ANGER MISMANAGEMENT
22 APRIL
‘Jesus Christ on a fucking bike with a fucking cherry on top on fucking fire!! ’
Welcome to the latter stages of a tantrum.
There have been a lot of these recently.
This one is about a coffee machine.
‘You stupid fucking machine! You stupid, stupid bastard coffee fucking machine! Why did I even buy you?? Why, God, why???’
Two days ago, I shouted at a cat. For no reason whatsoever.
The day before that I ranted down the phone at the DVLA because I’ve had my driving licence revoked. It transpires they don’t like people with dangerous brain tumours driving around, just in case they drop dead at the wheel. The unreasonable bastards. From now on I’ll be taking bloody cabs everywhere, and have already angrily downloaded the Uber app on to my phone.
A couple of days prior to that I screamed at my manager, Taylor, for giving Brightside Productions a terrible photo of me for their show posters. I look like I’ve just suffered a drive-by lobotomy.
And my poor iPhone was sent to Apple heaven against my bedroom wall a fortnight ago when my mother rang me for the third time in less than an hour.
You see, Sienna and I were enjoying an alcohol-fuelled evening of fun and games, which had made me completely forget about my new diagnosis for the first time since being told about it . . . and then my phone rang as I was pouring vodka between Sienna’s pert breasts. The second I saw that it was Mum, I knew she’d be ringing to see how I was doing, which instantly reminded me about the death sentence hanging over my head.
I ignored that call, and the second. By the time the third came through, I lost my temper completely and threw the iPhone as hard as I could, shattering the screen into a thousand pieces, against the dark-grey granite feature wall that looked fabulous in the magazine, but rather stupid in reality.
This was completely irrational and totally uncalled for, but I just wanted to have some fun with my girlfriend and not face all the questions about how I was doing . . . again. Even from my dear, sainted mother.
I should be grateful for her care and attention, but all I actually feel is angry. Stupendously, hugely, violently angry.
‘Three hundred fucking quid! That’s how much I spent on you, you noisy silver cunt! And you’ve never worked properly once!’
Needless to say, none of these things actually warranted such fury on my part – with the possible exception of having my driving licence taken away. I’m just going through a period of emotional turmoil thanks to the tumour that is manifesting itself in completely irrational moments of blind rage.
One of the ever-so-helpful leaflets I got from Mr Chakraborty’s office detailed the stages of grief people go through when they receive a diagnosis like mine. You’re supposed to start with a period of denial, before the anger phase comes along. I appear to have transferred the denial stage to my mother and have skipped directly to the towering rage portion of the festivities.
‘I might only have minutes to live, you bean-chewing bastard! Just give me a fucking decent cup of coffee! Just once in your stupid, pointless life! ’
There are actual, proper tears of rage and frustration in my eyes as I pick the coffee machine up, wrench it from the plug socket, carry it over to the bifold patio doors and chuck the fucking thing across the garden with all of my strength.
‘And stay out there!’ I rage at the now undoubtedly broken machine as it comes to rest. ‘Stay out there and think about what you’ve fucking done to me!’
All it’s done is fail to produce a cup of coffee that doesn’t have grounds floating in it, but I’m really shouting at something else right now, aren’t I? Something that’s squatting in the middle of my brain, biding its time.
As I stand there, seething at three hundred quid’s worth of broken De’Longhi, my brand-new iPhone starts to ring. I yank it out of my jeans pocket.
‘What?!’ I bellow down the line.
‘Jesus Christ!!’ Taylor screams in terror from the opposite end.
I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down a bit. ‘What do you want, Taylor?’ I snap at him.
‘I just called to see how you were doing . . . I take it not very well?’
‘Been better, to be honest with you!’ I exclaim, staring daggers at the coffee machine.
‘Yes, well, that’s why I’m calling. I may know someone who can help you with your . . . your current mood.’
‘Who?’ I grunt.
‘He’s a self-help guru. Specialises in anger management. He’s helped a lot of people with their personal problems. I asked around, and lots of people recommended him.’
I groan. ‘A self-help guru?’
‘Yes. Cleethorpes has a great reputation for helping people in a similar position to yours.’
