‘That geranium you bought us last week is flourishing by the pond, Oliver. A really lovely addition to the garden. It’s very bushy!’
You see?
They did like it.
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I reply down the phone as I wander back to my desk with a fresh cup of tea in my hand.
These lunchtime phone calls with my mother are a combination of a pleasure and a pain. It’s nice to catch up with her, but my mum does like to talk, and I only get an hour for lunch.
‘I was quite surprised to see just how bushy it’s got, actually. I may have to trim it back.’
My mother would not know a double entendre if it ran up to her painted bright red, singing the national anthem.
I, however, chuckle to myself as I plonk my arse back down on my office chair.
‘What are you laughing about, Oliver?’ Mum asks me.
‘Oh nothing, Mum. I’m glad the geranium is doing so well.’
‘It’s nice to hear you laugh, actually,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling at the moment?’ Her voice is full of the kind of gentle hope that makes my stomach knot. I would like nothing more than to tell my mother that I am feeling hale and hearty. Enjoying life. Getting much better, thanks.
And if I could lie to my mother, I would tell her exactly that. But I have never been able to lie to my mother. She may not be able to spot a double entendre at a thousand paces, but she can sure as hell spot when I’m being economical with the truth from ten thousand.
‘Eh, I’m not too bad,’ I reply, deciding to stay as neutral as possible. ‘Still processing what happened with Sam, and have a deadline for “Dumped Actually”, but other than that . . . could be worse.’
This is more or less the truth. It’s been five days since my confrontation with my ex-girlfriend. In that time I’ve done a lot of soul searching. Sadly, it’s been conducted with a broken torch and no map, so I haven’t really got any further along with it. I still have no answers.
‘Oh, okay, sweetheart.’
Ouch. That sympathetic disappointment in her voice is unavoidable, isn’t it?
I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, though, Mum. Honestly. Like you and Dad always say, these things take time.’
That’s another cliché they like to come out with when I get dumped, along with all of the nautical ones I’ve previously mentioned.
‘That’s right, Oliver. It will all come out in the wash, you just see.’
I roll my eyes. She means well . . . she really, really does. But how can a woman who has enjoyed decades of trouble-free marriage possibly have any real advice for a broken toy like me, eh?
‘I’m sure it will,’ I reply, forcing a smile on to my face, to try and sound positive.
‘Yes. It certainly will,’ she says, matter-of-factly. ‘The right girl is out there for you, Oliver. I just know it.’
‘Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.’
How many times have we had this little exchange in my life?
Too many times.
Way too many.
‘Anyway, Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to get back to work now,’ I tell her. I’d like this conversation to end. I feel horrible for thinking that way, but it’s the truth. Mum means well, but talking to her or Dad at times like this is frustrating and pointless.
They just don’t understand.
‘Oh, okay, sweetheart. I’ll let you go and get back to it. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, anyway, won’t I?’
‘Yeah, of course you will. I’m really looking forward to it.’ This last comes out in a flat voice, which sits well with the words themselves, and there’s a very good reason for that.
It’s the fortieth anniversary of my parents’ wedding in a fortnight, and to celebrate they’re holding a ceremony to renew their vows in the expansive garden of the rambling old house I was brought up in. They’re only inviting a few people. Some of their best friends, my aunt and uncle, and me – their only offspring.
It was something I thought I’d be taking Sam to, once upon a happier time. But now I’ll be going alone.
‘Oh. Good,’ my mother replies, knowing that I’m lying through my teeth.
I feel a pang of guilt. I should be happy for them. Hell . . . I am happy for them. But it’s hard to muster much enthusiasm about the occasion when I’ll probably be the only one there who’s single. And under the age of sixty, but that part is irrelevant.
‘Well, have a lovely rest of the day, son,’ Mum says to me. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
‘I will, Mum. Love you lots.’
‘Love you too.’
I end the call and chuck my phone down on to the desk with a sigh.
