9. Mr Not My Type
NINE
Mr Not My Type
Friday, 1 March, 11.30am
Had a call from my client Lisa. I designed her daughter Hannah’s princess heaven of a pink bedroom shortly before going off on my travels. She wants to update some of the accessories. Hannah must be six now. She’s such a character and full of wisecracks, so I’m looking forward to going shopping with them. If I had a daughter – if I could have had a daughter – I’d like her to be like Hannah. I wonder if she’d have inherited my love of salsa, or my fat feet or extreme politeness. Maybe she’d have been like Mum: willowy, popular, and fearless. What if she’d got the sharp tongue gene from Auntie Sara? Whatever she was like, I know she would have brought joy into my life, and I would have loved her to the moon and back. I’ll never know now.
Saturday, 2 March, 11.30pm
Phoned Sara earlier and invited them all for dinner. She said she’s too busy. Yeah right. I’m being nice to her but she’s obviously avoiding me. I’m tempted to go over to her house and have it out with her. I’m fed up with her bad attitude, but I miss the sisterly chats we had before she decided to turn into evil Sara. I also miss seeing Jack and Charlotte. I have so much love to give and they’re the nearest to having my own children. I can’t help wanting to spoil them and trying to be the cool auntie they admire.
Sunday, 3 March, 11.30pm
I went up to visit Mum and Dad today. While I was helping with lunch, I complained about Sara’s insults and downright nastiness, but Mum kept telling me to be kind to my sister.
‘She made me cry on New Year’s Day. Why are you defending her?’
‘I didn’t want to say anything because she swore me to secrecy, but things are getting so bad between you two, I think I have to tell you.’ She hesitated.
‘Come on, Mum. What’s the big secret? Has Laurence had another affair?’
‘What do you mean another affair?’ She said, open-mouthed. Shit.
‘I meant an affair. Never mind that. Are you going to tell me or not?’
She took a deep breath and said, ‘She had a miscarriage.’
‘Oh God. When was that?’
‘It was a few months before you went off to travel. She’d got pregnant and Laurence was ecstatic, but Sara didn’t want a baby at forty-nine and was thinking about an abortion. While they were trying to decide, she went out one night, got drunk, fell down the stairs at home, and lost the baby.’
So that night when she came to me crying and in a state about Laurence having an affair, it must have been a couple of months after the miscarriage. She’d gone through that, and on top of it, Laurence was having it off with someone else. The prick. That must be why she went completely off the rails and has behaved atrociously ever since.
‘She’s ashamed of what happened,’ Mum continued, ‘and she thought, with you not being able to have children, and her considering an abortion and then losing the baby like that … she thought you might judge or resent her. She blames herself. I think Laurence blamed her at first too and they were having a terrible time at home.’
I’m so sad for Sara and Laurence for losing their baby. I can’t believe she thought I’d judge her. I would have supported her whatever she’d decided. I love Jack and Charlotte with all my heart, and I’ve never begrudged the joy they bring to Sara’s and all of our lives. I’d be lying if I said I don’t envy her for having two beautiful healthy children. I remember seeing Charlotte for the first time in hospital and watching Sara nursing, oblivious to my silent envy. My arms ached to hold my own child, yet I knew it couldn’t be so, and the finality of it overwhelmed me, opening an abyss of sorrow. And yet, I also know that the feeling of envy has never been mutually exclusive with being delighted for Sara and loving my niece and nephew with devotion.
Am I bitter and twisted about not being able to have children? I don’t think so. I hope not. Yes, it’s true that sometimes I still feel a malignant hole in my core, but I work hard on not allowing it to rule my life. Jealousy and bitterness can only hurt me and I don’t want to be that person.
Mum begged me not to let on that I know, so I’ll have to zip it and be nice next time Sara vents her anger at me. I’ll wait until she’s ready to talk. It’s not going to be easy, especially if she keeps picking at my insecurity scabs.
Wednesday, 6 March, 7.30pm
Today’s date was properly rubbish. As if being out there in the dating world and exposing yourself to judgement isn’t enough, you have to deal with psychopaths who completely lack any sense of empathy. Dating can be so brutal. I thought it was just on the apps where people behave as though the normal rules of decency and consideration don’t apply, but today I experienced it in real life.
My date’s profile had a picture of him with a group of men with about a hundred pints of beer in front of them. Not my type, but he said he was a happy, confident man and looking for adventure, so I thought he was worth a coffee. How wrong I was. I arrived early at Coffee Nest. He came in five minutes later, walked up to my table, eyed me up briefly and before I could say hello, he said, ‘Sorry mate, you’re not my type’, and walked out, leaving me open-mouthed and red-faced. It might have crushed a less confident person, but it’s not going to crush me, though it still hurts. I’d heard tales of people being horrible like this but didn’t think it would happen to me if I was respectful.
