I’m aware that marriage isn’t everything. That it should never have identified me as a person, but it’s hard to be that rational when you want something so badly. I wanted the traditional set-up – marriage then kids. Now I don’t know when I’ll ever get either. Or even, if I’ll ever get either.
I feel the ache of my lost dreams as I see picture after picture of happy smily couples sitting around a Christmas tree, showing off baby scans or pictures of a newborn baby dressed as an elf. Sadness once again engulfs me.
I think you were wrong, and so was I. You were wrong for not believing in everything we’ve built over the years. I was wrong for thinking I’d failed us. That’s not true. You failed us by not believing. We could’ve had a very happy life together and I’m devastated that you’ve tossed me and our unborn kids aside to try and find whatever it was you think is missing. I gave you my all. So much so that I don’t know who I am any more. You were me and I was you. Do you get that? Do you look at the key bowl and think of me? Do you imagine talking to me on the phone or go to send me a message and then remember? Do you miss me like I miss you? Some days do you wish your memories would just disappear?
At the very second I press send a notification pops up with a message from Ian.
I’m on holiday next week
He’s clearly sent it before my second message reaches his phone, but him sending one line of text (without even the decency of a full stop at the end) when I’ve tried to be diplomatic in my earlier text grates on me. And it seems he really is moving on with his life, as he’s going away. I feel a fool for the emotional slop I’ve just sent him and annoyed at myself for going there after weeks of restraining myself from getting in touch.
Fuck you!!!!!
I type out the two words hastily, adding more punctuation than necessary to hammer home my point.
I switch off my phone and go to bed.
22
I wake up feeling shit, and not because I downed five glasses of Baileys and ate far too many pigs in blankets, Yorkshires and After Eights. It’s deeper than that. I feel sad, as though everything has hit me all over again. It’s crazy how a few little words pieced together in a careless manner can cause a huge shift in how one manages to cope.
I let out a groan and look around my room. The room that was mine throughout my childhood but has since been decorated to my mum’s taste. After a few days of being back in here I decided to put up some old posters that I’d found in the cupboard to put my own stamp on it. One is of the actor Billy Buskin looking smoulderingly at the camera, the other is of the Spice Girls giving their best Girl Power signs while on the set for the ‘Say You’ll Be There’ video shoot. They all look cool and badass. They made me chuckle when I put them back up, a throwback to some other time, but now their presence makes me feel childish. Some things should most definitely be left in the past where they belong. Take thongs, for instance. They’ve gone now. I gave them a good bash, but they aren’t for me. It’s a fact. I was constantly pulling them out of my crack, and yes, I know that’s where they’re meant to sit, but I felt like I was living with a permanent wedgie. The last straw was when I was walking around Budgens looking for rosemary. I could feel the material snuggling its way to where it wasn’t welcome and so gave a tug at my trousers and underwear underneath while performing a little leg wiggle along with a mini squat. Only when I looked up, halfway through the action, did I notice the handsome man looking at me with disgust while holding a packet of Mr Kipling mince pies. I think Sisqó was wrong. Men don’t like thongs – not the realities of them anyway.
Pondering on the thought of my undies, I reach for my phone and am surprised to find it’s switched off. Then I remember and a feeling of dread creeps up on me, with humiliation not too far behind. I should never have messaged Ian, not on Christmas Day, and especially not when I’d been drinking. Yes, we have to sort out the flat, but nothing much is going to be done in the next week when everyone is closed.
I bash the phone against my forehead before turning it on, my heart sinking further as the Apple symbol shines into view.
I get an instant notification that I have four messages, all of which are from Ian.
Fuck!
I also have another text ping through to tell me I’ve missed three calls from him.
Double fuck!
I click on his name, my eyes squinting at the screen, partly because it’s so bright and my head hurts, but also through fear of what those four messages might say.
Are you OK?
Lizzy, can you just message back and tell me if you’re all right?
For fuck’s sake, Liz! Your phone keeps going through to answerphone.
OK, I’ve just spoken to your mum after calling the house phone. She wasn’t too pleased to hear from me, but I made her check on you. Turns out you’re just asleep. You scared me, Liz. I didn’t know what to think after your message.
This is shit, of course it is. The life we thought we were heading towards has vanished. I know that was my doing, but I hope one day you’ll thank me for it. Maybe not actually thank me, I know I’ve hurt you too much for that, but you get the point. You deserve more than being married to someone who asked simply because they thought it was the right thing to do. I’ll always regret not being in the place you needed me to be, but it was for the best.
I do think of you. The smallest of things make me think of a place we’ve visited together or a film we’ve watched on our sofa. I even sat through an episode of New Girl the other day. It was on and I didn’t want to switch it over. It’s weird that you’re not a part of my life any more. That you aren’t here with me. Maybe you’re right and I should’ve had more belief in us. I just couldn’t shake off my doubts and so acted the way I did. Perhaps if I’d have voiced what was going on in my head earlier things would be very different, but what good are ‘what ifs’ now? They’re pointless and won’t help us move on.
