny

Subject: Stop

Look here,

Why aren’t you writing back to me? I know exactly who you are and what you’re up to. I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, but once I’ve unmasked you, you will have no choice but to stop. So you may as well stop now and avoid my wrath, which can be quite considerable once I’m riled. So there.

Danny

And then, to make sure I was covering all the angles, I e-mailed Thom again
.

Thom,

It’s Danny again. I’m sorry to bother you, but could you let me know if you get this e-mail? Did you get my last one? I think
your mate, Jason, is still playing pranks on me. I need to get in touch with him, but I don’t know how.

Please-get back to me!

Danny

I pressed Send, then sat back in my chair with a sigh.

This was a mystery I needed to solve.

It was two evenings later, and I was sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street with Paul, the man who’d phoned me up for a polite conversation.

He was a pleasant chap in his forties with neat hair and a blue suit. He wore a chunky watch and slightly raised shoes. Our polite conversation had started well, but somewhere along the line had taken an odd turn.

“There’s a lot of shit talked about Border terriers,” he said.

And that’s where I have to interrupt. Border terriers was pretty much all Paul and I had talked about tonight…. Well, pretty much all Paul had talked about. The phrase “let’s have a polite conversation” does, I hope you’ll agree, imply two people exchanging opinions and viewpoints. Paul had clearly misread that and had taken it to mean, “please deliver some lengthy monologues on subjects only you have an opinion on.” It just went on and on and on.

“The number-one thing people say about Border terriers,” he said, which instantly made me terrified, because I knew I was in for a list, “is this: ‘Border terriers do not shed their hair.’ Well, that is a total fallacy. They
do
shed, and some of them shed very heavily. Contrary to popular belief, they are
not
a nonshedding breed.”

“Okay,” I said. “Got you.”

But Paul clearly wasn’t finished. He pointed his finger in the air and continued.

“Also, the number-two thing people say: border terriers are easy to train.’ Well, how exactly are we defining ‘easy’?”

He laughed like this was the most common and ridiculous mistake a rookie in the Border terrier field could make, and he laughed as he carried on. “Do you know what I mean, Danny? How does one define ‘easy’?”

“That’s right,” I said. “There are probably a lot of variables.”

“Precisely, Danny. That’s right. There are a lot of variables.”

Saying “there are probably a lot of variables” is my number-one tip for
appearing to be on top of a conversation when you are really six miles out of your depth. Consider it a gift from me to you.

“Number three: ‘Border terriers are good around small children.’ Well, to a certain extent that is true. But Danny … no dog should
ever
be left unsupervised with a child. That is a definite no-no.”

“Definitely.”

“Do you know why?”

I didn’t even know what my name was anymore.

“Er … lots of variables?”

Paul just looked at me. I never said the variables thing would work twice in a row.

“Well… I suppose so.”

Oh. I guess it does.

“Another pint, Danny?”

Inwardly I collapsed.

“Sure,” I said.

“Your round, then, maestro!”

And I went to get them in.

I liked Paul—he was a nice and gentle man—but after another ten minutes I do have to admit that I did wish he would stop talking about Border terriers.

We agreed to meet again in a week or two. He said he’d call me. I didn’t doubt it. I was now the world’s second-foremost authority on Border terriers. Who
wouldn’t
want to hang with me?

There was huge and explosive excitement upon my return home that night for two reasons.

The first was a message on my home phone. It was from Gareth, at
Richard & Judy
. He was apologising for the delay, but they’d finally decided to go ahead with what he called
Danny’s Path to Enlightenment!
He wanted to know if I was free this coming Saturday to go up to Yorkshire to film a report with a load of Buddhist monks! Of
course
I bloody was! Although, as I’d decided to play it cool, the e-mail I sent him read, “Should be fine, yeah, talk soon.”

But how cool was that? My yes had come good! I was going to meet some monks! On
telly!

The second exciting event was that Thom had finally replied to my e-mails.

*   *   *

Danny!

