Dumped, Actually

by Spalding, Nick

  The carefully cut-out face on the mask Vanity wants me to don is of an extremely attractive man, with very dark hair and the kind of designer stubble that must take ages to get just right. He’s a beautiful chap, of that there is no doubt. Kind of a Latin-looking Ryan Reynolds – if such a thing were possible. Deadpoolio.

  ‘Who is that?’ I ask Vanity, but she does not answer, and is already yanking the mask over my head.

  I look out through tiny pinprick eyeholes as the tight elastic band constricts my ears and rubs against my hair. What on earth is going on here?

  Never mind. Vanity is busying herself with my downstairs area again, so we’ll just go with it. If me wearing a cardboard mask of Ryan Reynolds’s European cousin is what floats her boat, then so be it.

  Vanity pulls out little Oliver and starts to coax him back into full preparedness again. This works a treat, and in no time at all he’s accomplishing one of the very important tasks he was put on this earth to do – after the application of a condom, of course.

  I’d like to see what Vanity is doing on top of me, but all I get are fleeting glances of various parts of her jiggling anatomy through the entirely inadequate eyeholes.

  ‘Would you do something else for me, Ollie?’ she asks in the middle of this.

  Oh good grief. What else does she want me to wear? You’re supposed to get undressed for sex, not the other way around.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I respond in a muffled voice, hoping it doesn’t involve a hat, boots or a thick winter jacket.

  ‘Do you know any Italian?’

  ‘Italian?’

  ‘Yes! Do you know any Italian words or phrases?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  She looks vaguely disappointed at this news. ‘Can you speak in an Italian accent?’

  ‘An Italian accent?’

  ‘Yeah! Just start talking in an Italian accent for me.’ As she says this, Vanity squeezes her thighs, sending pulses of pleasure through my entire body.

  ‘O-kay. I guess I can do that.’

  ‘Great. That’s great, Ollie,’ Vanity says, increasing her pace on top of me a bit.

  ‘Er . . .’

  Jesus. How do you speak in an Italian accent? I don’t know any Italians. My only regular interaction with anyone who could remotely be considered Italian is Super Mario – and he’s a horrific stereotype, created by Japanese people.

  But he is my only real frame of reference, and Vanity wants me to speak like an Italian, so . . .

  ‘Hello! It’s a-me, Mario!’ I exclaim, in the single worst Italian accent ever attempted, from beneath the confines of the cardboard mask.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Vanity moans.

  Bizarrely, this appears to be working.

  ‘Er . . . how are-a you-a today-a?’ I venture.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sooooo good,’ Vanity tells me, closing her eyes tightly.

  ‘Um . . . would-a you like-a da pasta salad-a?’ I ask . . . for some bloody reason.

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ Vanity groans as she starts to increase her pace even more.

  ‘Ah . . . I must-a collect-a da golden coins-a, and-a save-a the Princess Peach-a.’

  ‘Uuuhhhhh.’

  I’m not sure Vanity is really listening to me now, which is probably just as well. There’s nothing less sexy than a fat plumber with a thick moustache and a thing for jumping on tortoises.

  ‘Eh . . . I getta da Bowser, and I-a unlock-a da secret level-a with the warp-a whistle.’

  ‘Aaahhhh.’

  ‘Um . . . You like-a da hat I’m a wearing-a?’

  ‘Uuuhhhh.’

  I figure I’d better try saying something a bit sexier at this point.

  ‘Ooh yes-a. That-a feels-a so good-a. Ride-a me hard-a. You have-a da lovely pussy-a.’

  Oh, for God’s sake. That’s just creepy.

  I can’t think of much else to say, now I’ve discovered how much Super Mario sounds like a sexual predator when you try to speak dirty as him, so in mild panic, I just start to do the Super Mario theme.

  ‘Da da da, da da da da, da da da da da da da, da da daaaa,’ I sort of sing, possibly completely out of tune. Fearing this may not be exciting enough for Vanity, I also throw in a loud and happy ‘Woo hoo!’, much like Mario does when he collects a particularly large stack of gold coins.