Annoying as it was, the experience made me reflect on my own behaviour. Leila used to say I didn’t give men a chance to approach me, but I hope I was never as rude as Mr Not My Type. I remember a lightbulb moment a few years ago when I was single – before I met The Traitor. I was at a pub with Grace for her birthday. Waiting for service at the bar, a guy next to me started chatting, and I was giving disinterested monosyllabic answers and diligently not looking at him. Eventually he gave up, but as he walked away, he said, ‘You know, you’re a babe but you’re hard work.’ Back at our table, Grace asked me who the dishy hunk at the bar was. I told her what had happened.
‘How dare he call me hard work?’ I asked.
‘He was on the nose though. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen three men in here eyeing you up, waiting for an in – a glance or something to give them permission to approach – but you’re too aloof,’ she said.
I realised then that I didn’t want to be that person. I didn’t want to be cool and unapproachable, behaving like nobody was good enough for me. That wasn’t how I felt. I glanced over at the man and raised my glass, but he looked away.
It occurred to me then that I was still scared of getting hurt again. Was that why all my relationships after James didn’t last, fizzling out like spent embers? They all started out well. I’d meet someone who thought I was amazing and adored me, but they could never get close. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – reveal my soft core. I didn’t commit fully because I thought if I showed vulnerability, they could use it to hurt me later. I kept my feelings firmly inside with a giant stopper of nonchalance. I pretended I didn’t care and unknowingly sabotaged the relationships. If I didn’t commit, then I wouldn’t get hurt. Right? Wrong. I may not have let them get close to me, but I still felt wounded and bruised when things went off track. Yet another failed relationship that, somehow, I couldn’t explain.
After what Grace said, I promised myself I would be more receptive and open. I worked hard at being present and intimate. To talk about how I felt instead of everything being ‘fine’. And it worked, because soon after, I met The Traitor. I fell in love and gave myself to him completely. And look how he paid me back. I know now I’m better off without love. I don’t want spiritual intimacy, just closeness of a physical nature. I can cope with that.
After the nastiness of Mr Not My Type this morning, I decided to have a walk in the sunshine, explore the area and forget about the horrible non-date. I walked along Gresham Street, popped into an exhibition of seventeenth-century paintings at the beautiful Guildhall buildings, then headed for Smithfields to find a café for lunch. God, I love London. You can live here for years and still stumble on undiscovered places.
Blissfully unaware I was about to get the second shock of the day, I found a cute traditional Italian café in a side street and joined the lunch time queue of office workers. Looking through the window for a free table, I saw a man and a woman who were obviously having an intimate conversation. She was tearful, and he was holding her hand and soothing her. She had an uncanny resemblance to Grace. The queue moved and I went inside, standing behind Grace’s doppelg?nger. I noticed she had a pink Miu Miu handbag like Grace’s with an identical skull keyring attached to the strap. What were the chances of that?
I texted Grace and said, ‘Ha ha, just seen your secret twin. LOL.’ The woman’s phone pinged and when she picked it up, I saw my text over her shoulder. She read it and put it back in her bag, as I froze on the spot and the man said, ‘I don’t want to rush you but when are you going to tell your husband? He should know what’s going on, and soon’, and the woman said, ‘I have to find the right time. He’s going to freak out. I’m dreading it.’ It wasn’t Grace’s double. It was Grace.
I didn’t want to confront her so I hurried out before she could see me. What the hell is going on? Is Grace, the dedicated mother and wife, having an affair? I don’t want to believe it but the tableau from the café tells me otherwise. Shit.
Thursday, 7 March, 10.30pm
This morning, I remembered yesterday’s awful date and looking at myself in the mirror, wondered what it was that made him think I wasn’t his type. What did he see in those few seconds? Perhaps he prefers tall flat-chested women or my skin was too dark for his liking. Was my head-to-toe red outfit too much? Was it my looks? Or am I unaware of something else? Maybe I looked too confident and he wants a mouse. Even though I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole, it’s still painful to be rejected so brutally. I must forget about it and not let his nastiness put me off dating.
P.S. I keep thinking about what Sara’s been through and how badly she’s been behaving. It’s hurtful that she couldn’t talk to me about her miscarriage. We used to be so close. I feel torn. I’m sad for her but I also want to shake her until the demon squatting in her brain is exorcised and she turns back into the old sweet Sara. I’m managing to keep my fury at bay, but only just. If it weren’t for immersing myself in the anger management retreat in India, and all those hours of group therapy in Bali to forget The Traitor, I would be exploding by now.
Friday, 8 March, 11.30pm
Went for a drink with Ace tonight and recounted my experience with Mr Not My Type. I told him I’d been upset at the time, but I was over it now. He listened open-mouthed.
‘Wanker,’ he said. Ace never swears, but he was quite angry about the whole thing. He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Language, Ace,’ I said in mock horror.
‘You know it’s nothing to do with you, don’t you?’
I told him yes, which wasn’t quite true. I pretend but inside I’m not so good at brushing off nasty comments. He’s such a lovely supportive friend, and I was touched by his reaction. I’ll do the same for him if he starts dating again, though given how he reacted to my story, he has no idea what it’s like being single out there. He’s going to need my support.
