The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

by Anna Bell

  ‘Ben mentioned that he was going to Paris with you,’ she says, nodding.

  I suddenly feel a little awkward. ‘Um, yes, I do hope you don’t mind me borrowing your boyfriend for the day.’

  To go to the most romantic city in the world.

  ‘Why should I mind? Besides, Ben says that it’s the last task he’s helping you with as then you’ll have practically finished your list. Then I’ll get my boyfriend back all to myself. Without the list you’ll have no reason to spend time with him any more, will you?’

  I’m taken aback as the words sink in. I’m pretty sure she’s just weed on her territory by telling me that I’m not allowed to spend time with her boyfriend once the list is finished. She’s got a polite smile on her face, but her tone’s changed. It’s more like the one she used when talking to Sian.

  ‘I think he felt sorry for you. Thinking you’re out of your depth with the challenges, but then once they’re done, they’re done, aren’t they?’ She raises an eyebrow in such a way that I’m left in no doubt that she’s warning me off spending time with Ben.

  I haven’t really thought about what will happen when I finish doing my list, but I guess I’d assumed we’d stay friends. We get on really well and it’s refreshing to have a male friend that’s purely platonic, but clearly Tammy’s got other ideas.

  ‘I guess so – no reason at all,’ I say, looking her in the eye to indicate that I’ve understood her warning.

  ‘Great. Well, I best get on. I’m off to Ben’s tonight. Good luck with Snowdon!’ she says, the cheer entering her voice once more.

  For a moment I’m too stunned to move. I knew from the way she acted with Sian that she could be a little bitchy, but on the couple of occasions I’ve met her she’s been nothing but nice to me. Maybe Ben got it wrong and she’s more bothered about Paris than he realises.

  But I don’t have time to dwell on Ben and Tammy’s relationship when I’ve got my own to sort out.

  I look back down at the crap in my trolley and continue repacking the aisles. I glance at my watch – it’s half past six already. Wow. I’ve managed to burn half an hour and have nothing in my trolley to show for it. Not bad.

  I stare at the entrance again, this time using Tammy’s example and stocking up on fresh items. I have to be slightly careful as I’m away for the weekend so I don’t want to buy too much, but I guess I could always make a soup with them when I get home. If I get home, that is. Imagine how amazing it would be if Joseph swept me off my feet An Officer and a Gentleman style and walked me out of the supermarket, abandoning our trolleys and taking me back to his house . . .

  I snap myself out of the fantasy. I wonder what goes into a soup?

  A thought pops into my head as I remember reading an article about supermarket dating, where single people filled their trolley with green produce to advertise that they were available. Maybe if I had lots of green veg in my trolley it would subliminally give Joseph the idea that I’m still up for grabs.

  I quickly peruse the veg aisle and by the time I’m finished I have nearly every green vegetable known to man. Pak choi and fennel soup? I’m sure that’s a thing.

  I look proudly at my trolley and start to think about what else would look impressive to Joseph. Perhaps some nice wine? I spend the next ten minutes agonising over two Riojas and in the end plump for one that’s fifteen pounds. It’s way over my usual budget, but I guess it’ll be worth every penny if it helps to convince Joseph that I learnt a thing or two about wines when I was with him.

  I look round frantically, realising that I haven’t been looking out for him, when I catch the eye of the security guard. He looks at me intently for what feels like minutes. In the end, I hastily push my trolley along to the next aisle.

  I end up in the dessert aisle and ponder whether to put one in my trolley. I want to make it look like I’m going to cook a nice meal, but I don’t want it to look like I’m cooking for two. Yet, if I choose a dessert for one then I feel that looks a little sad. Why is this so bloody difficult?

  I take a quick look around me in the hope of spotting Joseph, but instead I see a security guard hovering a few feet away from me.

  ‘Um, is there something you wanted?’

  ‘No, no. You carry on,’ he says, waving his hand.

  I turn back round but get the feeling he’s still watching me closely.

  ‘Have you never seen anyone shopping before?’ I say grumpily, turning to face him.

