We go to the tube together, but somehow it is different, even though we don’t talk about last night. As we kiss goodbye Nick says to me, “Are you okay?” and I nod.
“Are you?” I say.
“I’m still confused,” he says. “Even more so,” and he gives me a hug, and I’m not sure I like this hug because it’s so tight, so clingy, if I didn’t know better I’d almost think it was the last one, but we stand there for ages, and eventually I break away and he says, “I’ll call you,” and I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but neither of us has actually said it’s over, so maybe it’s not, but if it isn’t, then why do I feel like shit?
I feel like shit all day. I don’t start crying, but I feel as if I’m on the brink every second, and it’s a bit like having a nightmare case of PMS, when you know that the tiniest thing will push you over the edge, and you’re literally clinging on to sanity by your fingertips.
Of course Jules is the first person I call when I get to the office, and she listens quietly while I relay what happened, and eventually she says, “It doesn’t look good.”
“I know it doesn’t bloody look good, Jules. But what’s happening?”
“What do you think?”
I don’t think. I know. “I think it’s over.”
“I think you’re probably right, in that it’s over for now, but somehow I don’t think it is finally over.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he really is confused, and that you’ll need to give him space, and I could be wrong, but I think he’ll come back.”
But I don’t want to give him space, I want to see him, be with him, convince him that I’m right for him.
“But you can’t forget what you’ve always said,” she continues softly, trying to ease my pain. “You never thought he’d be The One, so maybe this is a good thing.”
“I know,” I sigh. “But maybe I was wrong. I know it started as just a fling, but you can’t sleep with someone on a regular basis that you really like and not get emotionally involved.”
Jules laughs. “That’s what I’ve been saying since the beginning.”
“But I really thought I could,” I groan. “I’ve done it before, why can’t I do it now?”
“Because things are different in your early twenties. Apart from anything else you can afford it, you’ve got time, but, as I said before, after about twenty-five, you can’t really do it because there are other things at stake, and unfortunately every man you meet becomes a potential husband, whether you admit it to yourself or not.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right. But that doesn’t stop it hurting.”
“I know, my darling. And it will hurt for a while, but you have to get on with your life. What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. I’m coming to pick you up at eight o’clock, and I want you in your best designer togs. We’re going to Mezzo for a drink.”
“I’m really not in the mood, Jules.”
“I don’t care. We’re going to go out and get drunk and have some fun.”
“Can’t we do it another time?”
“No way. You are not moping by yourself. Just remember who you are, Libby. Three months ago and you would have jumped at the chance to dress up and meet rich men.”
But I don’t want rich men anymore, I think. I want Nick, but there’s no getting out of it, so I say yes and miserably put down the phone, only for it to ring again two seconds later.
“Libby? It’s Sal.”
“Hi! How are you!” Just the person I need to speak to, because she knows Nick, maybe she’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.
“Nick just called me,” she says. “Are you okay?”
Shit. That means he told her it was over.
“Did he tell you it was over?”
“No. Not exactly. He just said he was confused and he didn’t think it was fair to you to keep going. I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“Because he said he really likes you, and if he does, then why doesn’t he get his shit together?”
“Exactly.”
“God, I despair of him sometimes. He’s done this too many bloody times.”
“What?”
“Every time he gets close to having a relationship he goes into panic mode and runs away.”
“You mean he’s done this a lot?”
“Libby,” she says gently. “You don’t look the way Nick does and lead a life of celibacy, but, trust me, you’re better off out of it. He’s a lovely guy, but a complete fuck-up when it comes to commitment. You deserve better. We all do.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this, not that I blame Sal for telling me, but I never knew. I suppose I never stopped to think about him doing this to anyone else, and okay, so he mentioned he’d met a few women that he could have got involved with but didn’t, but I never thought he was a serial fucking commitaphobe. Or a womanizer, when it comes to that. And I start to feel sick, sick, sick.
This is really not what I need, and I can’t bloody believe that it’s happened again. That once again I’ve been unceremoniously dumped when I thought I was in control, I thought I had a handle on things, I thought that I wouldn’t get hurt. What is wrong with me? I mean, I’m a good person, I’m nice to people, and animals, and I try to treat people with respect, and what happens?
I get bloody dumped.
Over and over and over again.
“Libby?” Sal’s obviously wondering whether I’ve deserted her because I’ve been so busy thinking about this I forget to say anything.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve just had enough, Sal.”
“Libby, it’s not your problem, it’s his.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’m always told.”
“I’m serious, Libby.”
“Libby?” Jo’s shouting from reception.
“Hang on a sec,” I say to Sal. “Yeah?”
“Nick’s on the line.”
“Oh shit. Sal, it’s Nick. I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay, and listen, I’m here if you need me, okay?”
Christ, get off the bloody phone.
“Hi.” My voice is strained when I say hello to Nick.
“Hi. I just wanted to phone to check you were okay.”
“I’m okay. Sal just phoned.”
“You don’t mind me telling her?”
