by Lacey London
I glare at George, my angry eyes burning through his skin. How can he have flipped like this? What happened to the funny, kind man that I met only a few weeks ago?
‘Where do I know his face from?’ Li leans back and whispers in my ear.
‘It’s George.’ I manage to spit the words out between gritted teeth.
‘Oh my god! What the hell is he doing here?’ She is trying to whisper but her voice is rising above the music.
‘He’s here with Rebecca. I have to talk to him.’ Standing up, I drain the remnants of my wine and hop out of the booth.
‘I need to talk to you.’ I stand an inch from his nose and squeeze my hands into little fists.
Sensing that all hell is about to break loose, Lianna drags Rebecca over to the dance floor out of harm’s way.
‘Well?’ I demand, resisting the urge to punch him right on the nose.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ He laughs and shrugs his shoulders, sipping his Corona cockily.
‘Outside. Now.’ I push past him and stomp across the dance floor towards the exit.
Standing outside, I duck into a bakery doorway to escape the cold and wait for George to speak.
‘I said why!’ I shout, not caring who hears me.
‘I did not tell Oliver we slept together. I said you slept over. He just assumed that we slept together.’
‘And you didn’t think to correct him? I don’t understand why you would do that?’ My voice is thunderous and we are starting to attract a small audience.
‘Really? You don’t understand? How about, you were sleeping with my friend? You’re the one in the wrong here, Clara. I don’t think you are in any position to be pissed off.’ His voice is airy and light, making me seem like an irrational bunny boiler.
‘Oh come on! We were never serious! We only went on two dates!’
George shakes his head and walks back out onto the busy street. Not willing to give up so easily, I run after him.
‘Hey, I’m not finished talking to you!’ Trying to stay steady on my five inch heels, I make a grab for his jacket and spin him around. He actually looks really sad.
‘I’m sorry. OK? I’m really, really sorry.’ I stare at him, hoping my apology comes across as sincere and not pathetic.
He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket and sits down on the kerb. Narrowly avoiding a bird poop disaster, I slump down next to an empty Big Mac box and kick away an empty Pepsi can. What makes people turn into such pigs when they have had a drink?
‘I really didn’t mean to hurt you, George. I honestly didn’t. As soon as I realised I had feelings for Oliver, I planned to end things with you. I should have done it sooner, but I wanted to do it face to face.’ I look at him and wait for his response. After a few minutes of prickly silence, it suddenly dawns on me just how wrong I have been. Why couldn’t I see it before? Leading George into thinking we could be going somewhere, when all along I was wrapped up in Oliver. In Oliver’s bed. Feeling rather guilty and ashamed of myself, I drop my head down into my lap.
‘I don’t know what else to say. I’m just really sorry.’ Pushing myself up, I wait for a second for him to say something.
Giving up, I make my way back to Noir Bar and squeeze through the packed club. It takes me a while to locate Lianna and Rebecca, busily twerking away to Nicki Minaj by the DJ box. Even the sight of Rebecca’s baboon like dance moves aren’t enough to make me raise a smile. Catching Lianna’s eye, I wave her over and pull on my poncho over my head.
‘Well? How did it go?’ She asks, panting for breath.
‘I don’t really know. I just want to go home, but you stay. It’s still early, I really don’t mind.’
‘Actually, Dan has text so I think I will head over to his. Are you sure you are OK?’ Grabbing her phone, she reaches across the booth for her coat and scarf.
As I wait for her to get wrapped up, I spot George ushering Rebecca towards the bar. Not wanting another confrontation, I take hold of Lianna’s hand and run to the door.
Once we are safely outside and out of earshot of George, I feel my eyes start to fill with tears. Flagging down a taxi, I offer it to Lianna, but she insists on waiting for the next one. Promising to call her tomorrow, I jump in the back and ride the entire way home in sad silence. What a mess.