‘Mad as fuck at a coffee machine, you mean? And did you say his name was Cleethorpes?’
‘I did.’
‘First name or second name?’
Taylor is silent for a moment. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Everyone just calls him Cleethorpes.’
‘That’s the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard,’ I snap.
‘Maybe, but I still think he can do you some good. So much so that I’ve already given him your email. He’s going to contact you this morning to arrange a meeting.’
‘Taylor!’ I whine.
There’s a pause on the other end for a moment. ‘I’m worried about you, Nathan . . . we all are. You nearly bit my head off the other day about that headshot.’
‘Yes! Because I look like I’ve just been shot in the head!’
‘You see? You’re not doing well, Nathan! I’m really worried about you!’
The scared tone in Taylor’s voice knocks the rage out of me . . . for the moment, at least. He really doesn’t deserve this tongue-lashing. Nor did the cat, the DVLA guy or the coffee machine. This is something I have to get some kind of control over before it consumes me.
‘All right . . . all right, I’m sorry,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘I probably do need some help with this.’
‘Yes, yes, you do,’ Taylor replies with relief. ‘And Cleethorpes might be able to give it.’
‘He’s emailing me this morning, you say?’
‘Yep.’
‘Okay. I’ll give it a go, I suppose.’ I glare at the coffee machine. ‘It’s either that or I start beating up the toaster.’
The email from this person called Cleethorpes comes through about half an hour after I get off the phone with Taylor. It is as abrupt as its grammar is poor.
Nathan.
I am, Cleethorpes. Meet me, in town. 12pm. Outside, Primark.
Cleethorpes
Do you see how many commas he’s employed there? Three, that’s how many. Three, where none were actually needed.
Surely the sign of a diseased mind, don’t you think?
And why does he want to meet me in the centre of town? I had visions of the bloke coming here or me going to his place. How in hell is he going to improve my state of mind slap-bang in the middle of town on a Saturday afternoon? Surely that is quite literally the worst place on earth to achieve any kind of mental equilibrium? I haven’t been into the town centre on a Saturday afternoon for ten years. Being surrounded by thousands of irritated, tired shoppers and their unholy offspring ranks right up there with root canal surgery for my favourite things to do.
Still, I quite like that toaster. It’s always provided me with a decent slice of toast and the occasional hot crumpet. I’d hate for it to join the coffee machine out by the Japanese maple tree, or my old iPhone in the bin under my bedside cabinet. I’d best go and meet this strangely monikered individual to see if he can do anything about this non-stop anger and frustration.
I climb out of the cab and make my way along to Primark at midday. I scan the crowd, looking for someone who’s likely to be called Cleethorpes. In my head, all self-help gurus are dressed like hippies, so I’m on the lookout for a tall, lanky man with a wispy beard – wearing flip-flops, a kaftan and round sunglasses with red lenses in them.
No one fitting that description is immediately evident.
‘Nathan James!’ a voice booms out from behind me.
Oh Lord.
Here we go, then.
I turn slowly – ever so slowly – to find myself confronted with . . .
Not a hippie, it turns out. Not even remotely close to a hippie.
If you placed a hippie on one side of a scale, then this person would be diametrically opposite.
Cleethorpes, it turns out, is a chartered accountant. Or at least he looks like one.
He’s also not tall and skinny. He’s a black guy of about five foot three and has a very stocky build.
The blue pinstriped suit he’s wearing is so tight that it’s a wonder he can breathe. On the lapels are various badges, each of which depicts a cartoon series from the 1980s. The Thundercats one is particularly excellent, featuring a rampant Lion-O holding aloft his mighty Sword of Omens. I’m not so sure about the Chip ’n’ Dale: Rescue Rangers one, though. I always felt there was something entirely untrustworthy about those two little sods, but could never quite put my finger on why.
There’s no shirt to go with the suit. Under the tightly buttoned jacket I can see a black T-shirt. The ’80s cartoon theme continues, as it’s a He-Man and the Masters of the Universe T-shirt. I can just see He-Man and Battle Cat poking out from behind the suit’s lapels, as if attempting escape from their Cleethorpian confines.
And wait for it, boys and girls, wait for it . . .
He’s wearing a small blue pork-pie hat.
