How To Lose Weight And Alienate People. Ollie Quain

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СКАЧАТЬ me. Desperate times call for desperate measures.’

      ‘Don’t be stupid, you’ll get a call-back because you’re talented not because you’re injured.’

      ‘Luke!’ I nudge him on the leg. ‘What have I told you about being overly supportive of my non-existent career?’

      ‘Sorry, I’m afraid it’s in my genes. Despite inventing the drinking game, Show us your rack, Sheila! …’ He smiles pointedly at me, knowing full well it winds me up when he uses Australian slang. ‘… us Aussies are extremely sensitive. It’s a fact.’

      But I smile back at him, because here’s the thing. Despite the obsessive timekeeping, low-level buzz of neediness and his place of birth … Luke is hot. If he was in a boy band, he’d be the tall one at the back who never gets to sing lead vocal but is on hand to do some decent break-dancing moves and point at the fans a lot. He was born in the eighties, at the nineties end … so when he was in a cot, I was in a bunk, not a grown-up bed. He would be even hotter if he cut his hair, used some basic grooming products on his skin to protect it against the elements, and wore some better clothes. I don’t mean expensive, but just something that fitted properly, with possibly a hint of tailoring or edginess. Just because he has an athletic physique, doesn’t mean that sweatshirts should be the only option. I don’t badger him about this sort of thing, though, because I wouldn’t expect him to change himself for me, as it’s not as if I would change myself for him. I think that’s why it’s lasted twelve months. We’re together, but there isn’t any grand plan for us; we’re having a laugh. When we stop having a laugh we’ll go our separate ways.

      ‘Did you know the person who clobbered you?’ he asks, as he chews.

      ‘Kind of. It was Maximilian Fry – the actor.’

      ‘Maximilian Fry?’ He repeats his name out of surprise, not because he is remotely impressed.

      ‘Uh-huh. He was trying to have a pop at Clint Parks.’

      ‘Who’s that?’ Luke doesn’t look at any of the tabloids. He buys the Guardian and reads it on the building site at lunchtime.

      ‘The gossip columnist on News Today. As soon as Maximilian saw him leave the Gents he pelted towards him, I jumped in the middle and pow … he thumped me.’

      ‘So did the cops pitch up and bundle him into the back of a police van?’

      ‘God, no. His PR rep arrived within minutes and ushered him through the fire exit into the back seat of an air-conditioned people carrier.’ I had missed all of this, though, because I had to go and look after Tabitha who was upset about seeing me get hurt. ‘Have you fed Monday?’

      The second I say that, my cat’s big orange face appears in the doorway. He does one of his mammoth over-exaggerated yawns (similar to how a cobra dislocates its jaw to swallow a whole deer), and then blinks slowly as he scans the room, assessing the current situation. Monday has got blinking down to a fine art. He can say so much simply by shutting his eyes and opening them again. If he is feeling particularly narked he also raises his eyebrows. For example, if someone offers him fish. He can’t stomach seafood.

      Luke nods. ‘Yeah, he’s been fed, but I think he may have been upstairs for a snack first because he smelt of bratwurst. Anyway, I got him some chook from that butcher’s round the corner. You know, the posh one where they pride themselves on the non-stressful conditions the animals are reared in? Apparently, this particular bird was allowed to hang around in the barn all day wearing his dressing gown and playing the most recent Grand Theft Auto on the Xbox. Wasn’t it, little mate?’ He gives Monday a thumbs-up. Monday pads over to him and rubs his head on Luke’s shin.

      Luke adores Monday and Monday seems to like Luke a lot too, which is saying something as in the eleven years since I collected him from the Cat’s Protection League he has found fault with most of the men I’ve been with. Yes, I’m aware that the words, ‘Men I’ve Been With’ aren’t likely to inspire Danielle Steel’s next romantic bestseller, but it’s the closest I can get to describing the connection I make with members of the opposite sex. I am with them, and then I am not. Not in the way that Adele is. She is an emotional car crash. I’ve never even come close to having a minor prang let alone careered into a major pile-up. This is because I am always in the driving seat and plan exactly where I am going. Adele instantly hands over the keys and never bothers with GPS.

      ‘That Fry bloke … was he on speedo?’

      I make a face at Luke for using another annoying Aussie-ism. ‘Speedo’ is what he calls cocaine … because it speeds up time.

      ‘No, he’s just come out of rehab.’

      ‘But he managed to apologise for hitting you?’ asks Luke.

      ‘Nah …’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t have expected him to.’

      He laughs. ‘Oh right, is that one of the rules of joining a private members’ club, then? You have to behave as rudely as possible at all times? I would sign up myself but I may only be able to manage “faintly offensive” during opening hours. “Wholly insulting” could take some practice.’ Then he mutters to himself, ‘What a pretentious wanker.’

      This is classic Luke. Maybe it’s because he grew up on the beach in Sydney where life was one long fun-packed family barbi, but he is so grounded. He is entirely unaffected by everything that everyone else I know is affected by. He doesn’t concern himself with what people do, how they live or what they look like. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about what he is doing either, as long as he is content within himself and sticks to his plan. Case in point, he graduated from university in Australia with a first-class degree, and then worked for five years in an ultra-dull-sounding recruitment job, just so he could save up for a deposit on a property in Sydney to keep as an investment for the future. Then he travelled over here to fulfil his ultimate dream: becoming a DJ. Not because he eventually wants to be the idolised centrepiece of wild parties where the crowd scream his name and supermodels nosh him off behind the decks – which I thought was the whole point of deejaying – but because he is genuinely into the music and wants to ‘share’ this passion. It goes without saying that when we very first met, I warned him that his plan was unlikely to work out. After all, for nearly two decades it has been mandatory for every bloke under thirty inhabiting the hipper UK towns to know how to mix, run club nights and produce their own tunes on set-ups in their bedroom. Everyone is a DJ, or a promoter, or a producer; other typically young male-dominated industries have suffered as an effect. You can’t get a decent plumber for love nor money over Hackney way. Anyway, Luke ignored what I said, found work on a building site so he had a reliable job that required no overtime and then set about finding some gigs.

      To be fair, he has managed to land a few. Mainly through his flatmate, Warren, who knows everyone in Clubland and also throws the odd party himself at an underground venue in South London. (That’s underground as in literally below street level, not underground as in madly cool.) But Luke always has to play the thankless slot at the very beginning of the evening when punters are thin on the ground. It’s the bar staff turning up for their shift who tend to congratulate him on his set. This does not bother him in the slightest; he’s thrilled to be part of the environment. For me this would be like meeting someone for a drink at Shoreditch House who enjoyed full membership all year round, whilst you were still waiting for your application to be processed and approved. Which I am. Small acorns have grown into large oaks since I’ve been on their sodding waiting list. Roughly, twice a year I get to the top and am offered a contract, but I can’t afford the fee because I will have just spent/be planning СКАЧАТЬ