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‘He’s such a dick,’ Sean spat.
‘He’s not, though,’ I said, sipping my wine again. ‘Things just didn’t work out.’
I reached for the bread basket, realising I hadn’t eaten at all that day.
As I buttered a piece of fluffy white baguette I felt a hand on the back of my chair.
‘Jess – fancy seeing you here, how is everything? How’s Charlie?’
A bomb of silence dropped on the table.
It was Sasha, the PR hound who lived two floors beneath him. She obviously didn’t have anything better to do than keep track of the comings and goings of the building.
‘Oh, I’m fine, he’s fine, I think. Well, I don’t know actually because we’re not together anymore – we split up about a week ago.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, giving me the same vacant look that I’d seen several times over the past seven days. ‘Well, sometimes these things just don’t work out. He’s pretty handsome, though. That’s got to be tough.’
I nodded in agreement, to both parts, with a small smile that indicated that it was her cue to leave. I wanted to vomit as the overpowering smell of her perfume lingered in the air. I remembered the sweet, distinct floral smell from the building’s lift.
‘She’s definitely going to drop by his place tonight as a “shoulder to cry on”,’ Sean said, watching her leave. ‘She couldn’t get out of here quick enough! I could actually see her smirking – who does that?’
‘Well, good luck to her,’ I said, mustering a fake smile. ‘Maybe she can handle him better than I could.’
‘Maybe she’s got that condition,’ Amber said drily. ‘I saw a documentary about it: when somebody delivers some bad news, they can’t help smiling.’
‘Or maybe she’s just a cow,’ I said, bluntly.
‘So, just to clarify,’ Sean said, ‘are we allowed to say his name?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ I replied.
‘Because she just did and you look like you’d been shot.’
‘I’m okay, really!’ I protested. ‘It’s all for the best. Please can we just talk about something else?’
‘I won’t even mention his name,’ Sean said, running his forefinger across his lips.
‘And don’t remind me how attractive he is either,’ I said, searching for the emergency cigarette I’d borrowed from the doorman on the way in. ‘All anyone’s been saying to me is how attractive he was. It’s pathetic,’ I muttered.
‘He was,’ Sean said as Amber shot him a look of outrage. ‘I’m sorry. But he absolutely was.’
After we’d eaten, I could still feel the remnants of the food stinging the roof of my mouth.
‘So what else have I missed?’ I said, looking at Sean to change the conversation.
‘Amber’s in love. A bit,’ he said coyly.
‘Oh please,’ she said, as cool as ever. ‘Today’s idea of love is closing your Tinder account.’
‘And have you?’ Sean said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Course not,’ she replied. ‘But I definitely go on a lot less.’
I stared at her until she gave me more answers.
‘His name is Patrick,’ she said.
‘Patrick,’ Sean repeated drily. ‘He’s definitely over fifty.’
I laughed.
‘He is, yes!’ She downed the remainder of her martini defensively and tried to get a waiter’s attention for the bill. Sean and I glanced at each other like two schoolgirls banished to the front of the bus. She was too cool to be drinking with us and as a result was forced to hang around with the fifty plus Patricks of the world.
‘Is he retired?’ Sean asked.
‘No, you fucker!’ Amber cried. ‘And that’s it! I’m done! No more questions!’
The next morning Amber shuffled into my room in her dressing gown balancing two cups of tea. As I blinked through last night’s make-up, for a brief moment I had forgotten where I was. The room looked bigger without my stuff in it. She sat down on the end of my bed as I noticed a small damp patch right above the window frame.
‘We have damp,’ I said, gesturing to the wall.
‘I know,’ she nodded, lying down next to me. ‘I’ve missed coming and getting into bed with you of a morning. I even had to buy my own shampoo, and razors…’
‘I knew you used my shampoo.’
‘I knew you knew,’ she said, leaning her head against the rickety wooden headboard. ‘I know it’s hard, Jess, but it’s for the best. You can’t be with a man like that. You’re too… nice.’
‘I hate that word,’ I said, reaching for my tea.
‘He was part of a scene that’s just not for you – believe me, I’ve been there.’
‘It’s knackering, you know, pretending to be someone you’re not all the time.’ I looked down into the rim of my mug and could see the faint brown mark from all the drinks that had gone before it. I ran my fingernail over it in a faint attempt to remove the stain.
‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to think about your own life. And now you can do whatever it is that you want to do… like shag that gym instructor you always fancied.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ I said, quietly.
‘Yet,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to yet.’
As she left the room I knew I had no choice but to trust her. Trust her optimism. Trust that she knew what she was talking about. I pulled a box towards me and began to pull the clothes out. I stopped at a dress I had bought for a job interview. It was creased. I carried on pulling out endless streams of coats, jackets, tops, shorts – any mundane action to stop me from thinking. I reached right to the bottom of the damp box and that’s when I felt it. A black jumper that had accidently been packed up in the frenzy. It belonged to him. I ran my fingers down the leather elbow pads and across a loose thread in the sleeve. A small fault within a ream of beautiful fabric, just like our relationship. In our short time together, he had created the loose threads and I had begun to pull them and before we knew it all we had was a tangled ball of wool. Using the black hair tie from around my wrist I pulled my hair up and pushed it loosely away from my face.
