12 Months PART A

Chapter 1

‘Atmosphere’ – Russ Abbot.

I’ve always hated New Year’s Eve. Even on the rare occasions when I’ve pulled, I just despise it. There’s something overbearingly depressing about the whole thing. Maybe it‘s because you have to queue for an age to get a beer; possibly because I usually opt to ‘celebrate’ in the neighbouring town of Swanage involving standing around in the town square scantily clad in fancy dress freezing my bollocks off. Maybe it’s because everyone is so annoyingly happy. Me? I’m never happy at this time of year. I torment myself, reflecting on the past, worrying about the future and becoming utterly, some might say inconsolably, miserable.

1999 was no exception. I was resigned to spending the night on my own having split from my long-term girlfriend the previous day. It would have been the ideal opportunity to catch up with old friends if they hadn’t all but fallen by the wayside whilst I’d been going out with Rebecca. She couldn’t stand the majority of my mates, our social life therefore revolved around her friends. With recent events fresh in their minds I guessed the majority of them were unlikely to welcome me with open arms. Looking back, I realise I should have kept my own acquaintances. I’d been spineless. By neglecting them, I avoided confrontation with Rebecca. Whatever, these were still my friends. They’d be there for me in desperate times. When the chips were down I could count on them.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ grumbled Alan down the phone. Unfortunately for me, Alan was one of my more subtle mates. ‘That silly cow finally seen sense and kicked you into touch?’ he griped. Technically, she hadn’t but this wasn’t the time to discuss the matter, particularly not with Alan.

As the months had gone by I guess I’d become increasingly pissed off with towing the line. Being a coward, I hadn’t said anything. For her part, she failed to comprehend I’d become disgruntled with everything revolving around what she, or more precisely, what her mother wanted. Scorn was poured on the idea I might actually want to see my own parents on Christmas Day. Christmas Eve was spent at her parents. Christmas morning was spent at her parents. The afternoon involved dinner at her grandparents, and the evening consisted of a buffet at her Aunt’s. It didn’t stop there. An all day affair had been organised at her other grandparents’ house for Boxing Day followed by various soirées with her friends leading up to New Year. I realised I was losing control of my life. No, I had lost control of my life a long time ago. I decided enough was enough. I quit. It was over. It took Rebecca rather longer to appreciate I was being deadly serious.

After my brief and fruitless discussion with Alan, I decided against contacting the less delicate character of Jimmy. My ego was fragile enough without taking an earbashing from him. I was sure however, that Ellie, my long-term friend from school, would be more sympathetic. I hadn’t seen her for ages either, but we had always managed to pick up where we’d left off. It didn’t matter how long the period of isolation had been, we’d end up meeting for a drink as if we’d only seen each other yesterday. It had proven more difficult to meet on a regular basis since she’d moved to London to further her nursing career in any case, especially now she was dating my friend and ex-work colleague, Bob. Bob and I had worked together in Bournemouth and having been introduced to Ellie via yours truly he’d decided to move to London to be with her. They lived in separate pads. Bob lived alone whilst Ellie shared an all female house with four other nurses and a journalist. When I tried to ring Ellie, it was the lovely Mel, the journalist, who answered.

‘Oh, hi Connor,’ she purred, ‘you after Ellie?’ If the creamy froth on top of a perfectly poured pint of Guinness could be transposed into a sound, Mel’s voice would be it.

‘Yes, is she there?’ I asked.

‘No, ‘fraid not, she’s gone up to Edinburgh for the New Year with Bob. You got any party plans?’

‘Errm,’ I stuttered, desperately trying to think of something to say which might save me looking a complete arse.

‘Connor, you’re terrible,’ she laughed. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve for heaven’s sake.’ I kept the rest of the conversation as brief as possible. Hopefully without appearing rude, I hung up. I comforted myself by concluding that in my fragile emotional state, it was best I spend the night on my own. I didn’t fancy having to give a blow-by-blow account of what had happened to anyone or try and explain where it had all gone wrong. No, tonight I was resigned to the company of me, myself and I. Just then my Dad rang,

‘You don’t want to be sat indoors feeling sorry for yourself son. Get out there and enjoy life. Get your arse down to The Empire,’ he told me. ‘There’s bound to be someone there you know.’

