The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!) Read online

  “Come on Danny boy, get dressed. We’re leaving in five minutes,” Rob continued. “And do me a favour – cover yourself up.”

  I cried out in shock horror as I stared down at my morning glory in, well, all its glory. “Where the hell are my boxer shorts?” I gasped as I cupped myself to hide the shame.

  “I think you took them off during the drinking game. You were pretty wasted. Last time I saw them, Ollie was wearing them on his head,” Rob said gazing out of the French door windows of his living room, his face scanning the garden for the missing underwear. “Maybe they’re on the roof of the shed?”

  Oh of course, why didn’t I think of that? Missing pants always turn up on top of garden sheds. “Why the hell would they be on the garden shed?” I pulled the pillow down to cover my modesty before I continued to whine. “And why did you let me just lie here with my Rock of Gibraltar hanging out with Karen in the room?”

  “Her name’s Kirsty,” Rob corrected me. “And I don’t think she noticed.” He grinned as he took a sip from the cup of tea in his hand. “Besides, don’t you have bigger things to worry about?” he said nodding at my phone. “Like Stacey for example?”

  Shit, Stacey! I shot straight up ignoring the headache and the noises coming from the pit of my stomach, swirling around with the contents of copious amounts of Jägermeister bombs and tequila shots. I reached for my mobile sitting on the side of the table and hit the on button. The phone took what seemed like an age to come to life, and right on queue the screen flashed up: You have a voicemail. I clicked the call button.

  Welcome to Orange answer phone. You have 47 new messages. First new message received today at 12.47am.

  “I can’t believe you have done this to me,” Stacey wailed into the phone. “You’re such a bastard. You left me on my own on New Year’s Eve. I fucking hate you. Tonight you heart-raped me!”

  Heart-rape? Who says things like that I hear you say?

  Ah, allow me to introduce you to my girlfriend. Stacey could not be content with accusing me of breaking her heart. Oh no, I had to be labelled a rapist of the heart. A rapist, for crying out loud! She had probably already contacted Crimewatch and described what I look like to a police artist. I clicked the end call button and decided I would need to mentally prepare before I listened to the remaining 46 abusive messages that surely awaited me.

  “What a night!” Ollie enthused as he walked into the living room and slumped into the couch, that big dopey grin on his face. He rubbed his hand through his short curly light brown hair, and pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear.

  Jack followed him in and sunk down beside Ollie on the couch. They both jostled for position. “Please someone tell me they remember the beast Ollie pulled last night,” Jack started up. “I swear to God it was Sloth from The Goonies with long hair!”

  Ollie grabbed Jack in a headlock, the unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “You’re just jealous,” Ollie replied. “Go on, smell my finger!”

  Jack struggled as hard as he could to avoid Ollie’s index finger lingering precariously close to his face, summoning all the strength he had in his five-foot-four frame to push himself to the far end of the couch and out of the reach. “You big, sick freak,” Jack said trying to catch his breath and rubbing his short, cropped brown hair back into place. Ollie grinned and lit his cigarette, blowing out smoke rings.

  Rob and I met Jack and Ollie on the first day at high school and the four of us had been inseparable ever since.

  Ollie Pemberton wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but at six-foot-three and 14 stone of muscle he didn’t need to be. Even at school the teachers had been nervous to point out Ollie’s obvious stupidity at times because of his sheer physical presence. He had known his partner in crime, Jack, since primary school. The difference in size between the two was comical in itself, with Jack being nearly a foot shorter, and we often made references to the 90’s film Twins that starred Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito.

  Jack Chatham was definitely the joker in our pack. We nicknamed him Jackie Cheatham because of the amount of times he had strayed from his long-suffering girlfriend Anna. It wasn’t that we condoned Jack cheating on his girlfriend – we had all attempted to intervene on countless occasions. But in a man’s world it is commonly agreed that if your friend is still capable of looking you in the eye to tell you he knows exactly what he is doing, then that absolves you from all responsibility. Fact.

  Although I’d probably never say it to Jack, I did feel bad for Anna. It wasn’t just the playing around behind her back, it was the fact that even Anna couldn’t escape his wicked sense of humour and schoolboy banter. Two weeks ago Jack asked Anna what she wanted for Christmas, and she replied: “If you loved me then you would know what I want.” Jack bought her The History of the World Cup – a set of 18 encyclopaedia's and bonus DVD's. One for each tournament.

  Oh, and it cost him £250.

  But he was just one of those guys other guys liked to be around. He always had that mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. He could come out with the most outlandish of things, but he never failed to raise a smile.

  “So what’s the plan?” Ollie asked, scratching his balls and pulling at his underwear. “These boxers are really uncomfortable. Rob, can I borrow a pair of yours before we go out?”

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Where did you get those from?” I looked on in disbelief, finally realising why I had found the blue and green pattern so familiar. “They’re mine!”

  “Why are you not wearing your own pants?” Rob chipped in.

