Dumped, Actually(16)

Wimsy looks at me. ‘Pint?’

I stare back at him for a second. This man is clearly in need of some serious psychiatric help, and I’m not sure alcohol is the best way for him to—

‘Yeah, alright,’ I reply.

Wimsy sniffs. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Oliver . . . Ollie, if you like.’

‘Alright, Ollie. Let’s go get pissed.’ Wimsy gets to his feet and looks out over the drop that he so nearly just succumbed to.

I also get to my feet, and look at the tattered remains of his vest. ‘I’ve got a T-shirt you can have,’ I tell him.

Wimsy nods and flashes me a quick grin. ‘Thanks very much.’

It’s not much, but I guess it’s a start.

With something of a relieved sigh, I head back towards the stairs leading down from here, with my new friend Wimsy at my side. I won’t feel completely comfortable until we’re on the ground floor, though.

As we walk off in the direction of my flat so I can get him some clothing, I once again think about how I owe Wimsy a debt of gratitude for showing me some much-needed perspective.

Okay, I feel no better about what’s happened to me, but at least I can appreciate that it could be so much worse.

And there’s a small part of me that actually feels quite proud of what I’ve done here tonight. I managed to stop a man from killing himself. That actually sounds quite . . . heroic when you get right down to it, doesn’t it?

I wonder if Samantha would take me back if she knew how heroic I’d been tonight?

Oh good grief.

I really am in a bad place.

But there are worse places I could be.

At the bottom of that car park with my shin bones poking out of the top of my head, for instance.





CHAPTER THREE

BACK TO ACTUAL LIFE

Never mind, though. At least I still have a job.

For now, anyway . . .

Things are hanging by a thread at the website I work for, and there have already been redundancies, so I probably shouldn’t turn up for work so dishevelled and with a hangover, after spending the evening drowning my sorrows with my new pal Wimsy.

However, that is exactly what I am doing today, so let’s hope no one’s observant enough to noti—

‘Wow. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards’ – a familiar and amused voice says as I shuffle over to my desk – ‘just after someone’s thrown a brewery over you.’

I turn and affect what I hope is a sheepish grin. This actually makes both my head and my face hurt, which should give you some idea of the state I’m in today. ‘Morning, Erica.’

‘Good morning, Ollie. Nice to have you back at work after your obviously much-needed period of absence.’ Erica Hilton has an almost supernatural capacity to lace her words with so much sarcasm you can practically taste it. ‘I do hope the time you have spent convalescing from your – what was it? – food poisoning has helped you. It’s amazing how much the after-effects of such a serious complaint can mimic a roaring hangover, isn’t it?’ Her voice is now filled with as much amusement as sarcasm. The pointed look she’s giving me is hard to miss as well. You could probably see it from orbit.

‘Ah, yeah. Feeling . . . much better now,’ I tell her.

In point of fact, I don’t feel any better, of course. One heavy drinking session with a man whose life is a bigger disaster zone than yours is not going to get you over being dumped in front of hundreds of people by the person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with.

I woke up this morning with that same sharp ache in my chest, much as I had the previous day. It was just accompanied now by a throbbing headache and a tongue comprised of eighty-five per cent shagpile carpet.

‘Really?’ Erica replies. ‘Because you don’t look it, Ollie.’ Oh dear, she sounds genuinely concerned about me. That can’t be good. ‘Why don’t you come into my office for a quick chat before you start work? I can make you some coffee. I hear that’s a very good cure for a hang— I mean, food poisoning.’

I start to protest, but then I am out of coffee at home at the moment, and Erica does have one of those lovely bean-to-cup machines in her office, so . . .

‘Okay. The vast sea of emails can wait for at least ten minutes.’

Erica makes a face. ‘Probably. Though there’s one you really need to look at, which I don’t think you’re going to like one bit.’

Oh joy. It sounds like I have some work-related anxieties to add to my relationship problems.

You don’t have relationship problems, you idiot. You’re not in a relationship.

With a heavy sigh (which is something I am so well practised at these days, I could probably win a medal for it) I follow Erica towards her office for what I feel might not be the most pleasant of chats.

As I do, I nod to my fellow writers and the website designer, who share the open-plan office space with me. Most of them look as miserable as I do. Things are not happy here at the Actual Life offices these days. Not by a long shot.

Erica busies herself making us both a coffee, while I contemplate the inside of my eyelids for a minute.

‘Here, drink that,’ she tells me, plonking the coffee down in front of me and returning to the other side of the desk with her own cup.