by Ollie Locke
On the first night we all watched the sun set, drank amazing wine and listened to James Blunt. Don’t laugh – he was very cool then. One by one the guests left the table, leaving only Dorset Girl and me. She grabbed me by the hand and led me upstairs and onto the roof of the house. The view was incredible and you couldn’t have asked for a more romantic setting.
Up until that point things had been quite innocent between Dorset Girl and me. But that night, in the most perfect surroundings, we had sex for the first time under the island stars. It was the first time I’d been that intimate with anyone since Jesters Girl.
It was all so dreamy as we gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes. The sex was going well; I had learned my lesson about not being a jack rabbit and managed to slow it down. I felt like I’d lost my virginity all over again. We were both lying there, post-coital bliss, when we realised that the condom had split. Excellent.
The likelihood of Dorset Girl being pregnant was virtually zero, but we knew we still had to go to a pharmacy the next day to get the morning-after pill to be on the safe side.
The whole scenario was ridiculous as we tried to tell the pharmacist in hushed tones and very bad Bajan what we wanted. It felt like we were acting out the pregnancy test skiing scene in Bridget Jones. I’m pretty sure everyone knew exactly what we were doing, despite me trying to distract them by taking great interest in the lollipop display on the counter.
Split condoms aside, my relationship with Dorset Girl was still the best and most fun one I’d ever had. We never argued and we treated one another amazingly. I used to send her packages down from Cambridge each week with all sorts of gifts in them, and we would never have dreamt of cheating on each other.
Dorset Girl went on the Pill after our little slip up, but I think back now and realise that even at the age of 18, I still had no idea about sex.
I spent my first proper Valentine’s night with Dorset Girl when I whisked her away to Paris for two nights. Hilariously, I had to get a note from her parents giving me permission to take her out of the country so it didn’t look like I was abducting her as she was 17 and I was 18. On the Eurostar, Dorset Girl started to feel unwell but I soldiered on and ordered champagne to our room using my dad’s credit card and was all set for a fabulous couple of days.
My grand plan was to take her to Johnny Depp’s restaurant, but I totally forgot to book it and obviously with it being the most romantic night of the year in the world’s most romantic city, I couldn’t get a table anywhere for dinner. We ended up in a dreadful steak shack, so it wasn’t quite the classical music, gazing-across-the-table extravaganza I’d anticipated.
Dorset Girl was ill throughout the whole holiday and then on the final day it was my turn. We went up the Eiffel Tower and my meal started repeating on me in the worst possible way. There’s nothing more romantic than Valentine’s Day in Paris with chronic diarrhoea.
It continued all the way home, and as much as I wanted to try and make the end of the trip special, it’s hard to cuddle up to someone when you’re running to the train loo every couple of minutes. Damn steak tartare.
I’ve since learned that when you try to do romantic gestures it tends to go wrong. I much prefer to do things on a whim. Somehow they always work out so much better that way.
I can’t help but think Valentine’s Day is crap. There, I’ve said it. I have done for years and I can’t see anything changing my mind in the future. It’s probably only due to me being bitter because I tend to be single when every Valentine’s Day comes around and so I mostly spend the most romantic night of the year with a Kleenex as my date. However, most importantly, at least Kleenex and I both believe in monogamy. If you’re single, Valentine’s Day is generally awful because everyone else is incredibly smug about the bouquet they’re carrying home on the train from work. And if you’re in a relationship, it’s just a whole load of pressure to make sure she has an amazing night topped off with the best shag she’s ever had. I don’t understand why one night of the year needs to be more important than another. If you like someone, I think you should do lovely things because you want to, not because you feel like you should (another excuse).
The only upside is that if you’re a guy trying to pull, Valentine’s Day is the easiest night in the world. There are women all over the country who are going out with their friends just to get laid.