‘Don’t think,’ I said to myself out loud. ‘Just fold your clothes.’
SUMMER (#ulink_a4d51b74-13ff-536c-9e4a-3630cfc19b32)
Chapter Three – How to Get Lost in Reality (#ulink_c020d277-2aaf-5832-8915-a93002a09a09)
It was hot – the kind of heat that London isn’t prepared for – when train tracks melt and people begin bulk-buying ice at the supermarket. Grassy public parks become a carpet for Prosecco bottles, factor twenty-five and supermarket plastic-bag picnic hampers. During the light evenings, a sense of heady weightlessness fills the air. Problems disperse and are exchanged for gin and tonics, despite the fact that city girls become forced to unleash their pale legs, hidden for ten months of the year beneath 100-denier tights. These heated times are unusual in Britain and must be relished during every single hour. Summers are precious to us; they’re unpredictable but always ever so fleeting.
By summer I had weathered the storm and woken up on the last day of the last week of the last month of the last year that I was ever going to feel so shitty about myself again. Up to that point the feeling of emptiness was indescribable but a weekend spent hiding under a duvet, my computer conveniently open on his social media, had led to an intervention from a higher power.
According to my friends I was spiralling and I needed to get back to the real world: a distraction from the dull ache that had resided in my chest every day since Charlie and I had split. I wanted to scream, open a window and shout loudly into the world, a vast release or a call to the gods to do something, something bigger than me; bigger than us. Instead I brushed my teeth and made my first steps back to reality; the joyous purgatory between a dream and a slap in the face.
Since my break-up from Charlie, I had tried a number of tactics when it came to trying to give myself a reboot. First, I’d sampled staying in; reverting to the familiar by putting myself under house arrest and refusing to leave unless the house literally caught fire around me. I had stocked up on food, wine, toilet paper and bin liners. I’d tried box sets, starting the novel I’d always wanted to write, and spring cleaning my entire wardrobe by first piling the contents of my wardrobe high onto my bed, followed shortly by a deep sense of regret midway through. In the end, I just threw away half my possessions. All in all, it had been good for feng shui, bad for home economics.
And, of course, I’d tried going out. What’s more fun than dressing up and dancing to music playing so loud that it drowns out your own thoughts and engulfs you in a different sound – the sound of fun and guilt-free solitude, Amber had asked me. True, there’s nothing quite like feeling the beat of your own heart, moving freely in a dimly lit room full of strangers, bodies in unison with the distant odour of sweet sweat lingering in the air. I’d tried more sedate nights, too – restaurants with old friends, not in one of our regular haunts, somewhere new, with no memories or sentimentality attached. Here, we indulged in two of the most delectable things human beings can do together: gossip and eat. And still, I missed him.
But it wasn’t until I’d divulged in an evening of speed dating, a collective group of people given three minutes to sell themselves without appearing desperate, that I even considered the idea of a rebound. Not always the answer, I admit, but a strong case can be made for forcing myself to see how life could be a little different. Perhaps not with the person I thought I would be with, perhaps not even someone I would want anything to develop with beyond this one event, but nevertheless, a surefire way to thrust myself, quite literally, out there into a new beginning and leave the pain of the past behind me. And I’m not just talking about sex, I’m talking about something a little scarier: chemistry. An addictive feeling that can exist with or without being naked. A bond between two people that can unfortunately neither be forced or faked. But in order to see it, I had to test myself. Give someone else a chance. Everything starts from somewhere and how would I know if I didn’t at least try. In this instance, however, I did run the risk of rebounding with the wrong person. A person who made me miss the person I was hiding from even more than before. It’s a risk – a toss up between getting too attached to something that’s meant only to be fleeting, or if things do permeate, commit to something different from where you thought you once would be. A new chance, but in my book a risk worth taking if the alternative lies within the safety of the past.
In order to move on, sometimes you need to get moving. Having lived in a busy city, it may be time to escape to a leafy suburb complete with riverside walks and the need for waterproof clothing. The main importance of this activity is getting away from what I’ve been used to, playing opposites enabling my mind to wander into another energy setting. There is nothing more reassuring to me than seeing the sun set above a skyline I’m not used to, knowing that when the sun rises, hopefully, new possibilities will arise too. Parks also offer enough escapism to imagine, just for a second, that I am in the countryside: another world where trees, fresh air and open space collide. Looking around, I can see the beneficiaries firsthand, couples strolling hand in hand, joggers, readers and dog walkers. There is no better feeling than when the warm sun beams down on your face as you walk down a rickety path through the giant trees.