Cleethorpes, it transpires, is Bob Hoskins – if he had chosen a career in chartered accountancy.
The little man is carrying one of those blue IKEA bags in one hand, tied up tightly so I can’t see what’s inside.
‘Er . . . are you Cleethorpes?’ I say.
The small man drops the bag at his side and opens his arms expansively. ‘Well, of course I am! Who else could I possibly be?’
There’s every chance this is some kind of complicated existential question I’m being asked here, but I’m not going to fall for it. ‘I’m Nathan,’ I state matter-of-factly.
‘Well, of course you are!’ Cleethorpes exclaims happily. Cleethorpes sounds like he comes from . . . well, Cleethorpes. His broad northern accent sounds almost exotic to me, living as I do amongst a plethora of flat-vowelled southerners.
Now the initial introductions are out of the way, it’s time we addressed the elephant in the room – or in this particular case, the elephant in the middle of a busy shopping precinct.
Why exactly is Cleethorpes called Cleethorpes? Just how does a fully grown man, in what looks to be his early forties, get saddled with such an odd moniker?
‘So, why is your name Cleethorpes?’ I ask bluntly.
This is quite rude, I’m sure you’ll agree. I wouldn’t normally be so uncouth as to launch into an interrogation of someone’s name having only just met them, but these are rather exceptional circumstances. I have been summoned to a place I detest by a person I have never met before and I’m angry as fuck at everything, so I’m not feeling particularly inclined towards politeness.
If Cleethorpes is offended by my rudeness, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he beams at me happily. ‘It is a very interesting story, Nathan. But one that would take me a long time to explain. The short answer is I was found as a baby at Cleethorpes railway station.’
I’m slightly stunned by this revelation, but not one hundred per cent surprised. ‘And somebody decided to name you Cleethorpes in honour of where you were found?’ I surmise.
‘Exactly! My adoptive parents, Eileen and Trevor Oldham, were quite the amusing couple. I have a huge love for them.’
‘I bet. So, hang on . . . your full name is Cleethorpes Oldham?’
‘No, no! That would sound silly, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, I guess it does sound a bit like a train route, yes.’
‘Indeed! As I say, I am named after where I was discovered as a baby . . . and very proud I am of the name, too!’
‘I’m confused.’
‘It’s quite simple, Nathan. My name is Cleethorpes Railway Station.’
‘Your full name is Cleethorpes Railway Station?’
I start to look around, trying to see where the hidden cameras are.
‘Indeed! Or just Cleethorpes Station for short.’
‘Okay.’ I ponder this for a moment. ‘Good job you weren’t born at the local tip, I suppose. Cleethorpes Refuse Facility doesn’t sound quite as noble.’
Cleethorpes smiles and nods in agreement. ‘Are you ready to begin, Nathan?’ he then asks me.
‘I literally have no idea, given that I don’t know what we’re doing here.’
‘We are here to help you deal with your current anger issues, of course!’
I look around at the throng of shoppers passing us by. ‘I’m not sure how bringing me here is going to do that.’
Cleethorpes smiles. ‘Trust me, Nathan. This is the perfect place.’
‘If you say so,’ I respond in a very dubious tone. ‘What exactly do you think you can do for me?’
The little man looks around. ‘Anger is a thing that lives and grows in isolation, Nathan. The reason we are here, amongst all these people, is that I firmly believe that all the negative feelings you have inside right now can only be exorcised when they are exposed to the world in a cathartic experience.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ The man is speaking in riddles.
Cleethorpes smiles and crouches down to untie the IKEA bag. ‘What I mean, Nathan, is that for you to release the anger you have about your illness, you must display those feelings in front of your fellow man in a clear and concise manner.’
I shake my head. ‘Nope. Still as clear as mud, I’m afraid.’
‘You must let go of your inhibitions, embrace the inner rage and release it in a glorious cathartic gesture that will make your heart sing!’
Complete nonsense. ‘What?’ I snap.
Cleethorpes produces a large yellow foam bat from the IKEA bag. ‘This, Nathan. I mean this.’
Cleethorpes then hits me over the head with the yellow bat. It’s quite clearly a toy, given that it makes a high-pitched squeak as it comes into sharp contact with my forehead.
