before he moves to Canada next week. We had all bought him little mementos of our time together, mostly stupid stuff like an encyclopaedia of British beers, a poster of Greg Rusedski with ‘he’s British now’ scrawled all over it and a Bear Grylls book about surviving in the wild. We were intending on having a good night.
And then my ex walked in. It pains me to admit it but she looked pretty good, in a new outfit of pillar-box red jeans and a leather jacket. She looked like she had lost a few pounds too.
I watched her walk up to the bar with her group of revellers. She hadn’t noticed me at this point. I recognised a few of her crowd. Sarah and Debbie and a couple more mother’s-union types and their respective husbands. But there were a few I didn’t recognise, including the man who put his hand on my wife’s left buttock as he was ordering the drinks.
All of a sudden I had gone from thinking I was havinga good time with my mates to being completely conscious of my single status. I thought I was making progress in my life but there I was, single, in the pub with my single mates, about to go back to my parents’ and sleep on a mattress on the floor. My ex, who still hadn’t noticed me, was with her group of married friends, with her new man and probably about to go back to my marital home with him and make noises that only I have heard her make for the past fifteen years. Actually someone had heard her at our golfing weekend in Sussex and banged on the hotel wall, but we will ignore that for now.
Was I jealous? Yes. And some.
She was flagrantly taking advantage of me having the kids for the night. I had spent the day with the boys and the dog in Bournemouth and dropped them off with my mum on my way round to the pub. I was tempted to get on the phone to my parents and tell them to send the kids home.
The married group didn’t notice us single guys for quite a while. We had got there early and had occupied our favourite table in the back of the pub. I was the only one of our group to notice them too as my mates were all engrossed in pointing out things Andy won’t miss on his trip to Canada (David Cameron, Strictly Come Dancing, the Tory party, come to think of it all British politicians, and the Northern Line). For some reason I felt the need to laugh loudly at all our jokes, as if to show my ex that I was having a better time than her. I got a few odd looks from Dave, Ray and Andy before Dave eventually cottoned on to the reason for my antics.
‘Your ex scrubs up nicely,’ he rather unhelpfully observed.
Eventually they saw us too and my ex waved to me. I watched as she whispered something to her new lover and he smiled knowingly. Why hadn’t the kids mentioned this wanker to me? I took some small consolation from the factthat he was rather plain-looking, with a belly that definitely put him into the clinically obese category and hair that had seen better days.
‘It’s your round Graham.’ Oh god, so I had to go up to the bar. I composed myself, mentally armed myself with all the witty put-downs I could think of and flexed my muscles in case things turned nasty.
‘Hello Graham, nice garb for the pub,’ my ex observed, gesturing to my shorts and trainers, still sandy from the beach (I still can’t get rid of the trainers). I hadn’t had time to change since coming back from Bournemouth.
‘Is that a large wine you’ve got? I obviously pay you too much maintenance,’ I said in response. My inner self was screaming at me not to show weakness. Or maybe it was the lads sitting at our table watching the encounter. Or just the beer talking.
My ex put on her best condescending look and was about to respond when her knight in shining armour entered the fray on her behalf. ‘You must be Graham. I’m Mark.’ He held his orange juice out as if he wanted me to clink glasses.
‘Nice comb-over mate. If you ever so much as say a word to my children I swear I’ll ruin your life,’ I said, clashing
And then my ex walked in. It pains me to admit it but she looked pretty good, in a new outfit of pillar-box red jeans and a leather jacket. She looked like she had lost a few pounds too.
I watched her walk up to the bar with her group of revellers. She hadn’t noticed me at this point. I recognised a few of her crowd. Sarah and Debbie and a couple more mother’s-union types and their respective husbands. But there were a few I didn’t recognise, including the man who put his hand on my wife’s left buttock as he was ordering the drinks.
All of a sudden I had gone from thinking I was havinga good time with my mates to being completely conscious of my single status. I thought I was making progress in my life but there I was, single, in the pub with my single mates, about to go back to my parents’ and sleep on a mattress on the floor. My ex, who still hadn’t noticed me, was with her group of married friends, with her new man and probably about to go back to my marital home with him and make noises that only I have heard her make for the past fifteen years. Actually someone had heard her at our golfing weekend in Sussex and banged on the hotel wall, but we will ignore that for now.
Was I jealous? Yes. And some.
She was flagrantly taking advantage of me having the kids for the night. I had spent the day with the boys and the dog in Bournemouth and dropped them off with my mum on my way round to the pub. I was tempted to get on the phone to my parents and tell them to send the kids home.
The married group didn’t notice us single guys for quite a while. We had got there early and had occupied our favourite table in the back of the pub. I was the only one of our group to notice them too as my mates were all engrossed in pointing out things Andy won’t miss on his trip to Canada (David Cameron, Strictly Come Dancing, the Tory party, come to think of it all British politicians, and the Northern Line). For some reason I felt the need to laugh loudly at all our jokes, as if to show my ex that I was having a better time than her. I got a few odd looks from Dave, Ray and Andy before Dave eventually cottoned on to the reason for my antics.
‘Your ex scrubs up nicely,’ he rather unhelpfully observed.
Eventually they saw us too and my ex waved to me. I watched as she whispered something to her new lover and he smiled knowingly. Why hadn’t the kids mentioned this wanker to me? I took some small consolation from the factthat he was rather plain-looking, with a belly that definitely put him into the clinically obese category and hair that had seen better days.
‘It’s your round Graham.’ Oh god, so I had to go up to the bar. I composed myself, mentally armed myself with all the witty put-downs I could think of and flexed my muscles in case things turned nasty.
‘Hello Graham, nice garb for the pub,’ my ex observed, gesturing to my shorts and trainers, still sandy from the beach (I still can’t get rid of the trainers). I hadn’t had time to change since coming back from Bournemouth.
‘Is that a large wine you’ve got? I obviously pay you too much maintenance,’ I said in response. My inner self was screaming at me not to show weakness. Or maybe it was the lads sitting at our table watching the encounter. Or just the beer talking.
My ex put on her best condescending look and was about to respond when her knight in shining armour entered the fray on her behalf. ‘You must be Graham. I’m Mark.’ He held his orange juice out as if he wanted me to clink glasses.
‘Nice comb-over mate. If you ever so much as say a word to my children I swear I’ll ruin your life,’ I said, clashing
Similar Books