Curling up in a ball on the sofa, I pull my poncho up over my shoulders and allow myself to cry. Once I start, I can’t stop. I not even sure why I am crying. Losing Oliver? Knowing that I hurt George? The fact that I just stubbed my little toe? I don’t know. What I do know, is that I don’t have a clue how to put it right.
Chapter 41
I am ashamed to admit, that on Sunday, I only moved out of bed to pee and answer the door to the take out guy. By 8.30, I am tucked under my duvet picking seaweed out of my greasy hair. I have spent all day watching Sex and the City reruns. Carrie Bradshaw, I am most certainly not. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I collect the empty food cartons and traipse outside to the dustbin. What a waste of a Sunday. All day I have thought about Oliver. I am dreading going into work in the morning. We still have another three weeks of his contract left. How on earth are we going to be able to work together when he won’t even acknowledge my existence?
Discovering some egg fried rice in my bra, I decide a shower wouldn’t be that bad of an idea. Rummaging around for a clean towel, I hear my phone beep and make a dash to the bedroom. Seeing a scan picture flash up on the screen makes me instantly well up again. Marc is having a baby, a bloody baby and here I am crying over another failed relationship. What has my life become?
‘Clara, did you hear me’ Rebecca’s voice rings in my ears and I don’t quite know how to respond. He’s gone? What does that even mean?
‘Clara?’
Finding my voice, I manage a squeak that resembles yes and end the call. I feel completely shattered. Not knowing what to do, I open the window to get some air. He’s gone. Oliver has gone back to America. He has ended his contract and flown back to America. I have a wave of nausea and stick my head out of the window. This is not happening.
Running across the studio, I grab my phone and dial his number. It doesn’t even give me one sympathy ring before diverting to voicemail.
Hearing Oliver’s voice makes my heart shatter into a million pieces. Is this it? Will I never see him again? Ending the call, I go to my recent calls and select Marc’s number. He has to know more than Rebecca.
‘Marc Stroker.’
‘Marc? It’s me. What the hell is going on?’ Holding back my tears, I try to keep my voice steady.
‘I’m sorry, Clara. I only just heard around an hour ago. I don’t mean to be harsh, but regardless of what was going on between the two of you, this line needs to be finished. We have got three weeks? Do you think you can manage that on your own?’
‘I think so.’ I feel like I have been punched in the ovary.
‘I’ve got to go. Oliver leaving like this has totally screwed us over. I’ll call you later.’ The line goes dead and I stare at the receiver.
He has really gone. Even though I have been informed of this, twice in the last five minutes, by two different people, I still don’t believe it.
Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I take a seat at the work bench and get up Oliver’s designs on the laptop. Stroking the pretty, printed canvas on the screen, I try to pull myself together. It took us hours to choose this design. Hours sat laughing, devouring Krispy Kreme doughnuts and reminiscing of cocktails at The Valentina. Reminding myself that the show must go on, I look around in the desk drawers for the fabric samples. Taking the book and dropping it on the table, I flip past the lace and pretty printed canvas’s until I land on the distressed, tired leather. Somehow, it felt more fitting.
I didn’t even take a lunch hour, choosing instead to work straight through. If you didn’t count peeing or a trip to the vending machine, I hadn’t left the office all day. Not even Lianna’s offer of a trip to the bistro could
entice me out of the office. The thing is, I knew that if I stopped working I would crumble into a pathetic ball and not get back up again. Counting down the hours until I can go home and cry into a tub of ice cream, I make it to 5.30 and lock up the studio.
All the way down to the car, I convince myself that I have forgotten something. Have I left the window open? Left the phone off the hook? It takes me a while to realise that what is missing, is Oliver.
Slamming the car door, I can’t quite believe how dark it is. Only a week ago I was envisaging marshmallows around the bonfire and an American themed Christmas, sipping eggnog. Right now, the future doesn’t look quite so promising. With no one to take me for nice meals at posh, French restaurants, I make a quick detour to the supermarket and fill my basket with useless microwave ready meals and one too many bottles of wine.
