Last call for KND free Romance excerpt:
Have you ever had a relationship break-up? Yes? Then Ben Adams’ debut rom-com, Six Months to Get a Life, is the book for you.
According to his ex, Graham Hope has got a big ego and a small penis. We aren’t sure if that’s why they got divorced, but they did.
Six Months to Get a Life follows Graham as he comes to terms with being divorced. Will he get over his ex? Will he play a meaningful role in his boys’ lives? Will his friends take him under their wing? More importantly, will he ever have sex again?
WARNING: if you are looking for a sanctimonious self-hep book, then Six Months to Get a Life is not for you.
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And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:
Wednesday 26th March
My decree absolute came through today. I am officially divorced.
I have never been divorced before. I thought it would feel different – either like being released from the proverbial life sentence, or maybe in my more pessimistic moments like being a discarded cigarette, cast adrift with the life sucked out of me. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or cry. In the end I just changed my Facebook status to single and went off to work.
Despite my divorce, the world seems to be proceeding as usual. It is raining, the Russians and Ukrainians are arguing, the Northern line was packed and my fellow commuters were determined to get to work before me. Most managed it too. No one congratulated me on my divorce. No one seemed to notice that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Oh well, life goes on I suppose.
But what will life look like for a 42-year-old newly-divorced man with two kids? Am I destined to grow old alone, bitter and twisted with only the telly and the occasional visit from family I don’t really know to keep me going? Or can I make a new life for myself that involves being a proper dad, going out, meeting new people and even getting the occasional bit of sex from time to time?
Tempting as it is to wallow in self-pity, spending the months to come immersing myself in soap operas and made-up dramas rather than acting them out myself, I have, this very day, decided that I will not feel sorry for myself. I will not be ‘done to’. I won’t mope around.
In exactly six months’ time, on 26th September, I will be 43 years old. Birthdays aren’t normally a big thing for me but this one will be. I am going to throw a party and invite everyone I know. Well, maybe everyone except my ex. And my friends are going to celebrate my new life with me. I am going to get a life in the next six months.
There, I have said it. If I say it enough times I might start believing it; which is why I am writing this diary. I am making myself a commitment, setting it down in black and white, that I will take control. I will get off my backside and make things happen. I will forge a new life for myself, one with my kids, with new friends and, who knows, maybe even a new love. I will sort my life out and I will do it by my birthday.
I am going to commit events to writing whenever I can, to make myself push on rather than letting life pass me by. And you, my mythical reader, can assist me. You can let me rant without interruption. If you like, you can be my therapist but I am not paying you. Feel free to kick me up the backside when you are reading this and you notice too much negativity. Don’t go easy on me either. If you’ll forgive me a football analogy, don’t be Phil Neal to my Graham Taylor; ‘do I not like that’. I don’t want your loyalty. I want you to push me to get over my divorce and achieve a new life that is fulfilling and fun for me and my kids.
Just so that you get to know me a bit, and maybe even empathise with me, I will tell you a bit about me and my situation. My name is Graham Hope. I am a 42-year-old divorcee with two kids – Jack, fourteen, and Sean, twelve. I did have a wife but I haven’t got one now. I did have a great house in Raynes Park on the edge of leafy Surrey but I haven’t got that now either.
I am no Brad Pitt or Harry Styles in the looks department, or any other department for that matter. I have a more ‘lived in’ look, with a big nose and teeth that belong to a 42-year-old man rather than a Barbie doll. I am no ugly fat mug either, mind.
I am currently living with my parents in Morden, at the end of the northern line and just past the end of civilisation. That’s a double whammy if ever there was one. I am living with my parents. And I am living in Morden.
Am I bitter about my situation? Well, if truth be told, yes, sometimes I am. My divorce has forced a radical rethink of my dreams. Gone are the thoughts of growing old with my ex, travelling the world, seeing the sights and occasionally popping home to hear about Jack’s latest move during the football transfer window and Sean’s latest century for England. Now I have resorted to dreaming about my chances of pulling Kylie Minogue. OK, so the dreams are still OK but the problems start when I wake up and realise my future isn’t as mapped out as it used to be.
