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

“For just £15 a month you could sponsor a child, offering them a better life,” the pretty brunette continued. I nodded, desperately trying to pretend I was interested in what she was saying, but in reality I was only interested in what was under the blue bib. Sordid little thoughts raced around my brain, ricocheting from one side to the other like a bumper car. Then it struck me. For the first time in three years I was single, and here I was standing opposite a really hot girl. I started to think what would Rob do in this position? Of course he’d be so super cool it would make me sick. But I had seen him in action, loads of times. Surely I could muster a small fraction of that Rob magic.

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?” I cut her off as she was explaining how my money could help send a child to school.

  “Carla,” she said, somewhat perplexed.

  “Look, Carla, I would love to do more for the children of Africa, but perhaps I could spend the money on taking you out instead?” Even Rob would’ve been proud how I had just handled that. Pretty damn smooth if I do say so myself.

  “What?” she raised her eyebrows, hands on her hips, and head slightly cocked to one side. Immediately I realised how my question could be viewed in slightly bad taste.

  I panicked. “No, what I meant was if I sponsor a child then you have to have a drink with me.” Casanova could not have put it better himself.

  “So, now you are blackmailing me into going for a drink with you?”

  “No, what I meant was...”

  She held her clipboard up to my mouth. “I wouldn’t go out with an insensitive prick like you if you were the last man on earth.”

  That seemed pretty final, but just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Carla decided to announce my faux pas to her colleagues. “Hey, this guy will only help the starving children of Africa if I allow him to get into my pants.”

  Technically that isn’t what I had suggested, although if the children of Africa could see this girl I think they would understand. Still, facing a sea of angry clipboard holders and fellow city workers, I decided to cut my losses and make a dignified exit.

  I ran.

  I got back to the office as quickly as I could. What the hell just happened? I tried not to dwell on it. After all, I had only been single for four days. I just needed to dust the cobwebs down and get some match practice in and I’d be as right as rain.

  Clearing my head, I got back on the phone. The second half of the day seemed to pass more quickly than the first, and by the time 5.30pm rolled round I realised I had not even started on the second draft of my sales plan.

  “I’m off now, Dan,” Kelly said. “Are you coming?”

  “Nah, I’ve got to finish this report,” I told her.

  “You sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  “Okay, have a good evening. Don’t stay too late.”

  I sat back and stared at the screen. One by one people started to leave the office. I cracked my knuckles and decided to get stuck in. But before I could get into my flow I was interrupted by the voice of an angel.

  “You’re Don Hilles, aren’t you?” Shaila said looking at a piece of paper, and then glancing back at me.

  “That’s... er... that’s right,” I sputtered out. Hey, Don was close enough for me. This girl could call me whatever she wanted.

  “I need to tell you something,” Shaila continued. This was it. She was probably going to tell me that she too had shared our moment earlier today, but had been too shy to say anything before. Maybe this day wasn’t going to end up as a total disaster after all.

  “I will need that report emailed to me first thing in the morning so I can put it together for Mr Mussel with the other sales plans for his board meeting.”

  “Oh,” I replied, the disappointment clear in my tone. I tried to sound more upbeat so I didn’t come across like some sort of loser. “Yeah, sure. I’ll have this bad boy done in a jiffy.” I wasn’t too sure if I should be more embarrassed by the fact I had referred to a sales plan as a bad boy or that I had used the word jiffy. Either way, Shaila simply nodded, pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, turned on her heels and headed toward the exit.

  “Tough luck, Hilles,” Crowford said slapping me across the back of my head as he followed in hot pursuit of Shaila out of the office. I stared back at my computer screen.

  Completing the sales plan seemed to take an eternity. Even the cleaner and the buzzing of his vacuum were long gone by the time I finally finished at 7.47pm. I emailed the report to Shaila, sat back in my seat and stretched. I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I thought about how 2009 had started. So far I had exposed myself to a stranger, broken up with my girlfriend of three years, escaped death by baseball bat, been threatened with the sack, accepted Don as my new name, and ran away from a girl. Twice.

  Not exactly the perfect start to the new year. At least I was safe in the knowledge that things couldn’t get any worse. Right?

  Chapter 5: Black Sabbath

  Sunday, January 25, 2009 - 9.02am

  Drought Clock: 23 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes

  The break-up of a long-term relationship is never easy. It was certainly one of the hardest things I’d ever done. You miss so many things. Intimacy, companionship, friendship. You miss having someone to share your day with; your dreams and hopes.

  Me? I missed the bloody sex. No one warns you before a break-up how much you take for granted having regular sex on tap when you have a girlfriend. You start looking back and cursing yourself for how blasé you were when you had the opportunity to pretty much shag whenever you wanted.

  All those missed opportunities. With Stacey I had once gone a whole month without having sex with her and thought nothing of it. A whole fucking month! What was I thinking? Three years equated to 1,095 days. I calculated that if during that period we had had sex an average of twice a week, we would have only had sex 312 times. That means I missed out on 783 day’s worth of shagging!

