Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  Yet even though I had assumed as much all along I still felt hurt and humiliated, and old wounds were being reopened. He had tried reconciling with me just to get an EU passport? Is that what I had boiled down to in his eyes? A cheap and easy ticket to UK residency? How dumb did he think I was? And just how awful was this person who I had once been engaged to?

  My night was ruined. I was supposed to be out with a lovely man I’d been crushing on since uni, and yet here I was again, disgraced and humiliated. It felt like last year all over again.

  Nate was looking at me with concern as I finished speaking with Colin. When I hung up he spoke up,

  “Are you okay?” he had taken both my hands in his.

  I looked down at the kindness represented in his strong hands and impulsively launched myself across the table, locking lips with his. I needed that kindness. I needed to grab it, steal it, run away with it and make it my own. He tasted like peppermint.

  We made out for a while.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since first year,” he said when I finally pulled away.

  “Let’s go into the bathroom,” I had whispered, trying to sound seductive.

  “What?!”

  “Come on, you know the Mile High Club? Let’s start a new club. The... ugh... London pub club.”

  “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”

  After three more rapidly consumed Long Island Ice Teas (which on top of the initial one made it about sixteen standard drinks in twenty minutes) and some clumsy attempts at sexual cajoling from my part, we stumbled into the disabled toilet taking with us Nate’s stuff, my stuff and of course, He Who Shall Not Be Named bag and laptop....

  Guess I don’t need to explain what happened next.

  In my defence, my initial reasons had nothing to do with an immature ploy to deface my ex’s things. I thought... I don’t really know what I thought to be honest with you. I guess I reasoned that if I could convince a desirable man like Nate to agree to doing the nast nast in a public toilet it would confirm that I was way hot and sexy myself. Which, naturally, would make me feel less worthless and hollow. I reasoned that it might make me feel fabulous and beautiful and attractive again. I thought it would make me forget that I had almost been used for an EU passport.

  And how right I was!

  My romp with Nate did all those things and more. We emerged from that poor deflowered toilet, bodies tingling and Penny-confidence restored. Boomtown.

  Thank god the other pub peeps weren’t the most observant. The majority were students halfway through a Super Centurion challenge (a hundred shots of beer, one every minute, then necking three pints. First person to finish without dying wins). Between them and the coked-out bartenders no one noticed us emerging shamefaced from the bathrooms. Well, Nate was shamefaced. I was feeling on top of the world, especially after using my ex’s laptop as a mattress. Again in my defence, it had originally been a hygiene issue. There were literally no clean surfaces in the human sized Petri dish that were the Churchill’s toilets.

  I handed He Who Shall Not Be Named things to the bar manager. Except the ring, that would have been a little too tempting for even the most honest of men,

  “My friend’s gone AWOL, would you mind holding his things for us? He was in here before, wearing the sunglasses.”

  Bartender-man had nodded.

  “And when he comes back would you mind passing on a message from me?” I continue.

  Another nod.

  “Tell him nice try, and good luck getting a visa.”

  That’d learn him, no one messes with the Pennymeister! A third nod and the barman had taken the gym bag, where I’d shoved the recently defiled laptop.

  Nate and I returned to Kensington Wine Rooms and shared a plate of calamari. Then in one of the more sophisticated moments of the evening he bought me a long stemmed rose on the way back to my place. I was a little sad when he flew back to Berlin the next day. If we lived in the same city who knows, maybe something more serious would have eventuated. Then again maybe not, it was possibly the worst start to a relationship you can get. That and filling up your crush’s bathtub with vomit after too much ethanol on a first date.

  ***

  Back to the present

  I remain in my state of wild eyed insanity all the way back to the office. I’m an utter mess by the time I arrive. I look awful. I look ugly. I’m probably frightening small children and the elderly.

