That night, Emma broke down as she called me whilst driving back to her hotel (she almost killed herself and several Philadelphian cyclists on the way). She told me what had happened through her howls of devastation. I’m the worst when it comes to comforting people, so I told her not to worry, it was likely just a big misunderstanding. I told her to stop crying because it would just serve to give her one of those scary thunderclap headaches, and that she should call him tomorrow to get some answers.
The next day the conversation went thus,
“Why did you marry me if you were going to leave and sleep with other women?”
“I didn’t really know what I wanted. I thought I wanted to be married but I guess I didn’t realise what marriage really meant.”
“What did you think it meant?”
“I thought we could do whatever we wanted for the next five years then meet up again and have kids.”
(It started to dawn on Emma that she may have made a big mistake)
“You realise that’s not what a marriage, or even a relationship, is?”
“Yeah...”
“So why on earth did you ask me to marry you?!”
“I knew some guy would take you off the market soon, there are no hot ones left by the late-20 mark. I do want to be with you eventually and start a family, but not yet. I need some time to travel and explore. So I married you so that you’d be mine until I was ready to settle down.”
(A big, big mistake)
“And what makes you think I won’t divorce you?”
He had sniggered,
“I’ve met your parents, they’re the most extreme Catholics on the planet. There’s no way they’d let you divorce me.”
The next day Emma filed for divorce and I was Skyping our hysterical Mum and Dad telling them to shut up. Then I called Emma and we began brainstorming legal alternatives to homicide.
Appointing myself as legal counsel I immediately began working on an annulment. It goes back to the Dating Scale. Emma didn’t know he was a 4 when she married him. He artificially level jumped. As a legally trained impartial witness, that was grounds for dissolution of the contract. It was a blatant misrepresentation of a previously undisputed factual record requiring a conclusive resolution. Em had signed a contract with the incorrect information at the outset, which made the contract void ab initio (fancy lawyery way of saying ‘from the beginning’).
See, Choda Boy had big ambitions. He wanted a stellar career, lots of money, a flash car and of course the biggest prize of them all – a hot partner. But, he knew that if he showed his piggish, selfish, egomaniacal self, he could only reasonably expect to get another 4, maybe a 5 if he was lucky.
But… say he pretended to be the greatest boyfriend since Aiden from Sex and the City? Say he pretended to be the most affable and affectionate gentleman this side of Pride and Prejudice? This would push him to a 6, and if he found a 7 or an 8 who was emotionally scarred and fragile (Exhibit B. Ms Emma Jones), he could pounce.
He faked being a 6 for as long as it took to tie her down (read. trap into marriage). We still don’t exactly know why. Emma, Chloe, Mags and I spoke about it at length for over a year. Did it start off as an innocent level-jumping social experiment that spiralled out of control? Or was it a more deliberate ploy to flaunt the rules of the Dating Scale?
Or… he had mentioned kids in that final conversation with Emma. Was he trying to bump up his children’s number? Had he cottoned onto the genetic reality that two 4s make 4 babies, and that by breeding with Emma he’d produce a… Wait a minute, 8.5 plus 4 divided by two is… six point something. A six point something baby?
So let that be a warning to y’all - sneaky, manipulative people will fake it. They can get away with being artificially high numbers for days, weeks, even months if they’re good. Choda Boy was an extreme case, for he had been even more Machiavellian about it. He had pretended for a three full years (two years dating plus a one year engagement). That takes an unscrupulous amount of underhanded deceit. That takes a heart of pure evil, Lex Luther or Doctor Doom styles. Or that scary snake guy from Conan the Barbarian.
So yes, I’m not exactly happy about Emma’s current misadventures regarding married men, but who the hell am I to judge? Can you imagine what her emotional state must be after all those experiences? I’m amazed she hasn’t topped herself yet.
An Outlook email brings me back to my work reality. Wellity wellity wellity, if it isn’t my favourite man of the hour – He Who Shall Not Be Named. The last email Stalker sent Lloyds was early this morning, summarising an earlier documentation request. I guess this is his response.
