Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
I torture myself with images of Aidan and Melody, of their love-making, their walks with the dogs, the simplicity and warmth of their relationship.
The flip side of having the kind of imagination that allows me to write books for a living is this: it’s almost impossible to control.
The fantasies take on lives of their own, and before long I have them married with kids. A boy and a girl, obviously.
I feel such a mix of things– humiliated, stupid, regretful, and above all, sad. Just very, very sad. For that very brief time, I genuinely hoped. It was like being shown a rainbow, then going back to life in shades of beige.
Knowing that at least some of it is my own fault doesn’t help.
It would be easier if I could write Aidan off as a bastard, but I can’t even do that.
He tried so very hard with me, and each time I slapped him down.
I rejected him because of my own insecurities, my own fears.
My inability to communicate. My basic crapness. I had my chance, and I blew it.
I’m surprised at how quickly he’s moved on, but I imagine how hurt he must have been.
After spending the last month courting me like a gentleman, wooing me, supporting me in every possible way, I finally show him some encouragement.
And then, the morning after, when he tells me that he loves me, I become monosyllabic, then angry, and then I run away.
Add to that the fact that for the rest of the day, I also ignore his phone calls.
If a man did that to a woman, we’d call him all kinds of rude names. It would be a shooting offence.
After all of that, after me rejecting him, he has taken solace in the arms of his friend with benefits. The one who has always been there for him. And why shouldn’t he? I haven’t been much of a friend to him at all.
Cherie messages me asking how I am, and I simply tell her I’m tired and staying at home tonight.
That is completely true, even if it’s only a small part of the story.
Idon’t want to talk to her about what has happened right now, possibly ever.
This is a small place, and I don’t want to have to leave it.
I don’t want things between Aidan and me to become so awkward that it is impossible for us both to live in Budbury.
That might be a forlorn hope, I know. How am I going to react the next time I see him?
How will I possibly manage to behave like a normal human around him?
I can’t imagine being at the café and seeing him run along the beach.
I can’t imagine bumping into him in the pub, or hearing about him from the others.
What if Melody becomes more of a fixture and she starts hanging around as well?
I think then, maybe, I would have to leave.
I’m not sure my poor fragile heart could take it.
Before I go to bed– or more precisely, before I pass out on the sofa– I listen to a few more empowering tracks in an attempt to plant some positivity in my brain before I sleep. ‘I Will Survive’, obviously, ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry, and the modern classic that is Miley Cyrus’s ‘Flowers’.
It doesn’t seem to do much good. When I manage to prise my eyes open, freezing cold because I’ve kicked off my blanket during a restless night, I feel far from empowered.
I’m okay for approximately thirty seconds, before I remember.
Then I feel like a pile of bricks has landed on my head, crushing me into dust. It’s awful and I don’t know how to deal with it.
I suppose ordinary women have their hearts broken when they’re much younger.
Sally started when she was about fifteen.
I’ve always been a little too careful with my heart, I guess, and now I’m paying the price.
I’m like someone who has never been exposed to a germ suddenly being doused in a vat of viruses; I have no immunity at all. This might actually kill me.
I roll off the couch and onto the floor, and begin the gradual process of putting myself back together again.
Or at least trying to. I take a couple of ibuprofen with a black coffee, and let that sink in before I crawl up the stairs and have a shower.
I try to do normal things, like check my emails and look at work, but I’m not really in the right head space.
My office is still set up as Sally’s bedroom, so I decide that dismantling that will be a mindless enough task to keep me occupied for a while.
I put the sheets in to wash, fold up the sofa, and clear the detritus she has left behind.
For a woman who I know keeps a very tidy house herself, Sally is a very messy guest– I think she reverted to being a teenager while she was here.
It’s the only explanation for the half-drunk glasses of juice, the empty crisp packets and the dirty plates that have accumulated.
I gather up the clothes that were on the floor, and decide that I will wash those too. Then I will pack them all up in her overnight bag and drive to London to hand deliver them. And maybe I’ll never come back here again…
No, I tell myself firmly, I will not do that.
At least not on the very first day of dealing with this new situation.
Aidan is very much linked to my Budbury experience, because I met him pretty much as soon as I moved here.
When I think of this place, I think of him.
Is that something I can overcome, I wonder?
Can I build new routines, new habits, new neural pathways, ones where he doesn’t appear everywhere?
I move my laptop and work notebooks back into my office, and assure myself that I can. That I will be all right, eventually.
The problem is, I’m a rotten liar. Especially, it seems, when I’m lying to myself. I sit in front of my desk, the place where I usually find solace, and I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I swipe them away, annoyed at my own weakness. I need to get a grip.
I idly google ‘How to recover from a broken heart’, and almost laugh at my own silliness.
It won’t help to join an online forum where I talk to strangers about how my man did me wrong.
He was never really my man, and he didn’t do anything that wrong.
The best bit of advice I find is to keep busy, and try and look after myself physically as well as mentally.
And, of course, to reach out for help if I feel like I’m becoming overwhelmed.
I already feel overwhelmed. This is all so new to me that I’m confused by my lack of mental focus.
Will’s cheating hurt me deeply, but in some ways the divorce was actually a relief– I could start to heal, start to rebuild, and go back to the solitary life that I’d always preferred.
The situation with Martin was obviously very different and deeply damaging to my mental health.
I was already a jumpy person, and he took that and turned me into someone who never had a minute’s peace.
But if I set aside the lying and the stalking, how hurt was I, really?
I’d thought I wanted more with him at the time.
I’d thought maybe it could work between us– barring the fact that I didn’t know his real name of course.
But when it ended, was I heartbroken? I was nervous, I was anxious, and I was disappointed.
I was saddened that he’d behaved like that and I was humiliated that I’d fallen for it, but heartbroken? No.
This feels completely different from what I’ve encountered before, and I’m flailing around in misery. How do people deal with this level of pain? How do they come out the other side? I genuinely feel like I’m in agony.
I have no idea what to do with myself, and I hate that. I can usually think my way out of things, or at least attempt to. This, though, has nothing to do with logical thought processes. This is raw and painful and huge.
I glance at my phone, and see that it isn’t even eleven. I have a whole huge day yawning ahead of me. I also, I notice, have another message from my sister.
Hope all is good, sis! Thanks for putting up with me. Forgot to send you this link from the twins’ party.
I click through, for want of anything else to fill my time, and find that it takes me to a website that has tiny thumb-nail shots of all the photos taken on the night.
There had been a photographer buzzing around taking group shots and family portraits, as well as a booth full of ridiculous blow-up props and silly hats.
I flick through and am ashamed to say that my eyes barely register the ones of my nieces and my family.
They scoot straight to the pictures that feature me and Aidan.
Us at the bar, raising glasses of champagne.
Us on the dancefloor. Us wearing big plastic sunglasses and playing inflatable saxophones. Us having fun.
Damn. I’m crying again. I reach out and touch the screen, wishing it was him.
I look into his bright green eyes. ‘I love you,’ I say, aware that I’m acting crazy but apparently unable to stop.
‘I love you, but by the time I figured that out, it was too late. How is that fair? Shouldn’t I have had some kind of deadline? Was I that easy to replace?’
An image of Melody comes to mind. Young, pretty, uncomplicated. Yes, it seems, I was that easy to replace.