  ‘Oh God,’ Vanity continues to moan. ‘Oh God, you’re so good, Alessandro! You’re so good!’

  Wait, what?

  ‘Fuck me, Alessandro!’ Vanity cries, eyes still tightly screwed shut. ‘I’ve missed you so much! I love you, Alessandro!’

  Hang on a bloody minute . . .

  ‘Oh God, Alessandro . . . you’re so good to me! Keep going, Alessandro!’

  Who is this Alessandro person??

  It doesn’t matter!!! Just let her call you it, you idiot!!!

  It does matter, Mr Penis!

  No, it doesn’t!!!

  Yes, it bloody well DOES!

  I rip off the mask, snapping the elastic band as I do. At the same time, I start to scrabble out from under Vanity, withdrawing myself quite painfully in the process. She tumbles off to one side with a squawk.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she wails in frustration. ‘We were so close!’

  ‘Who the hell is Alessandro??’ I wail back, looking at the face of the cardboard mask again. ‘Is this him?’

  Vanity grabs the broken mask out of my hand. ‘Yes! Yes! This is Alessandro!’ She beats a fist on the bed. ‘Why couldn’t you have just carried on for a few more moments??’

  I go wide-eyed with horror. ‘Because you kept calling me by another bloody name! Who the hell is Alessandro?’ I repeat, climbing off the bed.

  Vanity stares at me for a second, before bursting into tears.

  ‘He . . . He’s my boyfriend!’ she wails between great wracking sobs. ‘He left me a month ago!’

  Oh hell.

  ‘And he’s Italian, is he?’ I say, putting two and two together.

  ‘Yes! From Naples.’ She wipes her nose with one long, slender forearm. This is the first completely unsexy thing she’s done all evening. ‘He drives a Maserati!’ This revelation sends Vanity off into another flood of tears, as I fully come to understand why I was invited back to her flat this evening.

  Vanity is not interested in me in the slightest. This was never going to be the beginning of a whirlwind romance that would get me over the disaster of the last one. This was all about Vanity clinging on to the vestiges of her own lost love. I was merely the nearest and easiest surrogate. This evening was not about new romance. It was all about the old.

  I was a fool to think anything different.

  I whip off Alessandro’s silky boxer shorts and start to put my own clothes back on. It’s time to get out of here. I may not have a huge amount of pride, but even I can’t accept being used as a substitute penis for another man.

  I can.

  Shut up, you stupid bloody cock!

  ‘Where . . . Where are you going?’ Vanity asks, her tears reducing somewhat to sniffles now.

  I give her an indignant look as I pull my shirt back on. ‘Home!’ I tell her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?! Because the only reason you brought me here was to pretend I was your ex-boyfriend!’

  ‘He’s not my ex! He’ll come back to me!’

  I roll my eyes. This all sounds extremely familiar.

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know what to tell you, but using me like that is just . . . It’s just not bloody on!’

  I march out of the bedroom, fully intent on getting out of here as quickly as possible. Hopefully I can flag down a taxi, otherwise I’ll have a very long walk home.

  Vanity follows me out, pulling on a light-grey dressing gown as she does so. ‘I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!’ she cries as I approach the front door. ‘I just miss him so much! And I thought . . . I thought you’d understand!’

  ‘Why?!’

  ‘Because of “Dumped Actually”! You know . . . You know how much pai
n I’m in!’

  Vanity slumps on to the couch, all the strength gone from her legs.

  I’ve got one hand on the front door handle as I look back at her sitting dejected on the couch. I should just leave. I should get out of here and try to forget about this bizarre experience.

  But then, Vanity is right, isn’t she?

  I do know how much pain she’s in.

  It’s a pain I still feel every day myself.

  The pain of loss. The pain of rejection. The pain of emptiness.

  I sigh heavily and hang my head for a moment, making a decision I don’t know if I’m going to instantly regret.

  Then I walk back over to where Vanity is slumped on the couch and sit down next to her, putting one arm around her shoulders, as they heave with the crying fit she clearly needs to get out of her system.

  When that passes, I make us both a coffee in the exquisitely expensive kitchen.