You will notice that I keep referring to ‘my ex’. I have this thing about telling you her name. She is a person and until recently she was important in my life. I suppose as the mother of our children she is still important. But this diary is not about her; it is about me. If you want to read her diary then you are in the wrong place. If you want to sympathise with her then feel free but I won’t be giving you any help. She does actually write a diary; well, she used to, at least. I flicked through it once when I came across it when I was looking for her car keys in her handbag. The one comment that stuck in my mind was, ‘Graham has a big ego and a small dick. I wish it was the other way around.’
Back to me; in the wake of my divorce I’m a little bit lonely, missing my kids when they aren’t with me, worried about money and petrified about how long it will be before I feel loved again. In short, I have a long way to go to sort my life out. But on the positive side, I have some ideas. I might try internet dating as it could be a bit of a laugh, I am looking forward to saying ‘yes’ a few more times when my mates ask me out for a beer and … actually I can’t think of anything else positive at the moment.
My mates didn’t ask me out for a beer tonight. There was no football on the telly either. So tonight I stayed in with my dad and drank London Pride out of a can, which is pretty much how I have spent most evenings since my wife and I went our separate ways (she didn’t go anywhere but I came here). My dad has fallen asleep with his head on the table now, so I have been left in peace to give myself a pep talk.
Taking control of my life is a start, but if you take control of a car and don’t know where you are going, you may well go round in circles or worse still end up in Morden. So I need to set some goals. The therapists on the telly are always telling people to have goals. So after much thought and another can of London Pride, here are mine. By my 43rd birthday I will:
- Be a good dad
- Get somewhere else to live
- Get a social life
- Get a more interesting job
- Get some decent bottled lager in
- Get fit
Now the more observant of you will have noticed that goals 5 and 6 might be somewhat conflicting. In my defence, I am not striving for perfection, only a normal life.
And I have six months to get it.
Thursday 27th March
My second day of being divorced was much like my first. In fact it was much like every day for the past year or so. My ex and I pretty much separated last Easter, albeit with the odd brief reconciliation in the winter months. We just drifted apart, like some couples do. There were no sordid affairs with naked people hiding in wardrobes when spouses come home unexpectedly. At least not that I know of. There were no frying pan-throwing tantrums or punch-ups. There were just two people not bringing the best out of each other. We didn’t fight about who got the kids. We left it up to them and they decided to base themselves with their mum (I’m not bitter). We didn’t even fight about who got the house. I consider myself to be more of a lover than a fighter, but as a newly single man, I am beginning to discover I don’t do either very well.
Today I went to work like any other day. I wish I could tell you I have an exciting job – something like a brain surgeon, a football commentator or a travel reporter. But actually I work in an office shuffling papers. Work for me is a way of earning money to live my life. So today I earned some money that I will end up giving a chunk of to my ex. I’m not bitter.
‘Short skirt Sarah’ at work noticed I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring today. By my reckoning it has taken about four months for someone to notice, or pluck up the courage to comment. I actually took my ring off on Christmas day and chucked it at my ex in disgust at being bought a ‘beard care set’ for Christmas. I haven’t even got a beard. ‘It hurts when you kiss me,’ she told me in her defence.
‘I am surprised you can remember,’ was my somewhat caustic response.
I was a bit tongue-tied around Sarah. It isn’t that I’m particularly interested in her (obviously I wouldn’t say no if she asked). It is just that I am a bit tongue-tied around women generally at the moment, especially when they are attractive. My communication skills when I am around women seem to be similar to those of a four-year-old with a speech impediment.
I definitely need to hone my response when someone comments on the lack of my wedding ring, as today’s conversation didn’t go swimmingly.
‘Oh Graham, what’s happened to your wedding ring?’
