I get the bus to Chelmsford station and then a train into London. I don’t travel into town that often. I used to when we were younger and we had mad nights in Fabric, buzzing from caffeine pills (we were so cool), but that was years ago. If it wasn’t for the heaviness that already exists in my chest, I’d be finding this journey overwhelming, but it’s a Monday night and the train isn’t too busy. I look through the window and get lost in my thoughts as I watch the Essex countryside zooming by – fields, forests and towns becoming nothing more than a hazy blur.
It’s only when a young girl comes over and asks me if I’m OK that I realize my face is soaking wet with tears.
I am not coping.
This is not OK.
But of course it isn’t.
‘I’m fine,’ I snivel, looking back out of the window.
The girl rubs my arm sympathetically a few times (no doubt she’s rightly assumed this is because of ‘some guy’), and backs away.
It takes me an hour to scramble my way to Connie’s and now I’m here I’m back to being a fully fledged emotional mess and far from the independent woman I thought I’d magically turned into when leaving the flat. Getting through this isn’t going to be that easy.
I ring the silver buzzer but am greeted with silence. I ring again, just in case she is in the loo or something.
It’s a Monday night, I was sure she’d be home.
Fuck!
Her date!
She’s out seeing Tinder or whatever his real name was.
Shitting fuck.
I drop my suitcase by her doorstep and slump on to it, cradling my head in my hands. I’ve really not had the best twenty-four hours.
The tears rise and blind me so I shut my eyes as tightly as possible, willing the pain away. I curl up into a ball, trying to protect myself from the torture of life and stop the chilly November air getting through to my bones.
I want to block it all out.
‘Babes,’ I hear, as the tapping of shoes moves closer to me.
I groan as she shakes my shoulder.
‘Liz?’
I open my eyes to see Connie staring at me in sheer panic. I start to wonder what’s worried her so much, but obviously it’s the sight of me asleep in the foetal position on her doorstep, still in my travelling clothes, with a face that’s swollen to ten times its usual size thanks to all the tears it’s cried.
In comparison, she looks gorgeous. Her dark brown bob is effortlessly styled, her fringe just the right length to appear sexy as it flirts with her eyes, and her lips are a gorgeously deep red. She looks like she’s stepped out of some trendy magazine in her retro white Calvin Klein tee that’s cutely tucked into her emerald pleated midi skirt, the look finished off with a grey boyfriend coat and some black Converse. I’ve no idea how she manages to pull off such an eclectic style so effortlessly. I’d look a shambles in it.
I glance past her and see her handsome date shifting uncomfortably behind her, not quite sure what the deal is with the emotional friend they’ve encountered and whether he should back away now. He really is very good-looking and stylish with his tailored grey coat, skinny black jeans and turquoise t-shirt that gently grips on to the muscles clearly hiding underneath. He’s tall, broad and looks like a lovely fit for Connie, therefore I feel awful for the date-ending words I’m about to utter.
‘He’s left me.’
‘What?’
I nod my head.
She pulls me up on to my feet and into her arms for a hug. It’s so tight I can barely breathe.
‘I’m so sorry. What a shit,’ she whispers, burying her lips in my hair.
Connie breaks away but keeps her arm under me, propping me up. She turns and looks behind her.
‘Do you think you could carry this in for me, Matt?’ she asks sweetly, her head tilting towards the worthless crap I’ve carried here.
‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ he says.
‘If you could make us a tea as well, that would be great,’ she says, holding me close and guiding us all indoors. It’s as though she thinks I’ve lost the ability to walk, but maybe I have. I’ve lost everything else.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks once I’ve been placed on her mustard Chesterfield sofa and helpful Matt has put a cuppa on the wooden floor next to me.
Connie’s only been living in this flat for six months, and I’ve only been here a handful of times, but already this feels more comfortable than my own home. Maybe that’s because I know Connie so well and this place totally encapsulates the woman she is without someone else coming along to water it down – it’s like being completely engulfed by my best mate.
‘I don’t think I am OK … It’s all a bit crap,’ I say honestly, managing to keep the emotion at bay this time. I’m tempted to say I’m all dried up, that I’ve cried myself into dehydration on the tear front, but I know I shouldn’t jinx it. It’s a wobbly time, but right now I’m empty and numb, which is far better than fragile, weak and broken.
‘Agreed,’ she sighs, joining me on the sofa and shifting my feet about so that my legs wind up over hers.
‘Erm, I’m going to leave you to it,’ Mr Tinder says, hovering in the doorway, helpless now he’s completed his dictated tasks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I’ve ruined your date.’
‘Nonsense, the dinner was perfect and Matthew was just walking me home. He wouldn’t have been getting his end away tonight anyway,’ Connie states unashamedly, without even cracking into a smile.
‘Connie!’ I shriek, but the laughter that follows feels good. ‘I’m sorry about my friend, Matt.’
‘Don’t be. She’s made me laugh all night,’ Matt smiles, looking smitten at Connie before snapping out of it and turning back to me. ‘I’m sure he’ll regret this soon enough,’ he says kindly, his face becoming sympathetic.
