The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 36

6.05 p.m.

We're due a progress meeting, so I head round to find Dan at his flat, munching through a pizza while watching a recording of You've Been Framed. He's laughing so much I fear he's going to have a seizure, and for some reason, he's still wearing his sungla.s.ses.

'Aren't you taking this celebrity thing a bit far? Why not just park your stretch limo outside and be done with it?'

Dan makes a face. 'I wish.'

'Well take those ridiculous gla.s.ses off then.'

Reluctantly, Dan reaches up to remove his shades, revealing a corker of a black eye.

'Blimey. What happened to you?'

'We were filming this new idea for a pilot this lunchtime.'

'New show? You didn't mention any new show. What was it called, "Punch me in the face"?'

'Yeah, well, it's right up your street actually. You know all these makeover shows?'

'Thanks. Yeah?'

'Well, this is a new one for men. It's called You Look Ridiculous! I've based it on an idea I've had recently.'

'Oh yes?'

'Well, what we do is go to a town centre and find badly dressed men on the street. You know-either those total slobs like you used to be, or people who are complete fas.h.i.+on victims.'

'And?'

Dan takes a bite of pizza. 'And so I march up to them, microphone in hand, and ask them three basic questions on fas.h.i.+on and styling. If they fail to get any of them right, they win a free makeover.'

'So, what happened? And why the black eye?'

'Well, it seems we hadn't quite thought it through.'

'How do you mean?'

'It's lunchtime, and me and Mike, my cameraman...'

'Are you sure he wasn't your sound man, with a name like that?'

'Are hanging around Churchill Square, and we spot this bloke. Big fella, dressed like an a.r.s.e.'

'What a wonderful mental picture that is.'

'And so we decide to try it out. Mike starts filming, I walk up to the guy, and say the programme's catch phrase...'

'Which wouldn't be "You Look Ridiculous" by any chance?'

'Exactly. Well, too late I smell the alcohol on his breath. He's obviously spent the best part of the morning in the pub, and doesn't take too kindly to my observation, and before I can explain what the show's all about...'

'Ah.'

Dan grimaces. 'Yeah, but you should see poor old Mike. He won't want to look through that lens again in a hurry.'

I'm about to ask him for more details, but he's suddenly distracted by a video clip of someone tripping over while carrying a birthday cake. They, of course, land with their face in it, which Dan finds hilarious.

'What's so funny about this?' I ask him, once the adverts thankfully come on. 'The fact that they film things like painting the fence, or climbing into the loft. How sad are they?'

'Don't be so snooty,' says Dan, fast-forwarding through the ad break. 'We're doing ours on Monday.'

'What?'

'We're spending the day filming out-takes.'

'On purpose?'

'Oh yeah. Got to have something to submit to the "bloopers" programmes.'

'Am I missing something? Aren't they supposed to be "mistakes".'

Dan looks at me as if I'm stupid. 'Yeah, like Trevor Whatsisname doesn't know the camera's still rolling when he says "f.u.c.k" on the news.'

'But why would they...?'

'Repeat fees. People only watch Richard and Judy once, but they'll watch Judy "accidentally" getting her baps out on that awards show time and time again. Oldest trick in the book. Anyway, we're not here to discuss the intricacies of the broadcasting world.' Dan hits 'stop' on the remote control, switches the TV off, and fires up his laptop. 'Where are we at now?'

'Well, I'm supposed to be going speed dating again this Sat.u.r.day.'

'What do you mean, "supposed to be"?'

'It's just that...'

'Edward. What better way to find out whether all this work has paid off than to put yourself through that again. A random sample of twenty women, don't forget.'

'Okay,' I sigh. 'So is there anything else we need to do before then?'

As the spreadsheet appears on screen, Dan scrolls through the list, which miraculously seems to be getting shorter, crossing items off as he goes.

'Hold on,' he says. 'Something just occurred to me that we've forgotten.' He pages up to the middle and adds one word under 'H'.

'Hair? What's wrong with it?' I run my hand nervously through my s.h.a.ggy brown mop.

'Well, have you ever thought about having it in a style?'

'b.u.g.g.e.r off.'

'I'm serious. Who cuts it for you?'

I name a semi-trendy place on Western Road, and Dan frowns slightly. 'But I know the head stylist there. He's normally pretty good.'

'Ah.'

'What?'

'He's also normally pretty expensive.'

'So?'

'So I normally don't get him to do it. It's much cheaper when you have it done by one of the students.'

Dan inspects my head. 'What are they students of? Philosophy?'