  “I found these in the kitchen,” Ollie offered as an explanation. “My pants are on the roof of the garden shed. Do you want them back?” Ollie started to slip them off.

  “No! I don’t bloody want them back! I’m not going to wear them now.”

  “Why not?” Ollie asked as serious as the day is long, a puzzled frown on his round face.

  “This is priceless. I’ve got to get a picture of this,” Jack chuckled as he got his camera phone out. “So you two are sharing pants now? You twisted bastards. Do you want us to leave the room?”

  “Let’s all leave the room,” Rob quickly interrupted. “Come on, outside in five minutes. Let’s go eat.”

  Rob wandered into the kitchen to put his mug in the washing up bowl, while Jack and Ollie disappeared upstairs to get dressed. I slipped on my jeans, trying to remember if I’d ever gone commando before now, and careful not to catch my bits in the zip.

  We met outside and climbed into Rob’s Peugeot 306. The weather was far too cold to have the roof down on his blue convertible, and we urged him to switch the heater on before he had even put the key into the ignition.

  As we pulled out of the drive, I took my phone out of my pocket and took a deep breath before making the plunge to listen to the remaining 46 messages. Most of them followed a similar pattern. Stacey would wail uncontrollably, scream down the phone, or say in a calm matter-of-fact tone that we were over. A lot of the messages were incoherent and sandwiched in the middle was one from my mum wishing me a Happy New Year, and reminding me that I had to come round for lunch soon.

  With a bit of encouragement from my friends, I played them my top three favourite messages.

  1.42am – the angry message: “If you don’t switch your phone on I will smash your stupid fucking PlayStation into little pieces. Who do you think you are? You can’t treat me like this. You’re not a real man. You’re pathetic.”

  2.23am – the hysterical message: “I can’t believe you have just left me on my own (inaudible). This is the worst night of my life. I’m all alone (inaudible) nothing but that shit DVD set you bought me for Christmas. And you... And you... And you... (pause and then more sobbing and sniffing) You just left, and I’m all alone. (more sobbing)”

  And my personal favourite:

  3.46am – the calm message: “Daniel Hilles. (pause) You are a wanker.”

  Like any good group of friends, my boys rallied around me. And found great d
elight in the almost inevitable break-up of my relationship.

  “That last message was classic,” Jack said choking back the tears. “I can’t believe it has taken her three years to realise how much you love to hand jive. We’ve known for years you’re a real grade A stroker!”

  “Okay, let’s go over this again,” Rob said as we approached our destination. “What happened last night? What did you do to her?”

  “That’s the thing,” I started. “I didn’t really do anything.”

  Rob pulled the car up and we got out. The streets of South Wimbledon were dead; the glow from the Greasy Spoon the only sign of life in a row of closed estate agents, kebab houses, and newsagents.

  “You must have done something, or was that just her way of talking dirty?” Jack said as we moved in pairs towards the inviting warmth of the Greasy Spoon.

  “Piss off,” was about the best response I could muster, my head still pounding.

  Eileen greeted us with her usual warm smile as we entered the cafe. “Hello boys, sit down and I’ll bring you over some tea.”

  The Greasy Spoon had become our regular morning-after pick-me-up ever since we discovered the place last year after a particularly heavy night that involved two bottles of tequila, a crate of Stella, and a half-Mexican, half-Korean guy surprisingly called Owen, who had taken us to an underground rave in Shoreditch.

  Come rain or shine, Eileen and her husband Bob opened up every morning at 6am. It was an old-fashioned cafe, but immaculately clean – a rare thing for a cafe in south London these days. But it was the food that kept us coming back. You simply couldn’t beat it.

  We took our usual table in the corner by the window and Eileen brought our tea over and took our orders, which didn’t take long seeing as we always had the same thing – Full English with the works.

  A partygoer from the night before was slumped at a table across from us wearing a blue and yellow paper crown. His friends, or whoever he had the misfortune to have seen in the new year with, had kindly stuck a piece of paper to his chest which read: If found please deliver to 21 Evelyn Road.

  “Right, spill your guts, Danny boy,” Rob demanded.

  Finally succumbing to the fact they were never going to let up, I took a sip from my hot mug of tea and attempted to make sense of the events that had resulted in my girlfriend accusing me of being a rapist, albeit one of the heart.

  “Everything was fine until we left the pub after midnight,” I began. “I decided to go to the cash point so I could buy some booze to take to the party.”

  “I remember that,” Rob said. “I think I joked about turning you away from my house if you turned up empty-handed.”

  “Well, Stacey took that as you not wanting her at the party.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous,” Rob said half in disbelief, half defensively.

  “I know it’s crazy,” I reassured him. “I told her that, but she wouldn’t listen. She got it into her head again that you guys don’t like her and she wasn’t welcome at the party.”

  “Bloody women,” Jack said raising his eyebrows. “You should have given her a slap,” he said joking.