I don’t know whether it’s just me but I always feel my parents, particularly my father, know best. Against my better judgement I went, hoping to bump into someone I could latch on to.

I felt awkward from the moment I stepped into the club. Although I had made the effort and was wearing my best clobber, I just didn’t feel comfortable. I couldn’t even settle myself down with a drink as I was driving. Self conscious at the best of times, I assumed everyone would look at me if I danced on my own, so I paced around the club for what seemed like hours. Intermittently, I’d hang over a balcony or lean against a pillar, pretending to be waiting for someone. The hiss of the dry ice machine caught my attention and I turned to see a familiar face. A very familiar face in fact. It was mine. I’d caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrored panels on the wall. I wondered if I did actually look as completely and utterly bored as the mirror suggested. In my defence, I could see no reason to be happy. There is only a certain length of time anyone can listen to a succession of party songs before wrist slitting is the only feasible option. Agadoo? I felt distinctly more Agadon’t. I was neither in the mood to shake any trees or grind coffee. I was losing the will to live.

To cheer myself up I resolved to do something crazy, wild and reckless. I marched to the bar and after much pushing and shoving I emerged from the scrum clutching a pint of lager shandy. Was this what my life had come to? Before I could depress myself too much by concluding that the answer was actually ‘yes’, I was tapped on the shoulder.

‘Hello me ol’ mate, how’s tricks?’ It was Jason Withers, a guy I’d known from my student days. We’d worked together on the bakery counter at the local supermarket. Our attempts to entice potential customers with our cheeky banter and boyish charm had hidden the angst between us. I tried my best to be accepted. He just took the piss. The evening shift was a much better prospect. The supermarket shut its doors to the public and I’d quite often abandon my cleaning duties to sneak into the cream room, where all the cake decorations were kept. It was always a good skive and I enjoyed helping myself to the chocolate chips and glacé cherries (although I was never overly keen on the latter), away from the prying eyes of the management and Rachel Summers. Rachel worked on the deli counter, adjacent to the bakery and although quite a bit older than me (she was 26 to my mere 18 years) she seemed to have a fascination for younger lads, especially when they were on their own. I’d got wise to this though, always alert for the sound of her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Whenever I was in the cream room and heard her footsteps I’d duck behind the preparation table to avoid detection. Occasionally however, when I’d been too busy stuffing my face, she’d caught me off guard. The room itself was very small with only one door. She’d forced me back against the boxes of marzipan on more than one occasion. It’s debatable whether I’d count this as a perk of the job. She wasn’t unattractive, far from it. At that stage in my life however, simply the fact she was very forward and a fair bit older was enough to scare the crap out of me. It was probably my fear that made me so appealing to her. Following one of these close encounters, Jason had given me my first cigarette, suggesting it would help me ‘chill out’. I remember the cheery yet sneering look on the others’ faces as I proceeded to be sick in the cardboard skip in the backyard. After a few weeks of determined perseverance, I got used to it and have smoked from that day to this. I could argue that all the phlegm, the coughing, the wheezing when I play football and the fact I’ve spent thousands of pounds on something which is inevitably going to kill me is all thanks to Jason. What price we pay, striving to be accepted into the ‘in’ crowd, free from isolation and ridicule. In reality, I got the piss ripped out of me even more.

Seeing Jason again brought it all flooding back. He hadn’t changed one bit. He hardly looked any older, probably through lack of stress. He’d never given a fuck about anything whilst I’d turned worrying into an art form. Being in his presence still made me feel about two feet tall. I knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he said something to put me on the back foot.

‘Bloody hell Connie.’ He thought ‘Connie’ sounded much more effeminate than ‘Connor’ and was therefore his attempt at a putdown. ‘You’ve put some weight on me ol’ son,’ he scoffed.

‘Well, umm, thank you.’ I realised my experience of life since my student days hadn’t made me any better at quipping back at him.

‘So,’ he retorted. He looked suspiciously to his left and right before leaning towards me as if to confide his deepest, darkest secret. ‘Who you knobbin’ tonight then?’ Why I didn’t respond with some laddish remark, making me sound like some raging Casanova on Viagra, I don’t know. It was as if someone had spiked my shandy with a truth drug.