  ‘Thank you,’ Vanity says in a quiet voice when I hand her a cup. ‘I’m so sorry I did this to you. I’m not . . . not normally that manipulative.’

  ‘We all do things we regret when we’ve been dumped,’ I reassure her.

  ‘Do we?’

  I laugh once. ‘You’ve been reading my stories, haven’t you?’

  Vanity nods. ‘Oh yeah. The thing with the deer . . .’

  ‘Yeah. The thing with the deer.’

  I sip my coffee and internally cringe for about the millionth time this month.

  Vanity sniffs. ‘How do we move on, Ollie?’ She sounds so lost and lonely that any remaining resentment I may have had for her falls to pieces in an instant.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I’m trying my hardest to find out, but so far I just don’t know.’

  Now I feel like crying.

  Again.

  Vanity shakes her head. ‘Everything I do, everything I see. It just reminds me of him.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that feeling.’

  She looks up at me through tear-soaked eyes and gives me a small, vulnerable smile. ‘Thank you for not leaving. It’s nice to have somebody I can talk to about this . . . finally.’

  And that says a lot, doesn’t it? That this beautiful, rich and apparently self-confident woman can feel so messed up by heartbreak that she can’t bear to speak about it with the people she knows.

  Losing the people we love breaks all of us, no matter who we are. That’s the thing about proper love. It’s a great leveller.

  This feels like an appropriate moment for a nice hand hold.

  Yes. That feels very nice indeed.

  Vanity squeezes my hand and drinks more of her coffee as we sit in silence for a moment.

  ‘Will you . . . Will you write about this?’ she eventually asks me.

  ‘Um . . . probably. But I won’t if you don’t want me to.’

  She nods. ‘No. No, you should. I think that . . . I think that it would be a good story for you.’ She smiles. ‘And I probably deserve it, after what I’ve done.’

  Bless her. She’s obviously trying to make it up to me, by giving me permission to make a fool out of her on the internet.

  ‘I’ll change your name, Vanity,’ I tell her. ‘No one needs to know it was you.’

  She nods. ‘Okay.’ Her hand squeezes mine again. ‘Would you like to talk about her? Samantha, I mean?’

  I puff out my cheeks. ‘Would you really want to hear about her?’

  ‘Yes. And maybe I can tell you about Alessandro. It might . . . It might help us both?’

  ‘To talk about it all, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe . . .’

  What a strange and incredible night this has been. I start out as somebody’s pet, in a club I have no business being in, I meet the most beautiful woman in the world, who I have some extremely awkward sex with, and now I’m actually considering an impromptu therapy session about heartbreak with that same woman.

  Incredible.

  And so, for the next four hours, Vanity and I talk. And talk. And talk.

  It’s like we’re both opening our wounds as much as we can, so we can clean them out, and get some fresh blood in there.

  It’s painful. It’s cathartic. It’s draining. It’s quite wonderful.

  I end up putting Vanity to bed with a kiss on the cheek at 4 a.m., and get a few hours’ sleep on her exceptionally comfortable black couch.

  I then leave at ten o’clock the next morning . . . feeling ever so slightly renewed.

  Callie Donnelly advised me to go out and try to find a new romance, so I would feel better about myself. I didn’t think it would work at all . . . but I’ve been proved wrong – even if it’s not for the reasons Miss Donnelly thought.

  For the first time I feel like there might be a life for me beyond Samantha. I think Vanity feels the same way about Alessandro.

  I still hold the pain close to my chest, but maybe something has shifted in me, after the night I’ve just had.

  Call it a slight change in perspective, if you will.

  I am not alone in this.

  That’s what I’ve learned.

  Even the best and boldest of us can be brought low by our heartache. That is something that I find strangely comforting.

  We’re all prey to the vagaries of our quest to find the right person to love. Every single one of us. But sometimes I think we all need reminding of that – instead of believing that we’re the only ones in the deep, dark hole.

  Vanity proved that isn’t the case for me, and I am eternally grateful for that. That’s the main thing I will take away from the last twenty-four hours of my life.