  Now, three weeks into being all on my lonesome I was already having withdrawals, and that had only been 23 days. How the hell had I managed to dismiss 783 days so easily?

  The mornings were the toughest. Every day I would wake up and there he was, tall and proud. I felt guilty for not giving him any attention. After all, it wasn’t all his fault. We had been in this together. But for the past three weeks I had resisted any contact with the one-eyed snake; almost as if I was punishing myself for all those wasted opportunities when I was with Stacey.

  But this Sunday morning was different. I’d woken up with a boner so hard it was verging on being painful. I’d decided that little Dan had been punished enough, and he had a long overdue date with Palmala Handerson.

  The art of mental masturbation is a skill that does not get the press it deserves. With no visual or audio aid to assist, a true pro-stroker will take a dip into the resource pool that is the wank bank; in this particular case the hot red-head who sat opposite me on the bus on Thursday evening.

  I got myself comfortable on the bed, kicked off the covers, and prepared mass murder on millions of tiny defenceless sperm. Anyone who tells you that spit-shining the water pump is a dirty act should consider this: if Hitler had been into masturbation instead of murder, all the millions of deaths caused by his acts would have not upset the world.

  I started off slow, but soon lost interest in making the act last. After all, this was not a spectator sport. Just as I felt myself coming to a climax, an unexpected noise put me off my rhythm. I glanced across the room and felt the colour drain from my face just as quickly as the blood started draining from little Dan.

  “Rosalie!” I was horrified to see the cleaner tip-toeing around the bedroom, a feather duster in one hand. “I clean round you, no worry,” she said in her thick South American accent, and continued to dust the shelves. I desperately tried pulling for the covers but it was too late and I ejaculated across the bed; an eruption of three weeks’ worth of frustration.
r />   “Naughty boy,” Rosalie giggled. “I clean, I clean.”

  “No!” I shrieked in horror. “Please leave it Rosalie. I’ll take care of it.”

  She reached for the bed cover and before I knew it I was involved in a tug-of-war for the sperm-soaked sheets. “I clean, I clean,” she kept saying over and over again in broken English, a big smile on her olive-skinned face.

  Rosalie eventually lost her grip, but the momentum of me yanking on the duvet sent me flying backwards; my legs flailing skywards and the cover landing on top of me, covering me in my very own love juice.

  “Señor Hilles, so sorry, so sorry!” Rosalie clasped her hand over her mouth. “I clean?”

  “No Rosalie,” I managed to answer quite calmly. “I’ll finish off here. You can start in the kitchen if you like?”

  “Si señor. Gracias.” Rosalie disappeared quickly out of the room, still dusting as she left.

  I’m not too sure how long I sat there for. Maybe hours. Maybe days. Or maybe just five minutes. I had completely forgotten that I had hired Rosalie just before Christmas to come in once a month to clean the flat. Something told me I wouldn’t forget again in the future.

  I quickly showered and got dressed. Rosalie was just finishing off in the living room when I finally got up the courage to come out and face her. She was in her mid-40s and I had managed to work out that she was from Venezuela.

  “Hi Rosalie,” I sheepishly greeted her.

  “Ah, señor Hilles. Naughty boy, naughty boy,” she wiggled her finger at me.

  “Yes, naughty boy,” I said rubbing my hand through my hair and trying to avoid eye contact. I could feel myself going bright red again. “I’m really sorry about that. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “It happens again?” She paused to think, one finger against the corner of her mouth. “No problem, no problem. I clean round you,” she had obviously completely misunderstood what I was saying.

  “No, it won’t happen again. That…” I trailed off pointing towards my bedroom, “…won’t happen again,” I mirrored her accent, like that would make a difference in her understanding English, and slowed the pace of my words. “That... won't... happen... in... there... again.” I then pointed towards the bedroom. And then in my infinite wisdom towards my groin.

  She seemed to pause in thought before shrugging her shoulders. “You want me in bedroom? Ok.” And she started to shuffle in the direction of the bedroom.

  “No, no!” I said leaping in front of her to block her passage towards my room. “I’m saying it won’t happen again. Ever.” I waved my hands in front of me. “Okay, comprende?”

  “Si, comprende,” she nodded.

  I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and handed her the money for cleaning the house, praying that she knew this was her wages and not some sort of indecent proposal or something sleazy.

  “Gracias. Bye bye.” She took the money and made her way out.

  “Adiós,” I said, falling backwards onto the sofa, pulling a cushion across my face.

  *

  I barely moved from the sofa all day, only getting up for toilet breaks and food. To say I was bored was an understatement. I’d been stuck in the flat all week. It was a week before the January pay day. Everyone was skint; a common occurrence at this time of the year. The early pay day in December coupled with the money spent at Christmas pretty much meant January was a write-off.

  I’d been renting the small one-bedroom flat in Balham for about ten months. It cost me slightly more than I would have liked, but it was better than living back with my folks. Don’t get me wrong – I love my parents. I just don’t love living with them. Something happens after you have lived away at university for three years. You return home from uni with your worldly belongings packed in boxes, including your independence. That box remains unpacked when you move back in with your folks, and stays that way until you make the plunge to move out.