If I thought my mum could give me any help, I would certainly ask her for it. But she can’t help me with advice about my love life, and she sure as hell can’t help me with my other big problem . . . what to write about next for ‘Dumped Actually’.
Literally the only other decent prospect for a story that I have in front of me is the suggestion I try a bit of mindfulness meditation. But how interesting is that going to be, when you get right down to it?
I struggle to think of a way I can make ten minutes of heavy breathing sound fascinating to my horde of subscribers.
But I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. There’s simply nothing else to go on.
I construct a short but pleasant email to Lizzy Moore, asking her where her classes are, and if it’s okay for me to attend. Once that is sent, I try to think of something else to do, but as I can’t progress any more with ‘Dumped Actually’ right now, I have very little to occupy myself with. This invariably leads me back to the fruitless soul searching I’ve been doing so much of recently – and I pretty much spend the rest of the afternoon trapped in a haze of unwanted introspection and self-recrimination.
This time around, I decide to concentrate on how badly I handle the events in my life.
Because I do that. Every single time, it seems.
Look at how I handled the wedding proposal, and the break-up. Or the trip to the salon, and Laughlin’s insistence on stripping my red-raw arse of its hair. Or the thing with the deer, or Vanity and the mask, or not telling Benedict Montifore where to go, or—
Or, or, or, or, OR!
My life is full of ors. I have more ors in my life than the Cambridge rowing team.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I still have no answer to this question as I rock up to Brantree Community Centre, four days later, for my first session of mindfulness with Lizzy Moore.
They have been four days of continued masochistic self-examination, so I do not look my best as I walk into the centre’s largest hall and look for Lizzy. The bags under my eyes are as heavy as my feet as I make my way over to a small crowd of women.
‘Excuse me, is one of you Lizzy?’ I ask them politely.
From the middle of the crowd, a small, slightly plump and happy-looking brunette smiles and waves at me. ‘Hello, Ollie! Thank you so much for coming!’
I try smiling back. It sort of works. ‘My pleasure. I’m looking forward to seeing what all this mindfulness stuff is about.’
There’s a low murmur from the rest of the women as they realise who I am. The looks I’m getting suggest I might have a fair few fans here today. I wish I was in a better state of mind to appreciate this.
‘Okay, everyone,’ Lizzy says to the group, ‘if you want to go and roll out your mats, we’ll get started soon. I’m just going to have a quick chat with Ollie.’ She turns her attention back to me. ‘How are you?’
For a moment, I think about the putting on of the legendary brave face, but decide against it, just because I can’t really be bothered, as I don’t have the energy. ‘Been better, to be honest,’ I say, with a wan smile.
‘Oh, poor you,’ Lizzy says, and touches my arm. ‘I know exactly how you feel. When Alfie left, I thought the world had ended. But taking a little time to myself and doing some mindfulness really help
ed me. I hope it will help you too.’
‘So do I.’ I look at the others as they position themselves on a series of brightly coloured yoga mats. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Not much at all. Pick up a mat from over there on the rack, and sit yourself down cross-legged on it anywhere you feel comfortable. Then you just have to follow what I say.’ She smiles again. ‘Don’t worry, though, it’s all quite easy.’
For this, I am extremely grateful. Easy is all I want from my life at the moment.
I pick a spot at the back of the twelve-strong group, and sit down on my purple yoga mat, wondering what’s going to happen next.
I’m expecting a lot of chanting and deep breathing. Maybe with a little light stretching to go along with it. I have done absolutely no research prior to coming to this class today, so have no actual idea what mindfulness is – only that it’s some kind of new-age meditation thing that probably requires joss sticks and kaftans at some stage, to make it truly work for you.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Lizzy says, settling herself on to her own mat. ‘Welcome to this week’s class. I know a lot of you have been many times before, but we have a few fresh faces, so I’m just going to briefly explain what mindfulness is all about.’
As she does this, my entire opinion begins to change.
Mindfulness sounds a lot more sensible than I thought it would.
