Thirty-Three
I’ve drafted 672 apology messages to Ryan and sent about twenty of them. He’s read all of them and responded to none. I’ve spent most of the day stalking him on WhatsApp, feeling a spark of hope every time he comes online, swiftly followed by what feels like a punch in the stomach every time he goes offline without responding. I keep replaying the other night in my head, and I just can’t think of a way to fix things. He’s right. I did lie to him and totally betrayed him. How could he ever trust me again? I wouldn’t trust me. I don’t trust me.
I phone Bea; she answers quickly:
“You don’t sound so good, my lovely.”
“I’m not,” I tell her, “I’m a crazy, mean, compulsive liar and messed up super-screw-up.”
“Well, this I know,” says Bea soothingly. “Come on. Shock me.”
I tell her everything – the full truth rather than the sanitised, normal version I’d shared up to now.
When I finish, there’s a pause before Bea says loyally, “Well, I’m still waiting to be shocked. OK – you’ve got yourself into a tangle, and it’s led to a few people being let down. You’ve not killed anyone, have you?”
“No, but…”
“Well, you know I’d help you with the body if you did. Look… it’s not going to be easy – but give him time. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he wasn’t serious?”
“I don’t think he’s serious any more. It was Anastasia he cared about…”
“You made up a name and a bit of a family tree. It’s random. It’s not great. But everything else was all you. He liked the cringe jokes, right? He liked the chat unless you were having an out-of-body experience. That was Alex, not Anastasia. And all this talk of what a terrible person you are… well, it kind of makes it all about you. You need to make it more about him.”
“How did you become so wise?”
“I think about what you would do – and then I reverse it.”
“Bea!”
“I’m kidding. Look. Hold on in there. Be patient. You’re no better or worse than anyone else. You just have a knack for adding a hell of a lot of extra drama. Some of that’s always been you. And it’s one of the reasons that I love you. Some of it…”
I sense Bea hesitate. “Go on, Bea, you can say anything at this point. I need to hear it.”
“Some of it got a lot worse when you were with Chris and when you moved to London. I’m just saying I think you started practising not quite being yourself when you were with him. And that was long enough for a hell of a lot of practice…”
I think momentarily about all the times I plastered on a smile or thought through what Chris would want me to say before I said it in front of him. “I can’t blame my ex being a dick for me being a dick to someone else.”
“No. It’s not about blame, but just thinking through some of how you ended up here. Remember, ‘here’ is not at the end of the world. Lots can be done about this. And if you need a break, you can escape here anytime. You know you’re always welcome at Chez B.”
Two hours later, and after a mix of straight talking and some pity down the phone, we finally hang up, and I reflect on everything Bea said. I knew she didn’t ever like Chris, but she had never said she thought I’d changed when I was with him. I sit for a while and try to think deep thoughts. None come. There’s a tentative knock on my flat door, and I shuffle over in my slippers and sheep pyjamas. It’s Mrs Jenkins.
“I brought you some coffee, dear. It might perk you up a bit before the tea today.”
Sir John was on the verge of cancelling the afternoon tea with Ophelia due to nerves, so last night, I promised him that I would go along with Adam and sit at a nearby table for moral support. I am currently regretting that promise.
“There are some lovely poached eggs waiting for you downstairs,” Mrs Jenkins continues.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and suddenly understand the anxiety in her tone. I look horrific. I haven’t slept properly in days, and it shows. I have giant dark circles under my eyes that no amount of make-up is going to hide, my sheep pyjamas have more stains than sheep currently, and my skin is red and blotchy. Sunday’s mascara is trailed across my cheek like a snail trail, and I have acne that I haven’t seen since my teenage years. But I don’t care because I will never find true love again, and I am going to die alone like Bridget Jones always feared. Except there will be no Mark Darcy to save me. So, it doesn’t really matter what I look like.
I eventually stumble downstairs half an hour later, finally compelled into action by the thought of what Adam will say if I turn up in my current condition. After thirty minutes of scrubbing, I still look much the same. I’ve been stained by sadness, I think melodramatically. That’s a good line, I ponder; I should store that away for that novel I’m never going to write. To my surprise, Adam is sitting at the kitchen table with Sir John, making short work of the poached eggs I’d been promised and gossiping away. Sir John is laughing heartily, and I watch them fondly for a while before I realise they are laughing at my expense.