  “She really went into one,” I continued, shaking my head as I thought about it. “She stormed off, saying it was my fault. I tried to reason with her, telling her she was being silly but she wouldn’t listen. There was no way I could let her walk home by herself, she was too drunk. So I just followed her to make sure she got back okay. When we got back to her flat she was screaming at me, F'ing and blinding, and calling me a C U Next Tuesday.”

  “You arranged to see her next week then?” Ollie questioned.

  The stupidity of his question took me aback. “No, I didn’t arrange to see her next week,” I shot back. “She was calling me a... never mind.”

  “So what happened?” Rob said trying to get me back on track.

  “For a while I tried to calm her down, but that just made her angrier and she started lashing out. It was at that point my patience ran out and I totally lost it. I told her that she was right – nobody liked her when she behaved like this and nobody wanted her at the party in this type of mood. I was so angry. I stormed off but she kept calling me and abusing me down the phone so I switched it off and came to the party.”

  I sat back letting my own words sink in. It was a horrible situation, and I didn’t really know what else to do. I only hoped my friends would have the answers.

  “Well, at least she knows the truth now, that none of us like her.” Ollie’s comment was met with stunned silence. I saw Jack kick him under the table and screw his face up at him. I looked at them all, scanning their faces and reactions to Ollie’s bombshell.

  “It’s not that we don’t like her,” Rob was the first to try and explain, “It’s just that she can be a bit... intense sometimes.”

  “Like when you were in Paris last year and she got jealous because you were staring at that woman in the Louvre,” Ollie said.

  “That was the painting of the Mona Lisa,” I corrected Ollie.

  “Exactly,” Rob said making his point.

  “Or the time she cock-blocked me when I was trying to chat up that older bird she was with at that party last year,” Jack said.

  “What party?” I was puzzled.

  “The one at the big house in Kent.”

  “That older bird was her mum, and we were at a funeral.”

  “Well, her mum was bang up for it,” Jack responded, taking a mouthful of his tea.

  We all burst into laughter and the tension that had been briefly hanging in the air was broken immediately. Stacey hadn’t exactly endeared herself to my friends in recent months, and her behaviour last night was becoming too much of a common thing. But things hadn’t always been like this, and that is what made this situation all the more difficult to fathom.

  “So what happens now?” Rob asked me as Eileen came over and placed plates of bacon, egg, sausage, beans, toast, and fried bread, in front of us.

  “I guess I’ll have to go round there and face the music.”

  Chapter 3: The Break-up

  Thursday, January 1, 2009 - 10.43am

  Countdown to start of drought: 38 minutes

  I’d been with Stacey for just over three years. We’d met at university and the first two years of our relationship had been pretty smooth sailing. Don’t get me wrong, we’d had our moments during that time like any couple, who doesn’t? But there was a time when I honestly believed she could be the one.

  I can still remember the first moment I laid eyes on her during Freshers’ Week. Drinks had been arranged for everyone on our marketing course so we could get to know each other. Stacey wandered into the bar late, having got caught in one of those famous British summer showers. She was soaked to the bone, but was still the most attractive girl there in my eyes.

  “Hi everyone,” she said as she sat down in the seat opposite me. “Sorry I’m late, I was washing my hair.” We all broke out in laughter, and I knew I liked her instantly.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Dean Marshall asked her. It was a simple question, but one I ultimately regretted not asking myself. Dean had played his cards early, so I decided to turn my attentions to Ellie Thornton. After all, this was university and there were plenty more fish in the sea, as my mum used to tell me.

  Still, I grew fond of Stacey in our first year of university and we became close friends. We were both from south London, and had a common bond in that we both agreed Danger Mouse was undoubtedly the most underrated superhero of all time.

  By this time she was already seeing Dean, but that didn’t stop my heartbeat quickening every time she smiled. She had an edge to her and didn’t suffer fools gladly. I liked that about her; that she was able to stand up for herself, but at the same time she could be soft and vulnerable, none more so than the time Dean dumped her at the end of our first year at university, and I was left to pick up the pieces of her broken heart.

  It didn’t happen instantly but over time I think we both re
alised our feelings toward each other went deeper than just friendship, and within weeks into our second year we shared our first kiss.

  From that moment our uni lives became entwined. We had the same friends, we went to the same parties, and we were on the same course so we studied together. Despite spending so much time together, it never felt claustrophobic.

  But the moment we left university something changed. We had lived in the same bubble for so long, and Stacey found it more difficult to adjust than I did.

  At the start it was subtle things, like giving me the silent treatment if I had been on a night out with my friends without her. “Why do you exclude me from nights out with your friends,” she would moan. “Why can’t I be involved in that part of your life?”

  I tried to involve her when we first moved back to London, but she would spend the whole night moaning that there were no other girls to talk to, and she hated the two Jack’s in my life. “Why do you drink Jack Daniels? It turns you into an idiot,” she would say of my newfound taste for the Tennessee Whisky. “And I don’t trust your friend Jack. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? He tried chatting up my friend Sophie last week.”