Chapter Seven
My first evening alone as a newly single woman. If we don’t count last night, which I don’t, because my philosophy is that if you can’t remember something then it didn’t happen.
I am sitting on the floor, wearing my biggest, ugliest clothes pulled straight off the maiden in the living room the moment I stepped out of the shower. I have scrubbed my body raw, put the soiled clothes of shame in the washing machine and I am watching the swirl of white Lycra spinning around with my curried blouse.
Today truly must have been rock bottom. I almost miss Martin. I could have come home and ranted off to him about it, and he would have made me feel better.
Oh, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have told him, and if I had, he’d have only told me how much sugar was in all the wine I drank.
What shall I do? It’s so long since I’ve had an evening to myself that I feel a bit lost, and I need a distraction because my mind is going into overdrive. I can’t stop thinking about how much I despise my job. My first real job; when I was offered it I ran around for weeks telling everyone I was going to be a scientific writer and had visions of work socials and climbing the career ladder. Once the first month had passed I realised it was so mind-numbing and pointless that I couldn’t be bothered to put the energy in to even try and progress. And where would I go? Into a sales rep position? Into a better paid, equally morally dubious medical writing post with six times the responsibility? Even when I thought Theo was giving me my first break today, there was a voice in the back of my mind: this isn’t what you want. I think the thing about a full-time job is that it’s great in theory, but actually doing it is a real ball-ache.
Although... what if I can make something of this? Yes, I’ll be at the conference to take minutes, but couldn’t I network a bit? Schmooze around and see if there are any other positions going, something more exciting? I’m not sure it’s exactly what I want, but anything’s better than where I am right now, surely?
I feel shit, and when I feel shit I eat — preferably an equal mixture of carbs and fat. It’s been a really successful coping mechanism so far. In the spirit of doing whatever the hell I want now I’m alone, I go to my old faithful Domino’s app and create my very own signature pizza — pepperoni, pineapple and barbeque sauce with extra cheese.
I’m about to check out when I remember that I have literally no money . I can’t use my money sock unless it’s a Grade A emergency, and yesterday’s curry has rinsed it almost dry. If I buy this pizza then I can’t get literally anything else that I need to survive, and while I think the cheese and barbeque sauce might meet most of my basic human needs, it won’t serve as shower gel, which I just ran out of removing a particularly gnarly bit of coriander from my calf.
Why is life so hard? I’m finding it difficult to think because I keep getting distracted by how awful I feel. Today’s humiliation has really brought my weight issue home; two years of living with Martin and his extreme health regime made me a secret eater. The woman at the Greggs next to work knows my name.
I should eat some poached eggs and spinach. Or some kale and crushed carrot. Emma Penton is always eating things like that — her Instagram is full of it and her body is on fire. I really need to try harder at being one of those clean-eating women; maybe even get a pestle and mortar so I can crush my own linseeds and take artistic photos of it sitting on my windowsill.
My mind twinges again with a vague shadow of a memory from last night. I can’t grasp it.
I heave myself up and dig a pepperoni pizza out of the freezer, where I had hidden it underneath the frozen peas and ice bags. It’s one of those ones in the colourful boxes that look nice and crispy and only cost a couple of quid. I slide it out of its packaging and all the cheese has shifted to one side, the pepperoni congregating in the middle. Tears spring to my eyes. Why is this happening to me?
I call Cecilia. As the closest of my three best friends, she is the one who truly knows how to talk me down. Plus she’s a freelancer, so she always answers the phone. She picks up on the first ring.
‘Maggie?’
‘I broke up with Martin.’ I’m sobbing now.
‘Oh, great! Wait... you’re crying. Why are you crying?’
‘My frozen pizza looks shit.’
‘Oh, Mags, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Why is it always me?’ A tear is running down my chin and I catch it with my sleeve.
‘You’re just unlucky. You always manage to pick the one where the toppings have migrated.’
‘I know. It’s so unfair. ’
‘Hey, come on. Get a Domino’s. That always makes you feel better.’
‘No money. I went to work covered in curry.’ I’m giving her random facts now.
She laughs. ‘What did Theo say about that?’
‘Asked me to go to a conference with him.’
‘Wow. That’s great news, isn’t it? You should cover yourself in food more often.’
‘I don’t want to go. He just wants me to take notes. I’m so fat. ’
‘Hey! Stop that. You’re not fat, you’re beautiful, gorgeous Maggie.’ Someone shouts in the background. ‘Yep, coming! Sorry, Mags, David’s got tea on the table. Call you later?’
‘Yeah, okay. Thanks, C.’
‘Shut up. Go and eat your pizza and listen to the Mamma Mia soundtrack. You know that makes you happy.’
‘Will do. Say hi to David for me.’
‘All right. See ya.’
Cecilia is so nice . Feisty, defensive and moody sometimes, but nice. She, Anna and Sophie have been my best friends for nine years now, and she’s definitely the most mature of the four of us. She lives in a little two-bedroom terrace with her lovely boyfriend David and has loads of cute photos everywhere and potted plants. She’s so together. I can picture her now, sitting at the dinner table and eating freshly made lasagne off quirky plates that don’t match, talking about work and laughing as she sips her glass of ￡12 Chardonnay. She’ll leave the rest of the bottle in the fridge for tomorrow night, too. She has self-control. My head throbs to remind me that I do not.
I slide my ugly pizza into the oven. It still smells of last night’s dry chicken and reminds me of my proposal. I almost forgot about that. I suddenly realise that Martin proposed to me while I had a prawn wedged in my hair; I found it in the shower earlier. How much time have I wasted being with Martin? How much time have I wasted full stop ? Season seven of The Office , for Christ’s sake, and I only started it two weeks ago.
I light a cigarette and stand by the window. God, my life’s a mess.