‘Sarah, I took it off because I have been officially divorced for two days now, I am single and living with my parents and seeing my kids at weekends.’
Short skirt Sarah finished making her cup of tea rather quickly and left me alone in the kitchen. I guess my response was a bit overpowering, in the same way as an innocent ‘How are you?’ enquiry at the tea point might not be anticipating an ‘I have cancer and only 4 weeks to live’ response…
I remember when I used to be in with the drinking crowd at work. Every Friday night, most Friday lunchtimes and other nights too, I would get invited to various drinks to celebrate Fred’s leaving, Emily’s engagement, John’s promotion, Gemma’s new hairdo or Eamon’s ‘coming out party’. I am now considered too old to receive such invites, or maybe too married. We will see if they start flooding in to my inbox again now that I’m divorced.
On my way home from work I took a significant step forward in achieving one of my six goals. I bought six bottles of Stella. That’s one goal ticked off and we are only one day in to my quest. Let’s hope the other goals are just as easy to achieve.
I phoned home tonight to check in with the kids. Jack was out playing football and all I got out of Sean were a few grunts and a fairly unenthusiastic ‘see you at the weekend’. What do I expect? They are teenagers, I suppose.
Just so you know, Jack is the obsessively competitive sporty child who will give any sport a go but particularly likes football and cricket. He’s at that age where he is beginning to discover girls and as a consequence is conscious of his self-image (whereas I am at that age where I am forced to rediscover girls and am conscious of my self-image). Jack likes to ‘fit in’ and is embarrassed by anything that differentiates him from the norm, like having two parents who don’t live together.
Sean, on the other hand, is less sporty. He does like cricket but he hasn’t inherited the same competitive gene as his brother. He is more easy-going and less interested in what others think of him. He isn’t afraid to make a few waves, either with what he says or what he does. He once joined a school knitting club because he wanted to make himself a hat. He is friends with anyone who has a Sony gaming device. Sean seems to be taking our family changes in his stride, on the outside at least. Both Jack and Sean are good kids, so far without too much attitude. But give it time…
Friday 28th March
Work was quiet today. Most people in my office ‘work from home’ on Fridays. I bought cakes for the few that were in and sent an email to everyone in the company telling them that there were cakes in the kitchen. That’ll teach the bastards for starting their weekends early.
I made some small progress with goal six today. I went swimming after work. I hate swimming. I hate the whole experience of driving to the pool, getting changed in a cubicle you couldn’t swing a wet pair of speedos in, messing about with a locker, swimming up and down without actually going anywhere and avoiding the annoying bloke who swims backstroke and expects you to dodge his flailing arms.
Why did I go swimming if I hate it so much? Well, I was getting ready for work this morning and noticed that my trousers were a bit tighter than they used to be. I found another pair in my wardrobe and tried them on but they were tight too. I must be putting on a few pounds. I suppose eating mum’s butter-rich food and drinking dad’s beer could have that effect on a man. Maybe I have always been a few pounds above my peak fighting weight but I haven’t paid too much attention to the fact until now. I haven’t been particularly self-obsessed until now. If I am to meet someone new, I don’t want them to wince when I rip my shirt off. I am not trying to be a Stallone or a Schwarzenegger, but I wouldn’t mind losing a few pounds and building up some muscle.
Morden swimming baths is, metaphorically speaking at least, a million miles from the posh private membership health clubs of Wimbledon. The paint is flaking off the tiles, the showers are rubbish and the toilets stink, but I can’t afford luxury gym memberships these days.
I am not a bad swimmer, but within seconds of getting into the pool this evening I was reminded that I am not a particularly good swimmer either. Some ten-year-old squirt shot past me doing breast stroke while I was thrashing down the pool doing crawl. My trunks came down every time I pushed off from the end. I wouldn’t have been too bothered about the trunks thing but for the fact that just after one of the most severe slippages, Sean’s none-too-shabby form teacher complained to the lifeguard that it was putting her off her stroke. Sean, if you get a bad school report mate, I am sorry.