How’s the car?! Got your e-mails about Jason, sorry, things have been manic here with the move and all. Tried e-mailing him, but he’s apparently not there at the moment. Annoying! Have another couple of avenues to chase up, think his sister works at Lancaster Uni, will get back to you. What’s your address, by the way? And what’s Jason been doing? Sounds naughty!

Thom

This was fantastic news. I mean, fair enough, I was no closer to catching Jason out, but at least now I had an ally. Thom was aware of the situation and would help me bring Jason to justice. The Challenger was nearing his end.

I went to bed, happy. Things were on the up again.

I think Kristen had been looking forward to our intimate tête-à-tête. And so, I think, had all her friends.

“I’m Kristen,” said a tall, attractive, Sloaney girl, when I walked in. “And this is Dan, Michael, Bri, Jane, Rudi, and Nick.”

“Hello … everyone,” I said.

“Hello,” they all said back.

Kristen had suggested the time and the place. A slightly grubby pub in Islington. During the Arsenal versus Tottenham match. With just about everyone she knew. It wasn’t classic date material.

“When Hanne suggested I met up with you for a drink,” she said, “I was, like,
oh, you fucking wankersl”

Kristen was on her feet now, shouting at the telly. As were Dan, Michael, Bri, Jane, Rudi, and Nick. Arsenal had just scored.

“But then I thought about it,” Kristen continued, sitting back down, “and, you know, I thought, sometimes …”

“Get a faking grip, ref. You blind bloody bastard!”
shouted Nick, next to her, and she patted his knee.

There is little I find more terrifying than girls in pubs who are really, really into football. For one thing, they are the loudest, angriest women in the world. They’re up and out of their seats quicker than my eye can move. Many’s the time I’ve thought the girl in the seat next to me had evaporated, when in fact they were now on their feet, screaming obscenities I didn’t even know existed. As you can
probably guess, I’m not really very big on football. International games I love, but your normal, run-of-the-mill pub-based Arsenal versus Tottenhams I tend to leave alone. Maybe it comes from having a dad who supports Carlisle United, a team who scored once, sometime in the eighties. It somehow wasn’t enough to enthuse me to the merits of league games, although I remember the occasion well, because Dad bought some biscuits to celebrate. You can still see him to this day in empty, windswept stadiums up and down the country, standing wet and silent with half a dozen or so other retired men also old enough to remember the glory days—though old enough to know better, too.

I sat in near-silence as the group stared intently at the screen, but I couldn’t shake my feeling of awkwardness. It felt like I was … cheating, somehow. But hey—this was only a drink. And it was only a Yes. I remembered something. I could
choose
to be okay. So I turned to Kristen, and I started to talk to her.

“So is it reds versus whites?” I asked, only partly in jest.

Kristen looked at me. “You’re not into football, then?”

“Not exactly. Who’s the guy in the black? One of their dads?”

She smiled. A nice smile. All of a sudden this wasn’t so bad.

“The referee,” she said. “But I think you knew that. To tell you the truth, I’m not all that into football either … force of habit from my dad.”

“Ah. Me too. What does your dad do?”

“He’s retiring next year.”

“Oh. Are you going to get a new one?”

She laughed. I’d scored a point.

“Oh, come on you
utter wankers!”
she suddenly shouted. I guess if she’s not all that into football, she must just really love swearing in public.

“This is bollocks,” she said. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Kristen and I sat in a bar on Upper Street.

My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up.

Kristen leaned forward.

“Don’t you find it a bit weird that Hanne’s set you up on a date?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, turning my phone off. “Do you?”

She sipped at her wine.

“Pretty much. So why have you come?”

“You could call it … open-mindedness.”

“That’s a good thing,” she said. “It’s good to be open-minded.”

There was a pause, but not an awkward one. I took a breadstick.

“Relationships are tricky,” she suddenly said. “Sometimes you know where you are with them or you think you do, and then one day you realise that you just don’t. All of a sudden. Like it happened in an instant. Don’t you find that, sometimes?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“My last boyfriend, Ben. Everything was cool. We’d been seeing each other since university. And then one day he met someone else. And that was that. Four years, over in an evening.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. That must have been—”

“It was. It was shit. But … probably for the best. Better now than when we had kids or something.”

