Dumped, Actually(56)

‘We’re probably both going to get in trouble for this, you know,’ Hung tells me.

‘Most assuredly, I’d say.’

‘Totally worth it, though.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I bloody hate golf.’

‘So do I.’

‘I think I might get a job in a bookshop. They seem nice and quiet.’

‘Yes. And there’s absolutely no chance of someone like him coming into it.’

Hung smiles beatifically. ‘Very true.’

We both lapse into silence and listen to the birds for a few moments. If we both smoked cigars, no doubt we would have raided Benedict’s supply by now.

After another minute or so, Benedict Montifore farts, and slowly topples over to one side. He hits the dirt, and this seems to bring him out of unconsciousness. ‘Wstfgl?’ he says, spitting out a clump of grass as he does so.

I look at Hung. Hung looks at me.

We both do the exact same resigned sigh . . . and spring into action.

‘Oh my God!’ I cry, faking concern for all I’m worth. ‘Benedict! Benedict! Are you alright?’

‘I’m calling the clubhouse, Mr Montifore!’ Hung cries in equally faked urgency.

‘What happened?’ Benedict says, spitting out more grass. ‘One minute I’m watching you, the next . . .’

Oh my. This is wonderful.

But what tissue of lies can I weave that will point the blame away from Hung and me before Benedict’s head clears?

What might have happened here in this forested area of the golf course that could have given rise to his current malaise?

Then it comes to me.

‘Ah . . . you were attacked by a deer!’ I exclaim, helping him to his feet. ‘It rammed you. From behind.’

Benedict winces and clutches his balls.

‘And in front,’ I add. ‘It really was a very angry deer. Big antlers. Funny black colour. Probably foreign.’ I figure I might as well appeal to Benedict’s baser instincts at this point – it can only help.

Hung runs over and helps me pull Benedict to his feet. Angry, truthful Hung is long gone now. The act of the servile caddy is back in force. ‘Please go slowly, Mr Montifore! You must not hurt yourself more! Doctor is on the way!’

Hung winks at me over Benedict’s slumped back as we take him over to the cart’s passenger seat and gingerly place him in it.

As Benedict looks down, with hands still clasped over his genitals, Hung lifts his hand above the man’s head, and we share a surreptitious high five, before I climb into the driver’s seat and take us back to the clubhouse.

I whistle a bit as I do this.

My anger – so sharp and hot a mere few minutes ago – is more or less gone, for now, anyway. The fact I’ve managed to injure this arsehole and apparently get away with it makes me very happy.

Yes, it’s hugely passive-aggressive, but I think we’ve handily established that I don’t do aggressive-aggressive, under any circumstances.

By the time we do arrive back at the clubhouse ten minutes later, though, and Benedict is carried away gratefully by an awaiting on-site doctor, my happy mood has rather coloured again.

The anger is back, but now it’s being overridden by a more familiar emotion – worry.

Not about Benedict’s memory returning. If that happens, it happens, and it was an accident, after all. I’m pretty sure Erica would stop him making my life too much of a misery . . . I hope.

What I’m worried about is how the break-up with Samantha still has the power to leap into the forefront of my mind when I am under emotional strain. I’m obviously not getting over it anywhere near as fast as I’d hoped.

And I’m obviously very angry with her, for doing what she did to me. Far angrier than I thought I was, if I’m being honest. The confrontation I’ve just had with Benedict about Actual Life has made me realise this.

It’s also made me realise that maybe ‘Dumped Actually’ is not quite the helpful therapy session I thought it was. My pain, shame, anger and sense of defeat are still right there – just waiting to jump out of the closet whenever I get a bit het up.

Speaking of ‘Dumped Actually’, my other worry is that there is no way I can write up this silly jaunt to Sheldon Brook into a story. If I do, I’ll have to lie pretty much about the whole thing, and even then I might run the risk of jogging Benedict’s memory, which is something I can ill afford to do.

I have wasted my time entirely today.

How monumentally frustrating!

All this round of golf has done is make me upset, angry and tormented by my own demons.

. . . just like every other round of golf anyone’s ever played in the whole of human history.





CHAPTER EIGHT

IT’S NOT YOU – IT’S MOST DEFINITELY ME

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t see.

I can’t speak.

I can’t hear.

I can’t feel.

Why?

Because I am stood outside a garden centre.

Oh, the horror.

Now, there might be many men in the world who find themselves rendered unable to function when presented with the idea of having to walk around a garden centre. They will be married men, and it will be the first warm Sunday afternoon in spring. The fear will stem from the fact that they are about to spend three hours walking around the most boring shop on earth with their wives, while she spends all the money they have on plants and interesting decorative features for the patio.