  ‘Funnily enough, it’s what I spend my day doing.’

  ‘Well, then, I don’t know why you’re taking such a great interest in me.’

  ‘Um, maybe it’s because you packed one trolley full of items, dashed round like you were on speed to put it back, then packed another full of completely different items. Not to mention you seem to be wandering round in circles.’

  ‘I’m just keeping an eye out, that’s all.’ My cheeks puff red. Has he never seen someone trying to stalk their ex in a supermarket before? ‘As far as I know none of that is a crime.’

  ‘No, no, and neither is me standing here doing my job.’

  I turn back to the desserts. OK, so this is going to look totally normal. I’m sure Joseph won’t think anything of the fact that I’m being trailed by the security guard. It just adds to the easy, breezy tone I’m trying to set.

  I hastily shove in a box with two cheesecakes and skulk off.

  I speed up my shop a little, to please my new security guard BFF and end up with a trolley stuffed full of fresh pasta and worldly breads, and things that I hope make me look exciting and extravagant. I want it to scream, look how over you I am, I’m no longer surviving on a diet of pure crap.

  Bob, the security guard (I checked out his name tag), and I head back to the wine aisle. If I don’t bump into Joseph soon, I’ll have to give up, because even I’m beginning to realise how crazy and desperate I look.

  I’ve just found what I think is a bargain gem of a Chablis to take to Snowdon when I hear Joseph call my name.

  ‘Abi?’

  I’m bent right over with my arse in the air, hardly my best angle, and I hastily bring myself up to standing and try to pretend that I’m shocked to see him.

  ‘Joseph, how nice to see you.’ My voice becoming suddenly posh and a bit waif-like.

  ‘Yeah, nice to see you too,’ he says, nodding. ‘What brings you to Havant?’

  ‘Oh, I had a client meeting here, and then thought I’d miss the traffic going back into Portsmouth.’

  He nods, and I’m relieved he bought it. As unpleasant as it was to bump into Tammy, maybe it was useful for something because the cover story sounded much more natural second time around.

  There’s a pause and we’re both smiling politely at each other, and I’m wondering what to say. I’ve spent so much time working out what to put in my sodding trolley, but maybe my time would have been better spent thinking about what I was going to actually say.

  ‘So, what have you been up to?’ I say, clutching at straws. The real question I want to ask him is whether he’s dating again yet.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ he says, running a hand through his curls. ‘You know, the usual. Work, work and more work. Nothing exciting.’

  I nod. He hasn’t started his list then . . .

  I take a cursory glance into his trolley and try to guess his status. There’s a worrying amount of red peppers and tomatoes in there – is that the red stop sign à la supermarket dating?

  ‘Did I see on Facebook that you’ve taken up cycling?’

  I look back at him in surprise. Ding, ding, ding! Jackpot!

  ‘Yes, I have. Thought it was about time that I owned a bike. Everyone else in Portsmouth seems to. Plus, it’s a great way to get fit.’

  I try and suck in my tummy in a bid to make it look like I’ve at least made some dent in shifting the post-break-up pounds. But it seems to have become more attached to me than ever and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, despite my almost ten-fold increas
e in exercise.

  ‘It looks like you were doing some tough rides.’

  Inside I’m lit up like a flipping Christmas tree. I love the way he started off like he wasn’t sure it was me that was doing the cycling and yet now he’s getting specific about individual photos.

  ‘Yeah, it was up at Queen Elizabeth Country Park – they’ve got some really good trails up there.’

  ‘Looks it,’ he says, nodding.

  I take another sneaky peak in his trolley, but it looks like he’s only at the start of his shop and apart from the abundance of red veg there are no clues about his status.

  There’s another pause and it seems like he wants to say something else. He’s got a look in his eyes that I can’t read. I used to think that I knew what he was thinking, but after he dumped me out of the blue, I realised that I didn’t.

  ‘That’s a nice bottle of wine you’ve got there,’ he says, pointing to the one in my trolley that I proudly put alone in the end bit exactly for this purpose.

