Stella #2
‘That’s shit,’ Dom says flippantly. ‘I hate that for you.’ He leaves a gap for a moment, presumably for me to ask how things are going with him. I start chopping an onion instead.
‘So Florrie blocked me on everything,’ he ventures. ‘But also sent me a thousand-word WhatsApp message about how I’m not emotionally mature enough to be in a long-term relationship, which, in fairness, is very much how I advertised myself from the beginning.’
I realise in that moment that I haven’t registered my single-person discount for council tax, and I was supposed to do it months ago. I put the knife down on the chopping board, wipe my hands and go to find a pen to write this down so that I don’t forget again.
‘Are you okay?’ Dom asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been really clear about that, I’m in a shit mood and I’m having a shit time, and I know that you and Florrie broke up and I’m really sorry about that, but she was awful and you didn’t really like her, and I don’t have the emotional energy to pretend that I feel really sad for you because it’s not an actual problem and nothing actually sad has happened. ’
Dom looks surprised, but also sort of impressed. ‘Wow,’ he says, shifting on the sofa. ‘I mean, first of all, ouch. And secondly, yeah. I guess, fair. Ouch, but fair.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, going back to the chopping board. ‘I’m being such a bitch.’
‘It’s fine, I think I actually quite like it.’
I half laugh, and tip the onion into the pan. ‘Why did you actually break up? I’d assumed you’d do that typical man thing where you were just half-hearted and cold until she got the picture and ended things with you.’
He laughs. ‘I mean, that is my usual style, but no, on this occasion I didn’t need to. She broke up with me.’
I pause while I’m looking for the tomato purée. ‘Really? She seemed very into you.’
‘Yeah, but she wanted things I couldn’t agree to.’
‘Like what?’
He opens another beer, looking uncomfortable suddenly. ‘She wanted me to stop seeing you.’
My hand slips on the cupboard handle. ‘What? Why?’
‘Long story, but basically she thought we had a romantic thing going on, not just a friendship, and it suited me to let her think that because she’d been in open relationships with guys who didn’t see other people and apparently that didn’t work, and I don’t want to date loads of people at the same time, and I figured it would be a great deal if I could have like, half the week to play FIFA and get work done, and do some more work on my flat, and she could just think I was shagging other people. ’
‘Right,’ I say slowly, trying to understand. ‘So you were pretending to cheat on her?’
‘Well, she wanted an open relationship, so it wouldn’t have been cheating.’
‘This is insane.’ I laugh. ‘And what, she found out?’
‘No,’ he says, looking guilty again. ‘She asked me to stop seeing you.’
I’m confused now. ‘But surely given that we’re not actually seeing each other, you could have just agreed to that?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘She wanted me to stop seeing you at all. Like, socially, as a friend, full stop. And I couldn’t do that.’
I cross the room and he stands, and, without thinking about it, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his chest, hugging him like I’m a small child who’s fallen over in the playground.
The force of it knocks him backwards slightly, but he recovers his footing and I feel the warmth of him, the solidness, the softness.
He squeezes me, hard. The nicest hug I’ve had in a while.
The only hug, actually. He told Florrie that he wouldn’t stop seeing me.
He picked me over Florrie. Beautiful, sexy, fun Florrie. I’d have picked her over me every time.
I’m going to have to talk to Richard. If Dom, who might change his name to Avoidant by deed poll, wouldn’t agree to cut me off, what was I thinking considering doing that to him? And realistically, where did he get off asking me to stop seeing one of my friends?
‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say, into his chest. ‘Not to dump me.’
He makes a gruff noise, which implies that for once in his life he doesn’t have anything clever to say.
‘I think it might have finished me off if you’d taken this week to cull our friendship,’ I go on.
I pull away and realise that I’ve left tear splotches on his jumper. I didn’t even know that I was crying.
‘Right,’ he says. He puts down his beer and takes off his jumper, pretending to not notice the tear stains. ‘Sit on the sofa. I’m going to finish dinner.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘You’ll do a shit job.’
‘I mean, maybe, but at least this way you’ll get to sit down for more than five minutes today, okay?’
I nod, sit down, let him top my wine glass up, and then sit with my knees hugged to my chest, watching him cook.
He’s the only person other than me who has ever made anything in this kitchen.
He’s even fairly good-natured when I shout instructions and tell him off for using the wrong knife on the wrong chopping board.
He plates up a perfectly passable pasta and we sit on opposite sides of the sofa, shovelling it into our mouths. ‘How’s rich Richard?’ he asks.
‘Fine. In Dubai.’
Dom makes a face. ‘Why?’
‘Making money.’