“Not really. Is this it, then?”
He sighs. “I don’t know. But you know, it’s not you. It’s me.”
I almost laugh.
“I think I might have to go into therapy or something,” he sighs.
“Good idea.” And hell, maybe I should do the same thing. Maybe if I went to see someone they’d help me understand why I keep attracting the bastards. Not that Nick’s a bastard, it’s just that none of the men I meet seem to be available. They’re either physically unavailable, in other words they’re never interested in me, or they’re emotionally unavailable, see Nick.
“I’d really like it if we could stay friends,” he says. “You’re incredibly important to me, Libby.”
Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? He may as well have said it’s over, he just didn’t have the balls.
“I’ve got enough friends,” I say. “Thanks.”
His voice sounds sad. “Can I phone you?”
“If you want.” Now it’s my turn to be harsh.
“Listen, take care.”
“Yup. Bye.” I put down the phone and give in. I start crying. Fuck it. I don’t care that I’m at work or that everyone’s looking at me, and as I sit there with my shoulders heaving, a sob escapes my throat and that’s it, moments later I’m crying like a baby and I get up and run to the loo, where I lock myself in a stall and just let go.
I hear the door open, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
“Libby? Are you okay?” It’s Jo.
I try to answer her but the words don’t come out, just great big hicc
ups and sobs.
“It’s Nick, isn’t it? Let me in.” She starts banging on the cubicle door, so I get up and unlock it, then sit back down on the toilet seat (closed).
“They’re all bastards,” she says vehemently. “He’s not worth it.” She waits for a bit while I try to regain a bit of composure, which is hard when you’ve got snot running down your face and your eyes look remarkably like those of Dracula’s daughter.
“I” hiccup “know” hiccup “it’s just” hiccup “I” hiccup, hiccup, sob, sob.
“It’s okay.” She puts an arm round me, which is pretty damn difficult in the confines of the cubicle, but she manages it somehow and rubs my back and I can’t help it—someone being this nice, this sympathetic, sets me off all over again.
“It’s okay,” she keeps saying softly. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay, I think. It’s not okay because I’ve got used to having Nick around, because I love having him around. Because for the first time in ages I wasn’t some sad lonely person who either had to stay in on Saturday nights, or go out on the pull with the girls because there was nothing better to do.
It’s not okay because I love, loved, having sex with Nick. Because there was nothing better than waking up and rolling over only to discover that you’re not on your own.
It’s not okay because he made me laugh. Because I didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than who I am when I was with him. Because I don’t believe that stuff about finding your other half, but because I do believe that what you look for is someone who makes you a better person when you’re with them, who changes you for the better, who makes you the best person you can possibly be, and because I thought I had found that in Nick.
Even though I don’t think I ever quite realized it until now.
And yes, maybe you’re right, maybe I’m being overdramatic, maybe I’m blowing this up into something much bigger than it is because I’m feeling sorry for myself, but why the hell not, huh? Why the hell can’t I feel like this, and whether it’s true or not, it certainly feels true right now. And it feels like shit.
And oh my God, I’m never going to wake up next to him again. And oh my God, I’m never going to look in his eyes as we’re making love, and oh my God, he’s going to be doing that with someone else, and probably very soon, and me? I’m going to be on my own for the rest of my bloody life.
I start sobbing again.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Lisa, another PR, who sits at the desk next to mine. Jo opens the door and I hear Lisa whisper, “Is Libby okay?”
“She’s fine,” says Jo, even though I’m quite patently not.
“Is there anything I can do?” says Lisa, and I know what that means. What that means is she’d kill to know what’s going on, what’s happened to me, and I’m sure that already a buzz has gone round the office and they’re doubtless already laying bets on what it is that’s made me cry, and they probably think I’ve got the sack.
And I hate myself for losing it at the office. That’s the thing. When you set yourself up, as I’ve done, as this strong independent career woman, always in control, people get very nervous when you lose it, they don’t quite know how to react, and sure enough, when half an hour’s passed and I’ve finally managed to get a grip (mostly thanks to Jo and her Murine eye drops and waterproof mascara), I walk back in with head held high and everyone stops talking and starts pretending to be very busy.
A couple of minutes after I’ve sat down at my desk Lisa comes over and puts a cup of tea in front of me, which I suppose is very sweet, and then she looks at me with these big concerned eyes and says, “Are you okay?” and I nod.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she says, and I catch Jo’s eye and Jo makes a face and I almost laugh, because I know, I just know, that Lisa is dying to know what it’s all about.
“Thanks, Lisa,” I say. “But there’s really nothing to talk about.”
“Oh,” she says, the disappointment written all over her face, and then she leans forward conspiratorially, “It’s not the job, is it?”
“No,” I say sweetly, “it’s not the job,” and she can see she’s not going to get anything more out of me, so she wanders off.
Somehow I manage to get things done today, although my voice keeps breaking in the middle of phone conversations with journalists, and I have to pretend I’ve got a stinking cold to explain my blocked-up nose.
