Date with Destiny

Chapter Seven

‘Dude, you’re a mess! This is wonderful!’ Diane tells me plainly, as I stagger out of the bar and she throws her blazer around my slumped shoulders.

‘I know,’ I begin, before frowning. ‘Wait, wonderful?’ We make our way towards her ancient Volvo and Diane opens the passenger door for me to collapse inside. It swings open with a creak, revealing rust lining the door frame. Celeste tried to buy her a new car a few years ago but Diane says she doesn’t want her sister’s money.

They get on well most of the time, I think, but they’re very different.

‘It’s a good thing!’ Diane rushes around, climbing in and starting the engine. ‘I just mean you’ve kind of been a bit of a cliché with the five stages of grief these last few weeks.’

‘A cliché?’ I cry, a little offended.

She gives me a quick smile as we pull out onto the main road. ‘Is that anger you’re feeling? Because that’s exactly what we need to see. You’ve been stuck in denial for so long, I’m relieved to see you’re moving out of it. Everyone gets caught up in denial – it’s very tedious. You need to pass through anger, bargaining, depression, before you can finally find some acceptance about your break-up.’

‘It wasn’t denial,’ I attempt weakly. ‘It’s just… I know he’s… I know what we had.’ I pause. ‘And I got quite angry in the bar just now!’ I consider the wailing carousel of emotions I swung through. ‘Then I started bargaining with everyone.’ I glance down at my hand. ‘I was ready to sacrifice my mother if Daniel would come back to me.’

Diane side-eyes me. ‘Like a blood sacrifice or the relationship?’

I shrug. ‘Probably both.’

‘I imagine Myfanwy was quite into that idea,’ Diane muses. ‘She’s bound to have tried a blood sacrifice during one of her witchy phases and she can’t stand Celeste.’

‘Well, either way, I’m basically through the five stages and out the other side already. I’m fine.’

She snorts. ‘Are you trying to rush your way through all the stages in one night? You can’t force it, dude.’

‘OK,’ I say quietly, thinking about the stage that comes after bargaining: depression. Maybe I don’t want to rush it after all – I really don’t want to deal with that bit.

We drive in silence for a minute before Diane speaks again. ‘You know, I dated a Daniel once.’ She pauses and I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue.

Diane and I don’t really talk about her love life. She’s one of the most open and loving people I know but she’s also private about certain things. I’ve always told her everything about my life, but we have more of a mentor/mentee relationship. Plus, it seems like she has everything sorted and together – why would she ever come to me for advice?

‘He was great but…’ She sighs. ‘I don’t know, they’re a lot, y’know? Daniels. They need a lot of maintenance.’ She pauses before adding oh-so casually: ‘Plus, he made noises during sex that sounded like a bad Cher impression.’ She checks her wing mirror. ‘Whoaaaa,’ she says in a deep, throaty voice, flicking her long hair. ‘Whooooaaaaaaaaa.’

I cock my head. ‘Is that meant to be Cher?’

She shoots me an amused look, pulling up at traffic lights. ‘I told you it was a bad impression.’ She smiles again, but this time it’s a private, secret smile and I can see she’s in her memories. After a moment she gives herself a shake. ‘Anyway, my point is, it can work with a Daniel, where you’re the supporting character in the relationship. It can be lovely, looking after someone and caring for them. And you, Ginny, are a very nurturing, kind soul who is very good at looking after people. You don’t mind being the supporting character, but I’m just saying you don’t have to be. You can be the star if you choose to be. You can even both be the stars in a relationship.’

I consider this. In theory I don’t want to have a bit part in my own life. I don’t want to be the side character in a relationship. But on the other hand, it sounds safer; easier in a lot of ways. Who’s got the energy to be the Sandra Bullock of their own life? I think I’d rather be Sandra Bullock’s friend.

I actually would love to be Sandra Bullock’s friend; she seems like the best.

