5
I wake up bright and early on Saturday. Despite a shattering headache caused by one glass of cheap Sauvignon, I’m surprisingly composed. I dress on autopilot, putting on a polka dot dress with a jabot collar until I remember that Aaron used to tell me he fancied me in it. I almost rip it off my body and instead put on a grey knitted dress that I bought post-Aaron. I appeal to my reasonable self and convince her that incinerating every item of clothing I ever wore around Aaron is not feasible unless I’m happy to resolve to walk around in underwear.
Before I overthink it, I grab the keys and head out. The day has turned mild, and for early September, the air is unseasonably warm and muggy. Despite that, my skin feels chilly. By the time I park on a street across from the familiar bungalow, I have full-on goosebumps.
I sit in the car for long minutes, despondently staring at the compact bungalow that once embodied everything I used to want. A distant future full of potential. A life with Aaron. A start to my teaching career. For the first time buying something with my own money without help from my parents. All destroyed by one spineless bastard.
I square my shoulders and step out of the car. Some of the tension leaves my body at the sight of only one car in the driveway. The familiar convertible Porsche sums up Aaron pretty well. It’s pretentious, over-polished, and there’s something littlish about it after a close perusal. Not to mention the occasional dodgy gear stick. Think what you will about that one.
An old habit has me reaching into my bag for a key that’s no longer there before I stop myself and instead knock on the door. I feel I’m trespassing, and it doesn’t sit well with me. I school my features just as the door creeps open, and Aaron steps out in all his five-foot-eight height. Perfectly groomed stubble and longish brown hair decorate his chiselled face in an achingly familiar way. Dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt with sweaty circles around his armpits, I guess he’s just returned from the gym. He couldn’t even be bothered to clean up for our meeting. I wonder how I could have ever found him anything but lacking .
He looks unfazed. ‘Hi, Hols.’ He steps out of my way to let me in. I hate that he calls me by my nickname. He robbed himself of the privilege by repeatedly drilling his acupuncturist while we were still together.
I nod because I refuse to be petty and because the fewer words I say, the less of a chance they come out as a shout. I step into a meticulous lounge-slash-diner-slash-kitchen open-plan space. It’s the complete opposite of my messy studio flat, and I try not to lose it again. Instead, I quickly scan the place, making a mental inventory of all the new items on display. There is a very distasteful, and frankly disturbing, painting of two swans, their glittering purple, pink and green necks bending towards each other and forming a heart-shaped gap. I itch to take a quick picture and send it to Lydia because she would appreciate the irony. There’s only a carved wooden home is where the heart is sign missing to complete the cooked-up idyll. I feel like vomiting. Maybe Lydia and Catherine were right; I shouldn’t have met him here.
There’s an ugly hand-knitted throw that smothers the beautiful grey sofa I got as a gift from my parents. But it’s the lack of my items that’s disturbing, not the additions made over what seems like five minutes. All my quaint touches and potted plants are gone. Aaron used to say he liked my quirkiness when it came to home decor. That was until a year or so back when he told me he would have preferred I had a more mature taste. I’m not sure what he meant by that because a cack animal print canvas doesn’t precisely shout sophisticated or mature to me.
‘Tea?’ he asks, but sits down straight away, expecting me to say no. No change there. He was always a goldbrick when we lived together. When I think of it now, he’s the most selfish and laziest person I’ve ever met.
‘No, thanks,’ I answer sardonically.
I look around the place again. He follows my sweeping perusal, waving his hands around like he’s a traffic warden taming a particularly messy gridlock. ‘Eva wanted to make it cosier.’
‘I’ve brought the copies of my bank statements and the mortgage contract.’ I try not to dissect what he means by his comment, not deigning to lower myself by acknowledging the existence of that woman or the poorly disguised insult.
The next half hour is spent arguing. He thinks there’s no rush to be changing the situation while I’m renting. I, on the other hand, think it’s an urgent matter as I’m currently living in something akin to a large four-walled rubbish bin.
‘What is the point when you don’t have any intention of buying a place?’ he questions without any filter or consideration. What’s the most puzzling is that I can see he genuinely looks like he can’t fathom any possible reason why I’d want my money back. I can’t believe I ended up spending four years with this emotional troll.
‘What I do or don’t do is none of your business. As I no longer live here, either your acupuncturist pays me rent or you pay me back the money I’ve put into the bungalow. It’s up to you,’ I say with detachment that even impresses me. But I’ve always been able to keep my cool on the outside. That is unless I’m in a certain ginger-haired man’s vicinity, it seems.