Eventually I set off home, and perhaps because I’ve immersed myself in work, by the time I actually leave the building I really am starting to feel a lot better, and when Jules arrives I’ve been so busy reading I haven’t even had time to get dressed, and the first thing we do after pouring ourselves a glass of wine is sit down and make a list. Yup, that list. The list I showed you when we first met.
And you know, looking at the list I start to feel one hell of a lot better, because yes, maybe he was nice, and yes, maybe he was sweet to me, but really, how could I ever have even thought of getting seriously involved? And Jesus, the thought of spending even one more night with his revolting friends in a revolting pub turns my stomach.
I leave Jules sitting in the living room as I go and get dressed, and fuck it, I’m going to make an effort. So I pull out a Joseph dress from last season and team it with my gorgeous Prada shoes, and I put on lots and lots of makeup, and I sweep my hair up into a big beehivey-type thing, and when I walk out Jules does a wolf whistle and claps her hands.
“Hooray!” she shouts, as she leaps up and grabs me, dancing round the living room. “We’ve got the old Libby back, the Libby we know and love.”
“Was I really that bad?”
“Worse!” she laughs. “Now where are those smelly old sneakers?” She looks around the room.
“They’re not smelly. Why?”
“They’re going in the bin.”
I panic. “No,” I say, because the sneakers remind me of Nick, and I’m not quite ready to let go of the memories. “They’re perfect for work,” I say. “I want to keep them.”
She looks at me in horror. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Have it your way.” She shrugs. “But you look gorgeous, Libby, just like your old self.” Bless her. She doesn’t mention the fact that my eyes, despite a ton of mascara and cleverly applied eye shadow, look like pissholes in the snow.
And off we go, to Mezzo, and it’s packed with City boys and glamorous girls, and we haven’t been there five minutes before a group of chinless wonders send over some champagne, and okay, so they’re not my type, but it’s really quite nice to be in this sort of environment again, and I realize that, even though I thought I didn’t miss it, I now think I did.
“So how come someone as gorgeous as you hasn’t got a boyfriend?” says Ed, who is not my type at all. Tall, and stocky with a mustache, and I hate mustaches. No, actually, I despise mustaches, and he’s also very, very straight.
And yes, he’s probably rolling in money, and yes, I know that I’m looking for a rich man, but I don’t want him to be straight, I want him to be just as comfortable at the opera as he would be at, say, an Oasis gig, and there aren’t too many men around like that. In fact, it may well be that Jules nabbed the last of a dying breed, but I can still hope, can’t I?
This guy Ed would probably be okay-looking without the mustache, but even if he shaved it off I just know he’s too damn straight for me, but what the hell, I flick my hair around a bit and smile coyly as I say, “How do you know I haven’t got a boyfriend?”
“Oh, umm. Er. Have you?” Inspired or what?
I shake my head and suddenly feel incredibly sad. Jules sees it and grabs me.
“Excuse us, boys. We’ll be back in a sec.”
We leave them moaning about why women always go off to the loo in pairs, and once we’re in there she asks if I’m okay.
“I am. Really. I’m having quite a nice time. I don’t know. It’s just that I miss Nick.”
“What about Ed?”
&n
bsp; “What about him?”
“Might be worth a date. He’s definitely interested.”
“Nah,” I say. “Not my type. Too straight.”
“How d’you know? Sometimes people can surprise you.”
“Okay. I’ll show you.” And we go back to join them.
“So,” I say to Ed. “Been to any good gigs lately?”
“Gigs?” He looks completely bewildered. “Oh, ah. Gigs. Oh yes,” and he starts laughing. “Hilarious,” he says over and over, as I look at Jules and raise one eyebrow.
“You’re very funny, Libby,” he says, although I haven’t quite got the joke. “I’d love to take you out for dinner.”
“Okay.” I shrug, not really giving a damn whether he does or not.
“May I have your number?”
Jesus, is this guy formal or what? I scrabble around in my bag for a pen, but no, once again I’m carrying a magic bag that eats pens, keys and lipsticks, and there’s no pen to be found. Ed stops a passing waitress and asks for her pen, and he writes my number down carefully in a black leather wallet thing that holds small sheets of white paper and looks desperately expensive.
“I shall call you,” he says. “And we shall go somewhere wonderful.”
I literally have to force myself not to shrug and say, “Whatever.” Instead I smile and say, “Lovely.”
And when we leave, which is shortly afterward because all the emotion of this morning is starting to make me extremely tired, Ed shakes my hand and says, “It’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you. I’ll ring you about dinner.” And that’s it. We jump in a taxi and head home.
“I can’t believe you pulled,” says Jules. “You pulled someone on your first night as a single girl!”
“Oh, come on, Jules, he’s not exactly a good pull.”
“You’re blind, Libby. He was lovely, and obviously smitten with you. Are you going to have dinner with him?”
“Dunno.”
“Anyway, at least now you know there are other men out there, that it’s not the end of the world.”