The Rebuilding of Tom Cooper Read online

  I feel a lightness come over me for the first time since Sally left. Life might be bad. But maybe I didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe it’s not my fault. My dad comes and lets me in, and for the first time in years going into my parents’ house feels a bit like walking into heaven.

  Although judging by the heat of it, it’s more likely to be the other one.

  Later

  We sit having a late lunch in the Saharan heat of my parents’ conservatory.

  ‘Can’t we eat in the dining room?’ I ask.

  ‘You know we don’t eat in the dining room,’ says my mum.

  ‘Why would you? That would be like cooking in the kitchen, or living in the living room.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. And we don’t live in the living room anyway – we mainly use the snug, so who looks silly now?’

  Arthur and Carrie aren’t eating their food. I blame myself. I’m always serving up multi-coloured meals, and now they’re sitting there in front of plates of beige. Chicken fingers, chips and… what I think are baked beans with the sauce rinsed off. She knows Carrie doesn’t like tomatoes so she’s clearly gone for a pre-emptive strike. Either that or she now treats lunch with the same sense of colour-matching she uses on her outfits. Some kind of anti-rainbow diet. Maybe her homeopath has told her she can’t mix hues.

  ‘Would you like some ketchup?’ I ask. Arthur and Carrie nod.

  ‘But she doesn’t like tomatoes,’ my mum interjects, utterly baffled by this turn of events.

  ‘She still likes ketchup.’

  I go to the cupboard, while Mum tries to compute what the hell just happened. A few seconds later and the kids’ meals are covered with an obscene amount of ketchup. If this meal was reassembled afterwards it would basically look like a bowl of tomato soup with the occasional floating oven chip. I know I’m being a terrible parent, but I let myself off. This is meant to be my day off too.

  ‘Are you OK watching them tonight if I go out?’ I ask. ‘I wanted to go to the pub with Ed.’

  Before Mum can answer, Arthur interrupts. ‘You’re going out? I don’t want you to go out.’

  Carrie is having none of it either. ‘I want Daddy to stay in. Stay in every night.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen. Unless you want me to grow old and grey, sad and single, I’ve got to go out sometimes.’

  ‘Old and grey, sad and single,’ they both begin to chant. Before long it has become the most hilarious thing ever, my worst-case scenario future becoming a song of childhood before my eyes. Well, I guess it happened with Ring a Ring o’ Roses. If those plague victims had realised the pleasure ‘we all fall down’ would bring to generations of four-year-olds, maybe they would have felt slightly comforted during their horrific and painful deaths.

  ‘Old and grey, sad and single.’

  Maybe not.

  ‘Old and grey, sad and single.’

  ‘So is that OK, Mum?’

  ‘Old and grey, sad and single.’

  ‘We’re actually going round to Phil and Jenny’s tonight for bridge.’

  ‘Old and grey, sad and single.’

  ‘So I’m afraid we won’t be able to help.’

  Arthur adds a topper: ‘And stinnnnkkkyyyyyy!’ Cue belly laughs all round.

  Fucking great. This is my life.

  Tuesday

  The next morning, Mum reads to the kids from the remnants of my childhood library while I work in the room next door. The soundtrack of dated children’s stories doesn’t do great things for my concentration. Particularly as, to prop up the inane plotlines, all of them seem to have a sprinkling of casual racism: Tintin talking to pidgin-Englished natives, Topsy and Tim dressing up as gypsies; the highlight being them mocking up blackface with some cocoa power. Well, here’s hoping they suggest that activity next time someone offers them hot chocolate on a play date.

  I’m also spending ridiculous amounts of time in the toilet. Not due to any kind of problem – it’s the only place to truly escape. I did a forty-five minute session today – all I needed was a wee. That said, I do now know what poutine is (a weird Canadian chip-based dish) and how I’d look as a pensioner… and man, apparently… thanks for that, FaceApp.