Driving home in the pouring down rain, I flick between radio stations to find something that doesn’t make me want to slit my wrists. How has my American Dream become Nightmare on Elm Street? Giving up on the radio and turning it off, I pull over to the side of the road and decide to give it one last try. Taking a few deep breaths, I dial Oliver’s number and feel my heart sink at the strange ring tone. So, he has definitely left the country then. I let the line ring out for what seems like an eternity before giving up and tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. Well, I guess that’s it then. I rest my head on the steering wheel for a moment, fighting back the tears.
Just as I am about to pull back into the road, my phone starts to ring. Not daring to look at the screen, I flick my indicator off and slowly put the handset to my ear.
‘Clara?’
It’s him.
Chapter 42
Losing the ability to form words, I open and close my mouth repeatedly like a hungry angel fish.
‘Clara? Are you there?’ Oliver’s husky voice comes down the line and I immediately feel a strange mix of emotions.
‘Yes?’ Choking back the tears, I manage to speak, so relieved to hear his voice again.
‘I was just returning your call?’ He sounds flat and his words are empty.
‘OK.’ I whisper back, still not knowing what I had called for. There is a silence, where no one says a word. Just knowing that he is on the other end of line is enough.
‘Look, I better go. I’m kind of in the middle of something here.’ The words hit me and I am suddenly aware that is probably my only chance to put this right.
‘No, wait. Oliver, I want you to know that I am really, truly, very sorry.’ My voice starts to crack and I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.
‘Well, I’m sorry too.’
‘What? You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?’ Now I feel even worse.
‘I’m just sorry that it had to end like this. Goodbye, Clara.’
I could have been sat there five minutes, I could have been sat there an hour. I really didn’t know. Watching the headlights speeding by, I let the tears roll down my cheeks. How could I be this upset about a man that I had only been in my life for the past couple of months? I’ve had blow dries that last longer. Having never had a real relationship, I had never had my heartbroken before. It’s just my luck that a chance meeting, in all my hungover glory, has led me to knowing what it is to be completely emotionally crushed. I debate driving over to Lianna’s, Marc’s even, but deep down there’s only one place I want to go, home.
Taking a giant mouthful of cookie dough ice-cream, I press delete on my mobile phone. For the past half an hour, I have erased photo after photo from my picture album. Feeling like a dejected adolescent, I have wiped out any trace of Oliver from my phone. I started on pictures from our meal at La Fleur and finish up with loved up selfies on the train back from Manchester. Surely I am now too old for to be downtrodden and feel forlorn over a man. Reminding myself of just how broken Lianna gets, each and every time she has a failed relationship, I decide the best course of action is to crawl into bed and sleep it off.
Sleeping sounded the best idea in principle, putting it into action however, was another matter. After two hours of flipping from the foetus position to lying flat on my face, I finally give up and head into the kitchen. Rooting around at the back of the crisp cupboard, I dig out the bottle of Jim Beam Marc had given me when I got promoted. Still unopened with a slight layer of dust, it had been waiting around for a special occasion. A special occasion or an emergency situation. One or the other.
I let the strong, golden fluid burn the back of my throat and warm me from the inside. Wandering over to the window, I listen to the wind battering the walls of the house. Winter really is drawing in. Dropping onto the sofa and taking the bottle with me, I pour out another glassful and rest my head on the arm. Within half an hour, I feel better. Not perfect, but definitely a little better. I have never been a believer of the answer being at the bottom of a glass, but right now, it’s my only hope.
The following morning, I awake on the sofa, scotch glass still in hand. My first hope is that the nauseating sadness has gone. Only it hasn’t, it is still well and truly here, along with a thudding headache and overwhelming urge to curl up and die.