‘Errm, I’m not actually knobbing anyone at present. I’ve, umm, just split up with my girlfriend.’
It was no surprise that instead of lending me a comforting ear, he flashed me a look of absolute disgust. I was pathetic.

‘So who you up here with then?’ he said, in an attempt to move the conversation on as quickly as possible.

‘Well, you know, the usual.’ I was aware my face was not conveying the same message as my mouth. ‘Actually, no one, I’m here on my own.’
It was at this point he realised talking to me for a moment longer might dent his impeccable street cred. His nose scrunched up as though I’d just given off a nasty smell and he began to shake his head with dismay. ‘Yeah well, you … just …’ and that was that. He turned and vanished into the crowd.

I didn’t see anyone else I knew all night. I waited until Auld Lang Syne was played and wished myself the best of luck for the forthcoming year. Sick to the back teeth of seeing people enjoying themselves, I slipped unnoticed out of the club. Oh yes, when times are hard it’s much better to go out and enjoy yourself rather than wallow in self-pity and depress yourself further. Thanks for the advice Dad.

I drove home, at least thankful I didn’t have to wait around in the pouring rain for a taxi. I began to wonder what Rebecca was doing. Had she gone out? Maybe she’d stayed in, crying into her pillow. No, she’d have definitely gone out, probably with her brother and all his friends. Was she still dancing the night away? I peered down at the clock in the car. It was only 12.30am. I decided to go to the all-night burger van for a bag of chips. I mean, I was young free and single now. I didn’t want to be outdone in the ‘staying out all night stakes’ by my ex-girlfriend. I drove down by the pier and proceeded to eat my chips very slowly, checking my watch to see how late it was getting. A mixture of boredom and cold and the novelty soon wore off. Who really cared who stayed out later than whom? She wouldn’t know what time I’d retired to bed in any case. The car windows had steamed up with the heat from the chips. I wiped the inside to look out over the sea. Instead, I noticed the car park seemed remarkably full for the time of morning. Couples intent on testing their suspension were obviously enjoying chips too, their windows equally steamed up. Maybe Becci was one of the shadowy figures, bobbing up and down behind the veil of condensation. The thought made me feel queasy. It was time to leave.

The flashing green light on the answering machine alerted me to my messages. This was it; she’d had a shit time too. I pressed play, a smug grin on my face, and waited in anticipation.

‘Errm, hi Con, it’s Mum. Just thought I’d ring and wish you a happy New Year.’

‘Who’s she talking to?’ I could faintly hear my Nan say in the background.

‘Hope you had a good night,’ Mum continued, ‘and errm, we’ll speak to you when we get back, bye.’

The following beep signalled the end of my messages. My heart sank. Just one? I dialled 1471 and recognised the number as my Mum’s mobile. She’d rung at just gone twelve.

My mind began to race again over what Rebecca could be doing. Maybe she was still out? I had visions of her with somebody else and felt my greasy chips heave in my stomach. I headed for bed wondering if I would ever see or hear from Rebecca again. I was being ridiculous. I mean it had been me doing the dumping. I should be happy. Young free and single once again. I’d been the one to kick her into touch. So why did I feel like shit? I felt guilty I guess. There had been nothing fundamentally wrong with the relationship. It wasn’t even as if either of us had cheated on the other. I’d got fed up being brain washed by the whole long-term relationship thing. It just seemed such a waste but I’d come this far, I couldn’t give it one last go and risk going through all this again, could I? As I flicked the bedside lamp off my senses intensified. There was a faint aroma of perfume from the pillow next to me. I slung it out of the bedroom door, turned over and went to sleep.

Chapter 2

During the ‘break up’ process I reinforced my resolve by imagining the prevailing freedom once the dust had finally settled. I would be a law unto myself, answerable to nobody. I could sleep, eat and fart when I liked and play my music when I wanted at whatever volume I saw fit. Most importantly, I could play video games for as long as I liked without having to break concentration to sound interested in Rebecca’s day at work. There would be nobody else in the house demanding to watch Coronation Street when I was on the verge of beating Germany 2-1. It would be absolute heaven.