‘I think it’s too late for that,’ I sniff, the fact he’s talking about Ian catching me off guard.
Matt purses his lips at me.
‘I’ll call you,’ Connie says, not even attempting to get up off the sofa and see him out.
Matt smiles to himself as he leaves.
‘Good night?’ I ask, pleased to be thinking about something else.
‘Yes. A really good one.’
‘Until I came along.’
‘Stop apologizing,’ she tuts.
‘Good material for You’re Just Not The One?
‘Not yet … I’m definitely going to see him again,’ she coyly shrugs, taking a sip from her mug. She never writes about people before she knows for certain that it’s not going to go any further. She’s got quite a back catalogue of failed dates with Mr Wrongs to delve into though if, like in situations like this one, she actually likes a guy.
‘You’re so blunt with him,’ I tell her. ‘And bossy.’
‘That’s who I am. You should know that by now,’ she laughs, patting my leg. ‘I didn’t see him complaining.’
‘No. He accepted you just the way you are,’ I note, although I’m aware of the tinge of sadness that’s present as I say it.
‘It was a first date, babes. There’s time for him to find me overbearingly annoying – which I know I am,’ she declares without a hint of regret.
‘I don’t know who I am,’ I tell her, voicing what’s been slowly dawning on me since the proposal that never was.
‘You’re Lizzy,’ Con says, very matter-of-fact. ‘We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember and you once stole my boyfriend.’
‘I did not,’ I splutter, even though she’s veering us away from what I’m trying to talk about.
‘James Healy,’ she sighs, jogging my memory.
‘I was six!’ I exclaim, although I do know exactly what she’s talking about and I will admit it was very shady behaviour on my part.
‘It still counts. I’ve been haunted by it ever since. I think that’s why I can’t commit,’ she says, a smirk appearing on her beautifully rouged lips.
‘I mean it. I don’t
know who I am,’ I sigh.
‘But none of us do.’
‘I thought I had it figured out, though,’ I say, nodding and shaking my head all at once. Nodding because I was so certain of it and shaking because I now realize I was deluded. ‘One half of Lizzy and Ian, Ian and Lizzy. I’m not sure I know how to be just Lizzy. It’s been ten years.’
‘He’s robbed you from the dating game for ten years? He ought to be shot. There are plenty of guys out there who’ll want to heal your wounds.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything worse.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Dating is a minefield and I’m not ready for that.’
‘It’s fun. You watch, you’ll be on Tinder in no time.’
I don’t reply, although my insides shudder at the thought of me on a dating app swiping left and right. It’s something I dare not think about. It’s too soon to be thinking of other guys when the last ten years have been focused on being with one guy for ever. I can’t flick a switch and start acting differently. I can’t suddenly stop loving Ian, even if I know that I should.
‘Why do you think he did it?’ I ask.
‘He’s clearly gay,’ she states. We both know it’s not the case, but it stops my mind for a millisecond while I ponder the suggestion.
‘Why do any of us do anything?’ she continues, swivelling herself around so that she too is lounging along the sofa, her feet by my face, mine now by hers. ‘Liz, you’re wonderful. You always have been – whether you were with Ian or not.’
‘Have I changed?’ I push.
‘We all have,’ she says dismissively.
‘But have I changed since dating Ian?’ I ask, starting to sound desperate.
‘You were only eighteen when you met, so I would hope so.’
‘But have I become who I should be?’ I whine.
‘Are any of us who we should be?’ she frowns.
‘You’re sounding very cryptic,’ I tut.
‘And you aren’t?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘You want me to say something, to tell you what you want to hear. Feed me my lines. Or, better still, why don’t you just say what’s on your mind.’
‘Fine, it’s simple really,’ I say, grabbing a cushion and hugging it into my chest. ‘I don’t know whether I’m me because this is who I should be, or if I’m this version of me because of Ian.’
‘You’re you,’ she says firmly. ‘Just a slightly modified version because of your time spent with him.’
‘Oh crap.’
‘Babes,’ she says, scrambling up on to her elbows. ‘Everyone who comes into our lives leaves their mark. That’s how we grow, mature and evolve as humans. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘But I don’t want to be the me he made me. I want to be just me. My me.’
‘Darling …’ Connie whispers. I know she’s trying to bring me back from the never-ending pit I’m falling into, and I want to stay with her, I really do, but I’m struggling.
‘Do you know the last time I listened to a Bananarama album?’ I ask.
‘Enlighten me.’
‘On my way to uni for Fresher’s week. Then Ian came along with his cool music and I didn’t want to admit to even having it in my collection. I didn’t even have my favourite band’s album in our home just in case it made him look at me differently – even after we’d been together for years,’ I say, disparaging of the realization.
‘I don’t know when I last listened to East 17 …’ Connie ponders to herself, sitting back as she looks up at her living-room ceiling. ‘And I was properly obsessed with Brian and his stupid hats. We just drifted apart, you know? I’m sure you no longer singing ‘Venus’ in the shower was more a natural progression.’
‘I still sing that in the shower, just very quietly. I can’t use my razor without humming it.’
‘See? You’re still a proud fan.’