  Ignoring my colleagues I march up to my desk where I reach into the second drawer. There I find my two undated resignation letters. They’ve been sitting there for the past three years. The first is the tried and true, burn-not-the-bridge one,

  Dear Sarah,

  Re. Resignation notice

  It is with regret that I submit my formal notice of resignation, effective four weeks from today. I have enjoyed working at Gribbles, and I appreciate the training and growth opportunities I have received here. The support from the Real Estate team has been invaluable to my professional development. Your mentoring has allowed me to strive for continual improvement and for that I am truly grateful. I hope that we will continue our professional relationship as I move forward in my career.

  I wish you and your team continued growth and success.

  Sincerely,

  Penelope Jones

  The second is quite a bit different. I’ve added to it bit by bit over the years, pretty much every time Angrypants hurt, hindered or subjected me to accusations of incompetence and stupidity. Also, that time she raided the emergency stash of Juicy Fruit I keep in my fourth drawer.

  Dear Sarah,

  Re. Resignation notice

  I am thrilled to inform you that I am resigning. I have been waiting for what seems an eternity to find a job with a comparable salary and a more supportive manager. Heck, just a manager who doesn’t treat me like scum would be a significant improvement. That day has finally arrived.

  [I feel like I have to interject here. Obviously, I haven’t got a job to go to at the moment. But at the time of writing I assumed I would have]

  I have despised working for you since the second day I was hired (the first was alright, I spent most of it making coffees for the bigwigs upstairs). I don't like the work and I don't like you. You are a rude, abusive bully, and the most idiotic, laudably imbecilic manager I've had the misfortune of working for. They pay you an astronomical salary to run this team yet you haven’t managed to retain a single employee besides myself for longer than twelve months? What the hell, man?

  Oh and by the way, going around the room telling our colleagues what we don’t like about each other was THE WORST team building exercise in history. You owe Hilary an apology for mentioning her dandruff problem.

  Oh, I know what you’re thinking, you’ve said it often enough. That I’m slow, that I’m unprofessional, that I’m stupid. Remember when you asked me to buy you lunch from that Mexican place and they served it with pico de gallo instead of beef? Then in front of the whole floor you yelled that I was a good for nothing, and if I couldn’t manage a lunch order how would I ever make a decent lawyer? I didn’t say anything at the time, but seriously Sarah, how was I supposed to know pico de gallo isn’t meat? They look and smell the same. How Sarah... How?

  Anyway, for all the times I haven’t managed to get your lunch order perfect, please accept my sincerest apologies. I hope the Juicy Fruit that kept disappearing from my fourth drawer last year was sufficient restitution. And you know what, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll never make a good lunch-buyer or real estate lawyer. But hey, at the very least I know that huevos rancheros are supposed to be served with a tortilla.

  I know you expect me to help you with a transition, but I have no intention of doing that. Have fun figuring out the files on my computer. I can barely figure them out myself most of the time. You’ll have to get IT to hack into most of the folders because I forgot to keep a list of passwords.

  I’m sure you’d like to organise a going away thing for me but I’m no
t interested in your disingenuous attempts at gratitude. And don’t worry about writing me a reference, even though I’m sure you’d be glad to recommend my work and knowledge.

  I don’t need a reference from you.

  I don't want a reference from you.

  Consider this bridge burnt.

  Sincerely,

  Very Happy To Be Gone (aka Penelope Jones)

  I think for a moment. Do I really want to do this? Am I really this stupid? Stupid enough to get blacklisted from the profession I’ve oozed blood, sweat and tears for?

  Yes. Fuck ‘em. I sign the bottom of the second letter and walk across to my ex-boss’ desk. I shred the first letter on the way. Don’t need anyone knowing I was considering resigning with dignity. I stand over her desk for a moment. Last chance to back out.

  I place the signed resignation letter onto Sarah’s keyboard. It isn’t in an envelope. I want every single person who walks past to read it.

