Dinner and flowers. Once.
And how did that go?
Shit. She left halfway through the date, said her mum was having an emergency.
LOL. Fuck that. What fucking bullshit. So, what are you going to do about your job?
I dunno. Going to take some time out. I’ve got savings.
And? What will you do with your time out?
Haven’t really thought about it. Maybe try to start something up, a company. Something like that.
You need a plan, mate. Otherwise you’ll wake up one morning and your savings will be gone and you’ll have put on a stone and have nothing to show for any of it but a load of trousers that don’t fit you any more.
I’m not sure I’m ready for making a plan.
YourLoss doesn’t reply for quite some time. Owen wriggles slightly and clears his throat, worried that he’s said something to put him off. Then there’s a plip and another message appears.
Where d’you live, Owen?
North London.
Righty-ho. Not far from me then.
Why, where do you live?
Just outside London. Look, here’s my email address. Write to me. I’ve got a proposition for kdbookonline.com. Email me now, yeah?
Owen opens his email account, pastes Bryn’s email address into the bar and starts typing.
17
Owen and Bryn arrange to meet for a pint at a pub near Euston station.
Bryn has told Owen that he will be wearing a green jacket and has ‘a lot of hair’ and wears glasses. Owen has told Bryn that he will be wearing a black jacket and jeans and then struggled to find any other identifying features to share with him.
He walks into the pub now; it’s a scruffy mock-Tudor affair, set on a corner, with weather-beaten tables on the pavement and leaded windows. The air is thick with beer and dust. Lone men sit in corners. Owen’s eyes scan the room until they come upon a man on the left, who is looking at him with some semblance of recognition. It doesn’t somehow compute that this man might beYourLoss and Owen’s gaze passes across him. But then the man is on his feet and coming towards him. He has a strange forward-leaning gait and is short. Very short. His hair explodes from his scalp and recedes halfway back like a clown wig. The bald part of his skull is shiny and raw-looking. His green zip-up jacket has a stain on it.
‘Owen! Yes? Cool! Nice to see you, mate!’ He grabs Owen’s hand and pumps it up and down.
‘Bryn,’ says Owen. ‘Great to meet you too. Can I get you …?’ He gestures towards the bar.
‘No. No. I’m good.’
Owen gets himself a glass of red wine and heads back to Bryn’s table.
‘Well, well, well,’ says Bryn. ‘This is a turn-up for the books.’
‘It is a bit,’ Owen agrees.
The last thing he’d been expecting, in fact. Bryn had emailed him back the night before and asked him a bit more about his technical qualifications, abilities, interests, asked him about the circumstances around his resignation from the college. Owen hadn’t quite been able to fathom his intent. Then Bryn had suddenly said:This is kismet, karma, you and I were meant to meet. Drinks? Tomorrow? Euston way?
‘How’s your day been?’ he asks now.
Owen, who is unused to people asking him how his day has been, blanches slightly. ‘Good. It’s been good.’ Then, checking himself, he adds, ‘Yours?’
‘Oh, you know. Same old shit.’