I nodded.

“It just makes me … I don’t know … Now that I’m single, I’m worried that I’m always missing out on something…. I felt more
content
before. I guess it’s just because I don’t—”

“Is it like you’re not grabbing opportunities? Ones that could lead somewhere? But you’re not sure where?”

“Exactly!” she said. “Yeah … like I could be missing out on the important things …”

I didn’t quite know what to say next. I knew exactly what she meant, but saying I did would cheapen it, somehow. Make it seem less unique to her. Because until now, I’d thought it was unique to me.

“How about you?” she said. “Last relationship? Or was that Hanne?”

“Well … kind of. There was a girl. But it couldn’t work. Long distance. I mean, it
could’ve
worked, but…”

“Sure,” she said. “That’s tough in its own way. The not knowing. Worse than the knowing, in a sense. No matter how many friends you have, sometimes you just want to be with one person.”

I liked Kristen. And I felt sorry for her. Things were still raw for her. And me? Well, I’m sure she felt sorry for me, too. I took another breadstick and realised that my heart just wasn’t in this. The date, I mean, not the breadstick. Kristen was right—sometimes you
do
just want to be with one person.

And then she smiled.

“Do you want to get some food?”

*   *   *

I felt like I’d made a new friend in Kristen. It was good to meet someone who …
understood
. I was glad I’d said yes to this.

We bought ourselves a fine meal of pasta and wine, and chatted and laughed, and the time didn’t seem to matter anymore. We hit another bar, and soon we’d forgotten our woes and our pasts and absolutely everything else, and as the bar closed, and we prepared to go our separate ways, she suddenly said, “Coffee?”

Christ. What did she mean by that? But it was a Yes moment. A moment to be grabbed, just like Kristen had said. But all I could say was “Um …,” before Kristen jumped in with, “Come on. I
actually
mean coffee. I live round the corner. You can have a coffee and call a cab. You can also have a biscuit if you’re lucky.”

I smiled and said, “Cool,” and we made our way to her place.

I heard her open a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and I laughed when she brought it through, and we talked some more—about holidays and childhoods and families. She told me she was going to try to get tickets to a gig in Camden soon, and should she get one for me, and even though I’d never heard of the band, I smiled and said yes.

And then, when I was putting my coat on, getting ready to go downstairs to find my way home, she tilted her head and said, “Look, I don’t normally do this …” And my heart leapt and my shoulders tensed as I realised what was coming next.

“Would you like to stay with
me
tonight?”

I probably shouldn’t talk about it
.

And I’m not sure I really want to, either.

For now.

Just for now.

Sorry.

Now, if there’s one thing that we all learnt at school, it’s that the towns and villages of England’s West Yorkshire region make up the global centre of international Buddhist activity
.

Which is why I was now on my way there to meet some monks.

My new and unexpected employers at
Richard & Judy
had charged me with an exciting mission: go to West Yorkshire, hang out with some Buddhists, and film a five-minute documentary. It sounded easy enough. And exciting enough. I still couldn’t really believe that I’d been asked to do this. I mean, there were
plenty
of people far more qualified than I was. Su Pollard was advertising
steam cleaners
, for God’s sake. Surely
she’d
have been free? I can only imagine that, after meeting me, Gareth and Dan had decided that out of everyone who could possibly benefit from a series of enlightenment courses, I was probably the one who needed it most.

The journey from London to Yorkshire is a long one. I was driving up with Robin, the researcher, and Ricky, the sound recordist, and we’d been on the road for several hours already. We’d spent much of that time stuck on a narrow road behind a blue car with a sign in the window that read
BABY ON BOARD
. It had taken me nearly forty minutes to realise that unless that baby was
steering
, I really didn’t need to know it was on board at all. Eventually we managed to pass the car, and to our joy saw a sign marked
TODMORDEN
.