The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’d originally wanted to go back and study for my masters, but instead found a job, the same job I have now, and just kind of kept on with it. Jane, meanwhile, had worked her way up the marketing ladder, changing companies every few years, and until recently had been marketing manager for a large insurance company here in Brighton. We’d agreed that, seeing as I’d put down the deposit, she’d stump up for the furniture. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
    I drag myself through the shower, decide that I can’t be bothered to iron my shirt, and select one of my half-dozen suits—a choice made easier because there are only two that still fit. As I shut the wardrobe door, the clanging of empty hangers on the rail serves as a stark reminder that Jane’s clothes are all gone. At least the wardrobe is still there, although that’s probably only because it’s attached to the wall.
    I get dressed, then trudge through to the kitchen and make myself a coffee, but have to have it black because no Jane also means no fresh milk in the fridge. There’s half a packet of chocolate biscuits left in the cupboard, and I eat them all while debating whether to go into work today. I think about calling in sick, maybe just staying at home to watch crap daytime TV, but then I’ll be seeing Dan later in the flesh anyway, and I’m already in my suit, so I decide that work’s as good a place as any to sit and be miserable.
    Besides, I don’t have a TV any more either.
    8.45 a.m.
    My flat, in Lansdowne Place, is on the ground floor of a beautiful white Regency building just off Brighton seafront. I have what the estate agents call ‘oblique sea views’, which means if you stand on tiptoe by the window in the lounge, lean forward, and crane your neck to the right, just as you bang your forehead on the glass you should be able to catch sight of that grey heaving mass that passes for the English Channel. The building itself is grade two listed, which means you need to get planning permission if you want to do anything more complicated than put up a pair of curtains, so Jane and I hadn’t bothered with anything other than a coat of paint when we first moved in. In truth, Jane’s pictures, furniture, and growing collection of ornaments had made it home, and without them, I can see the place for what it really is: old, tired, and right now, quite empty.
    As I head out to work, my upstairs neighbour, Mrs Barraclough, whose age I estimate to be somewhere between eighty and 150, catches me in the hallway. She’s almost completely deaf, but despite this, seems to have an uncanny ability to hear about everything that goes on—Jane used to call her our building’s equivalent of CCTV.
    ‘Good morning, Mrs B,’ I shout.
    ‘You’re still here then?’ she asks, a surprised look on her face. ‘I thought you’d moved out.’
    Great. I’ve been up less than an hour and already the questions have started. I think about trying to explain, but don’t know where to begin.
    ‘No. I mean, yes. Jane…’
    Mrs Barraclough fiddles with the volume control on her hearing aid. ‘It’s just that there was a removals van.’
    ‘Removals van?’ Of course. What was I expecting—that Jane had hired a transit and done it all herself?
    ‘That’s right,’ says Mrs Barraclough. ‘Men clumping in and out of the front door. Making a terrible racket, they were.’
    ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say, thinking it must have been bad to disturb Mrs Barraclough, before wondering what on earth I’m apologizing for.
    ‘She left you then, has she?’
    ‘What? Oh no—she’s just…gone away for a while.’
    Mrs Barraclough looks confused. ‘With all that furniture?’
    Fortunately the postman chooses that moment to arrive, providing me with enough of a diversion to slip past Mrs Barraclough and out of the front door. As I reach the pavement, the sound of a car horn beeping loudly makes me jump, and I turn round angrily to see Dan’s BMW speeding