‘Ow! Fuck about!’ I wail – understandably given the circumstances. ‘What did you do that for??’
‘I am helping to release your pent-up rage, Nathan! In front of all these people, where the catharsis will have the most impact!’
‘And you think you can do that by twatting me with a squeaky bat?!’
Cleethorpes nods gleefully. ‘Yes!’ he exclaims, and whacks me on the head again.
‘Stop it! Stop hitting me, you bloody maniac!’
‘It is cathartic, Nathan!’
‘It’s fucking certifiable!’
Cleethorpes leans in. ‘Are you angry, Nathan?’
‘Of course I’m bloody angry! You keep hitting me with a squeaky bat!’
As you might expect, the sight of one small man in a pork-pie hat hitting another over the head with a bright-yellow foam bat is something that is likely to be noticed. As such, people are starting to stare at us both.
‘But is it me you are actually angry with?’ Cleethorpes asks.
‘Well, nobody else is hitting me over the head with a fucking bat, are they?!’ I rage.
‘And what do you want to do about it?’
‘Get away from you as quickly as possible!’
‘Really? Is that what you really want to do, Nathan?’ Cleethorpes kneels down and produces another foam bat from the IKEA bag. ‘Or is there something else you’d like to do?’ He throws the bat to me.
Yes, Cleethorpes. There is something else I’d like to do, actually – you small, weirdly named maniac.
Without giving him a verbal answer, I smack Cleethorpes right on the pork-pie hat with the bat as hard as I can. Such is the ferocity of the blow that the high-pitched squeak is accompanied by a low, hollow boom, indicating that the bat isn’t solid all the way through. This effort startles Cleethorpes only for the briefest of moments, before he laughs out loud and thrusts his arms out triumphantly. ‘Yes, Nathan! That’s exactly it!’
SMACK. SQUEAK.
Cleethorpes’ bat connects with the top of my head once again.
To be fair, the blows aren’t painful. It’s a little hard to do any real damage with a spongy foam bat – but by Christ that doesn’t stop it being extremely irritating.
I respond in kind.
WHACK. SQUEAK. FLOOM.
This only makes Cleethorpes laugh even louder, so I hit him again. He doesn’t even try to dodge the blow. It’s like the world’s easiest whack-a-mole machine.
We now have a crowd surrounding us, most of whom have got their mobile phones out and are recording proceedings, because that’s what we now all do in the twenty-first century. If Armageddon ever does strike, it will definitely happen in portrait mode rather than landscape.
I’m far past caring about the onlookers. Cleethorpes has worked up an unholy rage within me that cannot be quelled by anything other than repeatedly battering that fucking pork-pie hat until it is unrecognisable.
Cleethorpes has stopped fighting back and is just taking the repeated blows to the top of his head with a good grace that is equal parts admirable and quite disturbing. This only makes me want to hit him even more, so I continue to do so, with even harder and more rapid blows. My assault on Cleethorpes’ head is also accompanied by some rather horrific and frenzied swearing that punctuates each and every strike.
SMACK. SQUEAK. FLOOM.
‘Aha ha! That is it, Nathan! Express your rage!’
‘Fuck you!’
WHACK. SQUEAK. BOOM.
‘Let it all out!’
‘Go fuck yourself!’
BLAT. SQUEAK. FLOOM.
‘Be at one with your inner feelings!’
‘You arsehole!’
SMACK. SQUEAK. BOOM.
‘Allow yourself to be in the moment!’
‘Go to fucking hell!’
‘Now, Nathan!’ Cleethorpes exclaims, holding out his hands to stop me. ‘Tell me what you’re angry about. Tell me why you feel this way!’
I stare at the little man for a second, the foam bat held aloft and ready to hit him again. ‘Because it’s so fucking unfair!’ I scream at him.
‘What is?’
‘All of it!’ I rage, waving my arms. ‘I’m only thirty-three! Thirty-fucking-three! This shouldn’t be happening to me! It’s not bloody fair!’
Cleethorpes stares at me intently. ‘And what can you do about that?’
