Chapter 41
You’d be amazed at the spectrum of results that comes up when you google the words, ‘How to dump someone in the nicest way possible’.
Some say, ‘Be short and firm’. Others advocate a five- to seven-sentence summary of the things he’s done wrong.
Everyone agrees that lying, ghosting or doing it via WhatsApp is unacceptable, which even someone with my lack of experience didn’t need to be told.
In the event, I arrange to meet Gavin at the members’ lounge of his gym the day after I get back from La Manga, my thinking being that it is the place he’s most comfortable.
I feel like I owe him that much. Even as I’m heading inside, I start to question my own logic and wonder if I’m about to ruin his ‘happy place’ forever.
I decide to go through with it anyway on the basis that: a) I’m here now and b) while I’m not expecting him to make a scene, the prospect of any of his ladies walking past would be an added disincentive should the urge arise.
I arrive early and order a coffee, before taking a seat overlooking the swimming pool.
I open the copy of The Inner Game of Tennis, which I finally started on the plane on the way home.
The key message seems to be that the secret to winning any game lies in not trying too hard.
Even if I wasn’t sceptical about this, I am the kind of person who would have to try very hard not to try too hard.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out the problem with that.
But I can’t fully focus on the words because, as well as being as nice as possible while I am undertaking this task, my second most pressing concern is what the hell is going to happen to the Wimbledon tickets Gavin has bought for
4 July?
From what I’ve read, they are strictly non-transferable, though I think there’s a way of getting a refund if you return them.
I’m contemplating the ethics behind dumping Gavin and then immediately running through the terms and conditions I found online, when he appears at the door.
Even before he’s made his way over, I think he realises things aren’t quite as they should be.
‘You’re not wearing your gym gear,’ he says, sitting down.
‘No,’ I confess, guiltily. ‘I was really just hoping we could have a chat.’
I offer him a coffee, but when he declines, all that’s left is for us to get straight down to business.
‘Gavin, here’s the thing—’
‘This is not really working, is it?’ he says, before I can get my sentence out. ‘You and me, I mean.’
I open my mouth, hesitating before I answer, ‘No.’
‘I’ve thought about this a lot lately, Jules. Look, I really like you. You’re a lovely lady. So this is very difficult, but . . . well, I think we need to call this a day. I’m very sorry.’
I lean in, astonished. ‘I . . . do you?’
He nods. ‘I’m afraid I get the impression that you’re not really interested in a relationship that’s . . . intimate. Am I right?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Look, I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect your choices.
Your . . . orientations. I’ve been reading about asexuality online and it’s perfectly norm .
. . well, it’s more common than you think.
The point is, you are who you are: a wonderful person, in your own way.
Far be it from me to ask you to change.’
A breath is released from somewhere in my chest. ‘Gavin. It’s not that I don’t think you’re a very handsome man—’
‘Oh, I know that,’ he reassures me.
‘I mean, your physique alone—’
‘I know. I know!’ he laughs, shaking his head. ‘Look, you don’t need to worry, Jules. I do know this is about you not me.’
‘It is!’ I exclaim, happily. ‘I have issues! I must have, to not fancy someone like you!’
His smile falters.
‘Obviously, I fancy you a bit. Who wouldn’t? I’m just saying: you hit the nail on the head. This is all about me.’
He pats my hand, like the granddad in a Werther’s Originals advert. ‘I’m so glad you understand. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.’
‘You absolutely haven’t, Gavin,’ I say, a little too emphatically. ‘I mean, you have a bit. Not too much though. Just the right amount, I’d say.’
I feel like going onto Reddit right this second and telling all those know-alls that they’re completely wrong about how to break up with someone.
You don’t have to make speeches. You don’t have to say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.
’ You don’t have to undertake any preparation whatsoever.
All you have to do is go for coffee and repeat the following words: ‘Here’s the thing . . .’ and the rest will be done for you.
‘Well, I am going to miss you,’ he says, ruefully. ‘That goes without saying. But I’m sure we’ll both move on.’
‘Oh, I agree. And maybe we can stay in touch?’ I suggest.
He makes a ‘hmm’ noise and scrunches up his nose as if this is a terrible idea. Then he smiles again. ‘You’re not going to stop working on those lats, though, are you?’
‘These babies?’ I give my arm a Popeye-style flex. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Good!’ he laughs. ‘Though . . . you do know those are your biceps, don’t you?’
‘Ah!’ I laugh again, because I don’t really know what else to say.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, slapping his hands on his thighs as he stands up. ‘One last arms day, for old time’s sake?’
It’s my turn to scrunch up my nose.
He nods philosophically.
‘Take it easy, Jules,’ he says.
‘And you, Gavin.’
He goes to leave but then turns back to me at the last minute. ‘I almost forgot. You don’t mind if I keep those tickets, do you? I mean it’s not something I ever would have chosen to go to myself but . . . I’ve sort of come around to the idea.’
The relief that I don’t have to get on the phone to the All England Club tomorrow to beg for a refund for Gavin is immense.
‘Absolutely not. And you never know, you might end up being a tennis fan, after all.’
He looks confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The tickets. I assume you’re using them yourself ?’
‘Absolutely. I mean . . . Mold is quite a long way to go for a tribute act but that guy you were going on about got such rave reviews for Phil Collins that he’s decided to do Bon Jovi now. I’ll be honest, I can’t wait.’