  My mobile phone suddenly vibrated into life, and it was a welcome distraction to the dross that was on television.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Hello, love.” It was my mum.

  I sat bolt upright, preparing myself for the Spanish Inquisition. I hadn’t spoken to my mum since I’d broken up with Stacey. I wasn’t exactly avoiding her; I just knew she’d be disappointed. I was an only child, which meant my mum had all her hopes pinned on me making her a grandmother at some point. When I was five-years old I married my next-door neighbour Nicola, which was fine; a lot of kids pretend to marry. But not all kids have their mum proudly preside over the ceremony.

  We got through the usual chit-chat: work was okay, dad had been doing the garden, the dog had to go and see the vet. And then, like a POW officer integrating a captured soldier, she got to the point.

  “So have you got any news to tell me? You don’t sound very cheerful. Is everything okay with you and Stacey?”

  God, this woman was good. I should have known that I would not be able to avoid the subject forever. My mother had a sixth sense when it came to these sorts of things.

  “Yeah, about Stacey,” I started, trying to think of the best way to deliver the news. “We kind of broke up.”

  “What do you mean you kind of broke up?”

  “Things had been pretty strained for a while and we just decided that it would be for the best if we went our separate ways.” I intentionally left out the actual specifics of the break-up.

  “But why?” she asked, her tone demanding more information than I really wanted to give. “I thought things were going well between you.”

  I knew she wasn’t going to let up, so I told her about the arguments, and how Stacey had become unreasonable. I opened up to my mother and explained how we just wanted different things in life. I knew she would understand.

  “Is there someone else?” she asked me sternly.

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just one of those things.” For a moment I thought about lying and telling her that Stacey had cheated on me. It would have immediately got her on my side, and the questions would have taken a much-needed new direction. In the end I decided to see it through like a man. Albeit a man who for three weeks had been afraid to tell his mother the truth.

  “You never tell me anything anymore. I have to force it out of you. I bet if I hadn’t called you tonight, you would not have told me anytime soon.”

  “Of course I would have called you. I was going to call you in a day or two,” I lied. There was more chance of me calling in a year or two.

  “Are you okay?” Her tone softened.

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay. As I said, it’s just one of those things.”

  “Okay. You will have to come over soon. We haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll call and we’ll sort something out.”

  “Good. And if you need to talk...” she purposely trailed off.

  “I’ll give you call.”

  We said our goodbyes and I hung up, letting out a huge sigh of relief that I had finally got that out of the way. The call had sapped the energy out of me and I simply lost what little motivation I had left to get up from the sofa. The hours drifted away as I watched re-runs of old 80’s sitcoms and music videos, before the dozens upon dozens of channels all morphed into one. Before I knew it, the day had turned into night.

  Sunday night is my least favourite part of the weekend. It means you are edging closer and closer to Monday morning as every minute passes. I sprawled across the sofa flicking through channels aimlessly. A discarded pizza box sat on top of the coffee table.

  I managed to prise myself up and looked at the clock. It was 10.28pm. I had wasted the day away. I was sick and tired of sitting indoors. I picked my phone back up and typed in a text: Anyone up for beers next Saturday?

  A couple of minutes passed before the first reply came back: Ollie + beer = yes. Rob was only 10 minutes behind with his response: Sounds good buddy, it has been too long.

  The end credits to the film I had
been watching on Channel 4 appeared on screen when my phone beeped for a third time. I scooped it up and almost dropped it when I saw the name: Stacey.

  Hi how r u? x

  I stared at it for a while, my mind trying to process the complete randomness of the text. We had not spoken since New Year’s Day when Babe Ruth had tried knocking my head out of the ball park.

  I placed the phone back on to the table without replying. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t contemplated contacting Stacey over the last three weeks. Despite everything that had happened, I still wanted to make sure she was okay. Kelly had been spot on when she had said how hard it could be adjusting from a routine you had become so accustomed to. It felt strange going from daily contact with Stacey for three years to having no contact whatsoever. Maybe Stacey was feeling the same way and that is why she had sent the text.

  The phone beeped again. I picked it up expecting it to be Jack’s reply but it was Stacey again.

  R U mad with me? x

  I sat forwards, my elbows leaning against my knees, and brushed my hand through my hair. Her question baffled me. What the hell did she expect me to say? That I was pleased for the exercise after having to run for my life to avoid certain death at the hands of her pit bull flat-mate? Still, curiosity got the better of me and after a couple of minutes I decided to reply.

  Hi, I’m good. How r u? I’m not mad, just a bit confused.

  Within seconds the phone beeped: Why are you confused? You’re the one who used me for sex and then dumped me.

  Immediately I regretted replying to her. I’d fallen into her trap too easily. I knew the exact pattern of conversation that would follow if I replied. I had lost count of the number of conversations that had started like this during the last few months of our relationship. I sat back in my seat, pissed off that she was trying to drag me back into another pointless argument. When we had been together I had tried desperately to avoid situations like this, but she always managed to drag me into her web just like a female black widow spider preparing to eat her male equivalent after they have mated.