‘Nothing!’ I look desperately to the sky. ‘There’s nothing I can do!’ I look back down at him, the anger draining from my body in an instant. ‘I’m lost, Cleethorpes. Totally lost.’ I throw my hands up. ‘I had it all figured out! My life . . . my future . . . it was all looking so fucking good. But now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?’
He looks at me with sympathy. ‘I understand, my friend. I truly do. You feel trapped. You feel adrift. You think your life has lost its meaning now everything has changed so much. That is why you feel such anger.’ He smiles at me again. ‘But you will find peace, Nathan. You will find meaning again. You will find a way to relieve these feelings of frustration and helplessness.’
I shrug my shoulders disconsolately. ‘Really? How?’
Cleethorpes points at me. ‘That is up to you to find out for yourself, my friend. You alone must choose the path you want to walk down. You alone must find your purpose in all of this.’
Aaaarggh!
What kind of bloody advice is that?!
I am once again enraged.
WHACK. SQUEAK. FLOOM.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ I hear a voice say from behind me.
‘What does it fucking look like?!’ I scream, and hit Cleethorpes over the head one more time – before turning around to see two police officers standing behind me.
Oh my God, I’m going to jail. I’m in so much fucking trouble. Why did I get out of bastard bed this morning? Aaaarggh!!
I immediately stop my rabid assault on the person of Cleethorpes. In a panic, I throw the bat away. It describes a rather awkward arc in the air, before hitting a nearby tree with a characteristic squeak and ricocheting off through the door into Primark and into a massive pile of women’s knickers, never to be seen again.
‘Muuurrrgghh,’ I exclaim in horror.
I have only ever been in trouble with the law once in my life, and that was twelve years ago, when I got caught larking about on top of a bus shelter, holding a frozen chicken. I would explain how that set of circumstances came about, but I’m deathly afraid I’m about to get carted off by the local constabulary, so I don’t have the time right now.
The police officers – both of whom look big and burly enough to come first and second in a biggest and burliest police officer competition – look at me the same way that two grizzly bears might regard a lost Japanese tourist. I can already feel the cuffs going on. Here I am, assaulting another human being in front of hundreds of phone-clutching witnesses.
The burliest of the two burly policemen looks past me at Cleethorpes, and his stern expression softens. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Charing Cross, isn’t it?’
‘Cleethorpes!’ Cleethorpes says with a beaming smile.
‘Right, Cleethorpes.’ The copper pulls out his pocket notebook and skims through a few pages. ‘Yep. I knew it,’ he says, stabbing a finger at a particular page. ‘I’ve had to warn you about this kind of thing a few times, haven’t I? The last time was a couple of months ago, wasn’t it?’
Cleethorpes continues to smile. ‘Yes indeed, sir.’
‘I had to stop you from being repeatedly kicked in the arse by a teenage goth outside the Carphone Warehouse, didn’t I?’
‘You did!’ Cleethorpes replies. ‘Her name was Araminta.’ The little man looks at me. ‘The poor girl was struggling with the end of a long-term relationship.’
‘And you thought the best way to make her feel better about it was to have her kick you in the bottom?’ I respond.
Cleethorpes gives me a reproachful look. ‘The session was very valuable to her state of well-being.’
‘Was it?’ I reply with extreme doubt.
‘Well, you can’t keep doing this, Colchester,’ the large copper says.
‘Cleethorpes,’ I correct, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
The copper gives me a look of deep disdain and then continues to talk to Cleethorpes. ‘You can’t just turn up on a busy street and let other people beat you up. It’s causing a disturbance. I don’t want to have to arrest you and your friend here for a public order offence.’
‘But this is how I work,’ Cleethorpes says in a sad voice. The little man now looks quite dejected. The change from happy-go-lucky masochist to down-in-the-mouth depressive is so fast it very nearly gives me whiplash.
The copper folds his arms. ‘Well, you’re just going to have to work somewhere a little more private, Chelmsford.’
Cleethorpes’ shoulders slump. ‘But these cathartic moments must take place where others can see them! Otherwise they mean nothing! There must be an audience!’
This is probably a good time for me to say something constructive, before I get arrested for assault and Cleethorpes gets hauled away for psychiatric evaluation.
