Dumped, Actually(49)

‘Yes,’ I reply, hesitantly.

‘Good. I wasn’t sure if my secretary had your number right, and I didn’t want to have to go through Erica.’

‘Okay.’

I don’t yet know who this person is, but I have a feeling that my testicles do, as they are starting to crawl up into my belly.

‘How are you, Oliver?’

‘I’m well, thank you. Um . . . who may I ask is calling?’

There’s silence on the other end for a moment. It’s probably of the offended kind.

‘I’m Benedict Montifore, Oliver. I own y—’ He stops himself. ‘I own Actual Life.’

Yep. My testicles were right on the money.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Montifore. It’s nice to hear from you.’

What would be nice is if I could throw the phone down and dunk the whole thing in holy water, but I’d better be on my best behaviour with this man, as his capriciousness is well known, as is his desire to throw me and my fellow Actual Lifers out on to the street.

‘I’m sure. I hope I haven’t interrupted you from writing another wonderful feature, Oliver.’

‘No, no. I certainly wouldn’t say that . . . sir.’ ‘Sir’ is always good to use in these kinds of circumstances, isn’t it?

‘Good. Good. That “Love Actually” feature of yours is doing so well. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any hold-ups.’

‘It’s “Dumped Actually”, actually.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The feature, Mr Montifore. It’s called “Dumped Actually”. It’s a clever riff on the movie title.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well.’

‘Okay.’

I’m not entirely sure Montifore thinks it’s all that clever, given the tone of his voice.

‘Do you golf?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Golf, Oliver. Do you play?’

‘Ah . . . not really, sir. I once came fourth in a pitch-and-putt contest on holiday in Plymouth. Does that count?’

‘No. It does not.’

‘Okay.’

‘But you can hold a club, yes? Hit a ball?’

‘I suppose so. After a fashion.’

The fashion being one from twenty years ago, when my favourite T-shirt was Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and the golf club I was carrying was largely made of plastic.

‘I wanted to invite you out for a round. It’s the way I like to get to know my employees.’ There’s a meaningful pause. ‘The ones I admire, anyway.’

Oh dear. This can’t be good.

‘Oh. Okay.’ I have little else to say on the matter right now, as I’m still trying to process several things.

First, that Montifore would deign to reach down from his highest of high perches to call me on the telephone. Second, that he is trying his very best to come across as pleasant to someone he must actually hate deep down inside. Third, that he wants me to come and play golf with him. And fourth, that he says he admires me.

Me.

Oliver Sweet.

The person who is probably preventing him from convincing his entire board of directors to close Actual Life down tomorrow and sell off the assets.

What strange and curious machinations are these?

‘So, would you like to come?’ Benedict repeats in a tone on the verge of becoming impatient. ‘I part-own a course not too far away. It’s called Sheldon Brook. Have you heard of it?’

I have, indeed. It’s the kind of place people from Manucode probably wish they could get into. The women, anyway. Sheldon Brook is exclusively for men. And by men, I mean fat, old rich, white men, who voted for Brexit, think abortion is wrong for anyone but them, and don’t understand why people can’t just know their place like they used to.

I’d rather use one of my crawling testicles as a golf ball than visit such a place.

My mind instantly starts to conjure excuses not to go.

. . . I have severe hay fever that means I can’t be in the countryside for more than ten minutes every six months.

. . . I’m scared of large concentrations of sand.

. . . I’m in the middle of transitioning into a woman, so I doubt the members of Sheldon Brook would want me anywhere near the place. It’d only confuse and worry them.

. . . I have a deadline for my next feature that I just can’t miss.

The last excuse would be the most sensible – and the only even remotely believable one – if I actually had a feature to write.

Which is when it hits me. The pure, unlovely, unwanted serendipity of it all.

It’s bloody perfect, isn’t it?

For so many reasons.

Not only would I get to have the chance to win the approval and respect of my boss – like Ahmed Rahami suggested – but I might also be able to convince Montifore that keeping Actual Life going is the best thing for him to do. Just think how much people around here would love me then!

Also, I’d have an extremely good basis for a further ‘Dumped Actually’ story, wouldn’t I?

Those are three large, fat, squawking birds that I can confidently hit with one expertly aimed stone – if I’m about myself enough.

And yet – in much the same way that I never wanted to go out on the pull, as Callie Donnelly told me I should – I do not want to spend one second in Benedict Montifore’s company, and I do not want to visit a place like Sheldon Brook. There is no conceivable way in which any of that could make me feel better about my break-up with Samantha.