“What else did he tell you?” “He said we broke up that morning, and that it was beautiful, and that he gave me a single rose...” Oh God. What was I thinking, even half-?believing him? “Excuse me.” I march outside into the drive, fueled with frustration at Mum, at Dad, at myself for being so gullible. Whipping my mobile phone from my pocket, I direct-?dial Loser Dave's office. “Auto Repair Workshop,” comes his businesslike voice down the line. “Dave Lewis at your service.” “Loser Dave, it's me,” I say, my voice steely. “Lexi. I need to hear about our breakup again. And this time I need to hear the truth.” “Babe, I told you the truth.” He sounds supremely confident. “You're going to have to trust me on this one.” I want to wallop him. “Listen, you fuckhead,” I say in slow, furious tones. “I'm at the neurological specialist's office right now, okay? They say someone has been giving me wrong information and it's messing up my neural memory pathways. And if it isn't corrected, I'll get permanent brain damage.”
“Jesus.” He sounds shaken. “Straight up?” He really is stupider than one of Mum's whippets. “Yeah. The specialist's with me right now, trying to correct my memory circuits. So maybe you want to try again with the truth? Or maybe you'd like to speak to the doctor?” “No! Okay!” He sounds totally unnerved. I can just picture him breathing harder, running a finger around his collar. “Maybe it wasn't exactly like I told you. I was trying to protect you.” “Protect me from what? Did you come to the funeral?” “Yeah, I came along,” he says after a pause. “I was handing out canapes. Being helpful. Giving you support.” “And then what happened?” “Then I . . . ” He clears his throat. “What?” “Shagged one of the waitresses. It was the emotional stress!” he adds defensively. “It makes us all do crazy things. I thought I'd locked the door”
“I walked in on you?” I say in disbelief. “Yeah. We weren't naked or anything. Well, obviously a bit” “Stop!” I thrust the phone away from me. I need a few moments to take all this in. Breathing hard, I crunch over the gravel, sit down on the garden wall, and look at the field of sheep opposite, ignoring the “Lexi! Lexi!” coming from the phone. I caught Loser Dave two-?timing me. Well, of course I did. I'm not even that surprised. At last I lift the phone back to my ear. “So, how did I react? And don't say I gave you a rose and it was beautiful.” “Well.” Loser Dave breathes out. “To be honest, you went ballistic. You started yelling about your life. Your 326 whole life had to change, it was all crap, you hated me, you hated everything I'm telling you, Lexi, it was extreme. I tried to calm you down, give you a prawn sandwich. But you weren't interested. You stormed out.” “Then what?” “Then I didn't see you again. Next time I clapped eyes on you, you were on the telly, looking totally different.” “Right.” I watch two birds circling in the sky. “You know, you could have told me the truth, first time around.” “I know. I'm sorry.” “Yeah, right.” “No, I am.” He sounds as genuine as I've ever heard him. “And I'm sorry I shagged that girl. And I'm sorry for what she called you, that was well out of order.” I sit up, suddenly alert. “What did she call me?” “Oh. You don't remember,” he says hastily. “Er... nothing. I don't remember either.” “What was it?” I stand up, clutching the phone tighter. “Tell me what she called me! Loser Dave!” “I gotta go. Good luck with the doctor.” He rings off. I immediately redial his number, but it's busy. Little sod. I march into the house to find Jon still sitting on the sofa, reading a copy of Whippet World. “Hi!” His face lights up. “How did it go?” “What did the waitress call me at the funeral?”
At once Jon looks evasive. “I don't know what you mean. Hey, have you ever read Whippet World?” He holds it up. “Because it's a surprisingly good” “You do know what I mean.” I sit down beside him and pull his chin around so he has to look at me. “I know I told you. Tell me.” Jon sighs. “Lexi, it's a tiny detail. Why does it matter?” “Because... it just does. Look, Jon, you can't lecture my mum about denial and then not tell me something which happened in my own life, which I deserve to know. Tell me what that waitress called me. Now.“ I glare at him. ”All right!“ Jon lifts his hands as though in defeat. ”If you have to know, she called you... Dracula.“ Dracula? In spite of myselfin spite of the fact that I know my teeth aren't snaggly anymoreI can feel my cheeks staining with mortification. ”Lexi“ Jon's wincing, as he reaches for my hand. ”No.“ I shake him off. ”I'm fine.” My face still hot, I stand up and head over to the window, trying to picture the scene, trying to put myself back in my own chewed-?up, flat-?heeled Lexi shoes. It's 2004. I didn't get a bonus. It's my dad's funeral. The bailiffs have just arrived to bankrupt us. I come across my boyfriend screwing a waitress... and she takes one look at me and calls me Dracula. Okay. Things are starting to make sense.