I am feeling slightly apprehensive at the moment. No, actually I am feeling scared stiff. My mates, who I was convinced had lost my number over the past few months, have eventually phoned and asked if I want to go out clubbing. Now this is probably where you start getting to know me. I like going to the pub as much as the next middle aged man does. In fact, I like nothing more than sitting in the Raynes Park Tavern or the Morden Brook having a few jars with friends. But what I have never liked, even when I was a young student, was going to night clubs. Are they even still called night clubs? Anyway, when it comes to dancing, I have something in common with horses – I have two left feet. Modern music makes me feel like I am about to have a heart attack, it is too loud and the bloody lighting in those places is normally so dim that I worry I might not find the toilets when I am desperate after a few pints.
So, back to tonight. I am going out with Dave, Ray and Andy. Dave is my cool mate. He is in a band so he knows his music. He loves his dancing and knows all the ‘moves’, whatever they are. He is a bit of a bragger and likes to tell people that he’s a big-shot city dealer, but a few months ago I went into the bank on Threadneedle Street when I was up in the City and Dave was serving on the cashier desk. He used to be married but his wife left him for a librarian. He once told me he could have coped if she had left him for a famous pop star but he was a bit choked up for a year or two about the librarian thing. Dave is the stud of the group.
Ray is, according to my ex, hot. He is the sort of guy who always seems to be the centre of attention without having to try. Despite this, he has never really settled down but that doesn’t seem to bother him.
And Andy is, like me, more reserved and considered in his actions. Some might even say he’s boring but at least he will keep me company propping up the bar while the others are strutting their stuff on the dance floor tonight. Andy’s wife died in a car accident a few years ago and he has never found anyone who can replace her. He is a genuinely nice guy who some woman would enjoy introducing to her mother over afternoon tea.
So tonight is four single blokes going out on the town. I do have happily married friends, but tonight is for single guys ‘looking for action’ as Dave puts it.
When I was at university, I used to go out of an evening with the aim of ‘pulling a bird’. I rarely (actually never but don’t tell my mates) succeeded. I haven’t needed to ‘pull’ for the last fifteen-plus years but I am sure that, come this evening, I will slip seamlessly back into the old routine of making a fool of myself on the dance floor and coming home alone. The only difference between now and fifteen years ago is that this time I am more than likely to fall asleep on a train on the way home and end up in Effingham Junction or some other godforsaken place.
If I am going to meet a new woman over the next six months, it won’t be on the dance floor. But I am going to go out anyway as Dave tells me I have got to put myself in the shop window.
Saturday 29th March
So, do you really want to know what happened last night? Can I just tell you I made a fool of myself and leave it at that? No, I thought not. OK, we went for a few beers in the Raynes Park Tavern. I was fine with this bit of the evening. I held my own in the banter stakes and even managed to have a few quick conversations with women (‘four pints of lager please.’ ‘OK, coming right up’). Things went downhill rapidly though when we moved on to Wimbledon for part two of our evening’s entertainment.
I hadn’t been to a night club in years so I hadn’t even given a thought to dress codes. I had a row with the bouncer who told me I couldn’t come in wearing trainers.
‘They aren’t any old trainers, they’re fucking expensive trainers,’ I protested. Actually I would have been quite happy if the bouncer had sent me home but Dave slipped him a tenner and he let me in.
The club was as bad as I had feared it would be. The music was thump, thump, thump; the average age of the clientele was about fifteen (even with us there) and the strobe lighting did my head in. I know this is making me sound old but it is just the truth. Night clubs and I just do not mix.
I did my best to stay at the bar with Andy but even Andy ended up dancing. The traitor seriously let me down. Eventually Dave physically manhandled me on to the dance floor. Dave, Ray and Andy had managed to infiltrate a group of mature women out for a good night. I use the word infiltrate deliberately. To me the dance floor felt a bit like a war zone, with people parading their weapons, ready to engage the enemy at the slightest opportunity and eventually move in for the kill. I just worried I would be caught in the crossfire.