P.S. Hurrah. Joseph, the architect from the Albion Street project, has recommended me to his clients. They have a house in Belgrave Square, one of the most upmarket postcodes in London. I hope it’s a whole-house refurbishment. My favourite kind of project. I love transformations and the before and after photos.
Saturday, 9 March, 11.30pm
Joy came at 7am this morning. I’d forgotten to bolt the front door, so she let herself in and the first thing she did was vacuum outside my bedroom. Why? She banged around until I got up and went out.
‘Oh sorry, I wake you? I come early. I’m babysitting Aiden and Ava today.’
How does she manage to do my cleaning, be a nanny to two kids and run a cleaning company?
‘Joy loves them but don’t want to be nanny every day. Parents are always working late. Children are asleep when they come home. Only I talk to them.’
Why do people have children if they’re going to leave them with a nanny the whole time? I know I’m being judgemental, and these things are never straightforward and maybe they have no choice but to work all hours. I just think I would have wanted to cherish every minute with my babies if I had the choice.
Later, on my way back from shopping, I bumped into Joy taking the kids to the theatre.
‘What are you going to see?’ I asked the children.
‘ Matilda The Musical ,’ they said in unison. In perfect Filipino accents.
Sunday, 10 March, 11.30pm
I was having a coffee at Café a Deux, minding my own business. Not on a date for a change. A man came in, searched around, spotted me and came over.
‘You must be Melanie,’ he said, smiling.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said.
‘Yes, you are. You said to meet here. I know it’s you,’ Mr Angry shouted.
‘No, I can assure you, I’m not Melanie.’ I didn’t raise my voice, but I gripped the cup handle.
‘Bloody women. You fix a date, then pretend to be someone else if you don’t like the look of him. Bitch.’ He rushed towards the door, banged a table, and knocked over someone’s strawberry milkshake with his parka.
Once I got over the shock, it made me think of the experiences I’ve been through so far in my dating challenge. There’ve been some blinders, but nothing nasty, apart from Mr Not My Type. I suppose there are just as many weird and not-so-wonderful women out there mistreating men. That poor bugger had obviously been on one too many awful dates. When did it become OK to insult people because you don’t want to date them? The swipe culture has a lot to answer for. It’s bad enough for me but I’m glad I’m not an unformed twenty-something trying to find love.
Texted Grace and arranged to meet her for lunch tomorrow. Phoned Sara and asked her what I should say to Grace.
‘Your friends are as bad as you with all their drama. It’s none of your business. Why are you sticking your nose in?’ she said.
Damn. I shouldn’t have done that. Totally insensitive of me given Laurence’s affair. I am the CEO of Bad Sisters Incorporated.
Monday, 11 March, 11.45am
On the bus, going to meet Grace. My stomach is doing somersaults. I’ll just act normal, tell her when and where I came across her doppelg?nger and the pink handbag and see if she admits it was her. Will she confess her affair and confide in me or will she make up some story? Could there be a different explanation for what I witnessed? I doubt it but I hope so. I want to be wrong. I love Grace but I’m fond of Ajay too and wouldn’t like to think she’s cheating on him. First Ace, now Grace. And possibly Jude too.
3.00pm
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t believe it. I was completely on the wrong track. The man with Grace was a colleague. She’d been to an appointment at Barts Hospital on her own because she didn’t want to tell her family and friends about it. Afterwards she’d gone to work but had got upset, so he took her out to lunch. She’s been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s only forty-five. We cried. She’s told Ajay now but doesn’t want to tell the kids or her parents yet, so I’m sworn to secrecy. I think the Nigerian in her is avoiding upsetting the rest of the family for as long as possible. She’s waiting for a date for surgery. They’ve caught it early so hopefully that’ll be all the treatment she needs. Thank goodness she got the lump checked out.
11.30pm
So sad about Grace. I’ve been Googling breast cancer all evening. It says eighty-six per cent of women in England live for at least five years after diagnosis. Five years? That’s not long. She’ll only be fifty then. I thought we were good at treating breast cancer now, but thirty women die of it every day. And the post-surgery pictures are horrible. I can’t bear to look anymore. But she’s going to be OK. I’m sure of it. She’s a fighter.
Tuesday, 12 March, 11.30pm
I’m feeling guilty for thinking Grace was having an affair. Why did I jump to that conclusion? Am I so jaded about relationships that I assume someone is cheating even when they’re clearly happily married? Or do I want to believe relationships don’t work so I can justify not committing to one myself? Then again, the divorce rate is something like fifty per cent, so something is not right. I’m just a realist. Look at Ace and Kelly.
Dating feels completely irrelevant right now. What if I got cancer? The stats are not good for women my age. If I thought I might die, would it make me want to find love, have more sex, or would I give up and concentrate on my health instead? I might take a break from the dating challenge.
Wednesday, 13 March, 11.30pm
Texted Grace to see how she’s doing and she sent a crying emoji.