The idea that consciously spending more time in the present moment – rather than constantly looking back or looking forwards – can be beneficial to our mental health sounds quite reasonable.
All I seem to do is look back on my past failures, and worry about my future ones, so getting out of the habit of doing that – even for a short period of time – sounds rather fantastic to me.
I’ve never been one to stop and smell the roses, so to speak, so mindfulness seems like an alien concept – but I’m happy to give it a go, as what do I really have to lose?
In a soft, gentle voice, Lizzy starts to talk to the whole class, instructing us to close our eyes, breathe comfortably and try to let our minds relax by focussing on the environment around us, and letting all other thoughts and distractions fade away.
This is incredibly hard for me to do – at least at first. My mind is a maelstrom of doubt, recrimination, worry, depression and anxiety. How on earth do I even begin to let that go?
Slowly, though, as Lizzy’s soft tone lulls my brain, I do start to let my thoughts dribble away to a certain extent. The more I attune myself to my immediate surroundings, the more I am able to ignore the thoughts that pass through my brain.
So much so that by the time the half-hour class has passed, I actually feel quite calm and chilled out.
This is a revelation.
I say as much to Lizzy as the class packs up their yoga mats.
‘Great, isn’t it?’ she tells me. ‘I hope you can see why it helped me so much with my anxiety and depression after Alfie left. The fact you’ve had such a good experience your first time means that mindfulness might just be the thing for you!’
I nod in happy agreement. ‘I think you might be right! When’s the next class?’
‘I’m running another one in a couple of days, if you want to come to that too.’
‘You know what? I think I will!’
And you know what? I do!
Only this time I bring a friend along . . .
‘Oh God, chief. This is barking mad,’ Wimsy says, with a disgusted look on his face. ‘How the hell you persuaded me to come here is beyond me.’
I clap him on the back. ‘Trust me, Wims. It’ll be good for you. I’ve felt worlds better in the couple of days since the last session.’
He squints at me. ‘You sure you didn’t go out and get drunk after it?’
‘Haven’t touched a drop,’ I tell him, shaking my head.
I drag Wimsy – who is decked out in a pair of my old grey jogging bottoms – into the community centre hall like a dead weight.
He may be reluctant to be a part of this, but it’ll be good for him – I just know it. Also, having a friend along for the experience will add a little colour to the story I’m writing – if he lets me mention him, that is. Wimsy has been adamant that he doesn’t get included in any of my ‘Dumped Actually’ stories so far, but I’m hoping he might change his mind, if this is a positive experience for him.
And what do you know? It absolutely is!
‘Blimey, that was pretty good,’ he says, after we’ve popped our yoga mats back. ‘I thought it would be a complete waste of time, but I actually feel calm for the first time in ages. My right eye has stopped twitching entirely.’
‘That’s just how I felt! Unbelievable, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. I’m fucking flabbergasted. I’m really glad you made me come along, Ollie.’
It’s at this point Lizzy Moore comes over to say hello. ‘How are you both?’ she asks expectantly. She knows she’s on to a good thing here, and wants to make sure everyone else feels the same way.
‘Great, Lizzy, thank you again,’ I tell her.
Wimsy says nothing.
Wimsy has gone bright red.
Ah.
I think there might be more than one reason why Wimsy is glad I brought him along.
‘And did you get something out of it . . . er, Wimsy, was it?’
‘Mm.’
‘Yeah, that’s his name!’ I butt in, instinctively understanding what’s going on here. ‘He really liked the mindfulness too, didn’t you, Wimsy?’ No response. ‘Didn’t you, Wimsy?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. It was great,’ he eventually says. ‘You’re lovely.’
It’s Lizzy’s turn to get a bit red in the face. ‘Thank you, Wimsy. That’s a very nice thing to say. I’m glad you came along, and hope you’ll be back.’
Wimsy’s head nods so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall off and roll into the corner. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be back! Don’t worry about that!’
