How do you know how long ago something was? You can look at dates in the calendar, obviously. Photos. Receipts. Fucking Facebook. But that’s just evidence. The true past is only in my head, saved exactly how I like it. Everything up there feels about the same distance away. Primary school. Last Christmas. That time me and Simon did a runner from a restaurant.
No idea how long I’ve known Simon now. Before the Lisbon project fuck up, definitely. And well before he went grey. Looks good on him, the smug twat. Must be twenty years, easy. Certainly long enough that neither of us have to explain when we’re joking. He calls me a cunt. We laugh. I call him a cunt. Because he is a cunt.
He’s better looking than me, objectively. Taller, if you count half an inch. Better jaw. Teeth like a toothpaste advert. He earns more too. I don’t know exactly how much more because I’m not the kind of person who asks. Something ridiculous, presumably.
We used to work together at the same place. He wasn’t my boss. Sometimes he ran point on projects I was involved with, but that wasn’t the same thing. We were equals. More or less. I had to leave the job because they paid me late all the fucking time. Sometimes it didn’t go in till nearly four in the afternoon.
None of that shite matters on a squash court, though. I nearly always beat him there. He used to be better. Or says he was. Apparently there was a period when we were evenly matched, when he used to win on the regular. But I don’t remember it like that. I remember him sweating. Leaning against the back wall between games and saying he needed a minute.
Simon plays aggressively. Smashes everything as hard as he can and hopes physics sorts out the rest. I prefer placement. Control. Make him run. Let him think he’s still in the rally, then put the ball exactly where he isn’t. He hates that. Calls it boring. It’s not boring when you win.
Loser always buys the first round afterwards. He takes it well, mostly. There aren’t many people you can beat and insult for twenty-odd years and still meet every Wednesday. Twenty years. Christ. That’s a lot of first rounds. We’ve had a lot of second and third ones, too. With a lot of laughing in between. So hard we can’t breathe properly.
“Where have you gone? You alright, nobhead?”
He circled a finger beside his head, crossed his eyes, and let his mouth hang open. Patronising shit. But that’s Simon. He gets away with things. Can walk into a room and immediately own it. I once watched him order two pints in a council estate pub and get a laugh out of the transaction.
“Still not got it back, then?” he asked.
“What, Simon?”
“The cactus, numbnuts.”
There was more to it than that. Someone doesn’t just appear at your desk, use your mug, spill yoghurt on your best mouse mat and leave carrying your belongings. It’s not the done thing.
“I was violated. Brutally.”
That got him giggling. “And you still don’t know who she is?”
He’s right. It’s preposterous. I’ve been sitting at that desk for nearly four years. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.