‘But I never made Ian sit and listen to them like he did with me and Damien Rice. I knew he’d hate them. I thought he’d think I was stupid for liking fun pop when his preferences were so deep and meaningful. I made him think I was someone I wasn’t.’
Connie laughs at my confession.
‘I mean, hiding a secret kid or the fact you’ve murdered someone would be a bigger deal,’ she suggests, playfully nudging me in the side with her knee.
‘I’m not saying I hid who I was, had an overhaul of my personality, or that Ian changed me,’ I explain. ‘I just adapted little bits to suit what I thought would work for us.’
‘You compromised.’
‘Exactly,’ I nod, pulling my bottom lip through my teeth. ‘I can’t help but wonder if I’d be happier right now if I hadn’t done that.’
‘Babes, your man just dumped you and you look like shit. Of course you’d be happier. I expect any alternative would be appealing in comparison.’
‘True,’ I agree, hugging the cushion a little tighter into my chest.
‘I’m going to get the wine,’ she says, scrambling to get off the sofa before travelling to the kitchen on all fours.
Fab idea, I think, rubbing my fingers over my forehead, my musings proving to be a little too much to deal with sober.
I get up from the sofa and move to Connie’s iPod that’s docked on her oval-shaped speaker. My finger swipes upwards as I wait for an album that’s going to grab my attention and demand to be played.
I laugh to myself when I find it.
8
I wake up in Connie’s bed with a stinking hangover.
‘Eurgh,’ I groan, my mouth dry and metallic-tasting, my head rhythmically pounding. It’s been throbbing for a couple of days now, but alcohol has added to the pressure of it once again. I feel gross.
‘You’re awake!’ Connie sings, chucking my discarded tee over to me. She’s just stepped out of the shower and has a blue towel wrapped around her, and a floral shower cap on her head. Somehow she still makes this look stylish.
‘Why am I –’
‘Starkers? After a few wines you decided to sing the entire back catalogue of Bananarama – which you had on repeat the entire night. It started off quite mellow but by the time we reached ‘I Heard a Rumour’ for the third time, it had escalated dramatically with you full on acting out the lyrics while dancing around the flat. For some reason you thought taking your clothes off would improve your performance,’ she states, wearing an expression that tells me it clearly didn’t.
‘Shit … Did the neighbours knock?’ I ask, a recollection of an angry fist bashing on the front door swinging through my foggy memory.
‘Several times.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘They’ll get over it. I’ve had to listen to them swearing at each other at three in the morning – they can handle a little party,’ she laughs, walking over to her chest of drawers and putting on matching pink knickers and bra.
For a split second I wonder when was the last time I wore a two-piece like that. I tend to just chuck on whatever I find first – which usually turns into the same bra being worn again and again until the wire pops out, the elastic gives in or stubborn grey circles appear around the armpit area. Although even then I know I’ve kept a comfy bra’s boob-holding dreams alive despite it falling to pieces and looking ghastly.
Connie chuckles to herself while dabbing concealer under her eyes and quickly buffing in some foundation. ‘You were so funny. Eighteen-year-old Lizzy was back. And there you were thinking she was dead and buried. Turns out you can resurrect her.’
‘Shame I can’t remember much of it,’ I say, sitting up and pushing my head through my top even though I haven’t located my bra yet. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘Work,’ she states, skilfully swiping a black eyeliner pen across her top lids to give the perfect flick.
‘It’s a Tuesday!’ I note.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m meant to be at work in an hour,’ I say, the thought of it making me feel sick with anxiety. ‘I can’t go. I can’t face it
yet.’
‘No one can force you,’ Connie shrugs, grabbing a white t-shirt and black maxi dress from a pile of clothes next to me and throwing it on before locating ankle socks and Converse, the notion of being sacked for not doing my job genuinely lost on her. ‘You can stay here for as long as you like. There’s food in the fridge and you’ve got Netflix on demand. I won’t be home late. I’ll grab us dinner on the way.’
‘I’m going to go to my mum and Ted’s, actually.’
‘Oh?’
I can understand the confusion. All I wanted last night was my best mate, all I want now is my mum and my childhood bedroom.
‘I don’t want to put you out,’ I tell her.
‘Seriously, you wouldn’t be. I want you to stay,’ she says, pushing me so I fall back on to the pillows.
‘You are fantastic and you know I’ll be back here soon enough,’ I say, managing to smile. ‘I’ve got to go break the news to Mum. I should probably pick up a new phone too, before she starts panicking that she can’t get in touch with me. She might think something awful has happened. Oh wait. It has.’
‘She texted last night to see if you were with me, actually,’ Connie admits. ‘I was going to tell you. She did want to talk to you but you were swinging your bra over your head at the time so I thought it was best not to.’
‘Do you think she already knows?’
‘I imagine so. If she tried me then she must’ve tried Ian first.’
‘I guess that makes things a little easier,’ I say, as the realization of my crumbling life dawns once again.
‘This is going to be the shittiest bit, babes. But it will get better. I promise.’
‘It has to.’ I half smile, half want to cry.
‘Get your head around it and then just get it out there.’
‘I don’t want people to know,’ I whimper.
‘Because it makes it more real?’
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 6