Meanwhile I was still studying in Cambridge, and although drama school was amazing, it was also bloody hard work. We used to start at 7am every morning and finish at 8pm, having done a full day of physical theatre and dance classes. Anyone who has been to drama school knows how tough it is, but I didn’t mind because I loved it. I was training in the original Footlights, a room that had in the past been graced by the presence of amazing people such as Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry and Rowan Atkinson when they were at Cambridge University, so I didn’t take any of it for granted.
Despite its star-studded connections, Footlights was a small, dingy little room in the middle of Roundchurch Street in Cambridge. The parks surrounding it are so beautiful, though, and I used to spend my free time punting and cycling everywhere. I have never been happier than when I was there – especially when Dorset Girl used to come to stay for weekends.
All of the people on my course had access to Cambridge University, so I got to hear some incredible people speak. I saw Stephen Hawking do several lectures, which were phenomenal.
I was living in halls called Tripos Court, next door to a guy called Pedro, who was on a fashion design course. He was a very beautiful Italian man and, I later weirdly found out, is the best friend of Mark Francis from Made in Chelsea.
He and I became great friends and I used to go to his room and drink wine and smoke cigarettes most nights with another mate of ours, Natalie. We covered Pedro’s smoke sensor with a condom to stop it going off, which I’ve always thought was rather clever, although not ideal if there’s ever a fire, or an urgent need for contraception, obviously.
We used to get so trashed that I’d fall asleep in his bed most nights. He was gay, but nothing ever happened between us. It was completely platonic. I was still working out how I felt about men in general when it came to romance, and thankfully he didn’t have any feelings for me. Or so I thought.
One day he knocked on my bedroom door and pulled down a piece of gauze on his arm to reveal a tattoo of my name. It said ‘Ollie14’, because 14 was his lucky number. It was a pretty hefty clue.
Needless to say things got a little awkward between us once I realised how much he liked me, and even more so when he told me he was in love with me. It was such a shame that it affected our friendship because I thought he was wonderful, but only as a friend. We never really got back on track after that.
I was exhausted a lot of the time because my course was so intense. I was also staying up late drinking wine with friends most evenings, then travelling down to see Dorset Girl on Friday nights, which really wore me out.
I was pretty skint too, because the petrol for a weekly return drive to Dorset cost a small fortune and I was only allowed to spend so much on my dad’s emergency credit card. But it was worth it to see Dorset Girl.
After six months of dating I thought we were closer than ever. One blustery February Sunday evening I drove her back to school with her mum. I got out of the car to say goodbye, expecting us to exchange the usual ‘I’ll miss you’s’, but instead she told me very bluntly that we could no longer be together. There had been absolutely no warning signs and we’d just spent what I thought was a lovely weekend together.
I wasn’t expecting it at all and I was so devastated that I felt like I was going to throw up. I tried to stop myself from crying but it was impossible. As I stood outside her boarding house looking at her with tears in my eyes, I asked her why. Her reply? ‘Because you’re too nice.’ I couldn’t believe she was actually saying those words. I thought we had an amazing future ahead of us, and yet she was dumping me for being too kind and caring. It just didn’t make sense
.
I could tell from the look on her face that there was no point trying to reason with her, so I walked away and got back into her mum’s car. I was crying my heart out all the way back to their house. I look back now and cringe about what her mum must have thought. That day, I learned one of the most annoying but true lessons about girls. Is there really such a thing as being too nice?
I was so upset I started to hyperventilate as I drove back to Cambridge and I threw up on my steering wheel. I was crying so much I couldn’t breathe and I had to pull over to calm myself down. From that moment on, that car always reminded me of Dorset Girl and that night. It was only a matter of time before it had to go.
If someone has broken up with you, there are a few things that it is very important to do:
• First, and most importantly, when it comes to the period after a break-up, it’s time for you to be completely selfish and do anything you can to avoid being hurt further. I believe – and don’t scream at me – that the only way you can begin to get over someone is by starting a (healthy) obsession with someone else.
