Dumped, Actually(31)

Suffice to say, the beauty treatment did not do for me what it did for Monica Blake.

Nor did it convince me that attempting the suggestions sent in from our readers is the right way to go about following up on ‘Dumped Actually’.

After all . . . who the hell really wants to read about me getting a manzilian, anyway?





CHAPTER FIVE

EYES OF A DISAPPROVING DOE

EVERYBODY.

That’s who.


Oh, my good grief.

This is insane.

My second ‘Dumped Actually’ feature was even more popular than the first.

In the two weeks since I published the damn thing, it’s been viewed over four hundred thousand times.

Nearly half a million people have enjoyed rootling, the wee smidgies and my supernova butthole.

You know how I thought Laughlin McPurty might be a bit upset when he read my truthful account of my visit to his salon?

Not in the bloody slightest.

He loved the article.

‘But I don’t understand it!’ I say to Erica as she reads Laughlin’s excited email. ‘I basically slagged his business off!’

Erica shakes her head. ‘Not really, Ollie. The way the story reads, you make it sound like it’s your fault you didn’t have much of a good time.’

I blink a couple of times. ‘Do I?’

‘Yep. You come across as awkward and out of your depth. Any criticism you may have of Mr McPurty’s treatment methods gets swallowed up in your own sense of inadequacy.’

‘Oh. Okay . . . good . . . I guess?’

‘Oh, damn right,’ Erica replies, slamming the lid of her laptop closed. ‘Great work again. If you carry on like this, we’ll have to give you a raise!’

‘Really?’ I say hopefully.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be silly, Ollie. Benedict is still only one step away from getting us shit-canned, even with “Dumped Actually” doing so well.’

‘Oh.’

‘So . . . what are you going to try next, then?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, the trip to the salon went very well. We need to get you off on another little adventure – as suggested by one of our loyal readers.’

‘Went very well?’ I say in a stunned voice. ‘I’ve been through two tubes of E45, and my arsehole has only just stopped itching.’

‘Yes, Ollie. And over four hundred thousand people loved it. So, I say again . . . what’s next? How about the camping one? That sounds like it might be lots of fun!’

‘I . . . But . . . You . . . I can’t . . . I . . .’ I purse my lips together for a second. ‘I’ll go take a look at my emails,’ I eventually say with resignation, and trudge out of Erica’s office with my head down.



Look, I’m not going all the way up to the bloody Cairngorms.

It’s miles away, and after what happened to me with Laughlin McPurty, I want to be nowhere near anything Scottish for quite some time.

The New Forest will just have to do the job.

And I’m not doing it for a month.

I can just about manage two nights in a tent, and that’s only under extreme duress.

And then there’s the problem of finding a couple of friends to go with me. As I said before, I’ve never been good at keeping my friendships with other men going when I’m with a woman. It’s a character trait I’m not particularly proud of, but it’s just something that tends to happen. Yes, I can still maintain casual friendships, but nothing deeper than that. When I’m putting so much of my energy into a romantic relationship, I can respond to the odd, impromptu invite along to the pub with a mate, but organising anything more than that tends to go by the wayside.

Which creates something of a problem if I’m going to take Wolf Moresby’s advice.

I would ask my dad to come along, but he and Mum are off on another cruise at the moment. This leaves Wimsy as just about my only option.

My only option, that is, until he turns my invitation down flat.

‘I don’t do tenting,’ he tells me over the phone. ‘It’s uncomfortable, cold and boring. And with my luck, I’ll be living in a tent soon, anyway, so I’d rather avoid doing it by choice, thanks.’

And that’s the end of that. I may have persuaded Wimsy to remain on this earth, but he’s still not exactly what you’d call in a good place mentally.

So that leaves me on my own, unfortunately.

What a sorry state of affairs.

Still, maybe a little self-reflection on my own would be a good thing, to be honest. It might give me the chance to get a few things straight in my head. And if I get lonely, I can always talk to a passing badger.

Also, this little adventure should give me more than enough material for ‘Dumped Actually’ volume three, so I’m going to go through with it . . . even though I will be on my lonesome.

Hell, I pretty much feel on my own all the time at the moment, anyway, with Samantha not around. I might as well do it physically, as well as metaphorically.

I manage to convince a local camping supplies shop to let me borrow the equipment I need for free, promising I’ll mention them in the story. Writing an increasingly popular article for a website should come with some perks, after all.

Then it’s just the matter of driving down to the forest and finding somewhere appropriate to pitch my tent.