The Rebuilding of Tom Cooper

  ‘A gloriously self-aware satirical romp through the terrors of relationships, family life and survival. Philip Roth meets Cold Feet’

  Helen Lederer (Absolutely Fabulous, Losing It)

  ‘Spencer Brown is endlessly inventive and delightfully, dependably silly, like a joy-seeking missile’

  Richard Ayoade (The IT crowd, Submarine)

  ‘Hilarious and heart-warming’

  Andi Osho (Live at the Apollo, Curfew)

  ‘Very funny. Peep Show combined with Outnumbered. But you know. In a book’

  Josh Howie (Josh Howie’s Losing It, BBC Radio 4)

  ‘Is there a term for chick lit for men? If so, this is it. Tom Cooper is an aspirational figure for the men of today’

  Omid Djalili (The Infidel, Live at the Apollo)

  SPENCER BROWN

  www.marottebooks.com

  For Sarah

  Wednesday Morning

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  It’s the first thing that Arthur says when he wanders into my room.

  I don’t know how to answer. The worst part of me wants to lead with ‘getting stuffed by a stranger’, but the better part prevails. Besides, I don’t want to end up inadvertently starting the sex conversation. Or giving him a completely fallacious idea about the techniques involved in taxidermy.

  ‘Um… Mummy’s out.’

  ‘When’s she coming back?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘…Where’s Mummy?’ Carrie’s decided to join us, stretching the sleep out as she yawns.

  ‘She’s out,’ Arthur interjects.

  ‘When’s she back?’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ says Arthur. Carrie looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Who’s taking me to nursery?’

  ‘Looks like it’ll be me today.’

  ‘But Tuesday’s not your day.’

  She’s right. Tuesday’s not my day. Unfortunately, it’s Wednesday. She really has no idea what day it is.

  ‘I’m doing it this week.’

  ‘OK.’ They both shrug and go out of the room.

  Is this how it happens? How you tell your children their mother’s left? She’s out, I don’t know when she’ll be back. Every day that passes they become more and more suspicious, until around the time of puberty when they finally realise she’s gone. But by then it’s no big deal anyway.

  I need to have a talk. I take them through for breakfast and start to assemble their regular cereal combos – Weetabix and Coco Pops for Arthur, Weetabix and Cheerios for Carrie. I should sweeten the deal.

  ‘You can just have Coco Pops and Cheerios today if you want.’

  ‘But it’s not the weekend,’ says Arthur.

  ‘It’s not the weekend,’ echoes Carrie. Shut up, you have literally no idea whether it’s the weekend or not.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I shrug. Carrie seizes the opportunity and nods like a crazy person. But Arthur’s suspicious.

  ‘Has something bad happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Last time you let me have just Coco Pops in the week, Grandad had died… the other time was Christmas,’ says Arthur.

  ‘Don’t worry, no one’s died.’

  ‘Is it Christmas?’ Carrie asks. Jesus, this puts the whole days of the week thing in the shade.

  ‘It’s not Christmas. Look – you both need to sit down.’ They move to the table, and even Carrie is starting to sense that something’s wrong. I start speaking to the accompaniment of slurping and spoons against china.

  ‘OK. Now, what I’m going to tell you might make you feel a bit sad and a bit confused. It might even make you feel a bit angry.’ Sad, confused and angry: these are emotions they can understand. I’m dealing with this well.

  Slurp.

  ‘Your mummy and I both love you very much.’ Slurp. Slurp. ‘But Mummy has decided that maybe she doesn’t love Daddy any more. So Mummy and Daddy won’t be living together from now on.’

  ‘Mummy’s stopped loving you?’ Carrie turns this over in her head. I nod. She thinks for a while. Then a look of panic takes over. ‘Will Mummy stop loving us?’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly.’ She’s about to cry. Fucking Sally. ‘Mummies and daddies always love their children. It’s just sometimes they stop loving each other.’ Carrie takes this in, trying to process.

  ‘So… who does Mummy love now?’

  ‘She doesn’t love anyone,’ I tell her, ‘she just—’

  ‘Austin. I think Mummy loves Austin,’ Carrie interrupts. Austin? Who’s Austin? I have literally no idea who Austin is.

  ‘Who’s Austin, Carrie? Daddy doesn’t know Austin.’

  ‘He’s a man me and Mummy meet sometimes in London.’

  ‘London? What? When!?’ I’m trying to stay cool. This is not how this was meant to go. ‘When did this happen, love?’

  ‘When I’m at nursery.’

  ‘You can’t go when you’re at nursery.’

  ‘No, silly. I don’t go to nursery those days.’

  ‘You don’t…’ I’m at a loss for words. I mean, for God’s sake. It’s a Montessori. It’s one thing to be fucking someone behind your husband’s back – but taking your kid out of pre-paid childcare…

  ‘We did it yesterday.’ I have to clarify – yesterday for Carrie just means some time in the past.

  ‘Yesterday? Tuesday?’

  ‘No, today is Tuesday, silly. We can’t do it today yesterday.’

  Montessori was Sally’s fucking idea. I would have been perfectly happy with a normal nursery. That was free. But no, we’re paying for Montessori and our daughter still doesn’t know what fucking day it is.