‘We’re a bit tight at the moment. Couldn’t we discuss this next year when we’re settled a bit more?’ He glances to the corner of the room over my shoulder. I hate how ‘I’ has so effortlessly been replaced by ‘we’. He never used ‘we’ when we were together. ‘You can always ask your parents for money if you need to.’ He lands the final blow. He knows I hated every penny my parents paid for my undergrad and that I haven’t asked them for any money since. As soon as I got a job, I started paying them back. He knows it’s a matter of pride; he must be desperate.
‘Honestly, Aaron.’ I barely make his name pass my lips without gagging. I take a deep breath and channel my inner Lydia. ‘I don’t care whether you’re a bit tight or not. I’m entitled to my money, and I need it now. Based on my calculations, you owe me my share of the deposit and the repayments for the first ten months, which makes twenty-nine thousand three hundred and two pounds.’ I can’t help feeling a bit petty.
He swallows loudly and looks towards the corner of the room again. I can’t help it this time and my head follows. My mind bottoms out when I realise what I’m seeing.
A modern, pink-painted crib is shoved behind the dining table. After further inspection, there are a few items that should have clued me in earlier. There are milk bottles on the kitchen counter that I previously mistook for water bottles and a few blankets with the design of pink balloons flung over the sofa. My head fills with sand. It whooshes out of my ears, clogs up my throat and makes my eyes itch. I search his familiar face, but I don’t recognise the person staring back at me. His cheeks turn blotchy and then I know. Has he agreed to meet here thinking I would be more sympathetic, knowing what I know now?
It takes almost everything in me to swallow down the growing emotion and calm my trembling hands. ‘I’m entitled to my money. I expect you to work it out and get back to me about how and when you repay me.’
‘Are you not going to say anything?’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the incriminating piece of furniture. In my head, I’m chopping the crib with an axe until only a pile of pink kindling is left.
‘What do you want me to say?’ My forehead puckers in genuine confusion. Does he expect me to say congratulations or fuck off ? I forbid myself to give him the satisfaction of making a scene. I’ve never made one and I’m refusing to make one now.
He does something that I would have never expected. He snorts.
‘I’m surprised you’re finding this situation funny.’ My foot starts tapping anxiously on the floor, and I press my palm against my knee to stop it. My entire body is hijacked by an alien force, no longer in control. There’s this strange tension that vibrates through me, like electricity through a steel rod.
The sharp jaw I used to find so sexy tightens. ‘Typical you. You never give me anything, do you? You’re like an ice queen. That’s why it would have never worked between us.’ This is the last thing I expected him to say. I gawk at him for a moment. Has he always read me so wrong?
My head tilts in a ‘Are you serious?’ expression.
‘You were never that into me. You never showed me any affection even when we were together.’
‘I bought a bungalow with you. I made plans that involved the next twenty years of my life with you. Wasn’t that enough for your reassurance?’ I’m so stunned that my voice comes out a little high.
‘You never seemed to have time for me.’ Is that self-pity I detect in his tone? I feel repulsed.
‘I was doing my training while working full-time.’ His comment rings in my head, and I start questioning everything. Am I an ice queen? Have I been emotionally unavailable?
‘Even before that, you weren’t really fully committed, you’ve always been holding back like you were waiting for someone better to come. I always felt like I wasn’t your priority. Eva makes me feel I matter and like she wants me in her life.’
I stand up abruptly and collect my stuff; I can’t stay here a moment longer even though we haven’t quite finished discussing the repayment of my money. I’m a coward, leaving before I make my point, but my sanity is hanging by a thread that is about to snap.
He doesn’t stop me, not that I expected him to. I pause by the door, hand hovering above the handle, but I’m too raw to do anything to take back control of the narrative. I refuse to let him see me like this, so instead, I keep my last scrap of dignity and leave without glancing back.
I just about make it to the car before I lose it. When I’ve put my seat belt on, I hit the steering wheel so hard my hand stings. I can’t seem to breathe, my ribs a tightly laced corset. I ram the key into the ignition and stall it, then try again and stall it again. That’s just so typical of my life. To be done before I’ve even started.
My phone beeps with a text message from my mother that obliterates my murderous thoughts for a second.
Wear something nice on Sunday. That pink dress I bought you would do xx
I know that only means one thing; Mother is matchmaking.