I did my best to wobble from foot to foot in time to the beat and once I had mastered that bit I even threw in the odd hip jerk or two.
Drinks came and went. Women came and went. Until eventually I looked around and realised to my horror that my mates were nowhere to be seen. They had deserted me. They should be shot. The woman dancing closest to me was looking at me with intense but slightly unfocussed eyes. To my untrained eye, her dancing was no better than mine. This bolstered my confidence further, to the extent that my dance moves became a bit more exaggerated. Suddenly I thought I was Tom Jones or Michael Jackson.
I was concentrating so much on my ‘moves’ and on the woman opposite me, who by this point looked like she was about to topple over, that I didn’t notice the ring of people encircling us. I was just about to move in for some hand to hand combat with the lovely drunk woman when Dave tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Mate, what the hell are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Piss off mate, I am in here,’ I replied, somewhat irritated at being put off my stride.
‘You’re fucking twerking. Men don’t twerk, especially fat blokes.’
It was at that point that I noticed the ring of on-lookers laughing hysterically and pointing at me. It was also at that point that my dance partner threw up all over my shoes. I got my coat and exited the battlefield with my white flag raised.
Where did last night get me? It reminded me how easy being married is. It got me poorer, it got me embarrassed and it got me a hangover. And it got me in trouble with my parents because for some reason I left my sick-encrusted shoes on the kitchen table.
I am missing my kids more than I am missing my wife. I mean my ex-wife. But I must confess that I wasn’t particularly missing the kids first thing this morning when the doorbell rang and Jack and Sean turned up on my parents’ doorstep. My first official single dad act was to try not to run to the loo and throw up within the first two minutes of the kids being there.
Only having my kids for the odd evening and weekends will take some getting used to. The general rule is that I get the kids every other weekend but we have agreed that, over and above the formal requirement, they can come and stay with me whenever they want. If this morning was anything to go by, that won’t be very often. Still, things picked up as the morning went on. They played on the PS4. Maybe not the quality time the child psychologists might have in mind, but there isn’t a PS4 at my ex’s so that’s one reason they’ll want to come to my parents’.
The other reason they will want to come is to see the dog. Yes, my wife gets the house, the kids and the best car. I get the mortgage and the German shepherd puppy. Albus is his name, after Albus Dumbledore. If you don’t know who he is, then where have you been for the past ten years?
I made some progress on goal one today – getting a new place to live. My parents threatened to throw me out if I didn’t get off my arse and start sorting my life out. Well, it may not be the proactive progress I might have wanted, but I am one step closer to getting a place of my own – even if it might be a park bench.
Sunday 30th March
Living with my parents isn’t easy. Having your old bedroom back more than twenty years after you left home and sharing the house with your parents is a big change from having your own kids, house, garden, telly and wife (yes, in that order). This significant step backwards in my life has taken some getting used to. I have to remind myself to abide by my parents’ rules while in their house. Rules like washing up straight after a meal rather than when there aren’t any clean dishes left in the cupboard, and cutting my toenails in the bathroom, not in front of the telly. Talking of the telly, I also have to make sure that the next time I watch Playboy TV when everyone else has gone to bed, I turn the channel back to BBC before I turn the TV off. Mum is still getting over the embarrassment of having her Women’s Institute friends thinking she watches porn.
Having me as a lodger isn’t easy for my parents either, especially at their age. They are both approaching their seventies. They are physically fit but my dad had a hip replacement last year and needs the other one doing too so he is temporarily less mobile than he would want to be. Mum could probably still climb a mountain faster than me and both of them can drink faster than me.