  Still – I should probably cut down on the loo time. At this rate, in twenty years I’m going to be part of a major epidemic of Internet-related piles. From now on I’m going to become a more focused individual who doesn’t waste his time on insignificant distractions, either in the loo or out of it. Huh?!? FaceApp has a new Hollywood filter.

  I’ll start after that.

  Afternoon

  Mum’s feeling ‘very tired’ after lunch, so I take the kids to the playground. You’ve got to be considerate – I don’t want her putting in a substandard performance tonight playing outdated card games.

  It’s weird being at the playground I used to go to as a kid. A few things have changed since the Eighties, but not much. Carrie and Arthur don’t care either way – the locals have filled the paddling pool as it’s freakishly hot. Twenty-two degrees – how that happens in October I have no idea. Maybe some heat has leaked out of my parents’ house?

  The kids strip their clothes off and jump in. I try to push them to keep their pants on, but by the time they’re a couple of feet from the edge any illusion of control has disappeared.

  ‘Come in the pool, Daddy!’

  ‘No thanks, love.’ As much as I enjoy wading through a puddle of dilute child piss, I think I’ll pass…

  I look around. It’s mainly mums and nannies – there’s just me and one other dad who looks vaguely normal. There’s another dad here too, but he’s got a tattoo on his face of… what I think are Peppa and Daddy Pig. Well, if you’re going to make yourself unemployable, why not indulge a pre-schooler’s two-year fad while you’re at it? I might not initiate a conversation.

  One of the nannies looks over and gives me a smile. I smile back. Just standard being-at-the-playground friendliness – I don’t give it a second thought.

  But then she smiles again. And I start to wonder… Does it mean something? I’ve been out of that world for so long, I don’t know anymore.

  I shake myself out of it. I’m being ridiculous. A month ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about someone smiling – I was smiling at parents left, right and centre. I call to Carrie and Arthur not to splash too much, and the nanny looks over at them. She smiles again – that’s right. I’m a great dad – she’s impressed. Maybe she does like me.

  Then suddenly, looking at Arthur, her face drops. She looks at me with a mild look of horror, then averts her eyes. I’m left with no idea of what’s just happened.

  I call Arthur over. No horrendous bruises – she’s not thinking I’m beating him… I look him up and down… nothing… What the hell was she thinking? Then my eyes fix on something. Was she looking at… his penis?

  I think it’s always been there in the back of my mind that my son has a weirdly shaped penis. But it’s something you ignore. Something you try not to think about. But now, looking around at a couple of other little boy penises (something I generally try to avoid) – I realise ‘Little Arthur’ is definitely… unusual. I mean, it’s sort of normal at the top, but then it goes all weird and long like the stem on a wine glass. Obviously, it doesn’t suddenly fan out at the bottom so you can stand it on a table but you get the idea. More like one of those disposable picnic wineglasses where the base comes off.

  Specifics aside – it’s an outlier. And then I realise: this woman must think he got it from me.

  Now, obviously this doesn’t matter, because I’m 150 miles from my home, and she’s probably just being friendly. But technically I’m on the market now. Well, maybe not quite yet… but eventually. This could nuke a relationship. All it takes is for some potential date to catch a glimpse of the offending article, and mine will never get a look in. I’ve got about a three second window before they make the mental leap, and pulling out ‘Little Tom’ in the intervening period seems like it might do more harm than good.

  ‘Let’s get you dressed, Artie,’ I say.

  ‘But Carrie’s still in the pool,’ he protests. That’s ‘cos Carrie doesn’t have a weird penis.

  I get Arthur dressed, wrapping the towel round his body while I dry him so no one else can get a glimpse. The nanny still won’t meet my eyes. God. I bet Sally’s dad had a weird penis like this. That’s where Arthur must have got it from. It must be a Livingstone trait. I bet her brother has it too. Unless it was Sally’s grandfather. It could have skipped a couple of generations. Oh God – I’m falling down a rabbit hole of imagining my ex’s family naked. My head is currently hosting the world’s worst swingers’ party.

