‘I’m very much afraid,’ Sam pulls me towards him and gives me a brotherly hug, ‘they generally find they have to help themselves.’
‘That’s what I was worried about.’ I turn my attention to a copy of GQ on the coffee table. ‘Bloody hell. Look at the state of her. More highlights than Match Of The Day.’
Sam gently takes the magazine away and looks at me.
‘Come on, Simpson. There must be something you enjoy.’
‘There isn’t.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘The only things I’m good at are drinking, smoking and sleeping around. And I’m not even very good at that. Yet.’
‘You’re good at cooking.’
‘Am I?’ I look round in surprise.
‘Course you are,’ he says. ‘That Malaysian curry you cooked on Janice’s birthday was nothing short of stupendous.’
‘Thanks.’ I’m pleased. ‘But where’s that going to get me? I don’t want to be a housewife.’
‘You don’t have to. Ever thought of being a chef, say? Or a caterer?’
‘Yes,’ I say honestly. ‘But then I lounged around for too long and it just didn’t happen.’
‘Well, what about it?’
‘I haven’t got any experience,’ I mope. I’m feeling really sorry for myself now. ‘God, Sam, why is it all so bloody hard? It’s not my fault I find it hard to apply myself. And no one consulted me before they dragged me into a world where I have to work for a bloody living. I think I’d have done far better in a trust fund type situation.’
‘You could get some work experience in a restaurant for a few weeks,’ Sam suggests, his face earnest. ‘Ever thought about being a waitress for a bit? Just to earn some money and see what’s around?’
‘The only thing I’ve thought about waitressing is that it’s a dreadful, menial, badly paid job,’ I say. ‘God, Sam, I’ve had more fun treating a vicious bout of cystitis.’
‘What about setting up on your own?’ Sam suddenly brightens.
‘As what?’
‘As a caterer.’ He grins. ‘I can even use you for some of my client launches.’
‘I don’t have the money to set up.’
‘You could get a loan.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Well, do.’ Sam gives me another bear hug. ‘And so will I. Perhaps I can come up with a few ideas.’
Over the next few weeks I take to unemployment like a duck to water. One Friday, I meet Janice in the Exhibit for a bottle of wine and listen to all her work gossip. And that’s when it strikes me that I have nothing to say in return. I mean, how interesting is the ‘got up, dressed, bought a loaf’ type scenario to your average advertising exec who is so busy from Monday to Friday she barely has time to wipe her own bum.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m bored,’ I whinge. ‘I’ve got nothing to look forward to.’
‘Yes you have, hon.’ She gives me a fag and lights one for herself. ‘You’re having a party.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. You’re having a party for your thirtieth because I’ve met someone and I need an excuse to invite him out on a date.’
‘Can’t he invite you?’
‘It’s delicate.’
‘Why? Does he melt if he goes outside?’
‘No.’
‘Where’d you meet him?’
‘At a funeral.’
I immediately feel guilty. ‘Oh God, Janice, I’m sorry. I had no idea someone had died.’
‘They haven’t.’ She looks surprised. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. Well, yes, they have. His wife actually. But I didn’t know her from Adam so I’m hardly grief-stricken.’
‘So what…?’
‘Was I doing at the funeral? Well, I was getting nowhere fast with that bloody marriage agency, as you well know. And the Evergreen Club was a big no no. I mean I want old and rich but I’m not ready for incontinence just yet thanks. I want someone with a bit of get up and go. In case I have to take him anywhere public.’
‘Right.’
‘So I had a quick flick through the funeral notices in the Tory-graph. See if anyone interesting had carked it. Thought there might be a few eligible widowers knocking about. And this one looked promising. So I slipped into a little black suit, shrugged on some designer bins, got myself down to Waterloo and hopped on a train.’
‘I see.’
‘I stood at the back of the cathedral, of course. No point drawing attention to myself. It was easy-peasy. Afterwards, I shook his hand at the graveside. Said I was a friend of the wife. Told him we’d done charity work together.’