‘And you know being single is super fun,’ Diane continues, wiggling her eyebrows at me. My brain responds by replaying her Cher impression, the whoaaaa echoing around my head.

‘That’s what Toni said,’ I tell her vaguely, noting the familiar streets whizzing past. We’re nearly back at my flat. My home. The home I have to give up.

‘Well,’ Diane takes a deep breath. ‘Toni wouldn’t know, but I wish she would find out.’ We look at each other pointedly, silently acknowledging our mutual unhappiness with Shawn.

‘But really,’ she says, ‘being single is not just fun and exciting, it’s also your chance to figure things out. To get to know yourself and like yourself. It’ll give you a chance to work out what you want and what you need – and whether those two things are compatible.’

‘Daniel is what I want and need,’ I mutter in a low voice, staring down at the seatbelt pulled tight across my chest.

‘OK,’ Diane says amiably, before adding, ‘but maybe that’s not the only thing you want and need. Maybe this is your chance to think about your world and explore what makes you happy. Maybe there’s more to life than marrying Daniel.’

‘I know there is.’ I feel defensive now, hearing the low-grade sarcasm in her voice. ‘I’m not one of those women who think getting married is my entire reason for being.’

‘You mean like Celeste?’ Diane sighs. ‘Look, I know you’ve got a sensible head on your shoulders, but you’re not immune to what society – and your mum – tells you. I know that you settling down with someone means a lot to her and to nosy strangers. Believe me, I know!’ she says pointedly, eyebrows practically in her hairline. ‘As someone who has never married and is well past her societal sell-by date, I am well aware how difficult it is to resist all that and figure out what works for you. Sometimes the universe forces our hand in these things.’

‘Now you sound like Myfanwy!’ I complain. ‘She won’t leave me alone about these bloody six predictions. She’s practically crowing about how Daniel dumping me is the first one coming true. And now I’m going to have to move out of my flat in a few weeks, she thinks it’s the independence loss.’

‘Maybe it is?’ Diane shrugs. ‘Have you considered maybe all the predictions, all the losses, are about this one thing?’

I glance at her, confused, then back at the car in front. ‘What do you mean?’

She takes a moment, flicking her windscreen wash on. The road ahead of us briefly becomes blurry with water.

‘I mean, maybe a heartbreak, an independence, a death – maybe it was all meant to be about this break-up with Daniel.’

‘A death?’ I ask, incredulous.

Beside me, Diane shrugs. ‘Well, it is like a death, isn’t it? You had someone in your life – intensely in your life! – and now they’re gone. You’re not even speaking, are you? He’s completely gone, you’ve lost him. It’s like he died.’

I keep my eyes tight on the road.

He’s really gone.

‘Have you thought about maybe trying to find her?’ Diane glances over, her indicator ticking. ‘Y’know, the fortune teller? The woman who lumbered you with this pre-ordained future? Might be worth trying. She could have answers. Even her having no answers might be a kind of answer for you.’

Her question takes me by surprise because the truth is I hadn’t. It’s never occurred to me. The fortune teller has been this ghostly supernatural figure from my past; in my mind she’s barely a real person anymore.

I could find her. I have no idea how, but I could try? She might have information or questions or even more predictions. But what if I did find her? What if she was an obvious charlatan? Would that make me feel better or worse? And what if I found her and she was the real deal?

We pull up outside my flat.

‘Want me to come in?’ Diane offers, her voice soft and kind.

I shake my head. I’m so tired, so drained. I feel wrecked by the weight of everything that’s happened – tonight and in the last month – and I need to think about everything she’s said.

‘I’m just going to head straight to bed,’ I say, reaching for a hug. ‘Thanks though, Diane, you’re the best. And sorry for ruining your evening.’

‘You haven’t,’ she replies into my hair. ‘You tore me away from enjoying my post-takeaway heartburn in front of an episode of Love Is Blind.’ She rubs her chest, her face screwed up.

I say goodnight and head inside, thinking about the searing, horrible, feeling in my chest, and if it’s here to stay.