I begin reading.
Hi Sam,
Thanks for the spreadsheet, we will endeavour to address all items by midday tomorrow. We need to discuss capital gains and overseeing rights next week. I’ll send a meeting request to yourself and Penelope for Monday.
Best wishes
I read the email a second and third time then laugh to myself. Good luck asshole, there’s as much chance of me attending that meeting as there is of me jumping into a microwave and pressing ‘High’.
The emails fly back and forth between Stalker and He Who Shall Not Be Named and I feel my life getting more shitty at every passing hour. I hate having him back in my life. I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate my colleagues. I hate the never ending stream of patronising emails from Angrypants, like the one that’s just come through,
Jonesy,
Just to confirm, your plus one for Saturday is Miss Chloe Haughton? Don't worry, I know women in their 30s dread being put on the ‘Singles’ table, so I've put you with my extended family from Newcastle.
See you Saturday.
When I read it I feel like throwing up. First of all, who’s 30? I’m 29 and a half. Second, Chloe and I don’t give a flying fuck whether we’re labelled ‘single’ or not. I'm only going to this stupid wedding because I have no choice, and Chloe is only going because she owes me one. Third, we don’t care where we sit. In fact, the singles table would be preferable to a group of boring married Geordies.
And excuse me but women in their 30s? What about men in their 30s? They don't mind being on the singles table because, what, they get asked about their professions whereas women get asked why they're still single? Like it’s our fault or something?
By the end of the afternoon I am in such a funk no amount of Dorito grease will lift me out of it. There’s only one thing left that might cheer me up – going home and having a hot bath.
In my apartment I collapse on the couch and turn on Sopranos. Poor Carmela, she really loved Tony and just look how he treated her. I microwave a bag of popcorn, crack open a beer, grab a Yorkie and recline into the soft folds of my sofa. Ahhhh. That’s better. Being the slob I am, I place the bowl of popcorn directly under my chin and lick bits into my mouth. They stick to my tongue so it avoids the hassle of using my hands. Hands are too much effort at this point. I consider running a bath then remember I haven’t cleaned the tub in a few weeks, so it’s probably got that line of grey slime around the sides.
I continue to watch and eat. The more episodes I see the more morose I become by Tony’s cheating, deceptive ways. I start thinking of the Stranger again. Are all men the same? It sure seems like it. Maybe it doesn’t matter what guy I end up with, because deep down they’re all identical. They are all just variations of He Who Shall Not Be Named or Choda or Crazy. Or at least, the ones I’m attracted to. I mean, I know there are nice guys out there, those ‘Eugene’ types. The boring guys who stand in the corner of the room at parties, and when you make the effort to talk to them you realise that they really are as boring as they look.
But who wants to end up with a Eugene?
I look outside at the pouring rain. London rarely gets a downpour like this. The daily soul-destroying hair-frizzifying drizzle is normal but there’s a right tempest going on. I hear a crack of thunder, which matches my mood to a tee.
The more popcorn I lick into my mou
th the more restless I become. I end up pouring the rest of the bowl into my mouth (and get a mouthful of those tooth-shattering unpopped corn balls) then start to pace the apartment. I want to purge myself of the layers of rejection and shame that have been deposited on my person since last night. And I could use a shot of endorphins... Before I know it I’m tying the shoelaces on my runners and plugging in my earphones. Fuck the weather, my attitude is so self destructive today anyway, why not top it off with an insanity workout (weather-wise, not the DVD variety).
The skies are dark and murky, like a black soup. It’s difficult leaving the warm comfort of the apartment and I start to shiver as I close the gate behind me. I’m not wearing much. It’s cold now but give it fifteen minutes and my body will be generating its own heat. The rain hits my face as I run and sure enough I’m warm soon. Hot, even. Half an hour in and I am sweating in all the usual weird spots, and it feels good. The ground squelches under my runners as I jog.