“And then I fell out of the wardrobe! You should have seen her mother’s face.”
“Alexandra definitely appears to get herself into fixes,” Sir John is saying. “And her interests…Since this latest drama, she has been spending all her free time watching some cartoon about monster Italian-American tortoises wandering around doing mixed martial arts.”
It takes Adam a moment to process this. “ Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles ? Oh yes, eighties cartoons are her go-to after a break-up. Apparently, after Chris, she worked her way through all of Thundercats in one weekend.”
“Thunder…?” Sir John queries.
Before more betrayal and an agonising explanation of science fiction animation, I march in, holding my head as high as I can. “I don’t think Sir John needs any more boring details about my life…”
The pair at least have the decency to look sheepish as I head over to join them at the table, glaring at my now almost empty plate of eggs. Sir John even makes a show of standing and pulling out my chair before retreating behind his newspaper.
Usually, I would roll my eyes at this, but the events of this week have just been too much, and I give my most baleful glare. Adam has the sense to look uncomfortable, as he should, given he knows me best. When Sir John does peer over his newspaper, he seems so stricken that I can’t help but feel a little guilty. I know this is a big day for him. He pats me awkwardly on the wrist and mutters very quietly, “Young woman, these things do all come out in the wash. Fear not.”
I give him a weak smile: “I know. Let’s focus on getting you through today.” He nods, pulls out his favourite red silk handkerchief, and thrusts it awkwardly at me before retreating behind his newspaper, harrumphing all the way. After my non-breakfast, as Mrs Jenkins starts washing up, Adam and Sir John simultaneously almost magically seem to dematerialise. I collect the plates and wander through to the kitchen to lend a hand. Mrs Jenkins gives me a long look.
“Now, lovey, I don’t know what’s going on, and you don’t have to tell me. But if I know anything, it can only be a silly man that’s got you in this state. I know I might not look it, but I know a thing or two about men, and all I can tell you is that sometimes they reappear when you least expect it. They’re not all very good at handling emotion, and sometimes they run away, so you just have to be patient.”
I sniffle, and despite the slightly 1950’s housewife “let him come to you” style advice, I know she means well. If this was an ordinary situation, I might even take some heart from it, but this is unchartered territory. No dating manual covers how to get a guy back after you’ve lied so much and so bizarrely. Instagram advice influencers don’t go into this.
Last night, when I’d exhausted my Turtles binge, I went down the dark rabbit warren of posting anonymised versions of my crimes in relationship forums. As expected, the response was not good. In fact, it indicated that in the hierarchy of crimes, I was somewhere between that woman who put a cat in the bin and punching a nun. There’s nothing like already sinking into the swamp of self-pity and then inviting online trolls to dissect your sins and pass sentences. My favourite responses include someone telling me I deserved to be alone and should be ashamed forever. Another contributor called me the Moriarty of relationships. In his own way, Adam was more helpful, but only in that he distracted me with ludicrous suggestions along the lines of going over there naked but for a trench coat or taking pole dancing classes. It wasn’t clear whether these were tactics that had worked for him or on him, and I didn’t have the stomach to clarify at that time in the morning.
After I’ve applied some make-up, I’m beginning to feel human enough to face this afternoon tea. With the emotional support of Mrs Jenkins, I meet Adam and Sir John to get ready to go out. I have to say, they both brush up well. I take full credit for Sir John’s attire (although I obviously wish we’d gone to another store). Still, I’m pleasantly surprised that Adam took my instructions seriously and is wearing his interview shirt again. It’s much more appropriate this time.
“Right,” I say quietly. Shall we go?”
Sir John goes a bit pale, and I notice a slight tremble in his hands as he leans on the table to get up. For the first time, he looks frail to me. Temporarily distracted from my own dilemma, I rush over and pat him reassuringly on the arm.
“It will be totally fine, Sir John. Totally fine. You’re going to have a lovely afternoon. If Ophelia didn’t want to have a relationship with you, she wouldn’t be coming. I promise. Just take it nice and slowly.”
He only grunts in acknowledgement. Mrs Jenkins comes to the door to wave us all off, and we walk in silence towards Etienne’s like we’re walking to the gallows, each apparently lost in our respective thoughts.