  It’d be good to find out though. For peace of mind. Maybe it starts weird in childhood but then turns into a normal one in puberty. The thin bit is just room to expand into. Someone was telling me German lederhosen do that. There are buttons ready to undo because they know you’re going to get fat in a few years. Maybe this is the lederhosen of penises.

  God, I have no way of finding out. If Sally does ever talk to me again, she won’t be willing to ask her family. Her dad’s dead anyway. I could push for the disinterment of his corpse, but it’s been two years and the penis must be one of the first bits to go. Maybe I should send Arthur in to spy on the brother. Give him a weekend with his uncle and instruct him to have a look. God, I sound like a reverse bloody paedophile – try and get your uncle alone and have a look at his willy.

  ‘Ok – pants on!’ How to say this? ‘Now, Arthur. You’re becoming a very big boy now, so it’s probably best that you always wear pants or trunks in the pool… You probably shouldn’t let strangers see your willy.’

  ‘Why not?’ Arthur clearly isn’t happy about this 19th century attitude towards nudity.

  ‘Because a willy is a very private and special thing, and you only show it to people you know very well.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why?’ Oh God. I’m giving my son a complex.

  This is bad. This is very bad. Why didn’t I just keep my stupid mouth shut?

  I scan my brain for ideas. ‘I’ll tell you why…’ Will you now? ‘The reason is…’ What exactly is the reason? ‘Because…’ We’re waiting… ‘Because everyone else…’ Yes? ‘…will be jealous.’

  What?!?

  He pauses for a second to think about this. ‘Because my willy is nicer than theirs?’

  I pause for a second. ‘Exactly that.’

  Arthur seems pleased. Very pleased. Hmm! Excellent parenting! Problem solved. And all it needed was for me to give my child massive overconfidence about his genitals. As long as he doesn’t start creating tributes to it in his art lesson, this has worked out well.

  Really hope it does the lederhosen thing…

  Wednesday – M40 Motorway

  The kids are asleep in the back of the car. Great for music options but probably means they’ll be up till midnight tonight. Still, I change Best of Disney for The National, and the mildly depressing music really lifts my mood. This is as close to grown-up time as it gets these days.

  It’s a relief to be on the way home. My parents are lovely, but given the chance, they don’t leave the house all day. They’re happy just sitting around in their ergonomic armchairs, reading a local paper or watching daytime television on iPlayer. They even watch it in the evening. Who watches daytime TV in the evening? It’s like ordering beans on toast at a good restaurant. Actually, my mum might do that. As long as the sauce was rinsed off.

  Is this what the future has in store for me? Sitting in a hermetically sealed room doing nothing but taking occasional breaks to eat beige food. These people created me. Unless the driven go-getter gene has the same generation-skipping quality of the weird penis one – this is my destiny.

  They must have been driven in their younger days. They both started their own businesses. That’s impressive. I haven’t done that. I just sit in an office adding up bloody numbers. That is not what I wanted for my life. I wanted to be creative, to be exciting. I used to be exciting in my early twenties. I was in a band for God’s sake. Unexciting people aren’t in bands.

  And we were actually pretty good. Admittedly, some of the songs weren’t 100% appropriate for the gigs. My uncle kicked up a right fuss when we played To the Grave at his fiftieth. It was meant to be a metaphor for stress, but I suppose I can see how it might come across as a specific statement about his remaining life expectancy. We even shared a bill with Coldplay once. About four hours earlier and they weren’t that good then, but that is still factually true.

  But look at me now. I’m nothing. My parents must have been hustling the whole time. I need to hustle. And to get organised. I mean, at least once a fortnight, I’m forced to re-wear some pants. This is not the kind of person I want to be: digging through my washing basket every other Friday trying to sniff out the best option. Like a bloodhound with an interspecies underwear fetish.

  I need to make a change. I should start looking for a new job. Yeah. Make that bloody Sally realise what she’s given up. A new start. A new me.