Before I moved in, they were very set in their ways. They had a routine for what rooms in the house they would sit in at different times of the day (kitchen in the morning, conservatory in the afternoon, front room in the evening). Meals were served at one o’clock and six o’clock and after dinner they would listen to The Archers then move from the radio to the telly in time to watch the soaps. They would go to bed straight after the ten o’clock news.
Except for a short but explosive teenage stroppy period, I have always got on with my parents. We don’t do cuddles and all that stuff, but pre-divorce, I used to go round there once a week with the family, have dinner, play board games and generally drink too much London Pride. I made another of my vows when I moved in with them. I wouldn’t just use their house as a hotel. I would make the effort to continue spending quality time with them. This isn’t proving easy.
‘Quality time’ these days seems to mean sitting around a kitchen table littered with empty London Pride cans and prosecco bottles, picking my life apart. Now anyone over the age of two would probably be capable of picking my life apart. But my mum and dad consider themselves uniquely qualified to do the job with a forensic precision. They were both social workers in their former lives. My mum used to do something worthy with the parents of children with disabilities and my dad used to manage a ‘family services unit’, whatever that means.
There is only so much frowning over my previous life choices or suggestions about future life choices that a man can take. I reached my limit today. Mum cooked a traditional Sunday roast, beef and all the trimmings. We washed it down with our usual beverages. Our plates were empty, our stomachs full and our tongues alcoholically lubricated when mum asked me where it all went wrong.
‘What do you mean ‘where did it all go wrong’?’ I asked.
‘With your life, Graham. How did it come to this?’ She even did that palms up, arms outstretched hand gesture thing when she said ‘my life’, presumably meaning everything. Where did everything go wrong? Thanks mum, build me up, bolster my confidence.
I thought about going for a glib response but the earnest look on mum’s face made me change track.
‘I don’t know mum, I guess my marriage just wasn’t meant to last.’ OK, so it wasn’t exactly an insightful answer but it was the best I could do.
‘That’s nonsense and you know it, Graham,’ mum continued. ‘Marriages need to be worked at. It wasn’t as if either of you had an affair or anything that drastic. Surely you could have worked through your differences?’
‘You didn’t even see a marriage guidance counsellor,’ dad chimed in. We did actually but I hadn’t told them about it because they would have had a go at me for walking out in the middle of a session.
And so it went on, two against one, tag-team wrestling. My parents still seem to think the sun shines out of my ex’s backside. They act as if she is their daughter rather than me their son. They still hold out a hope that my perfect ex will have me back. I wouldn’t go back even if she would have me back. Which she wouldn’t.
I have told my parents time and again that my ex and I split up because of our terminal irritability with each other, our mutual intolerance of each other, our irreconcilable TV viewing schedules. We just didn’t like each other. I tried to explain that to my parents but, to them, not liking your other half doesn’t constitute grounds for divorce.
‘You should have paid more attention to her when you had her,’ dad advised. Why didn’t I think of that?
‘Those poor children,’ mum offered. Why didn’t I think of them too? I was on the ropes by this point, being seriously double-teamed by my parents, but wasn’t about to submit.
‘Bloody hell, will the two of you just leave me alone? I have had it with your sniping at me. You might have been married for ever but all you ever do is sit on your arses watching crap on the telly. I’d prefer to be single and living than married and dead.’ The ‘atomic drop’, the ‘full nelson’ and the ‘gorilla press’ all combined into one move. That told them.
‘Happy mother’s day,’ mum muttered as I was heading for the door. Shit.
At this point, I think I should make a confession. Being divorced, separated from my kids and my marital home (not to mention my ex) is quite stressful. It is quite a large upheaval in my life and may just have caused a slight emotional imbalance in my otherwise rock-solid equilibrium. In other words, I may be a bit self-centred at the moment, even a bit emotionally unstable. Not to the extent that I am about to charge around Morden with a lethal weapon killing random strangers, but enough that I may snap at my parents from time to time.
I need to put an end to alcohol-influenced conversations about my life.
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Six Months to Get a Life
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