One in a Million

‘But you don’t want to break up?’

He inclined his head once in agreement.

‘Correct.’

‘So why aren’t you banging her door down with a bunch of flowers the size of China and begging her to take you back?’

‘Firstly, because I still have a shred of self-respect,’ Sam replied, picking a speck of lint from his shoulder. ‘And secondly because she isn’t home. She texted me this morning to say she’s gone away with her friends, on a …’ he paused, looked around and then cleared his throat. ‘A bitch trip.’

The very idea of this man being involved with a woman who would go away on a bitch trip was blowing my mind.

‘If she’s away, why don’t you go home?’ I asked, settling myself down on my favourite bench. He shook his head stiffly and reluctantly took a seat beside me.

‘One of her friends is flatsitting,’ he replied. ‘Besides, she asked me to leave, I can’t let myself back in while she’s in another country. It wouldn’t be right.’

Some men were too honourable for their own good. Not many, but at least one.

‘On your own blow-up bed be it,’ I said. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

He pulled out his phone, an actual Motorola Razr that I couldn’t quite believe still worked, and scanned his texts.

‘She’ll be gone for at least two weeks,’ he replied. ‘And she says not to call because she won’t answer.’

Classic.

‘Which means she wants you to call,’ I said, holding out my hand for his phone. Rather than pass it over, he looked at me oddly, snapped it shut and slipped it back into his coat pocket.

‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Sam said, untying and retying his abundant ponytail. ‘Why would she tell me not to call if really what she wanted was the opposite?’

‘Don’t ask me, I don’t make the rules,’ I replied. ‘But if she really didn’t want to talk to you, she’d just block your number or end your call when you tried to ring. This is a test, Sam. And you’re failing.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘And can you stop calling me Sam?’

I looked at him, sitting there on the bench in his baggy jeans, worn-out polo shirt and hideous, hideous donkey jacket, such a supremely sad look on his face. I hadn’t just been given an opportunity to win a bet. I’d been given an opportunity to perform an act of extreme kindness, to do something good for another person, for the whole planet. The universe had dropped Sam in my lap for a reason and that reason had to help him back onto the path of true love. And possibly to set fire to that bloody awful coat while I was at it.

‘She’s away for at least two weeks, that gives us lots of time,’ I said, running the pendant of my necklace back and forth as my brain ticked over. ‘When was the last time you and Elaine went on holiday?’

‘Four years ago,’ he said. ‘We spent a weekend in Dorset in her aunt’s caravan. It was dreadful.’

‘Have you ever taken her for brunch?’

‘It’s a made-up meal,’ he replied. ‘And I won’t waste money on it.’

‘And when was the last time you bought her flowers?’

‘No flowers. I have hay fever.’

Anyone else would have given up then and there. Anyone else would have washed their hands of this ridiculous situation, marched straight back into Charlie Wilder’s office and admitted defeat. But I could not. At least, not without a fight.

‘Dr Samuel Page, today is your lucky day. I am going to help you,’ I said. ‘As of right now, you are enrolled in the Annie Higgins School of Better Boyfriends,’ I announced with a flourish. ‘Boyfriend Bootcamp, if you will. I’m going to teach you how to be the best bloody boyfriend on the face of the earth. By the time we’re finished, Elaine will be back from her holiday and you will be the living embodiment of her perfect man.’

His face looked … Well, who knew what his face looked like under the beard, but his eyes were not nearly as grateful as I’d have hoped.

‘How are you qualified to run a boyfriend bootcamp, exactly?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Moving on,’ I replied with a slap on the knee. ‘We’ll go through all the basics. Listening, doing nice things without being asked, planning ahead for special occasions, making the bed, putting the toilet seat down, accepting that sometimes it’s nice to have throw pillows on the bed for absolutely no reason and you don’t have to make a massive fuss about it.’

‘And what’s in this for you?’ Sam looked extremely dubious about my plan. ‘Other than some sort of sadistic pleasure, clearly. You don’t even know me.’

‘What makes you think I’m not offering out of the goodness of my own heart?’ I asked, pulling on my coin pendant.

‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘How silly of me. What a wonderful, generous person you are. Do they still have the Pride of Britain awards? Let’s get you one of those. Or perhaps we go all out and nominate you for a knighthood.’

I had a feeling he was being sarcastic.

‘I did always want a Blue Peter badge,’ I replied. ‘Any chance you know anyone at the BBC?’

Sam ignored me. ‘What’s the catch?’

I truly was a terrible liar so there wasn’t any point trying to pretend.

‘Do you know Martin? Who owns The Ginnel?’

He curled up his bottom lip to make a not especially impressed face and nodded.

‘What about Charlie from the advertising agency upstairs?’

‘Haven’t come across him as far as I’m aware,’ he replied. ‘But who knows who else has been letting themselves in my office without my knowledge?’

‘Well, Charlie and Martin were being rude about my job and my company and so, we made a bet that I couldn’t make a random person famous on Instagram inside thirty days,’ I explained, holding out my hand to shush him when his mouth flew open. ‘Before you say no, I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to, your involvement will be super-minimal and we won’t post anything without your approval.’

‘Absolutely not,’ he said, getting up with a face like thunder. I didn’t need to get to know him better to understand how completely averse he was to this plan. ‘I hate Facebook and I can’t even claim to understand Twitter. Why would I even consider this, just to help someone I don’t even know win a bet?’

‘Good news, this isn’t Facebook or Twitter,’ I said with accompanying jazz hands. ‘It’s Instagram.’

From the look on his face, that was not an improvement on the other two platforms.

‘And before you say no, I reckon we can sell at least a thousand copies of your book in the first month,’ I added quickly. ‘If not more.’

That caught his attention. He stopped pacing next to the bench and held onto the back to steady himself.

‘But I’ve only sold forty-seven copies of it,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘And it’s been out for two years.’

‘Really?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘And you’re still writing another one?’

He nodded, then rested his forearms on his knees, folding his limbs as though he were trying to pack himself away.

‘I could come up with any number of inspirational quotes right now,’ I told him, shuffling closer but still keeping a safe distance. ‘But the best thing I can do is exactly what I do every single day: get you online and sell the shit out of your book. And I’ll help you get your girlfriend back at the same time. Doesn’t sound like too bad of a bargain, does it?’