  But this is not over. Arthur has yet to make a contribution.

  ‘I think she loves Peter.’ Another name I don’t know. Why do I feel I’ve lost control of the conversation? Carrie doesn’t miss a beat.

  ‘No, Peter is silly. No one would love Peter.’ She knows Peter too? How do they both know Peter!?!

  ‘When did you meet Peter?’ I ask.

  ‘We see him all the time,’ says Arthur. ‘He’s nice. He comes over when you work late.’ Shoot me. Shoot me now.

  ‘It might be Luke.’ says Carrie. No more names; please no more names.

  ‘It won’t be Luke. Luke is just Mum’s friend.’

  ‘Maybe Gary then?’ Gary. For God’s sake.

  But at least I know Gary. And I know he’s a nob. He’s Arthur’s friend Henry’s dad. And completely unthreatening. Far worse looking than me and he has a really annoying voice that’s constantly breaking like he’s a teenager about to go through the big change. Sally and me used to take the piss out of it all the time. Phew. A moment of calm amidst the storm. I come in all Zen.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about the other three, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Gary.’

  ‘Hmm…’ muses Carrie. ‘Well, Mummy was kissing Gary when he came to pick Henry up on the play date, but maybe she doesn’t love him.’ Thanks for clarifying that, darling daughter. I don’t believe this. Is she shagging bloody everybody?!? Arthur agrees with his younger sibling.

  ‘I think you’re right. She likes kissing Gary, but she doesn’t love him. I said he was annoying and she agreed.’

  They have opinions on this. They have actual opinions. Jesus – why didn’t these fuckers sit me down for a conversation?

  I can’t take any more. This has to stop.

  ‘Well,’ I say, trying to sound authoritative. ‘I think we’re just going to have to not know for a while. Maybe we’ll find out soon, but sometimes it’s better not to draw conclusions before you have all the evidence.’

  Carrie opens her mouth to talk. ‘But—’

  I cut her of
f. ‘Let’s not introduce any more names into the mix.’ Carrie looks a little crestfallen, but I’ve got to take care of myself as well.

  ‘Why don’t you both go to your bedrooms and get dressed?’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ says Carrie.

  ‘Just go and find your clothes. I’ll be through in a sec. Daddy needs a few minutes to himself.’

  They leave. I’m pretty sure I hear Carrie mention the name Michael on the way out.

  And then I’m alone with my thoughts.

  Three guys. Maybe four. For God’s sake. Although, you have to admit doing that behind my back with a full time job was logistically impressive.

  I sit there for a few seconds in silence. Or as near to silence as it gets with two kids and a flat with one too few rooms to accommodate a family. Well, most of a family.

  I feel numb. Empty.

  I go to get myself a bowl of cereal. I get the Weetabix from the cupboard, but change my mind.

  I think I deserve just Coco Pops today.

  Work

  Word gets round work pretty quick about Sally. I stupidly mention it to Carly at the photocopier, and soon everyone knows. Lucy’s the first to come and talk to me.

  ‘Sorry to hear about Sally. That must really hurt. Do you want to talk about it?’

  I pause. They say when men talk about their problems, they’re looking for solutions, whereas women just want to share how they feel. That’s bullshit. I’m not sure there is a solution to this. But I do want to tell her how I feel. How much it hurts that I’ve been abandoned, rejected. I don’t want to be one of these idiot men who just bottles it all in. Copes with pain by cracking bad jokes.

  ‘No thanks. I’m all right.’

  Well, at least I didn’t crack a joke.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind…’ I nod, gratefully. I’ve only spoken to this woman once before, and she’s supporting me. It’s so weird. It’s not long before Annie comes over too.

  ‘Heard about your wife. I remember her from the Christmas party. I have to say I’m not a hundred percent surprised.’

  ‘No, we liked each other then.’ Annie doesn’t do a good job of covering her scepticism.

  ‘Well, if you need to talk about it...’

  ‘Thanks.’

  This is nice. Maybe not all women are awful. Most of them seem pretty damn lovely. Which makes it all the worse that I managed to choose a bad one.

  It’s 11:00 am before the first male approach. Andy, my immediate boss, comes over.

  ‘Hey, Tom. Look – that report that’s due. Take another week if you need it.’

  ‘Thanks Andy. I appreciate that.’ Take another week? Why, yes. Yes, I will.

  But it’s not just him; Anthony overhears, clearly inspired by the male-on-male action, and wants to join the party.

  ‘Don’t worry about the spreadsheets either. I can get them done myself.’

  ‘Thanks Anthony.’ Oh my God. This is awesome. No report, no spreadsheets. The next few days are really starting to open up for me.

  Then John turns round in his swivel chair. Now let me be clear – I hate John. John hates me. John is my arch-nemesis. I hate his little weaselly face, his stupid elongated beard; I hate everything about him. We don’t talk. We haven’t for about two years, since the first day he started working here when we went out for a beer and realised we hated each other. But even he wants to be part of this.