  ***

  The realisation of what I’ve just done hits me exactly seven minutes later. I stop in the middle of the busy Canary Wharf street and emit a low whimper. My legs go wobbly and no matter how much I try to control them they don’t stop. My body feels heavy, my stomach is in knots and I’m queasy. I feel even worse than after the Paddock Wood half marathon last year. And that was not cool. I had to imbibe fifteen glasses of Gatorade and eat nine bananas before I felt human again.

  I stand on the street outside my former office building, my low whimpers turning into pained kitten-wails. I resist the urge to lie down in the middle of the road and let a lorry run me over. Instead, I move to the corner of the pavement to get out of people’s way. Cars rush past me. The world starts to spin a little.

  My first instinct is to call Chloe but she doesn’t respond. I call her again, leaving a shaky message asking her to call me back. Next I try Emma and Mags, who also don’t pick up. I tell them I’ve resigned over voicemail, hoping that’ll make them call me back sooner. I’d call my parents but it’s 2:00 a.m. in Melbourne.

  I’ve never felt so scared.

  I make my way unsteadily to the Tube. I walk past Upper Crust and it smells nice but I don’t stop. If I eat anything now I’ll likely have a similar incident to that five-year old boy from the bus. The Jubilee train comes in under a minute and I’ve beaten rush hour which is ace (I’m trying to find the positives in a desperately non-positive situation). I take a seat because sitting helps the weakness plaguing the lower half of my body and the queasiness in my belly.

  As I begin to fully comprehend what I’ve just done, the first spurts of panic start and I get a tight feeling across my chest. I begin to hyperventilate. The other passengers start looking at me with concern and for some reason this embarrasses me worse than anything else that’s happened today.

  And suddenly I can’t help it – I’m crying like a big, dumb bimbo. I’m forced to announce to the concerned people around me that, no, I’m not dying, I’m just feeling a little fragile.

  I check my phone constantly even though I know I don’t get signal until I reach Paddington. When I finally reach Bayswater I check and see with horror that Angrypants has tried calling eleven times and has left three voicemails. I decide not to listen to them. Ever. I delete the call log and the voicemails without hearing a word of what she’s got to say. I owe her nothing, just like the song says.

  There are also a few missed calls from He Who Shall Not Be Named, and a few numbers that aren’t saved in my phone that I don’t recognise. There are a few text messages too. I delete all and sundry without reading a word. None of it is from anyone I actually want to hear from. I want my sister and I want my friends, and none of them have responded.

  As I walk through my front door I take off my sweat soaked pregnancy dress and jump in the shower. I stand there for hours, crying, soap running down my face.

  ***

  By 8:00 p.m. I’m eating a jar of expired olives straight out of the jar while sitting cross legged in the sitting room watching Jeremy Kyle reruns. In previous depressions Jezza K has always managed to cheer me, basically because I end up making direct comparisons between my life and the show’s guests’. It goes something along the lines of, ‘My life may suck, but at least it’s better than Mad Dog Dion’s or the obese mother of thirteen who wants to marry her aunt’. I savour the scenes of angry spit being hurdled between the deadbeat dads and cheating boyfriends and slutty mothers. Then Jeremy deals out a hefty dose of chav bashing and there’s a happy ending and that’s enough to make me smile again.

  But for the first time since I moved to the UK, those wretched council estate monkeys buried in an avalanche of their own inelegance haven’t made me feel good about my life. In fact, they’ve kinda done the opposite, because I’m betting even Mad Dog Dion has a couple of friends, which is more than I can say for myself.

  I’ve checked my phone every thirty seconds for the past two hours (I know, it’s an exhausting pace of text checking, but I can’t help myself). I thought someone, anyone, would have replied by now. But no one has. Not one fucking friend, no Emma, no Chloe, no Mags, not even Maya in remote, last-stop-before Antarctica Melbourne.

  I’ve decided to deal with the realision I have no one left the only way I know how – turning on the telly and hitting the fridge. Except there was nothing on except Jeremy Kyle, the Alan Titchmarsh Show and London’s Burning (I chose Jezza), and nothing in the fridge besides some spilt Aunt Jamima syrup stuck to the bottom tray and a jar of bad olives. I chose the olives.