Three nights of solid PlayStation and the novelty had worn off. My perceived freedom rapidly transformed into the reality of boredom. The envisaged perks of single life were no longer so attractive. Nothing appealed to me. I couldn’t be bothered to do anything. Although I’d made my decision and didn’t want Rebecca to phone, there was something upsetting about the fact she hadn’t. This just depressed me further. On a good day I could just about manage to switch on the TV, lie on the sofa and eat something unhealthy. Otherwise just lying on the sofa was pretty much as good as it got, watching the sun’s rays creep slowly across the carpet until they eventually disappeared, leaving the room in darkness.

It’s strange how having too much time on your hands can flip your mind into overdrive. True enough, even at the best of times I’ve always been one to think about things in too much detail but when your life is seemingly one big fuck up, it becomes worse still. Tinges of guilt occasionally intermingled my deluge of maudlin thoughts as I contemplated all the things I should have been doing instead of sitting on my arse feeling sorry for myself. On rare occasions, I would conjure up enough will power to do ‘something’ but whatever it was ended up being shoddily done or left incomplete as I continued to daydream my life away. Anything I attempted was affected by my constant faffing about, whether it be washing up, hoovering or even driving the car which I happened to be doing on the morning I picked my parents up on the way to my graduation. I’d had my degree results the previous summer but for some reason the university always held the graduation ceremonies the following January. It was during this particularly boring car journey I found myself asking some fundamental questions. Do we make our own destiny or has fate already chartered our lives for us? Would Rebecca and I get back together? Did I want us to get back together? Would I meet someone else? Would she meet someone else? Where would my life be in twelve months’ time? Did the fact the tarot cards Rebecca read for me just before we split up (I’d bought her a deck for Christmas) stating a long-term relationship was about to blow up in my face subconsciously act as a catalyst to our demise? We had tried to ensure it didn’t. When the cards had forecast an unsettled future, we poo-pooed the hocus-pocus and dealt the cards again. Once more the cards suggested the shit was going to hit the fan. A week later it did.

Other questions clearly needed to be answered. Where would I go now that I had no girlfriend and unreceptive mates? How the hell was I going to survive on my own cooking for the foreseeable future? Why was my car radio tuned to a local tin pot radio station I never normally listened to? Once again, fate had dealt me a crappy hand.

‘This is a message for Connor McGrath from Rebecca Harvey.’ The shock of hearing my name on the radio made me swerve across a lane of traffic and clip two road cones on the hard shoulder. My mind went fuzzy. I vaguely remember the DJ saying something along the lines that she loved me lots, wanted us to get back together and was sorry for everything that had happened. He cheekily remarked on the situation and proceeded to have a bloody good laugh about it. I hated him for a full two minutes. How dare he treat our misfortune with such frivolity in the name of entertainment. The finger of blame soon pointed towards Rebecca. It was all her bloody fault. If she hadn’t rung the stupid station in the first place this poor excuse for a DJ wouldn’t have had the opportunity to joke about it. My mobile phone rang.

‘Hello?’ I answered cautiously. Having originally bought it as a Christmas present for Rebecca, I’d never taken a call on it before. I’d intended paying her line rental. Once we’d split up she’d asked if I was still going to honour the direct debits whilst she kept the phone. I said something along the lines of ‘you must be fucking joking’ and she therefore decided she didn’t want it. Having signed the twelve-month agreement with the phone company, I was lumbered.

‘Hi sweetie, it’s only me.’ It was Rebecca. She sounded in a particularly good mood.

‘Hello,’ I repeated. I thought duplicating my initial greeting might give me time to think of something else to say.

‘What radio station are you listening to?’

‘Errm, Seashore FM or whatever it’s …’

‘Cool.’ Cool? She never used the word ‘cool’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her ‘cool’ had gone out of fashion quite some time ago. At least I thought it had. Not having ever described myself as ‘down with the kids’, what the hell did I know. I’d thought I looked ‘cool’ at school because my Mum had said so. Looking back now my mates must have been pissing themselves as I lumbered out to games lessons in my Hi-Tec trainers and bright red towelling tracksuit. I might therefore have been doing Rebecca an injustice with the ‘cool’ thing, but I was sure I was right. ‘Well keep it on … you should hopefully get a little message soon, sweetie.’

‘Is that in addition to the one a couple of minutes ago?’ Silence.