  ‘Is it? That’s good to know. I’m off to Snowdon with friends this weekend and thought we’d jolly well deserve a little treat after the hike.’

  Why am I talking like I’m in Downton Abbey?

  ‘Sounds impressive. I think I’m working all weekend. Dull, huh?’

  I want to swoon and say that he could never be dull in my eyes, but I manage a little coquettish laugh instead.

  I clock Bob the security guard out of the corner of my eye and he’s shaking his head at me as if the penny’s dropped at what I was doing. He slumps off out of my view, disappointed that I’m no longer on Havant’s Most Wanted List.

  ‘Right, well I best be going,’ I say, thinking that I should perhaps leave him wanting more. My main objective was to find out if he’d seen me on Facebook – which he has.

  ‘OK, well, it was nice to see you again,’ he says. He opens his mouth to say something else before a quick shake of the head. ‘I’ll see you around again, then?’

  There’s a hint of a question to his voice and my stomach fills with butterflies.

  ‘Yes, take care,’ I say, hurrying away whilst my legs are still working. I wheel all the way to the checkout before I let out a deep breath and consider what I’ve done.

  It might have been one small step for man, but it was a giant leap for me. As I very cheerily (and very un-me-like) unpack and pack my shopping again, I can’t help hoping that I’ve nudged Joseph along a little more. Reminded him in person what he’s missing.

  ‘That’ll be £110.57, please,’ says the cashier.

  The smile instantly falls off my face. How the bloody hell did that happen?

  I hastily shove my credit card into the chip and pin machine and wince. It better have nudged Joseph along as at this rate I’m going to be broke before the list is up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Three weeks until completion, and another challenge bites the dust . . . well, almost.

  ‘Here we are,’ I say as I park next to what looks like a derelict barn.

  ‘Here we are where?’ says Sian. ‘You’re not telling me that we’re staying in there?’

  I look up and shiver. The barn has crumbling brickwork and one wall missing, exposing it to the elements that sweep across the valley. It’s my idea of holiday hell.

  ‘No, we’ve just got to park the car here. Look, there’s Giles’s Ford Focus. We’ve got to get to the bunkhouse on foot.’

  Sian’s jaw drops; it’s as if I’ve told her that we’ve got to walk barefoot over hot coals. I hadn’t told her until now as I desperately wanted her to come and not change her mind.

  ‘We have to walk?’ she asks, her eyebrows practically lodging themselves in her hairline.

  ‘We are on a walking holiday. Let’s boot up,’ I say, trying to rally some enthusiasm.

  To be honest I had the same reaction, but Giles told me to man up, after all it’s just a half-kilometre walk across a field, and, as he pointed out, tomorrow we’re going to walk God knows how many kilometres up a mountain.

  ‘I thought the whole point of going on this type of walking holiday was so that you stayed next to a pub.’

  ‘There are definitely no pubs around here,’ I say as we move away from the barn and start walking through the boggy field.

  The little bunkhouse we’re walking towards is acting like a beacon in the distance – it seems a lot further away than half a kilometre. Thank goodness Giles lent me one of his old backpacks. There’s no way my trusty suitcase would have made it.

  I just hope the others have done a good job with the food and booze. Because of the access issue the boys had suggested doing a food kitty and stocking up. Apparently the owner said she’d quad bike the supplies in when they arrived.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ asks Sian.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say; we’ve been going for all of about five minutes and the bunkhouse seems to be getting further away with each step. It must be some type of optical illusion due to its sunken position in the field.

  I’m mildly concerned that we’re going the wrong way. But there’s only a narrow path of beaten-down grass and I don’t fancy traipsing through the waist-deep stuff. It’s the kind of wild grass that you know would be all tickly if it caught bare flesh, and goodness knows what lives in it.

  ‘So you never did finish telling me about the Isle of Wight,’ says Sian.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more to tell.’

  In the car on the way to Snowdonia I gave her a brief overview of the hangover start, and duly reprimanded her for her part in it, and then I described our day as best I could. It’s hard to condense a ten-hour ride into a concise conversation.

