Yes Man (40 page)

“I think so,” I said, knowing he was. If I was going to do this, if I was going to survive until the end of December, I was going to have to do this myself. What good is sorting out your own life, if it’s not you that’s sorting it? Where’s the achievement in being
programmed
to do something? What’s the lesson? That someone will always be there to help? If I was going to act irresponsibly, the least I could do was be
responsible
for it.

Hugh dropped me off at the station half an hour later. We sat in the car as rain began to spatter the windscreen. Hugh offered me a carton of Ribena as we waited for my train to arrive.

“When you think about it,” he said, “probably some of the best things that have ever happened to you in life, happened because you said yes to something. Otherwise things just sort of stay the same.”

We let the thought hang in the air.

“I mean, just ask Arlene. She can’t get enough of bloody wonton now. She wants me to pick some more up on the way home.”

I smiled. I’d never realised that wonton could be a real symbol of hope in this world.

“But some things we have to do for ourselves,” said Hugh. “I mean, take me …
I
had a fear once. A terrible one. But I conquered that fear. Through hard work and self-belief. Not hypnotism.”

“Oh. What were you afraid of?”

Hugh blushed.

“Dogs.”

“Dogs?!”

He nodded. “Dogs.”

I rode home to London and braced myself for the final push.

SELECTED EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A YES MAN

September 28

On the way home from Wales the other daf, I noticed an advert in the paper, reading, DO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER? and then dutifullf sent off for the information pack. They asked for a three-hundred-word sample of my writing in and genre. I chose science fiction and wrote the following this morning. I have called it, rather ominously “Future War.’

Tex McBellamy cast his eyes to the skies and smiled the smile of victory He had done it. He had single-handed taken on the entire Kraxxon race with only his trusty friend and robot, Figgy5000, for backup.

’I don’t think they’ll be coming back for more,” said Tex, which was true, because they were all dead.

“MEEP. I think that—MEEP—we should both go to the—MEEP—” said FiggfÇooo, but he was stopped from saving and more by the sudden sound of an explosion on the horizon.

“What the …,” said Tex, never intending to finish the sentence and actually leaving it at that.

“MEEP,” said FiggY5000. “MEEP.”

It was a heli-chopper, a futuristic cross between a helicopter and a chopper. It was the vehicle of choice for Senator Greenglove, the evil senator who had first imprisoned Tex all those fears ago in that cell he was in.

“Greenglove,” said Tex. “So, he’s come back to finish the job himself….”

“McBellamy!” screamed Greenglove from out of the big tannof on the front of the helichopper, and shaking his trademark green-begloved fist at Tex. “So, we meet again! Well, prepare for four doom! You know that it’s a crime now that we’re in the twenty millionth century for you to have four own thoughts and ideas! Well, you’ve had far too many of them, and you’ve had four last! So it’s back to the big prison made out of ice that I made for f ou!”

Tex groaned. He hated that big ice prison.

“You dumb bastard!” he shouted. “Why don’t you and your frozen cell just melt off! I will not return there!”

“Yes, you will!” retorted Senator Greenglove.

“FiggfÇooo,” Tex whispered. “On mf order, reverse the polarity on four positron deactivators.”

“MEEP—okay,” said Figgy5000, who, by the way, was shaped like a beautiful woman.

“Well, Senator Greenglove, I suppose I’ll have to come quietly, then …,” said Te*, but Greenglove couldn’t hear him, because he was still miles away, and Tex didn’t have a tannoy on his front like he did.

I enclosed a note with the words “To Be Continued …” and I told them that this was merely a small part of an epic Tex McBellamy trilogy I have in the pipeline. Hopefully they will like it and we can publish sometime early next fear.

October 5

Paul Lewis was the boy at my school who used to bull people. He has just found me on Friends Reunited and said we should go for a pint sometime. I had to say yes.

My most vivid memory of Paul Lewis is from the end of every school day, when he used to give Anil Patel, a boy in a wheelchair, a dead arm—just because he liked “watching him go round in circles.”

We are meeting nexf Thursday in forth.

October 7

Saw something in the Standard.
WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN PARTICIPATING IN A CLINICAL TRIAL, INVESTIGATING WOMEN’S SEXUAL LlBIDOS AFTER MENOPAUSE?

I rang the number, but it turned out I was ineligible.