  In other phone-related news, Angrypants has been giving it her all. She’s currently averaging one call every half hour. I haven’t answered any of them. Other numbers I don’t recognise have been trying to reach me too, but since they’re not saved in my phone I also don’t answer. It’s not safe, they could be Angrypants if she’s being sneaky and calling from a different number, or Old Man Gin or Voldemort using a new phone.

  I’ve also had a missed call from Lord Robbins. Lord Tony fucking Robbins. The Big Kahuna, the toppest dog of the Top Dogs, Senior Partner and European Head of Real Estate, and Angrypants’ boss’s boss. When I saw his number pop up it made my knees buckle and I also peed myself a little. Only a little! It’s just that... well, when Gribbles Corporate call it’s either because of something ridiculously, stupendously, out of control good, candy factory good, ‘you’ve-won-Solicitor-of-the-Year-Award’ kinda good, or it’s something very bad. You’re-going-to-an-Indonesian-jail-for-dealing-hard-drugs kinda bad. I’m thinking it’s the latter, and that is truly scary.

  So I let the numbers ring out and delete my call log and voicemails as they do. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. I don’t even want the faintest possibility of knowing how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into this time. So whatever awful things that were recorded have now been lost permanently. And surely that can’t be a bad thing, right?

  Right Brain is deciding to panic plummet on me no matter how hard I try to drown its voice with vinegary olives, welp, you’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you? You burnt every single bridge you ever had. All your clients will find out about the Lloyds scene, hell, the entire European recruitment field will find out about the Lloyds scene. And rent be crazy, bitches. You’ll end up skint, destitute and alone, existing on Co-Operative canned tuna and Nabisco crackers in a dirty London hostel before finally accepting that London won. You’ll fly back to Melbourne with money borrowed from your Dad and die a poor, lonely old maid in the Australian suburbs. The suburbs. The place with all those huge, hairy spiders. The place you swore you’d never live in again.

  Out of date olives, hyperventilation and Mad Dog Dion. That’s a nice summary of the last three hours.

  It’s 8:11 p.m. and no lights are flashing on my phone anymore, not even from the people I don’t want to hear from. It’s as dead as a doughnut.

  I shuffle back into the kitchen to scrape that maple syrup off whilst casually contemplating suicide.

  ***

  I reckon
I’m reaching new levels of loserness. Jan Brady levels of loserness. It’s 9:30 p.m. and still no word from Chloe, Mags or Emma. And I thought I’d hit rock bottom yesterday during The Incident. How wrong I was. This is rock bottom.

  But I don’t want to give in, I don’t want to go down without a fight. I’m still young, I still have money, I still have clothes. I need a distraction and I need some liquor, and there’s neither of those in my apartment at present. I need to feel good again, happy, confident, and above all I need my brain to stop running through the events of today like a broken record. With no friends to chat with I have no option but to head out into the big wide world and try to make new acquaintances.

  I head into my bedroom and pull out an evening get up. I choose skinny jeans, my black patent heels and my cream strapless top with the gold trim things. I straighten my hair a little and put on make-up, just eye liner and a lip gloss and more concealer around my eye. I’m going out, and no one’s going to stop me. Sure, it may be Monday and no one normal goes out Monday nights, but you never know, the hospitality crowd might just be around. And it’s not like I have a job to go to tomorrow anyway.

  Still Monday – PJ Staples

  I’m at the Bayswater Arms chatting to my new friends, PJ Staples and the barman, Professor Buzzkill. I’ve started calling him that since he suggested I slow up on the drinking (“perhaps a nice domestic, light beer would be preferable to another whiskey, eh?”) Even though it’s fast becoming clear I’m terrible at drinking brown spirits (as if the morning of the wedding wasn’t proof enough), I’ve still had a lovely time hanging out with my new buds. Heck, I might come down here every night now that I’m unemployed.