  ‘Right. So you spent the whole day with Ben, during which he agreed to go to Paris with you, and there’s nothing else to tell.’

  I don’t like where this line of questioning is heading.

  ‘No, not really. You’ll see this weekend. Ben’s a really nice guy. He’s simply trying to help me achieve my bucket list.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ says Sian.

  I can’t see her face because we’re walking single file and she’s behind me, but I can picture exactly what it will look like. Her left eyebrow will be arched right up to the sky and she’ll have her lips pursed together smugly.

  ‘Really, he’s just being nice.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  I can tell the look is getting smugger and I spin round so Sian nearly comes crashing into me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says, laughing.

  ‘There’s nothing going on with me and Ben,’ I say, looking her deep in the eye. ‘He’s got a girlfriend, who made it perfectly clear to me that my friendship with Ben ends when the list does.’

  ‘When did you see her again?’

  Oh, crap. I hadn’t told Sian about my trip to the supermarket on Thursday. I knew she would smell a rat if I trotted out my excuse that I bumped into Joseph there by accident.

  ‘I ran into her when I was food shopping the other day.’

  ‘Right, well, I thought they weren’t that serious anyway.’

  ‘Sian,’ I say, and this time it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Some people take relationships seriously.’

  I turn back round and continue walking.

  ‘It’s just that you did say that you were doing your bucket list to mend your broken heart, and what better way than finding someone else.’

  ‘That sort of defeats the object.’

  Of course the object is to win Joseph back, but Sian doesn’t know that.

  ‘I know that a bucket list is all about finding yourself and all that deep shit, but what if it’s not yourself you’re supposed to find.’

  ‘For someone that doesn’t really believe in love, you’re sounding increasingly like a hopeless romantic.’

  ‘Hey,’ says Sian. ‘You take that back.’

  I feel like I’m getting my own back and pushing Sian’s buttons.

  She’d had one of those incredibly
serious boyfriends in her latter teen years, and they’d been engaged when she’d arrived at uni. He’d gone to nearby Southampton so that they could continue seeing each other, but she found out that he’d cheated on her in Freshers’ Week and that’s when the Sian that I know – the kick-ass, take-no-crap-from-men girl – was born.

  She didn’t hole herself up inside eating Chinese takeaways and feeling sorry for herself. Oh, no, Sian threw herself into uni life and soon cemented her position on the party scene. Flings were as common as hangovers in her life.

  Whatever really happened with that boy scarred Sian for life in the romance stakes, and I’ve given up trying to fix her. If she used to be a romantic, she’s buried it so far inside you would need a miner to extract it.

  ‘Hello there!’ shouts a voice.

  I look up and see Laura standing in front of the bunkhouse.

  ‘Hiya,’ I wave as enthusiastically as I can, but it’s a bit half-hearted because I’m knackered. I might have been doing a lot of exercise on the bike lately, but I’m not used to walking with a heavy pack on my back.

  ‘Giles is just putting the kettle on.’

  ‘Now that’s music to my ears,’ says Sian.

  We eventually arrive outside the little bunkhouse. It’s a one-storey stone building set in a little dip in the fields.

  ‘This is lovely,’ I say taking in the surroundings, and for the first time since getting out of the car, appreciating the scenery. The green rolling hills look like something out of the Wales Tourist Board brochure. I love the little stone walls dotted around the landscape, breaking up the view. It’s a view that screams we’re properly in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Did you get stuck in traffic on the way up?’ says Laura.

  I bet they were here hours ago. The truth is that we had stopped for a long leisurely lunch somewhere past Birmingham. And we had a lie-in. Something that early bird Ben wouldn’t know anything about.

  ‘No, we were really lucky, weren’t we, Sian?’

  ‘Yeah, really lucky.’

  We follow Laura into the bunkhouse and it’s just as beautiful on the inside. Heavy stone walls, and dark slate-coloured floor tiles. She shows us to a room where we can dump our bags. It’s not quite the Ritz – just bunk beds and a rail to hang your clothes on.