  That, and the fact I will never be able to play Super Mario again without getting an erection.

  INTERLUDE

  From: Ahmed Rahami (Rahami82@hotmail.co.uk)

  To Mr Sweet at Actual Life,

  ‘Dumped Actually’ is a fantastic read, Mr Sweet. It’s a lot of fun reading it. It also reminds me of a very bad time in my life. But now things are better and I can look back on it without feeling the hurt! My marriage ended in very bad circumstances. My first wife, Rafia, had an affair with my cousin, Syed, when I was out of the country, visiting the rest of my family. Syed had always wanted Rafia, but I never thought she would leave me for him, as I am taller, more handsome and have better prospects. But then Syed was once in an episode of Casualty, so maybe she was blinded by fame.

  It felt like I would never get over it. The thing that worked for me, though, was throwing myself into my work as much as possible. I hadn’t made much effort with my job as an IT consultant before my marriage failed. It was just a way to make money. But after I was single again, I made a lot more of it. This led to a promotion and the praise of my boss. All of this made me feel much better about myself. I was strong enough to go on with my life. I now have a new wife, and a three-year-old son. I met my wife at work! So my suggestion to you is to work hard and make the people you work for proud of you. This will make you feel proud too! Impress them as much as you can. Make yourself valuable to them and your work. Nothing is better at making you feel better.

  Best of wishes,

  Ahmed Rahami

  From: Dominic Carter (CartmanRules@virgin.com)

  How do, mate,

  You lucky bastard. I read about what happened with you and that posh Charity girl. She sounds amazing. Any chance you could get in with her long term? I think she sounds much hotter and better than that Samantha. I tried the same thing when Lisa left me. I ended up shagging my sister’s best friend against a wheelie bin in Rochester. Neither of them have spoken to me since, so that went really well.

  Getting over Lisa was really hard, anyway. She was my one and only, you know? I thought we’d be together forever. Especially because of our little boy, Jack. But then she left me. At half-time during the England-Portugal match at the World Cup. Talk about bad timing.

  I didn’t know why she left for ages. She wouldn’t talk about it. Just upped and left with my baby boy. I started drinking when it happened. More than
ever before. Got into a few fights because of it, that were all my fault. I was in a really bad place. And I don’t just mean up against that wheelie bin.

  The worst thing was not knowing why. Not knowing why she’d done it. It was tearing me apart because I didn’t know what I’d done to make her leave. I always thought I was a good husband and a good father. Why would she leave me the way she did?

  So I went to her work to have it out with her. At first she didn’t want to talk to me at all, but I made her talk to me, because I had to know. She’s a lovely lass, as well. She could see how bad I was. I think she felt a bit guilty about not talking to me more.

  And you know what she tells me? She tells me about all the things I was doing that ruined our marriage. It wasn’t one big thing. It was just loads and loads of little things. The nights out with the boys. The drinking. I never did anything romantic with her. We never went out together. I forgot her birthday a couple of times. I didn’t show her enough attention.

  You know. All that usual woman stuff. At first, I thought she was bloody mad and bang out of order. But after a while I started to realise that she probably had a point. And I thought that if I changed, I might be able to get her back.

  So I did everything I could to be better. And it worked, after a while. I stopped the drinking. Stopped the big nights out. All of that. Felt a lot better about myself.

  Me and Lisa still aren’t back together, but we get on well now. See each other quite a lot, mostly with Jack. It’s nice. I don’t know if she’ll ever take me back, but I know that if I hadn’t talked to her about her reasons, I would never have changed.

  So that’s what you should do if you really want that Samantha back. Go and speak to her. Find out why she got rid.

  I’d go off with that Charity, myself, but we’re all different.

  Anyway, cheers, mate. I’m off to KFC with Jack for a bargain bucket.

  Dom

  From: Elizabeth Moore (Lizzy_Moore@gmail.com)

  To Ollie,

  I can’t tell you how much I’ve laughed reading your article on the website, Ollie! I’m sorry you’ve had to go through so much, but if it helps to know that you’ve really put a smile on my face, then maybe that’s not so bad!