‘That’s fantastic,’ Lizzy replies. ‘Well, I’d better go and sort out the money I’ve taken tonight. It was nice to see you both, and even nicer that you’ll both be back again.’
Lizzy bids us farewell and goes to pick up her cash tin. Wimsy watches her go like a little puppy dog.
I have to suppress a smile.
Good for him.
The guy could do with someone new in his life. He deserves a break.
So could you! So do you!
I clench my fists as I try to quell the raging of the jealousy monster. I’m trying to be positive about this whole mindfulness experience, and I do not intend to let anything ruin it.
‘Do you want to go get a drink, Wims?’ I ask my friend as he continues to give Lizzy the old puppy-dog eyes.
‘Okay,’ he replies, not looking at me.
‘Good. We can talk about when we’re coming back here again.’ I smile. ‘I’m assuming it’ll be quite soon.’
It is quite soon. The next week, in fact.
Wimsy and I attend two classes that week, and a further two the next.
By the time all four have passed, I’m feeling that mindfulness was the best thing I’ve done since the break-up with Samantha. I’m also watching a tentative romance blossom between two people who have been as hurt as I have. It’s a wonderful thing to watch, while at the same time being extremely difficult to be around.
‘My brain never shuts down completely,’ Wimsy tells Lizzy as we stand at the back of the hall together. The rest of the group have long since left, but neither Wimsy nor Lizzy have appeared to notice. Actually, I’m starting to think of some excuse to get out of there myself, so I can leave the two of them alone. ‘The mindfulness gets it about as close to being calm as it can be,’ Wimsy finishes.
‘It can be hard to really relax yourself, if you’re used to being tense all the time,’ Lizzy says. ‘Mindfulness can go a long way to help, but there are other ways to get an even calmer brain, if you need it.’
‘Oh, what like?’ I can’t tell if Wimsy is actual
ly interested, or just faking it to impress Lizzy.
‘Have you heard of sensory deprivation?’
‘Er, no. No, I ain’t heard of that one.’
Lizzy’s eyes light up. ‘It’s quite something. You’re cocooned in a tank, floating in really salty water so you can’t sink. You can’t hear or see anything. It gives you a chance to just let go of every stimulus, and sink deep into yourself. It’s the most relaxing thing I’ve ever done. You should give it a try.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sounds great!’ Wimsy agrees.
Wimsy would agree to having his toenails pulled out, if Lizzy suggested it, I think.
‘We should give that a go, shouldn’t we, Ollie?’ he says to me, bringing me into a conversation I really shouldn’t be part of.
‘What?’ I say, amazed that either of them has remembered my presence.
‘The sensory deprivation thingy Lizzy’s on about. We should have a go at it.’
‘Umm. I guess so.’ I don’t sound convinced, because I’m not. Sinking deep into myself isn’t something I’m sure I want to do. I might not like what I find.
Wimsy’s face clouds when he sees my reluctance.
He then says the one thing that’s guaranteed to get me to go along with it.
‘You could write about it for “Dumped Actually”!’
Bloody hell. He’s right. It would make for some solid material, wouldn’t it?
‘Oh. Yes. That’s a good point, actually,’ I agree.
‘I can give you the leaflet for the place I’ve been to,’ Lizzy adds. ‘After you’ve visited it, we could meet up, and you could let me know how it went.’
This last bit is aimed squarely at Wimsy, of course. I don’t think I’ll be getting a bloody invite.
Stop it, jealousy monster! Back into your cave with you!
‘Fantastic!’ Wimsy says, delight in his eyes for the first time since I met him on top of that car park.
Lizzy trots off to retrieve the leaflet from her rucksack. Wimsy stands next to me vibrating with excitement, while I start to wonder what I’m letting myself in for.
Lizzy returns and hands me the leaflet.
‘Floaters,’ I read. ‘Sensory deprivation for rest, relaxation and self-discovery.’
Dumped, Actually Page 20