What’s so bad about life anyway? My body starts to sing to me. There are so many good things about the world that will never abandon me. Coffee, wine, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Emma, Chloe, Mags, radiators, fresh sheets, bath salts, slippers, extra mature aged cheddar. Life is good! Stop whinging about guys. Guys are only a tiny part of a big, wonderful world.
The rain beats down harder on my face and shoulders. My running top is clinging to my boobs and arms and my shorts are dripping water. Past Hyde Park gate I see there's not a soul in sight, which is weird for 9:00 p.m on a weeknight. I continue to run along despite the torrents of water. I feel tough. This is how we do things Down Under. Growing up in Oz you have no choice but to man-up. If the snakes and spiders and sharks and various other evils of nature don’t make you, then the extreme weather and violent sports will. Have you seen an Aussie football match? It’s a blood bath! Played by the roughest, fittest, strongest, most extreme men our island nation produces. Even the ‘softer’ sports like netball are played viciously, with scratching and elbowing and tricks to snap another player’s ACLs (which, by the way, is by slamming your foot down onto another players' after they land from a jump).
Jogging along to my music (Mariah Carey, the 90s years) I notice a small crumpled heap in the middle of the lawn. At first it looks like a dark blob. The closer I get the more it resembles a human, a human squatting over another dark shape.
I hesitate before crossing the lawn. It could be a junkie, or an escaped prisoner, or one of those annoying people who refer to themselves in the third person. But something pulls at my heartstrings. What kind of a person would I be if I keep running? What if they need help? I start to walk over, slowly at first. The dark shapes aren’t moving. When I finally recognise who they are I launch into a full sprint.
“Mr Harold?!” I pull up and kneel beside him.
The General is kneeling beside Captain. Eyes closed, the poor mutt is lying half covered in mud, eyes terrified, panting slowly and heavily.
“What are you doing out here?!” I yell over the rain.
The rain pours off the General’s face as he looks up. His eyes are distraught.
“Crumbs lass, we’re in an awful spot of bother. When the rain began we started back for home but Captain ran over and ate something, then collapsed.”
“What did he eat?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, but it’s getting worse.”
Without the running keeping my heart rate up I’m already starting to feel the cold. Sheesh, the General must be freezing, he’s only wearing a thin coat which is soaked through. I kneel down to pat Captain, whose eyes are looking more bloodshot by the second.
I go into autolawyer mode (it’s like autopilot, but instead of flying a plane we drive our thoughts into a logical sequence),
“Okay Mr H, let's try to look at the situation calmly and rationally. We’re in the middle of Hyde Park.”
“Aye.”
“No one knows where we are.”
“Aye.”
“We don’t have a phone, and there are no people around to help us.”
“Aye.”
Brain-panic helicopter noises start whirring in my skull. Think Penny, think. I could run over to the nearest house? But even if I sprint it would take at least ten minutes, then ten minutes to come back with an umbrella and a towel. The General and Captain will catch their death if they stay out here that long. I could move them both under a tree and tell them to wait for me? But the General will still likely catch pneumonia, especially since his clothes are soaked through. And the dog, what of him?
Shit.
“Mr Harold, you have to come with me. We need to get you out of the rain or you’ll freeze to death.”
“What about Captain?”
“We have to come back for him.”
At this, Mr Harold straightens his shoulders. A look of determination etches itself into the many wrinkles spanning his face,
“I won’t leave him, lass. In my regiment, you don’t leave anyone behind.”
Horrified the General might launch into a D-Day flashback I stay silent. But I don’t know what to do. Captain’s breaths are coming in slower now, I’m starting to freeze myself and Mr Harold is going to die.
“I’ll have to carry him,” I start, “We’ll go to the nearest house and call for help.”