'Very funny.'

'But, joking aside,' he says, 'it's almost unkempt enough to be trendy, but I think you ought to go for something a little more...' he searches for the right word, 'modern.'

I sigh. 'And I bet you know just the place?'

Dan nods and takes a last bite of pepperoni. 'Oh yes,' he says, reaching for his mobile phone.

Friday 8th April.

5.25 p.m.

My appointment is at five-thirty, so I nip out of work a few minutes early and make my way to the salon, which is ominously next to a hat shop. 'Just ask for Mich.e.l.le,' Dan had advised.

Mich.e.l.le turns out to be the best-looking transs.e.xual I've ever seen. A tall, willowy blonde, her huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s barely restrained by her T-s.h.i.+rt, she's quite breathtaking. Literally, when I see how much she charges for a haircut.

'Trust me, honey,' she says, in a voice several octaves lower than mine. 'I'm worth it.'

I'm shepherded through into the consultation room, where a large plasma-screen television on the wall in front of me is showing some sort of fas.h.i.+on TV, and offered a gla.s.s of wine, which I gulp down quickly.

Mich.e.l.le sidles up behind me, studies my reflection in the mirror, then lays a hand on my shoulder; her fingernails would put a velociraptor to shame.

'How can I do you?'

I swallow hard. 'Dan sent me. He said...'

'Dan? How is that sweetheart? Such lovely hair.'

Great. Yet another member of the Dan Davis fan club. 'He's fine. Still battling with the drugs, though.'

'Dan? Drugs? Surely not.'

I nod. 'I'm afraid so. But I can't really say any more than that. Anyway, he told me I should ask you to, er...'

Mich.e.l.le raises one carefully plucked eyebrow. 'Ye-es?'

'To make me a "babe magnet".'

Mich.e.l.le lets out a deep belly-laugh. 'I can only work with what I'm given, you understand. But I think you have potential.'

The next hour is a blur of was.h.i.+ng, shampooing, cutting, shaving, and drying. All the while I try not to flinch when Mich.e.l.le presses her surgically produced b.r.e.a.s.t.s against me, which seems to be more often than strictly necessary, and I watch with alarm as a worrying amount of hair seems to be falling on my shoulders and the floor around me. Finally, when it seems that there's almost no more left to cut, Mich.e.l.le produces a pot of something that seems to be called 'Fudge', and scoops out a handful.

She spins me round with one firmly biceped arm so I'm not facing the mirror, straddles me, and after a bit of teasing and shaping, spins me back again so I can see my reflection.

'Voila!' announces Mich.e.l.le. 'You like?'

I'm a bit speechless. I hardly recognize the person staring back at me. 'I like,' I say, eventually. And I do like. She's worked a miracle, and it's of the Moses/Red Sea magnitude. Gone is the lank, shapeless side parting that I once had, to be replaced by a short, spiky, messy, dare I even say, trendy cut. It might not be babe magnet, but at least it won't repel them any more.

I spend the whole walk home admiring myself in shop windows, so much so that at one point I walk into a bollard, banging my right knee painfully. But it's worth it, despite the fifty-pound price tag, the five-pound tip and the further ten pounds I spent on that magic Fudge stuff.

The next morning, although I can't quite achieve the effect with the Fudge that Mich.e.l.le's fingers did, I'd still get a decent score if this were a Generation Game test. And that's what all this whole thing is all about, as I'm beginning to understand.

Getting a decent score.

Sat.u.r.day 9th April.

10.02 a.m.

I'm in my bedroom with Dan, going through the entire contents of my wardrobe. There's a pile of clothes in front of me made up of stuff that I'm keeping, and next to it, a pile of items that I'm throwing away because they either don't fit me any more or, to borrow Dan's latest catchphrase, 'look ridiculous'. Suffice to say, the second pile is somewhat larger than the first, and not, apparently, because they don't fit me any more. After nearly an hour of this, I'm getting extremely bored.

'Dan-this just isn't me. I don't want to spend my day agonizing over whether it's all right to wear navy with green, for example.'

He looks at me earnestly. 'Edward, it's no good working on the cha.s.sis if the paintwork lets you down. You've got three minutes to make a good impression, and turning up tonight like some reject from the Oxfam shop is hardly going to help. Come on.'

'Where are we going now?'

'I need to take you shopping.'

11.15 a.m.

On the way into town, Dan calls into his flat, and emerges holding his digital camera.

'What on earth is that for?'

He slips it into his pocket. 'You'll see.'

'So, what's the plan?'