In my opinion we should sell the flat. I’d be happy for you to buy me out, but I’m guessing that’s not what you want seeing as you left rather than kicking me out, and you’re offering to sell your share rather than buying mine. This place is us. But we aren’t here any more. It’s time to start anew.
I’ll ring around a couple of estate agents whenever they’re open again and organize the whole thing. I’ll try and make it as easy as possible for you, unless you want to get involved, of course.
Merry Christmas to you, Lizzy. Ian. Xxx
I scroll up to my last couple of messages to him and realize he thought I’d ended my life.
I guess they could be read in that fashion. Plus, people you would never expect to take their own lives do, so you never can be too sure. The last couple of months have been overwhelming. I’ve struggled. Even though I’ve tried to put on a brave face, I’ve found it difficult to accept that I could be rejected so easily. It’s been saddening to think that someone I invested so much in could just decide they don’t love me. It has made me wonder if I’m good enough, even if at times it might seem to others that I’ve moved on. I’m not sure there’s a limit to how long grief lasts, but I know it’ll soon feel easier to cope with. It already does occasionally … but I’ve never contemplated suicide in the times it hasn’t. It’s not a thought that’s entered my head. It’s been a horrible, scary time, but it is what it is. I have to ride the storm. I wonder if I’ve been doing as much as I could be, or if part of me has been holding myself back and keeping things safe.
I keep looking over at Ian’s message. It’s the most he’s communicated with me since that night – or perhaps even before. We haven’t been the best at sharing our feelings and, like Ian’s written, if we had things could’ve been different.
I wonder how he felt last night, thinking the worst. If Mum hadn’t picked up the phone, would he have driven over and bashed our door down? The thought sends a chill down my spine. I hadn’t sent a cry for help, like so many others do. I’m not stronger than them, or less crippled by heartache – but I know there�
��s a way through the fog. I can already sense myself wading through it.
I’m so sorry I scared you. I was angry and turned my phone off.
I just don’t understand how we got here – but here we are.
It would be great if you could sort out the initial listing with an agent. The flat was still looking in good shape when I left, so it should be camera-ready without causing too much of a hassle for you. I’ll come empty my stuff once it’s sold.
Thank you. x
I’ve never hated Ian as much as I thought I did. It’s hard to feel that way towards someone who’s held your heart for so long. Now I just have to learn to fall out of love with him and help myself move further forward. Moving forward …
I get out of bed, my head banging as I go, and grab hold of a pen and the notepad I used to write poems about Henry Collard in, the one containing my lists of the various stages of my life, and decide to put pen to paper.
I don’t blame you as much as you think,
Even though this whole situation stinks.
It’s hard to believe we are at this point now,
We barely bickered, let alone rowed.
Or maybe we did and I’ve started to forget,
To stop myself becoming full of regret.
For all of the things I could’ve done or said,
To keep you happily in our bed.
You are a fool for letting us go,
I had big dreams for us, you know.
It was more than a wedding, or gloating to friends
I longed to be with you until the very end.
But now I’m me and you are you,
Living our lives as singletons do.
Without my sidekick by my side
And no one to kiss before sleeping beside.
One day I’ll be happy, and you will be too,
This is a blip for us both to get through.
Please know that I loved you with all of my heart,
And that thoughts of you linger like a bad fart.
It’s not my best work, but the last line tickles me.
I’d forgotten what a great emotional outlet poem-writing was. Feelings and thoughts having to be worded rhythmically so that they fit together like a nice little puzzle. It’s creative and organizational all at once – like a mental HIIT class for the mind.
I close my notepad, grab my phone and go straight to the Facebook app. I never understood people who weren’t on there, letting the world know what they’re up to while making themselves available to anyone they’ve ever come into contact with. In fact, I’m always suspicious of anyone I meet, be it friends from school, colleagues, or clients, who doesn’t have an account. It’s as though they have something to hide. And that’s saying something when I think of the people on my timeline who share the most senseless things: like the modern-day chainmail that’ll render you sexless for the next seven years if you don’t copy and paste it into your own status update within a minute of seeing it (the joke’s on me here because I never did); the racist videos or political statuses that make you wonder why you even befriended a particular person in the first place. It’s mostly a load of time-sapping drivel that leaves me disappointed with humanity or, as I’ve certainly experienced in the last few years, feeling like I’m failing in life thanks to my constant comparing.
For the first time I understand.
For the first time ever I realize I don’t want this vortex in my life.
For the first time ever, I decide I want to get rid of it.
Part of it is a need for privacy and not feeling like my life is being used as entertainment for others, and the other factor is that I don’t need to know what people from my past are up to. If we’ve not spoken in the ten years since we left school – and I mean actually spoken, not just liked each other’s posts or written an obligatory Happy Birthday once a year – then we aren’t friends. Not in the slightest.
Why would I want these people seeing private moments in my life? Why would they want to see them? And why would I want to see their special moments with other halves I’ve never met? I don’t need to see Jenna Hearne’s pictures of a bride and groom I don’t even know – two more people who beat me to the altar.
No, thanks.
