I shake my head incredulously. "My dignity?"
Dan puts his gla.s.s back down onto the table. "Edward, Jane ran out on you yesterday, cleared out your flat, and went off to Tibet without telling you. I"d say your dignity is the last thing you should be worried about."
As I reread the message, it doesn"t take me very long to realize that Dan"s probably right.
"What if she doesn"t respond?"
"Oh, she"ll respond," he says. "They always do."
"So," I say, through a mouthful of burger. "While we"re waiting to hear back from Sally, where do we start?"
Dan consults his spreadsheet. "Well, the most obvious one."
"Which is?"
"We need to do something about the amount you"ve got on your plate."
"Are you saying that I"ve been neglecting Jane because I"ve been too busy?"
"No, I mean in front of you, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Look at your burger-cheese and bacon, chips, mayonnaise...It"s no wonder you"re overweight."
I look down at my admittedly chunky waistline. "It"s just a bit of a beer belly."
Dan pokes me in the stomach. "Mate, you look like you"ve been living in the brewery."
I push my plate away reluctantly. "Well, I suppose I could cut down a little on the food front."
He pings my beer gla.s.s with his finger. "And the alcohol"s got to go too. Especially the beer."
"What?"
"It"s very fattening."
"Really?"
Dan rolls his eyes. "I refer you to our conversation of a few moments ago. Why do you think it"s called a "beer belly"?"
"Ah."
Wendy walks past, and notices my half-eaten burger. "Something wrong with your food?"
I shake my head, and stare longingly at my plate. "I need to go on a diet. Apparently."
Wendy looks me up and down. "You don"t need to lose any weight. I like you cuddly."
"Yes he does," smirks Dan. "He"s got bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s than you have."
Wendy reddens slightly, then picks up Dan"s wine gla.s.s. "Can I get you another drink?"
He looks confused. "But I haven"t finished this one yet."
"Yes you have," she replies, emptying it in his lap.
Dan jumps up, grabs a bar towel, and starts to mop his crotch, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the rest of the bar.
"What on earth did you do that for?"
"Why do you think?" says Wendy, glaring at him. "You have a real gift, you know."
"Not for you I don"t, sweetheart," replies Dan.
As he disappears into the gents to dry his trousers under the hand dryer, I follow Wendy back to the bar.
"So why this new healthy regime?" she asks.
"Dan"s idea. He seems to think I"ve got a chance of winning Jane back."
Wendy looks a little surprised. "Really? Why? I mean, what did she say in her note?"
I recount Jane"s letter, surprising myself that I seem to know it off by heart.
"What do you think?" I ask, hopefully.
Wendy smiles sympathetically at me. "I think if you love her, it"s got to be worth a try. Anyway, what can I get you? The usual?"
Sadly, it"s time for me to try the unusual. I look back over to our table, where Dan, back from the gents, is typing away again.
"Another gla.s.s of wine for Bill Gates over there, and I"ll have...What do you have that isn"t beer?"
Wendy scratches her head. "Well, there"s wine, obviously, spirits, the usual array of soft drinks...Or how about a coffee?" She points to a gleaming contraption behind the bar. "We"ve just got this brand new machine."
"It doesn"t have alcohol in it?"
"Not the way I make it." Wendy walks over and presses a b.u.t.ton, causing the front to light up. "What sort would you like?"
I gaze at the impressive piece of machinery. "What kind do you have?"
Wendy consults the laminated menu card. "Espresso, latte, cappuccino, mochaccino, frappuccino, latteccino..." She looks up mischievously. "Al Pacino..."
"Doesn"t it just do normal coffee?"
Wendy stares at the array of b.u.t.tons in puzzlement. "Probably. But I couldn"t guarantee it."
"Okay. Forget it. I"ll just have a gla.s.s of water, please."
Wendy switches the machine off, not a little relieved. "Ice? Slice of lemon?"
"Oh, go on then. Push the boat out."
When I carry the drinks back to our table, Dan looks approvingly at my choice of beverage.
"Cheers," he says, taking a sip of his wine. "So. The diet is one thing. How about the exercise part?"
I light up a cigarette and inhale deeply. "Exercise?"
Dan does a bad Michael Caine impression. ""You"re a big man, but you"re out of shape." Yes, exercise."
"But I don"t know the first thing about exercising."
"Well, I"ll help you."
"You?"
"Why not?"
Unfortunately, I can"t think of a reason quickly enough. "What do you know about training someone?"
"I keep myself in pretty good shape, don"t I?" says Dan, tensing a bicep.
Oh no. I can just imagine where Dan"s going with this. He"s probably already thinking of making his own workout video.
"S"pose."
"So let"s start tomorrow. I run most mornings. Why not come with me?"
I hurriedly try and think of an excuse, as the idea of trailing along the seafront behind Dan hardly appeals.
"Er, I"ve got to work," I lie.
"Well, we"ll go before work then. That is, unless you"d rather stay in bed with...Oh no, she left you, didn"t she. Because you got too fat."
"All right. No need to rub it in. Tomorrow morning it is."
Dan grins at me. "Shall we say eight o"clock?"
"Fine."
"Good. I expect you to be ready to go, in your sports gear."
"Right."
"And you"ll have to do something about the smoking as well."
I take a long drag and stub my cigarette out. "Okay."
Dan shuts his laptop. "That"s that then."
"Great. Only one slight problem regarding tomorrow morning."
"What"s that?"
"I don"t have any sports gear."
"You"re kidding?"
"Why would I? I don"t do any sport."
Dan sighs, and looks at his watch. "Come on," he says. "We should just about make it."
"Just about make what?" I say, a little alarmed.
"Late-night closing," he replies. "We"re going shopping."
7.46 p.m.
We"re in Brighton Marina, where the shops stay open later than in Churchill Square, heading for Sports Shack, one of those large chains that"s always staffed by spotty adolescents, and frequented by people looking for the kind of running shoes that will only ever be used to run away from the police. We wander round for a few minutes, ignored by the a.s.sistants, until I accidentally knock over one of the trainer displays.
A spotty adolescent materializes instantly. "How can I help you?"
"I need to buy some sports gear."
"Well," he says, disinterestedly, "you"ve come to the right place. For what sport?"
"Er...I"m not actually sure."
"Fitness training," says Dan.
The a.s.sistant gives me a look that seems to say "about time too". "Second aisle on the left."
I follow Dan to the aforementioned section, where he walks up and down, pa.s.sing me a selection of jogging pants and sweatshirts.
"How do you know my size?"
Dan doesn"t say anything, but just points to the label, where I can quite clearly see the letters "X" and "L".
I pick up a sweatshirt with a hood, slip it on, and turn to Dan. "What do you think?"
He rolls his eyes. "Are you planning to sell drugs on the street corner?"
"Of course not."
"Well, take that off then."
Dan finds a pair of shorts, holds them up, looks round at me, then seems to think better of it, quickly putting them back on the rack.
"Right," he says. "Trainers. Size?"
"Nine and a half."