• Then, if you can, go on holiday as soon as possible. Or at the very least take some time off work or uni to get your head around things. Go on a break to Cornwall, it worked for me!
• Avoid places that remind you of your ex. It’s not always easy, I know. A smell, a song or a place will take you straight back to where you once were in a relationship, and there are always constant reminders. I always find Duty Free shops in airports fairly nostalgic, if not conducive to self-harming. You walk in to get a box of cigarettes, and before you know it you find yourself smelling the perfume your last love wore to remind yourself of the good times. Then you wind up sitting depressed all the way to South Africa. If needs be, get someone else to buy your bargain vodka for you. Richard Dinan has had so many exes who have worn Viktor & Rolf’s Flowerbomb perfume that he can’t smell it without being reminded of several break-ups. I remember drunkenly spraying it all over Gabriella on the way back from that notorious Italy trip, so he had to smell it all the way home. Even now if he meets a girl who smells of it and he likes her, he has to think twice about asking her out because there is so much history in that scent.
• You have to delete your ex from your life. Remove them from Facebook, Twitter, Bebo, Myspace or any social networking site that could allow you to see photos of them enjoying themselves. To this day, even Gabriella is still pending as a friend on Facebook. It’s now become a standing joke that I won’t accept her. Imagine if you’re following your ex on Twitter, and they start tweeting messages about how good last night was and tag some rugby player, or some hot blond you’ve never met before. It would make you think the worst, even if it’s innocent. Why put yourself through that?
• Don’t assume that just because your ex has moved on before you that they’re the happy one. They may be uploading cosy pictures to Facebook but that doesn’t mean they’re over you. My friend Lucy Facebook-stalked her ex every hour after their break-up. She kept seeing him befriending different girls, who would write flirty messages on his wall, and she’d be devastated that he was having such a good time while she was still in the depths of despair. All she could think about was what he might be up to with those girls, but although he admitted that, yes, he was sleeping with other people, he was more unhappy than he’d ever been. He just wanted the company and, selfish as it was, he didn’t give a shit about those girls. He needed someone to cuddle and help take his mind off Lucy.
• Speaking from personal experience, it also helps if you can avoid going out with people in the public eye. I once dated someone in the press, and when she started seeing someone else it was all over the Mail online. Thankfully I’ve got some lovely journalist friends who called me up beforehand to warn me but it would have been awful to find out via a website or magazine that my ex had officially moved on while I was still listening to Whitney on repeat after three bottles of red.
• This leads me on nicely to say never underestimate the importance of depressing songs when you’re going through a break-up. I find Whitney, Celine Dion, James Blunt and Snow Patrol are all superior choices.
• You are allowed up to a month of serious crying, drinking too much and moaning to your friends. It’s not until the last tear has been shed that you can get over that person, so let it all out. Then you need to start the healing process. No one wants to listen to you whining forever.
• Until you can go to bed at night and realise that you haven’t thought about that person all day, you’re not over them. So find someone else, anyone else, to focus on.
I returned to Cambridge a broken man. So I did what all normal people do and went and bought a rabbit, which I called Shakespeare. I spent the next four weeks watching Great Expectations, stroking my rabbit (that is not a euphemism) and crying into a bottle of very cheap red wine. It was like a scene from Bridget Jones, but worse. When my drama teacher told me I needed to see a shrink to get over my break-up I realised I wasn’t doing a great job of hiding my heartache. I may have needed a psychiatrist but I didn’t take her up on her advice. It was something I wanted to work through on my own.
We all fall in love, and if you haven’t already then you certainly will at some point. Through the ages love has always been the same – complicated. Pride and Prejudice has now been swapped with Bridget Jones, Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew has become 10 Things I Hate About You, and Jane Austin’s Emma is now a fashion-obsessed American student in Clueless.
Love has been around since the beginning of time, and what I have realised at my tender age is that there are no rules, no guidelines and no simple way of sorting out the lessons that life seems to hand us when we’re least expecting it.