‘What … you mean they’ve already played it?’

‘Well unless another Rebecca Harvey and Connor McGrath are having relationship problems, I would imagine the answer is yes.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed I’d heard the message before she’d had the chance to tell me to listen out for it. ‘Well what did they say?’

‘Errm, I don’t really know.’

‘You don’t … what do you mean you don’t really know? I take the trouble of ringing in and asking them to play you a dedication …’ her tone had altered radically from her initial chirpy manner.

‘Well,’ I interrupted, ‘it was all a bit of a shock really.’
‘…telling you how much I love you and you can’t even remember what they said.’

‘Hang on, if it wasn’t for the sheer fluke I happened to be listening to the crappy station in the first place I’d have missed it anyway.’ My mind backtracked ‘Dedication? What dedication?’

‘I asked them to play a song for you and wish you all the best for your graduation.’

‘Well I didn’t hear any dedication. What was it supposed to be?’ The line went crackly. ‘Hello?’ A constant dull tone signalled we’d been cut off. I was left wondering what song Rebecca had requested. Something puke inducingly sentimental I expect.
My bemused mood continued until I reached my parents’ house. They were clearly brimming with pride as we began our two-hour journey to the capital or more precisely, the church opposite my old university where the ceremony was being held.
We arrived in plenty of time, which was unlike me but lucky all the same. I hadn’t appreciated the time required to queue, pick up robes, join more queues, have photos taken, interspersed with making polite conversation to people you really couldn’t stand. That, I hasten to say wasn’t the case when I met Bob. Bob and I had started to study together on a part-time day release basis when we’d worked for the same firm. When he moved to London and changed jobs to be closer to Ellie, it was pretty much the only opportunity we got to see each other. Ellie occasionally popped in to see us both, depending on her shifts. Again, this was the only time I got to see her. Rebecca hadn’t encouraged me to see Ellie much. When we had been invited, Rebecca had never wanted to come with me (I think she was jealous of our close relationship) and going on my own to spend a weekend in a house packed with nubile young nurses, was, in her opinion, out of the question. On a handful of occasions I’d chanced my arm, gone up alone and stayed with Bob for the weekend. The grilling I’d received on my return just made it easier not to go. Bob was obviously besotted with Ellie and didn’t come home much, so university was the only time I got to see either of them. Nonetheless, we made the most of what time we had. For some reason though, this occasion felt unnaturally awkward.

‘So how have you been?’ Bob asked.

‘Not so bad.’ I said, looking at my shoes. I glanced up to see Bob squinting at me, his head cocked to one side.

‘Rebecca all right?’
I hesitated, only slightly, ‘Yes, she’s doing just fine.’ Under normal circumstances I would have poured my heart out to poor Bob, but this didn’t seem the time or the place to regurgitate recent shitty events. He looked as though he was going to say something and then stopped. The pause seemed to last an age.

‘That’s not strictly true is it?’

I blushed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘My parents heard the radio message this morning in the car. Nearly didn’t get here in one piece.’

So the cat was well and truly out of the bag. Who else had witnessed the circus that was my ex-love life? Fortunately I didn’t have too long to worry about it at that stage. Having got the majority of the graduation pre-requisites out of the way, my mind turned to the ceremony itself. My main concerns were whether I’d trip over my gown or fall off the stage when it was my turn to be called up. The radio episode paled into insignificance.

In reality I needn’t have worried. The event went off without a hitch. Nobody fell off the stage although one girl cried. The whole thing was a long drawn out anti-climax if the truth be known. A couple of people made complete pricks of themselves by attempting what can only be described as some kind of post goal scoring celebration, sliding as far as they could on their knees or pulling their gowns over their heads and punching the air. I always see those sorts of people as arrogant tossers. Always blokes, and nearly always short arses. I could imagine them leaving the proceedings in their ridiculously souped-up Ford Escorts complete with spoilers, beeping their horns as they sped off. Whatever, I was officially a Bachelor of Science with honours, for what it was worth. After attending the following buffet, stuffing my face with numerous minuscule canapés (I was starving, I hadn’t eaten all day) and posing for a few more of my parents’ photos with people I didn’t like, I made our excuses, bid farewell to Bob and began the journey to my grandparents’ house.