I place a hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t we pop back to mine for a nice cup of tea?’ I suggest to him. ‘If you like, we can go out in the garden and I can slam your plums into my bifold patio doors. We could invite the neighbours around to watch.’
‘Why don’t you take your friend’s advice, Chepstow?’ says the copper. ‘I think a nice cup of tea somewhere far away from here would be a very good idea.’
Cleethorpes still looks unhappy about the whole thing, but nods his head and picks up the IKEA bag.
‘A cup of tea would be lovely, Nathan. Thank you,’ Cleethorpes says with a grateful expression.
I pat him on the shoulder, give the two coppers one last apologetic look and begin to move us both away.
By the time we get back to my house, Cleethorpes looks about as happy as the people of Cleethorpes generally do in the middle of January. All the passion, brightness and animation is gone from his face, and even the blue of his tight-fitting pinstriped suit seems duller.
I feel at this stage that it’s somehow my duty to help the poor guy out of his malaise.
Let’s hope Cleethorpes enjoys English breakfast tea while looking out through expensive bifold patio doors at a manicured garden full of mating birds, as that’s the only view I have to offer him – unless he wants to go and stare at the canvas of the Maldives I’ve got hung up in the downstairs toilet.
‘Thank you, Nathan,’ he says, as I plonk said cup of tea down in front of him.
I regard his solemn expression for a moment, wondering how I’m going to make him feel better. Then it hits me.
‘I think you’ve really helped me, Cleethorpes,’ I tell him.
‘Do you?’
‘Yes! You’ve helped me release a lot of anger and resentment about my condition today.’
‘I have?’
‘Yes. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders and that I am better able to cope with things.’
‘Really?’
He’s not sure I’m telling him the truth. And who can blame him?
‘Oh yes! I think I can face the world now . . . all thanks to you,’ I say with a smile.
He gives me a shy look. ‘If you think today has helped, would you like to book in for another session?’
Oh crap.
‘Another session?’ I reply, cursing myself inwardly. My cleverness is backfiring. In trying to cheer the little sod up, I’ve painted myself into a corner.
How do I respond? If I say no, I’ll probably make him miserable again, but if I say yes, what will I be volunteering myself for? Will I find myself slapping Cleethorpes across the face in the ready meals aisle at Iceland? Or perhaps rubbing a Brillo pad across his forehead beside the blueberry muffins in Starbucks?
My brain freezes in an agony of indecision. ‘Well, Cleethorpes . . . I think that you have . . . have done me a lot of good today . . .’ I trail off, desperately thinking of a way to word my refusal for more ‘treatment’ without sending him crashing again. ‘And I’m sure that you have probably done enough today for me to carry on with life . . . um . . .’
Okay, okay. This is good. We’re getting somewhere here.
‘Your technique is very . . . unique . . . but I must say it has definitely worked . . . and I can see how more would be of help . . .’
What? Wait a minute! That’s not right! Don’t say things like that! Get out of it! Get out of it now!
Cleethorpes, for his part in this conversation, is just sat sipping his tea and regarding me with a careful expression. This only serves to discombobulate me even further.
‘. . . but maybe I’ve gained enough from today to see me through for the time being . . .’
Better! Yes, yes! Much better!
‘. . . so if we could leave it a few weeks and maybe arrange another session for next month?’
What?! What are you saying, you bloody fool! You’re not telling him no! Say no! Say NO!
Cleethorpes continues to merely look at me, but that smile is starting to creep back on to his face.
‘. . . do you think you’d be available next month?’ I ask.
Please say no.
‘Yes, of course!’
Oh, for crying out loud.
‘Excellent!’
Idiot!
Cleethorpes’ face darkens slightly. ‘I will have to think of a place where the police will not disturb us, though.’
‘Maybe we should do it in the evening? Fewer foot patrols then.’
STOP MAKING HELPFUL SUGGESTIONS, YOU CRETIN.
‘A good idea, Nathan!’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘I will let you know when I am free.’
‘Great stuff. Looking forward to it,’ I say in a voice that sounds like a deflating balloon.
Cleethorpes stretches out his arm. From under the blue jacket sleeve an Inspector Gadget watch appears, which he peers at intently. ‘But now I’m afraid I must go,’ the little man tells me.