With complete clarity it dawns on me that another love affair has come to an abrupt end: my one with Facebook. It’s neither of our faults, but we aren’t doing each other any favours right now. I have nothing else to give: there will be no defiant posts about my break-up, no mysterious passive-aggressive quotes, or fake ‘my life is great’ pictures.
I go into my settings, enter my password for the last time and press deactivate.
I don’t feel euphoric as a result. Just empty. At some point I know the lack of burden will make me feel lighter. That’s something to look forward to.
I roll back under my duvet. I don’t really fancy moving too far from here today. In fact, I don’t particularly want to do anything but sleep.
I close my eyes to do just that.
23
‘Oi, get up!’ Dad laughs, banging on my door as he enters my room.
I groan at him, holding my covers even closer to my body in protest at being woken up.
‘You said to be here for ten!’
I notice he’s in his running gear and give another whimper.
‘You’ll feel good when we’re out there,’ he says, leaning over me and planting a kiss on my forehead.
‘Who on earth told you that?’ I croak. ‘They’re liars!’
‘Come on. I’ll go make you a quick coffee while you get dressed.’
I let out a yawn and rub at my face, taking a deep breath as my eyes land on my posters once again. They’re the catalyst I need. Before getting into my running gear, I peel back the covers and take them down, folding them neatly and putting them back in my wardrobe with the rest of my belongings from the past.
I turn back to my bare wall and finally see the potential of it.
By the time I’m dressed, Dad’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding out an espresso cup for me, and fifteen minutes later we’re jogging up country lanes and I’m at the end of telling Dad about messaging Ian.
‘It might not feel like it, but this is all good, Lizzy,’ he encourages.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I puff, feeling the strain of holding a conversation while we keep up a steady pace. As difficult as it might be, the action keeps the words spilling from my mouth without the luxury of allowing myself to overthink what I’m saying. ‘I imagine he’ll start meeting women soon. Dating again.’
‘That’ll be tough,’ Dad nods, knowingly.
‘He’s probably already started.’
‘Maybe …’ Dad sniffs.
I think about him and Mum. Even though he ended things with her, Ted has come into her life and filled whatever void he left behind. She’s found a new love to share her life with. Dad hasn’t met anyone since leaving her. Instead he has remained alone for the last fourteen years. I don’t think he’s even tried to find a companion.
‘You should start dating, Dad,’ I say, quickly glancing at him so that I don’t misjudge my footing and trip. ‘Find someone nice to spend your time with.’
I notice his eyes widen at my words, I’ve clearly caught him off guard.
‘It’s been a while, Dad, I know. And I’m sure, like me, you’re going to find the whole thing daunting, but why not? You’ve got nothing to lose. You might actually love it,’ I say, giving him the pep talk I’m sure he’ll be turning back on me soon enough.
Instead of answering, Dad pushes forward, his long legs running stronger and quicker as he rushes ahead. He’s so fast I find it difficult to catch up. It’s as though some external force has a hand on his back and is pushing him along.
He continues running like this for what feels like an hour, but is probably only a minute or two. All the while I wheeze behind him, struggling to reach him. Eventually I spot Dad in the distance bending over, gripping hold of his kn
ees.
‘Dad?’ I shout, laughing loudly as I get closer, even though the exertion has sent a searing pain across my chest. ‘It’s like you had a rocket up your whatsit. That caffeine has definitely kicked in.’
‘Sorry, I …’ he says, shaking his head as he turns away and looks at the view. Farmers’ fields surround us, just rolling countryside for as far as the eye can see. A light frost covers the ground, making it glisten in the low winter sun. The bare trees stand tall and strong, defiant and proud in their nakedness.
I take a deep breath and soak it all up, enjoying the fact we’ve stopped.
‘Fancy sitting for a bit?’ Dad asks, walking to a wooden fence and cocking his leg over it so that he can perch comfortably. He gestures at the space beside him.
‘Yeah, all right,’ I say, with a shrug. We’ve not been doing this long, and I’m still happy to take a rest whenever I can. ‘It’s going to kill starting again now we’re warmed up, but on your head be it!’
I join him on the fence, rubbing at my heaving chest, which has thankfully started to forgive me. The pain is subsiding.
Now we’ve stopped I’m aware of just how frosty it is. I put my hands in my hoody pocket to warm them up and find an unopened cigarette packet. After my thong dance in front of the bemused handsome stranger in Budgens a few days ago, I decided to cross something else off my list of things to revisit. Smoking. I bought a packet of menthols and a lighter before bumping into one of Mum’s neighbours on the way out, so didn’t get the chance to light up. Instead I left them in my pocket and forgot about them until now. I instantly feel naughty, as though I’m a teenager hiding them from my dad before a night out with my mates.
‘Elizabeth …’
Oh shit, I think to myself. He knows! He must’ve seen the packet sticking out of my pocket. I was always very good at hiding my social habit back in the day, but I’m out of practice.
‘This is a really difficult conversation to have,’ he says, taking a deep breath and turning to me, before fiddling with his hands.
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 17