  This is good. Right – I need to work out a plan of action. A list. A list is always good.

  OK:

  Get a new job and hustle.

  Be more creative. Maybe restart band.

  Do some visualisations. Everybody seems to do those who does well. Jim Carrey was all over them before he went all Eckhart Tolle.

  Buy more pants. An extra three pairs should do it. It’ll probably just mean I go longer between washes… Maybe put a clean pair in a bag in the bottom of the washing basket, so I know it’s time to do a wash when I’m forced to search it out. Could even put a laundry tab in the SAME BAG! THESE IDEAS ARE GOLD!

  Stop being on phone when with kids. Don’t want their memories of me to be of a man staring at his fucking handset. Hmm… May just lead to extra time in the toilet…

  Service Station Stop

  I take a break at the service station and treat myself to a Flake. I still don’t understand how something so emasculating can be so delicious.

  They should make a Man-Flake. That would be great. There’s nothing essentially feminine about an elegant stick of crumbly chocolate. Maybe when you phrase it like that there is, but… They should think about making them look more phallic. That always works. Maybe not with food. Sure, we want our cars to look like a big cock, but when you have to put it in your mouth it probably takes the edge off the whole penis thing.

  I can imagine the advert. All these men standing round on a building site, eating chocolate cocks. It can’t fail. Particularly as bits crumble off as they bite in. Who doesn’t want to eat a confectionery phallus that looks like it has leprosy?

  Note to self: new job probably shouldn’t be in chocolate design.

  Thursday

  A new job came up at work today. Completely freaked out. On the train to work I was doing my first visualisations, and now something’s actually happened. Probably a coincidence, but I may have to read Sally’s copy of The Secret. Hmm – wonder if all this cosmic ordering stuff can differentiate between visualisations and dreams? Had a very vivid nightmare last night. Hopefully I haven’t accidentally ordered up a sex session with a goblin dominatrix.

  Anyway – so I’m talking to Carol about something, when she suddenly looks at her computer screen and gives this ‘hmph’ noise.

  ‘Something interesting?’

  Carol sighs. ‘Just annoying. One of the creatives has been poached by Mother – I’ve got to suspend his access to the database.’ Lucky him. No one ever poaches an in-house accountant. But my mind is ticking over… hustle, hustle, hustle.

  ‘Um… do you know what they’re doing about his job?’

  Ten Minutes Later

  I go down to HR only to have Layla tell me to get back to Accounts, but I’m not taking no for an answer, so I get in the lift to the upper floor, where the big boss is. I don’t care if this works out. I feel empowered for the first time in… forever. Definitely since Frozen songs became the default structure of my thought patterns.

  I head over to Jack Canonbury’s office – Maestro J: the self-styled genius of advertising, and ask his assistant if I can have a quick word. She looks sceptical, but when I tell her I’m from Accounts, she perks up. That’s the thing with us accountants – we don’t waltz up and see the boss on a frivolous whim about ‘becoming more creative’. We usually have something important and boring to say, and people respect that. She buzzes him on the intercom.

  ‘Jack, I’ve got Tom from Accounts to see you.’

  ‘Accounts… What did you say his name was?’ says the Maestro.

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Hmm… all right, better send him in.’

  I enter the office. The walls are covered with various print ads and stills from TV commercials. Strange objects with no utility whatsoever adorn the shelves, from vintage typewriters to a strange taxidermy hybrid of a cat with a mouse head. In the centre of it all is a middle-aged man, trying to do tricks with a fidget spinner. Fucking hell, these creative people have got it sussed. As long as you come up with an idea every week or so you can do what the hell you want all day.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me for the first few seconds – Hmm – I’d forgotten how funny looking he is. Kind of like a weird little goblin. A GOBLIN. Oh God. I over-visualised. I’m going to have to goblin-fuck my way to a career change.

  ‘Tom, isn’t it? Accounts?’