But it’s always a comfort to know that an immeasurable sea of people inhabit the earth at precisely the same time as me. The people of my zeitgeist, comrades and fellow friends at arms. I mentioned the need to move forward, but of course this is not truly possible without the honest reverberation of human connection: or my friends. Those rare friends who sacrifice their precious time to sit and listen to the repeat realisation over and over again as if it’s their first time of hearing it; all seeking a common destination of happiness as we pass the ball of encouragement back and forth between us. Under such honest tuition, there is no need to self-monitor. Advice comes in waves, and we may listen. This familiar buffer against the self-harm we often do to ourselves is the only outside eye we have. I take pleasure in carefully observing the fellow wildlife of others, comparing myself to what we deem is the norm. And when I feel the void, I know that I can always rely on the guidance of others in the bourgeoisie of our social climate. They wouldn’t dare let me date if I’m not ready to move on, or let me befriend a new person who isn’t exactly a support. They love me. They care. I should listen.
And so on to the next day: if only I could see that day that I’m imagining. Something I can see beyond how many miles, across how many oceans, aboard how many planes. Revisiting that landmark of the day that tipped the balance. The day that forced all toleration to crumble, the day a choice for something new took hold and the rewards of change had come to fruition. No longer do you have to test the boundaries of what your heart can take but instead you can be happy. Emerging from the flood, a slightly better, more water-resistant version of a person, to have the ability to travel through life again this time, returning slightly less scathed. I listened to the beat, to the sound of my heart, a drum-like pounding saying: use this, use today.
Chapter Four – Virtual Insanity (#ulink_b79efc2b-5039-5f11-bbec-9e6975d54641)
Checklist for Modern Romance:
• An electronic device for downloading free text messaging services. Cultivating digital friendships often involves a lot of backwards and forwards so free messaging is somewhat vital.
• As important as the ability to download digital dating platforms is the step of deleting them when the time comes for monogamous romance.
• A squidgy heart for the optimism of a swipe right.
• A tin heart for the rejection of a swipe left.
• A nice photograph of yourself: nothing too fancy and nothing too casual. You need to look your best but not like you’re trying.
• Healthy food you will pretend you are eating.
• Photographs of sunsets you will pretend you are watching.
• Covers of books you will pretend to be reading.
Sean was going on a date and I had turned up for moral support, barefaced apart from a facial nose strip, and ruining the ambience of his pristine bed linen with my dark green joggers. I watched as he casually laid a crisp, white shirt, navy blue leather watch and aftershave next to my feet which were adorned in a pair of woollen bed socks, and surrounded by enough junk food to feed a family with five teenagers.
‘You’re not seriously going to eat all that, are you?’ he said, glancing over at my stockpile as I reached for the Oreos.
‘Sure am,’ I replied, biting the packet open with my teeth. As I watched him towel-dry his legs on the edge of the bed it was clear I had nowhere else to be on this first Friday night in June.
‘Who is he anyway? I don’t think I’ve heard you mention his name before.’
‘I met him online. I’ve not really spoken to him that much or at all. But judging by his online profile he’s got the body of a Greek god.’
‘Sounds terrific,’ I mused, licking the cream from the centre of my biscuit.
‘And it’s just a bit of fun, anyway,’ he said, as he disappeared into a row of hanging trousers, rooting for his shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe. ‘He’s more popular than frickin’ Helen of Troy by the looks of things.’
‘What do you mean? He’s a bit of a slag?’
‘Not everyone who enjoys sex is a slag, Jess.’
I screwed up my face. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I’d offended him.
‘And it wouldn’t hurt you to get online and see what’s out there. You’ve been staying in for weeks, it’s a one-way road to…’
‘Depression?’ I said, finishing his sentence and reaching for another biscuit.
‘I was going to say obesity.’
I returned the biscuit to the packet.
‘So you don’t mind that they’re seeing other people?’ I said, propping myself up against his pillows. It was something completely new to me and I needed to know more.
‘No, why would I care?’
‘My God, I’d care. I don’t think I could date more than one man properly.’
‘No offence, sweetie, but you couldn’t date one man properly.’
I toasted my can of Diet Coke to his cocky remark as he took a step back to look at himself in the floor-length mirror, spraying five strong bursts of cologne. I closed my eyes as the smell fell over me like a blanket. I lay back down onto his pillow and could feel myself plummeting into a sugar low, the aftermath from all the snacks I had consumed. As I re-opened them I caught sight of Sean as he held up his phone and snapped a picture of his reflection.
‘Who are you sending that to?’ I asked, with one eye open.
‘No one.’
I threw him a look mixed with curiosity and a touch of envy.
‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?’ he said, carefully choosing a filter for the picture before pressing send.
It was a philosophy I was still trying to understand. He turned to me as I played with the toggle on my joggers. I smiled, a deliberate film of chocolate covering my teeth.
‘Oh, that’s really pretty,’ he remarked, climbing over to lie down on the bed next to me. I made room as he flopped on his side so that our faces were almost touching.
‘If I can’t be with him then why can’t I just be with you?’ I whispered, carefully moving an errant hair from his forehead.
‘Because we’re both pricks and you deserve better.’
I placed a hand on Sean’s chest, fighting the urge to close my eyes again.
‘So you think tonight’s going to be fun?’ he said, lying back to face the ceiling.
‘Yes, I think it’s going to be good,’ I said, supportively.
He shot me a sarcastic glare.
‘Great, then!’ I continued. ‘I think it’s going to be amazing. But I wouldn’t take my word for it – I haven’t even showered today.’