Dragging my sorry backside to the bathroom, I turn on the shower and let the hot water droplets soothe my sore head. Not being one to mope around, I decide that I have had my time to shed tears. I had a life before Oliver, so I am going to have to pull myself together and get that life back. It took me five years of hard slog to get this promotion and I am not going to let all that work go to waste for a man.
I dry myself off and pull my trusty black skater dress off its hanger. Tugging on a pair of woolly tights, I dig around in my make up bag for the brightest lipstick I can find. My insides may be downtrodden and unhappy, but my outsides are going to portray an image of confidence and tranquillity if it kills me.
The many hours I have spent watching Bridget Jones has taught me that if there is one trick to getting over a breakup, it is to keep busy. Once I have unloaded the dishwasher, I take out my phone and arrange lunch with Lianna. I also manage to schedule a couple of drinks after work with Marc. I am determined not to turn into one of those pathetic women who sit at home in tracksuit bottoms crying over a breakup.
Sipping a hazelnut coffee, I scroll through my Twitter notifications and feel my heart tighten when my eyes land on Oliver’s name. Before I know what I am doing, my finger’s tap on his photo. Staring at his picture, I feel all of my will power evaporate in an instant. Even on a four inch screen and being three thousand miles away, he still has the same effect on me. The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear that he has gone and he isn’t coming back. Chucking my coffee down the sink, I button up my coat and remind myself that there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. And by spilt milk, I mean failed relationships.
Chapter 43
By the time my stomach starts to grumble at lunch time, my can do attitude has worn paper thin. Fiddling with my keys outside the office, I edge away from the coughing smokers and check my watch. Lianna should have been here ten minutes ago. I am about to give up and head over to the pub on my own, when I spot a cloud of faux fur wearing an aviator hat bustle through the revolving door.
‘So sorry I’m late. I was waiting on a call back from HR. How are you?’ Lianna pulls down the bobbles on her hat and digs the world’s longest scarf out of her handbag.
‘It’s not that bloody cold.’ I grumble, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears.
‘You’re not still moping after Oliver are you? He will come around. You know I am always right about these things. Trust me, I can feel it.’ She rubs my back encouragingly.
‘Well, I think you had better get those feelings checked out, because he’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pressing the button to cross the road, she looks at me quizzically.
‘I mean, he’s gone. As in, gone back to America.’ The words are much harder to say out loud than in my head.
‘What the hell are you talking about? He can’t have gone.
He’s contracted to Suave.’
‘I don’t know how, I don’t know when. All I know, is that he isn’t working for Suave anymore and that he has flown back home.’ I feel a growing lump in my throat and try my hardest to breathe through it.
Lianna stops walking and stares at me like I have grown another head. She makes numerous attempts at saying something, before grabbing my arm and frog marching me over to the pub.
Neither of us says anything else until we are seated and handed menus.
‘Right, start from the beginning. When did you find out he had gone?’ Lianna sucks on her straw and pushes her polka dot rimmed glasses further up her nose.
‘Yesterday.’ I murmur, not daring to look her in the eye in case tears start streaming down my face.
‘Yesterday? Why is this the first I am hearing of it?’ She slams down her glass and I wipe splashes of lemonade off my arm.
‘I didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Maybe it will make you feel better to talk about it. It’s not good to keep negative emotions bottled up.’
The last thing I want to do is go over the whole thing again, but keeping it to myself hasn’t helped one iota.
‘Come on. Tell me everything.’
And so I did. I start with the unfortunate first meeting in the Bistro and my mortification when he turned out to be our new designer. I smile fondly as I recall our first brunch, Oliver hitting his head on the ridiculously low beams and the most romantic meal I have ever had in La Fleur. My mouth begins to water as I remember all the cute, flirty lunches spent holed up the studio together. By the time I get to the surprise champagne train ride and our sunrise heart to heart, tears are spilling down my cheeks. And that’s when my heart almost stops. Why hadn’t I realised it before now? It has been staring me in the face all this time. I love him.
‘I love him.’ My announcement comes out ten decibels louder than I intended.