I smoke slowly and sadly, looking out for the pigeon who doesn’t appear, before heading into the bedroom to throw myself onto the bed and wallow. But of course, I can’t — the sheets need washing, the takeaway containers need chucking, the whole thing needs condemning; sealing off; burning from the inside out.
I strip the bed angrily. It’s only after I have balled everything up and carried it through to the living room that I remember that the washing machine is full of other contaminated goods. I stand in the middle of the room, holding the bundle in front of my face and inhaling my shame, before shoving on my shoes and walking out of the front door. I make my way down the corridor, bed sheets trailing behind me, and down the stairs to the bin room, where I chuck the lot.
Fuelled by furious energy, I storm back into the bedroom and pull fresh bedsheets out of the wardrobe. I shake the fitted sheet out and, as it billows, a piece of paper wafts off the bedside table and settles on the floor.
I pick it up.
1. Stop smoking.
2. Lose weight.
3. Exercise.
4. See family more.
5. Change your fucking job.
The memory rushes back to me with force. A bottle of wine, Martin leaving, a new start, the despair.
A list. I made a list.
I gaze at it, slowly taking in each item. Every single thing seems completely undoable in the cold light of my hangover. I can’t imagine stepping on a treadmill, eating salad or hanging out with Veri. And changing my job? I’ve just been given the opportunity to network, is now really the time?
I scrunch up the list and put it in my pocket. I was drunk; nobody follows through on drunk plans. How many brunches have I organised six vodka-and-cokes in? Hundreds. And how many have I attended? None.
Oh my god, my pizza. I run to the oven and get a burnt-pepperoni-scented steam facial as I fling the door open. The meat mountain in the middle is tinged black, and the crust looks like something you’d find in a bonfire pit.
No, be positive, I’m sure it’s still edible. This is how they do it in Italy, isn’t it? You get the black parts on it for extra flavour. I slice it up and it crumbles like ash, but this is a good thing — didn’t pregnant women used to eat coal for the extra nutrients? I’m sure it’s the same.
It tastes like a cigarette butt.
I flop onto the sofa and take out my phone, gnawing on a slightly less-black slice. Oh, look. Emma Penton is in Vietnam. She’s standing on the beach, holding a crab, her taut stomach glaring at me.
Ugh. I pull out the list again and smooth it out on the table.
I’ve got to change something . I open my laptop and head to Amazon, feeling suddenly quite financially savvy because I cooked my own (inedible) food in the oven. Also, Martin has gone now, so surely my bills are going to drop off a bit? I can invest in my future, can’t I?
I type ‘electronic cigarette’ into the search bar. My brain battles with conflicting feelings. On the one hand, I am really, really not ready for this. On the other hand, will I ever be ready? I force myself to keep looking.
I’ve found a particularly cute-looking one that actually resembles a cigarette, sort of, and is only eight quid. I shove it in the basket quickly, before I can contemplate that there might be a reason it’s so cheap, and have a look at the e-liquid stuff I’ll apparently be needing too. There are so many flavours, I can’t quite believe it. Lemon meringue pie, iced caramel latte, vanilla chai. Oh my god, they have blue flavour! I love blue flavour, like those ice pops you get from the corner shop. Three for ￡7, too! I add them to my basket, maximum nicotine content, and check out. Total price: ￡15, leaving me with ￡5 in my account — plenty to buy a bottle of own-brand shower gel. Excellent.
I suddenly feel lighter. This is a new beginning. Maybe once I’ve quit the cigarettes I can move on to exercising; become one of those inspirational people who document their journey from potato to ninja. I could start tumbling, or Parkour, and wear tiny sports bras and hotpants and not even my boobs would jiggle when I ran. Imagine what everyone would think of me then. The possibilities are now endless.
My computer pings with an incoming email. My order receipt from Amazon. I open it to get rid of the unread icon on my inbox and go to close it again when I stop.
Estimated delivery date: 5th April.
WHAT? Today is the 1st March. That’s an entire month away. How can it possibly take so long? Are they sending it by carrier pigeon? Is a man hand-delivering it on foot from Sweden? What about the new life I had planned? The universe is not aligning anything for me today (as Emma Penton would say. Or, rather, as she wouldn’t ever say, because the universe aligns absolutely everything for her every single moment of every beautiful day of her charmed, charmed life).
I try to ignore the gleeful little voice in the back of my mind: you don’t have to quit for a while, then. My mood lifts again. I am bolstered by the rush of making a change, while also knowing that I don’t actually have to do anything right this very second . It’s completely out of my control, really.
I get up and slide the rest of the blackened pizza into the bin, but as soon as I do, the sad, guilty voice in my brain gets a little bit louder, my good mood receding. I have to hold onto this positive feeling, I can’t let myself dwell. But now I have no food, and it’s like someone has snatched the crutch that was holding me upright from under my arm. I feel an urge so strong I can’t see straight; I am alone and able to indulge and comfort myself as much as I want — no eyes watching. I can hide and get my fix and hate myself later, when the high has waned and the regret and self-loathing throb and strain against my waistband.
No. I can fight against this. I’ve done it in the past. I just need distraction. Following Cecilia’s advice, I shuffle an ABBA playlist on Spotify and try to think about my new, smoke-free future, postponed until April, when I will be ready and better and won’t feel this way anymore.
Mamma Mia is the first song on the list. I try to get into the music, to absorb the happy beat, and for a second it works. I force myself to dance around the living room, singing along, thinking about Greece and boats and sunshine. But then, slowly, I realise they’re singing about never learning, losing control, making the same mistakes again and again. I make my way over to my laptop to change the song and stub my toe hard on the coffee table. It feels like a sign.
I stab it off and grab the first things I can find: a loaf of bread, a knife and half a tub of low-fat cream cheese. I crawl into my unmade bed and cry.