Sometimes it surprises me how deep the discrimination in this country runs.

October 8

My mum has sent me an article she things I might be interested in. A girl called Laura, who I Knew when I was twelve, is now twenty-six and has opened a dried-flower shop in Trowbridge. When I unfold the article, I see that the bottom half of the paper read in very bold type,
DISCOVER MIDSOMER NORTON!

It is an advert paid for by three local businesses—Dock’s Delicatessen (“As well as selling a wide range of continental cheeses, Dock’s also sells baguettes!”); the barber Shop (“After sixteen >(ears in the business, Emma, the inspiration behind the Barber Shop, noticed a gap in the market and decided to open a men’s hair stylists in Midsomer Norton!”); and Katona Cast Stone, Ltd. (“Come to Katona Cast Stone, Ltd.—Pots, Garden Ornaments, Bird Baths, Urns, Etc.”).

Midsomer Norton is a small town near Bath. I will discover its three shops on Thursday, before meeting Paul.

October 13

Paul Lewis thinks we should stay in touch and become great friends. He is in the Territorial Army now. He says it gave him goals and focus and changed his life. He thinks I should apply too. That way we could be comrades as well as great friends. He has invited me to his stag
weekend, which will take place on a barge with his army pals. I think Paul Lewis may be planning to abduct and Kill me.

I discovered Midsomer Norton. It was all right but Dock’s was out of baguettes.

October 14

A reminder e-mail from celebrated bully, Paul Lewis, about my joining the Territorial Army. He says I should fill in their on-line application form to get more details. I go to the site and fill in the boxes. At one point it asks me if I would liKe to offer any particular skills to the TA. I click yes, and it presents me with a huge list of options. I choose “receptionist.”

October 15

I have three hairs on my chest—but not for much longer. Today I accepted a no-risk, thirty-day, money-back-guarantee trial pack from the people at HairBeGone, an “amazing new product that says good-bye to shaving, tweezing, and waxing!” I will receive my two tubes of hair-removal cream and a hair growth-inhibitor spra very soon. However, I noticed no recommendations from doctors and no safety notices, either, so who knows what it will do to my hair. It is at times like this that I wish Stuart the cat was real. I know animal experimentation is wrong, but something that hairy has to get self-conscious every now and again.

Plus: Result! If I say yes to upgrading my mobile phone to a new, fancy Siemens one, my phone company will give me a free return flight to any major European city! What a cracking Yes!

Also sent off for an information pack on learning flemish within twenty-eight day. I guess I could have chosen a different language, but I had a waffle yesterday, and I suppose the feeling just stuck.

October 16

Paul Lewis has e-mailed again. Tust to say hello.

October 17

Another e-mail from Paul Lewis. He wants to know if I want to meet up again soon. I am a bit scared of Paul Lewis.

It was 7 a.m., and my phone was ringing. What kind of society do we live in, when someone can make your phone ring at 7 a.m.? There should be rules
.

“Hello?” I said, my voice gruff and my eyes bleary.

But no one spoke.

“Hello?” I said again.

I could hear what sounded like trains in the background, and the bing-bong of a tannoy.

“Who’s there?” I said, but there was no answer. I was about to hang up, when …

“It’s Paul,” said a man. He had a northern accent and what sounded like caution in his voice. “Why? Who’s this?”

“It’s Danny.”

“Right …,” said Paul. “And what do you want?”

I was confused. What did I want? I thought about it. I didn’t know. Why was I speaking to Paul? What
did
I want?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought you called
me”

“I did,” said Paul. “I wanted to find out what you wanted.”

This isn’t the kind of conversation I’m used to having at seven in the morning.

“I’m afraid I am very confused,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know what I want. Why? What do
you
want?”

“Er … Well, I found this sticker, saying ‘Call Me,’ and then this number, and it was playing on my mind, so …”

“Oh!” I said, sitting up, suddenly on top of the situation. The mere mention of my sticker was like a slap on the face. “Yes! That’s mine! Don’t hang up!”

Amazing! It was someone who genuinely wanted to have a polite conversation!

“Right … so … what’s it all about?”

And I told him.