‘Oh no, really?’
There is something deeply wrong with me, isn’t there?
Some common sense then reasserts itself in my head, and I actually manage to say something sensible. ‘Let me show you out.’
I lead Cleethorpes out of the kitchen and across the hallway to the front door. ‘Thank you for the tea, Nathan,’ he says. ‘And thank you for telling me how much my session has helped you.’
‘Not a problem,’ I reply, grasping hold of the door handle.
‘I am so glad that we have started to deal with your feelings of anger.’
‘I do feel a lot less angry.’
This is the truth. I now just feel comprehensively awkward.
Still, at least my towering rage has been dampened – for the time being, at least. With any luck, nothing will spark it off again any time soon.
I pull open the front door.
Standing there is Sienna with an excited expression on her face.
‘Nathan! Nathan! I have to speak to you!’ she squeals, before noticing I’m with someone. ‘Hello. Who are you?’
The little man bows floridly. ‘Delighted to meet you, young lady. I am Cleethorpes!’
Sienna looks him up and down for a second, then leans closer to me with one hand by her mouth. ‘Is he your drug dealer?’ she whispers. There’s a hopeful tone to her voice I suppose I should be disturbed by.
I roll my eyes. Sienna’s not normally one for a bit of casual racism, but dangle the prospect of scoring some drugs in her face and she reverts to stereotype in the blink of an eye.
‘No!’ I reply, not meeting Cleethorpes’ expression. ‘He’s my new . . . self-help guru.’ Saying it out loud sounds extremely silly.
‘Er . . . I must be going, Nathan,’ Cleethorpes says, moving round Sienna and giving her the widest berth possible.
I say goodbye and watch Cleethorpes walk down my driveway, before returning my attention to my excited girlfriend once he has disappeared from sight.
‘Sienna. What . . . what are you doing here?’ I ask.
She gives me a look of such unbridled glee I start to fear for her sanity. ‘Cosmopolitan, Nathan!’
‘What?’
‘Cosmopolitan!’
A few minutes later, we’re stood in my kitchen – me with my arms folded and looking suspicious, her talking animatedly and bouncing around like a jack-in-the-box.
‘So, what are you on about, Sienna? Why are you so excited?’
‘Well . . . I saw Nevaeh a couple of days ago. You remember her, she’s my friend from the Sean Paul video?’
‘Which one?’
‘The girl in the really small bikini that gives him a lap dance?’
‘Yeah, that doesn’t really narrow it down much.’
Sienna flaps her hands. ‘It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that her boyfriend is a guy called Jordan, and he works for Cosmopolitan. So when I told her all about your tumour, she told Jordan, who called me, and—’
‘You did what?!’
You know all that anger I thought Cleethorpes had leeched out of me? It’s back in an instant.
‘I told her about your tumour. That was okay, wasn’t it?’
I’m incredulous. ‘Telling complete bloody strangers about the fact I’m going to die? A hugely personal and private matter?’ I facepalm. ‘Yeah . . . why would I have a problem with that, eh?’
Sienna laughs. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind!’
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, completely oblivious. ‘Nevaeh spoke to Jordan, who said he would be really interested in doing a story about us!’
‘Us? What do you mean “us”? And what kind of story?’
Sienna rolls her eyes. ‘How you’re coping with your brain tumour, silly. Jordan says there’s a lot of human interest, as you’re well known for creating those Foodie things.’ Sienna grins at me almost maniacally. ‘He says they can get us a two-page picture spread! Two pages in Cosmo, Nathan!’ Her eyes light up. ‘I’ll be in Cosmo!’
I am dumbfounded. I knew Sienna was prone to being shallow – but this? ‘So basically, you’ve told complete strangers that I’m dying, to help you with your career?’
She contrives to look hurt. ‘No. No . . . of course not, baby. But the story could help, you know? Other people like you?’ She bites her lip seductively. ‘And it would be a nice thing to do for me, too. After all, you’d love to be fucking a Cosmo model, wouldn’t you?’
Jesus Christ. How can anyone be so self-centred?
I stupidly thought that Sienna not caring about my diagnosis was a good thing – that if she doesn’t care, then I don’t have to, either.
