Chapter Two
It was half eleven on a Tuesday morning and I probably should have been doing something that at least resembled work, but instead I was lying flat out on the sofa watching daytime TV and wearing mushroom-print flannel pyjamas and, yes, they were as revolting as they sounded.
Tellingly, it was the only item of ‘clothing’ I owned that wasn’t currently crammed into my overflowing laundry basket, clearly an indication that I needed to do some household chores.
But so what if I was a bit behind with it all?
Except I couldn’t let anyone else know that, could I, they’d know something was up.
So when the doorbell rang, jolting me out of my stupor, I was forced to launch myself into the bedroom to rip off the pyjamas and pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper.
Then I ran into the kitchen to shove the sinkful of washing-up into the nearest cupboard and swiftly removed empty crisp packets from the lounge coffee table.
As a result, it took me so long to get out into the hallway that whoever was most inconveniently arriving unannounced in the middle of the day had rung the bell a second time – I really hoped it wasn’t just a delivery driver after all this, although I knew I hadn’t ordered anything because, well, what would be the point?
I now lived in complete solitude and rarely went out, preferring to hibernate inside my flat with no desire to communicate with other humans.
Using my fingers to comb my hair with limited, if any, effect, I power-walked towards the chink of daylight at the end of my hallway; actual sunshine was visible through the frosted glass, a gentle reminder that a world still existed out there.
I flung open the front door, clutching my chest in surprise.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I exclaimed, standing back to let my friend Zoe in.
‘Half day. I’ve got the dentist in a bit,’ said Zoe, peering at me disconcertingly. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said, immediately on the defensive. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your jumper is on inside out.’
‘Is it?’ I said, craning my neck to look over my shoulder. Yep, there was the label, poking out, clear as day. I could hardly turn it round the right way now, could I, I had nothing on underneath.
‘Is this because of Charlie?’ asked Zoe, slamming the door behind her so hard the entire flat rattled.
‘No,’ I insisted. This was exactly why I’d put off telling people until I’d absolutely had to – the last thing I wanted was my friends watching me like a hawk in case I had a meltdown.
Zoe looked at me suspiciously. ‘Really?’
I shrugged as she followed me into the lounge. It was easier if I didn’t look at her, because we’d been friends for so long that sometimes it was like she knew how I was feeling before I did.
‘I’m taking it one day at a time,’ I lied.
It was the kind of thing people said in books and on TV, wasn’t it, and I thought it sounded good and might get Zoe off my back.
I resumed my place on the sofa, albeit sitting upright this time.
Earlier that morning, I’d been shocked to note that it had developed a sort of squidgy, lopsided sink hole on one side, possibly due to me lying on it for several hours a day of late.
Once or twice I’d even spent the night out here, because it had felt all kinds of strange to sleep alone in the bed I’d once shared with Charlie.
And night-times weren’t generally the best – I tended to toss and turn, ruminating relentlessly about what I’d done to push him away, what I could do to get him back, whether I was destined to a lifetime of misery now and whether I would ever see him or his parents again.
Thoughts that weren’t exactly conducive to sleep, as you could imagine, and so I tended not to, and would spend the day napping out of sheer exhaustion instead and feeling permanently groggy as a result.
Zoe leapt on to the sofa next to me and I thought longingly back to a time when I would have had the energy to fling myself on to other people’s furniture if I’d so desired.
‘What are you watching?’ asked Zoe, squinting at the TV screen. A celebrity chef was currently stirring a pot of a rather unpleasant-looking fish stew.
‘This Morning,’ I said, refusing to feel bad about it. What use was being freelance if you couldn’t occasionally slack off and watch trash TV?
And yes, obviously I could have been doing something more productive, like writing, perhaps.
But the thing was, I was finding watching semi-relatable presenters earnestly discussing unthreatening topics like red-carpet looks or somebody’s new book exceptionally comforting.
If I couldn’t get myself together enough to enjoy my own life, I would live vicariously through others, and even better if they were rich, famous and on my TV screen.
My phone buzzed and I looked at it fake-nonchalantly, even though I knew, and Zoe knew, that if she wasn’t sitting beside me I’d have launched myself on it in a matter of nanoseconds.