*   *   *

It turned out that Paul didn’t want to have a polite conversation. At least, not right then. He’d love to have one at some stage, but it’d have to be a bit later. He had to get on his train to go to work, he said, and he had a meeting first thing, which was about European strategies and business integration, and he had to go to it, because he was going to be taking the next meeting, and he wanted to make sure he knew the form, because they had a very different approach at his last company, but he did wonder whether I’d like to have a polite conversation after work, when his train got back in, which should be about a quarter past six, but could just as easily be a quarter past who-knows-when these days, what with one thing and another, but he’s been putting the hours in after work a lot recently, so he should be able to get away without any problems, really, oh look, there’s his train, he should be on his way.

To be honest I somehow felt like I’d had about six polite conversations with Paul already, but he sounded like a nice man who just wanted a chat, and I was excited to have finally had some success with the scheme. So we quietly and politely arranged to meet.

I was happy. That was precisely the kind of thing I should be doing with my life. Throwing open the doors. Seeing who walks in. Saying yes to a new friend.

I’d been doing a lot of thinking about things like this these past few days.

And much of it had been to do with what Hugh had told me.
When you think about it, probably some of the best things that have ever happened to you in life happened because you said yes to something. Otherwise things just son of stay the same
.

It was true. The more I thought about it, the easier it was to trace almost any of the best things that have ever happened to me back to one single moment of Yes. Maybe you can too. I mean, think about the best thing that ever happened to you. And now think about
how
that thing happened.

I tried it one night with Wag, over a pint.

“Wag, mate … What’s the best thing ever to have happened to you?”

“Nineteen ninety-eight. Newbury. The hour was late. Domino’s brought the wrong order round. We got four pizzas instead of—”

“Apart from that?”

He thought about it. “My girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend. And how did you meet your girlfriend?”

“A stroke of good luck. I happened to be at a gig, and so was she, and that was that.”

“Why did you go to the gig?”

“Someone asked me to cover for them. I was playing bass.”

“Okay. And you said yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And did you really want to do it?”

“No. But it was a favour.”

“Yevel three. Right. And who asked you?”

“Ben.”

“Who’s Ben?”

“A guy I met at a party.”

“Who invited you to that party?”

“Neil.”

“How did you meet Neil?”

“University.”

“You nearly didn’t go to university, though, eh?”

“Well … yeah … but …”

“So, by saying yes to going to university, you ended up meeting Neil, and he in turn helped you end up with, in your words, the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Wag looked a bit affected by it.

“Do you think I should get him a card?”

The thing I instantly realised was that at first, Wag had blamed all this on luck. But
he’d
made that luck happen. He just hadn’t realised it. He’d made a series of “correct” choices, which led him, bass in hand, to his girl. Maybe we can
all
do that. Maybe we can all change our fortunes. Maybe there’s no such thing as destiny. There’s just a series of choices we create ourselves. I guess it’s only when we look at how a No could have changed our lives for the worse that we realise the value of the tiny Yeses that fly at us each day.

It was a revelatory moment—maybe we really did all have the power to change our lives for the better by using this one simple word. Yes had made me fall for Lizzie, true, but rather than mope around, pining after a dream, maybe a Yes could help. Maybe it could at least help me get over her. Maybe it could even work again. There was now a hole where she’d been, and somehow I felt I needed to fill it. It was down to me to say yes.

I found the number Hanne had given me for her friend Kristen, I took a deep breath, and I gave her a call.

*   *   *

I found it difficult to sleep that night. I was anxious. There were a few things to be anxious about. I’d had a slightly stilted conversation with Kristen, and she’d suggested a time and a place, and I’d said, “Yes, great, that’d be nice.” But was it the right thing to be doing? It was something I would never, ever have done before—a blind date, essentially. Hanne seemed to think it was for the best. But then Hanne used to think it was okay to make smoothies at five in the morning with the loudest blender in the world. But what would Lizzie think? Fair enough, we had no future, but wasn’t it all a bit … soon? Something else was on my mind too. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Challenger had up his sleeve next. The need to unmask him was pressing. Every couple of weeks there was something else—something worse—and I was due for another sometime soon. Plus it was clear that Jason—if it was, indeed, Jason—was slowly upping the pace of his challenges. From “wear this” to “drive there” to “change your rules,” I had to find him quickly and efficiently, and before he reached the next level of mischief and intrigue. And what would that be?
“Fly
there”?
“Run
here”?
“Kill
that”? It was time to be proactive. To stop him rather than just react to his whims.