If I could invent anything it would be a love pill that you take to magically make all of the hurt of a break-up melt away. I think if that existed people would be much braver and take more risks when it comes to love because they wouldn’t have to worry about being hurt. And I would be a very rich man in the process!
I honestly think there was a time when I totally closed my heart to prevent getting hurt again. I felt like the pain of losing someone and the inevitable fallout wasn’t worth it. It took me a long time to weigh it up and decide that maybe love is a risk worth taking after all.
Phase two of my ‘getting over Dorset Girl’ strategy involved me going out and getting drunk every night. I’d try to snog any girl I could in a bid to make myself feel better, and I managed to snog 32 girls in a single month. Sadly, if I remember rightly, none of them were particularly attractive.
One night I was in a club called Cindy’s when I met a Polish cleaner who worked in a nearby hotel. In my hammered state I decided that she was going to be my next girlfriend. She didn’t seem that interested in me, so to make myself more appealing I lied and told her that I was in EastEnders. It worked, but the following morning I realised that we weren’t a match made in sober heaven. Especially as she was allergic to rabbit hair and had to leave before we could consummate our newly found friendship.
About six weeks after my split from Dorset Girl I finally felt I was on the right path to getting over her when she called to tell me that her period was eight weeks late. In a state of panic, I immediately drove down to see her and to be with her while she did a pregnancy test. Fortunately it was a false alarm as her period came that afternoon. She seemed to need closure and the break-up had put her body out of sync, but seeing her again had set me right back and I missed her more than ever. So I headed back to Cambridge to drink more wine.
We were invited to go and look around the RADA building in London and to see some of the third-year students’ plays. On the journey we were all larking about and we started talking about how we lost our virginity. I hadn’t thought about Jesters Girl for some time, so I decided to phone her out of the blue. As luck would have it, she was in London with her friend, London Girl.
I’d always got on well with London Girl. When I used to give Jesters Girl the d
odgy driving lessons around Ascot in my Fiesta, she’d always come along and sit in the back. I’d often have a bag of Haribo sweets in my car and I remember once looking into the rear-view mirror to see her putting the Haribo rings on each of her fingers and sucking them off innocently, one by one.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her, which isn’t the safest thing when you’re driving. I thought to myself, ‘I think I fancy her.’ Not the best thought to have when you’re dating her best friend.
With that sexy memory still fresh in my mind, I arranged to meet them. Jesters Girl had to rush off, so London Girl and I decided to hang out. It was a Friday evening and we were both in the mood for having a few drinks and some fun. London Girl was as stunning as I remembered her – 5 foot 9, slim, with beautiful red hair. We had a great evening and ended up back at her place, watching a film in bed. One of the characters in the movie said, ‘I hate it when you really like someone and they won’t make a move,’ at which point London Girl looked at me and said, ‘Yes, I hate it when that happens.’ To this day, she will always deny that she used that line to try to make me kiss her. But I knew differently and I took that as a hint, and I’m glad I did. I rolled over and kissed her and we spent the next five hours laughing, smiling and kissing. For the first time in months, I felt genuinely happy.
But life is never that easy – the next day London Girl left to go travelling for five months, so I wasn’t sure if we had any kind of future. We kissed goodbye and promised to keep in touch.
It was the final few weeks of my course at Cambridge and I’d agreed to model in a friend’s end-of-term fashion show. I’d been to fashion shows before and seen all of the models drinking backstage, so I assumed it was the done thing and that if I were to be a proper model I should do it too. I went to the shop and bought a quarter bottle of vodka and downed the whole thing. Unsurprisingly, I was obliterated. My friends even tried to stop me going on stage because I was so pissed, but I managed to convince them I was OK. I got my best model face on, way too much fake tan, and prepared for the runway. I had spiked my hair up and made it massive. In my mind I looked like Ryan Gosling with a bigger barnet, but in reality I looked like Zoolander’s Sri Lankan cousin.