It was never Charlie anyway, so I didn’t know why I kept thinking it would be.
Any hope I’d had that he was going to realise he’d made a huge mistake and come knocking at my/our door begging for forgiveness had waned somewhat in the last two weeks of radio silence; seemingly, he’d meant what he’d said.
He’d sent me a couple of messages the day after he left – I’m sorry and then I just couldn’t do this anymore – but that had been the extent of our communication, even though obviously I’d been tempted to call him about ten times a day just so I could hear his voice.
But he didn’t want to hear mine, did he, and that still felt unbelievable to me.
How could he go from spooning me in bed one night to moving out the next?
It continued to make absolutely zero sense.
‘That had better not be him,’ said Zoe, sporting the disgusted expression she’d started adopting whenever Charlie came up.
She was hating on him in a way that I wished I could. It seemed like it would be a healthy progression from the abject misery I was currently experiencing. Wasn’t anger one of the stages of grief? I thought I was currently in the denial phase and was showing little sign of moving out of it.
I glanced at my screen, as casually as I could when my heart was hammering against my chest in an explosive manner.
It could be him. Maybe a clean break had been what he’d needed and now he was ready to talk/declare undying love for me etc.
etc. Of course I then had to hide my crashing disappointment when I realised it wasn’t Charlie (stupid me), it was Cassie, with one of the excitable Isn’t it great that we can be single sisters together now!
type messages she’d taken to sending since I’d told her about the break-up.
I supposed that if anything good had come out of this, it was that I’d made her feel better about her own disastrous love life, which mainly consisted of one-night stands that went nowhere and doomed ‘situationships’ with men who were clearly all wrong for her (and any other sane woman) from the start.
I’d essentially normalised failing at relationships in our family, which was funny when you thought about it, because none of this felt normal to me in the slightest. Normal was me and Charlie sitting in front of the TV with a takeaway; me and Charlie curled up in bed together telling each other funny stories from our day – admittedly there wasn’t loads of that, since he said he didn’t want to think about school stuff once he was home and I mainly worked alone and therefore had no interesting interactions to share, but we tried.
Me and Charlie doing couple-y things on a Sunday – coffee and a walk along Columbia Road, a matinée screening at our local cinema, buying up ingredients for a home-cooked roast. That was normal.
Not this being on my own pretty much 24/7 and wondering if I’d ever truly feel happy again.
Zoe was looking at me expectantly.
‘It’s Cassie,’ I said, putting her out of her misery.
My eyes were drawn back to the TV where they’d now moved on to a segment about the royals and had on one of those ‘experts’ who claimed to know everything about them. Despite sounding posh enough for this to be feasible, it was never quite clear how they’d gleaned this supposed ‘inside info’.
‘Ava?’ said Zoe.
I dragged my eyes away from the screen to notice that Zoe had turned to face me with her mouth arranged in a sort of grim line, her glossy auburn blow-dried hair swinging perfectly into place.
I felt a shot of humiliation at how much of a mess I must look in comparison.
Perhaps sitting next to Zoe on my battered old sofa in a back-to-front sweater was precisely the wake-up call I needed.
‘You look like you’re about to tell me somebody’s died,’ I said. And then I panicked that somebody actually had and that’s why she’d rocked up on my doorstep in the middle of the day. ‘They haven’t, have they?’
Zoe shook her head.
‘Nobody’s died. Not literally, anyway. But look, this is serious.
I know you keep saying you’re okay, but I’m really worried that you’re actually not.
For example, when was the last time you went out?
And no, the theatre the other night doesn’t count because Cassie asked you and for reasons I don’t quite understand, you feel the need to pander to her every whim and demand.
I just really want you to get out and about again.
Remind yourself that you still have a brilliant life ahead of you, with or without Charlie.
In fact, without him it might even be ten times better. ’
Of course the theatre trip counted. Also, damn. How could she tell that things weren’t quite as rosy as I was pretending they were? Nobody else had noticed.
‘I’ve had a lot to sort out, that’s all,’ I protested. ‘Rearranging all my stuff now I’ve got the flat to myself, that sort of thing.’