  ‘Look – that pint you owe me; don’t worry about that either.’ Wow. I mean, I was never going to get him a pint back anyway, but now it’s official. This is more like it. Maybe the male way is better. Practical solutions. They’re not letting me express myself, not letting me discuss my feelings, but I just got a free pint and what amounts to a week off work. Men get a bad rap, but this has done a damn good job of cheering me up.

  Carol comes over. She’s the office manager, the only person here over fifty-five. She looks like you want a granny to look – none of these weird asymmetric haircuts and multi-coloured dye jobs my mum swears by. But I appreciate the fact that she’s bothering to talk to me. Probably for some more ‘emotional stuff’, but still…

  ‘I heard about Sally; it must be very tough.’

  ‘Thanks, Carol. I appreciate that.’

  ‘Well, I just want to say – it’s going to be a difficult few months. I know from when my husband left that it can be very lonely. So, if you ever need some company…’

  What a nice woman. She really is a nice woman.

  ‘Well, I’ve got my kids to take my mind off things,’ I smile. Carol is not smiling; she is looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘Yes, but there’re certain forms of company your children can’t provide you with.’

  I pause for a second. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? I think she’s saying what I think she’s saying.

  ‘All I’m saying is, if you ever need some kind of… relief. You can give me a call.’

  Yeah, definitely what I think she’s saying.

  ‘Um. Thanks, Carol. That’s very nice of you.’ I’m not going to take her up on it, but I should at least express a little gratitude for the offer.

  She smiles, nods a ‘you’re welcome’, and heads off back to her desk. Then she turns back.

  ‘I’m very good with my hands,’ she says before leaving.

  Wow. I think I just got offered a hand-job by Granny Carol. I guess you could call that ‘practical’. Just goes to show you should never accept stereotypes. I wonder if she’d expect me to return the favour? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to take her up on it, but I appreciate the gesture.

  It’s funny being a man. If some 60-year-old guy approached a recently separated woman and said he was ‘available for physical relief’ it would be despicable. Repulsive. He’d be fired. And rightly so. But the same thing happens to a man, and you’re like ‘well, good to know I’ve got a back-up in the bag.’ What a nice woman. She really is a nice woman.

  And then it strikes me. I’m single.

  For the first time since I was twenty-nine years old, I’m single. I’ve been so busy thinking about the kids, and Sally, and what’s happened, that it hadn’t even struck me there’s a future. And I’m in it. Alone. With no-one.

  And I’m old.

  Well, thirty-nine, but that’s old. I’ve got baggage. I’ve got kids, a broken marriage. That’s off-putting. What if I never find anyone? Am I going to die alone? I’ve got – what – forty years ahead of me? ALONE? I’m ALONE. My future is a mass of emptiness punctuated by Carol’s occasional hand-jobs. OH GOD. I’ve started accepting them now. What is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with me?

  I run out of the office through the fire exit and into the emergency stairwell beyond. Standing on the concrete steps, surrounded by bare walls, I can hear my breathing echo through the right-angled space around me. I sit down, feeling the cold of the step through the seat of my trousers. And I start to cry. It’s only taken fifteen hours, and I’m crying like a 39-year-old baby.

  That’s when I see her standing there – some woman from another office. I haven’t seen her around before. And now she’s caught me in the act.

  ‘Bad day?’

  This is embarrassing. I try to get myself together.

  ‘Laptop’s on the blink again. Lost a memo I was writing.’

  She’s clearly seen me crying, but is nice enough to pretend she hasn’t. She’s kind of cool looking but not too try-hard. Probably from the dotcom company downstairs. She’s dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and cardie, but doesn’t seem like she’s in costume as a ‘creative person’. She’s wearing heavy-framed specs that look like they do in eyewear adverts, rather than the face-distorting bottle bottoms I rock when I’m not in lenses. It’s kind of annoying. But she smiles at me sympathetically. It’s amazing the difference a smile can make.

  ‘Must have been a long memo.’

  ‘I’d nearly completed a whole paragraph.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, as someone who’s lost a few m
emos herself, you just have to move on. There’s plenty more memos waiting to be written.’

  I’m not quite sure how to continue the conversation. I’m pretty sure this is all a metaphor, but there is a small chance we are just talking about memos. I go with the metaphor.

  ‘I’ve only just lost that one,’ I explain. ‘I don’t think I’ll be starting any new memos for a while.’

  If this is just about memos, I just sounded like the weirdest office worker ever. I’ll know in a second when she moves onto minutiae of formatting.

  ‘Well, they’ll be there when you’re ready for them.’ She offers a conciliatory smile and heads off up the stairs. ‘Oh, and remember to double space after a full stop.’

  She disappears. Now I’m really confused.

  But I feel a bit calmer. I sneak back inside and tidy myself up in the loos. I’m a wreck, but that’s to be expected. Besides, a cool-looking stranger just told me there’ll be more memos out there when I’m ready for them. Maybe she knows something.

  When I’m ready… Right now, it doesn’t feel I’ll ever be.

  Friday

  It’s 7:30 and the babysitter, Lacey, turns up. I’d forgotten we’d booked her.

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry – I forgot you were coming. Is it all right if we leave it for tonight?’