I was utterly wrong.
Silently counting to ten, I take a long and deep breath, before fixing my eyes squarely on my very soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. I have made an important decision. Probably the first wise one for quite a long time. ‘Get out.’
Sienna’s face crumples. ‘What?’
‘Get out of my house, Sienna. Get out of my house, and make sure you never come back here again.’
‘What? You’re throwing me out?’
‘Yes. That’s precisely what I’m doing.’
Sienna now looks like she wants to murder me. ‘Fuck you, Nathan! I try to do something nice for you, to help you get your story out there—’
‘Get my story out there?’ I spit. ‘Make your CV look better, you mean!’
Her hands go to her hips. ‘And why shouldn’t I do that? Why can’t you do that for me? I do so much for you, Nathan!’ she snarls. ‘You’re so fucking selfish!’
‘I’m selfish??’
‘Yes! The most selfish man I’ve ever met! You only ever think about yourself!’ She grabs her tits. ‘This is all I am to you!’
‘No, it’s not!’ I blanche. Sienna might be getting uncomfortably close to an unwanted truth here . . .
‘Yes, it is! I let you do what you want to me, whenever you want! And I don’t want much in return!’ She clenches her fists. ‘All I want is a two-page spread in Cosmopolitan!’ She thrusts a finger above her head. ‘If you’d agreed, I was going to let you put it in my arse tonight, Nathan!’
‘Cosmopolitan?’ I reply in confusion. I have no particular desire to insert periodicals into another human being’s rectum. I have no idea where she’s got that idea from.
She looks at me in disgust. ‘You hateful idiot!’ she screams.
Christ. I’d better wrap this up before I get attacked by eight stone of enraged model. ‘Seriously, Sienna, get the rosy royal fuck out of my house,’ I tell her.
She goes to say something else, but I hold a hand out. ‘No. Don’t talk. There’s simply nothing you can say to make me change my mind. We’re over, Sienna. Finished. You could offer to let me insert an entire branch of WHSmith up there and it wouldn’t make any difference. I am tired, and I now have a pounding headache thanks to you . . . so, pretty please, leave this house, and my life, right now.’
Sienna stares at me in horror for a few moments, before turning in a massive huff and storming out of the kitchen.
As she stamps into the hallway, she turns to me with an expression of pure loathing. ‘I hope that tumour does kill you!’
Well, that’s charming, isn’t it? Although entirely to be expected, I suppose.
I point towards my still-open front door without saying a word. Sienna gives me the finger and storms out, not looking back.
I slam the front door with a gratifying amount of force and take a step back, my heart racing.
‘Fuck about,’ I exclaim in a hurried breath, to no one in particular.
A feeling of overwhelming remorse then courses through me. What the hell have I done? I’ve just thrown out the only good thing in my life!
Good?! another part of my brain screams at me. She was fucking awful, you idiot! She didn’t care about you at all!
Yes, but that doesn’t matter to me!
. . . or at least it didn’t until I found out I had this stupid tumour!
In a fit of anger I punch the front door, leaving a dent in the wood. ‘Ow! For fuck’s sake!’ I wail, clutching my throbbing hand.
How many more things will this bloody tumour take away from me?
I’ve lost my happiness, my hope, my future, my Porsche 911 and now my bloody girlfriend!
How much more am I going to lose?
I think back on what I said to Cleethorpes outside Primark. He told me I had to find something to replace all the things I’ve had to lose thanks to this bloody tumour . . . but what? What the hell can I possibly do with my life now there’s probably so little of it left?
‘Jesus Christ,’ I moan, still to no one in particular.
It takes me a good few moments to calm myself down, but when I eventually do, I make my way back through to the kitchen to grab some painkillers for my hand.
It’s probably a good job I did agree to more sessions with Cleethorpes.
When I see him next I might ask him if he minds holding up a picture of Sienna while I batter him over the head repeatedly – or I might stick him in a red Prada dress and a wig just to go the whole hog . . .
Good grief.
I started the day enraged at a malfunctioning coffee machine and have ended it picturing a small, stocky man in drag. At this rate, I’m likely to go stark staring crazy before the tumour has a chance to kill me off.