I kneel down to pick up the dog. But I’m not exactly dealing with a miniature poodle. This is a big, hefty chunk of male Rottweiler crossed with some other big breed. In terms of upper body strength I’m one of the strongest girls I know. I can do an entire pull up all by myself. But I struggle lifting Captain, just managing to sling him over my shoulder. We begin stumbling along, slipping on the wet grass and mud. Mr Harold clings to me, patting Captain’s head as we blunder and trip our way across the lawn.
I don’t have hands free to wipe the rain from my eyes and face, so I stagger blindly. After five minutes my shoulders are aching and my arms and back are burning. I ask for a breather. As I pick up Captain for Round Two I start to properly worry about the situation. I’m not sure I’ll be able to lift him if I put him down again.
Another five minutes in and we’ve finally reached the path. I squat down with Captain still panting in my arms. I can’t keep it up, I’m wiped. But I have to! What was I just saying about being a tough Australian? The General is depending on me. Captain is depending on me. I try to stand but struggle. My legs are shaking.
“Mr Harold, I have to… put him down… for a bit...” I’m out of breath, but at least I’m warm again. I’m sweating from the exertion.
I place Captain down on the wet gravely path. I stand up to stretch (my back and shoulder smart sharply as I do). To ease the pain I lean down and place my hands on my knees. I bow my head and try to think of what to do. This fucking rain is still coming down hard and fast. If I manage to lift this muscled canine again I’ll be able to carry him for another minute, two minutes max. I don’t have the strength to carry him another ten (which is about the nearest house I can think of) but I can’t leave them here. Could I carry him in one minute slots? That’ll take forever.
“Need a hand, Young Peanut?”
I lift my head. Oh no, out of all the people... But I’m too relieved to feel upset about my rotten luck. In fact, for the first time since Loft I’m actually really happy to see him.
Blue squats down to give Captain a gentle stroke. The mutt’s breaths are coming in shorter and sharper now. I grab Blue’s arm and his eyes meet mine. Honestly, this guy doesn’t deserve visual organs as beautiful as these. I start shouting at him,
“I need your help!”
“I can see that.”
“The dog needs a vet, turns out he’s not aware eating London park refuse is a terrible idea. Could you carry him to the nearest house?”
“Not at all, just lead the way, babe.”
I’m not your babe. I ignore the urge to tell him off and put my arm around the General instead. Blue lifts Captain. In contrast to my clumsy attempts, he carries the hundred pound beast
like it weighs no more than a feather. For the first time since we met I notice Blue has a super strong upper body. He’s tall and broad, not scary-Schwarzenegger broad but nicely proportioned. We walk in silence, the heavy rain so loud that casual conversation is neigh impossible. Plus, it’s really not the right time and place. We have a dying creature on our hands. Well, Blue’s hands.
Ten or so minutes later and we are walking through the gate of a very expensive townhouse. The little old lady who answers the door looks amazed at the sight of three soaked people at her door, one carrying a huge, soggy Rottweiler-crossed-with-a-bear. After a quick explanation she proves most accommodating. She lets Blue place Captain on a rug on the patio (which is sheltered, thank goodness) and tells us that she’ll look up the number for a vet.
Mr Harold shoos us away.
“Run along and get yourselves into some dry clothes, tally-ho now.”
“We’ll wait.” Blue replies.
“It’s alright old bean, jolly good show carrying Captain all that way. He’ll be right as rain once the vet comes, I’m sure of it.”
I glance at the soggy, half frozen creature panting on the porch. I’m not so sure.
“Hey Mr H, if you give me the keys to your apartment I can bring you back some dry clothes?” I suggest.
“Well I say! I’m getting the royal treatment today aren’t I? You’re a fine filly, a fine filly indeed. You treat her well now, won’t you my good man.”
He nudges Blue while handing me his keys (they don’t see me rolling my eyes). The General walks inside to help Little Old Lady look up a number for a vet, leaving me and Blue in the rain.
I look at him. He looks at me.
“Ummm… Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.” I mumble begrudgingly.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 11
