by Zoe Foster
NEWS ANCHOR FALLS FOR GORGEOUS WEATHER CO-HOST
Channel 3’s resident ladies’ man, Jesse Carey, is clearly enjoying the station’s addition of the exotic Lisa Sutherland, with the pair said to be absolutely smitten with each other. One co-worker said of the two, ‘They can’t keep away from each other,’ while our sources saw the photogenic pair cuddling up at last week’s Care for Cancer ball, before making a quick exit as soon as the formalities were over.
These sentences had the right letters and syntax, but made no sense at all. I was shaking and felt overwhelmingly alert, in the same way I imagined you would just before you were hit by a car.
‘Here we go – skim latte.’ Grasshopper placed the coffee down right on top of Jesse’s face and spun away.
I didn’t know what to do except to read the article again and look at the photo of Jesse, all preppy private school with his blond wavy hair, blue eyes and broad chest – only it wasn’t him but a complete stranger, because surely none of this was really about him. Surely they had the wrong guy. Surely it was all some big mistake.
After a few minutes, my conviction that they had made an enormous error made way for the revolting possibility that, in fact, they had exactly the right guy – only he was supposed to be my guy.
I closed the paper and focused on not being sick. I suddenly felt ill. Just-eaten-a-warm-oyster-milkshake ill. Rage and hurt and embarrassment and completely irrational thoughts flashed through my head. Like, who would see it? My new workmates?
Ladies’ man?
Smitten?
Can’t keep away from each other?
I reopened the paper and stared at his face, unable to process it. And what did ‘exotic’ mean anyway?
I grabbed my phone and called him.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Jesse. You know what to do.’ Beep.
I hung up.
Dialled again.
Same thing.
Why was his fucking phone off? I took a deep breath and dialled again. This time I’d leave a message. But what the hell was I going to say? I hung up, realising I had no idea.
I dialled Iz instead, to blow off some steam. It rang out, and as she didn’t have voicemail I couldn’t even leave a distraught message.
I belted out a text:
Call me NOW please and look at gossip pages of Times.
I dialled Jesse again and, holding back tears so as not to give myself away, very slowly said, ‘Hi, it’s me. I need to speak to you. Call me urgently please.’
I didn’t want him to know he was in deep shit or he might never call. He was rubbish in confrontational situations. Hang on: why was I making allowances for him? For all I knew he’d been sleeping with some weather wench.
I wanted answers. Time to text.
Is Lisa Sutherland someone I should know about?
Sending…sending…sent. I immediately wondered if I’d now given him ammunition to lie with. He wouldn’t dare. He was my boyfriend. I deserved a goddamn answer. A truthful one. Jesus, where had this all come from? I’d thought we were happy; in love; that everything was going well – although I never could understand why I wasn’t invited to things like that ball. He just said they were work functions, and that as I had so many of my own work functions now he didn’t want to put me through more.
Struggling to compose myself under the weight of all that was racing through my mind, I got a twenty-dollar note out, left it on the table, gathered my things and the offending paper, and left in a hurry. Outside it had started to rain. Of course it had. I ducked for cover and thought about what I should do next. My phone buzzed.
What are u talking about? I can’t talk right now. Will call soon.
I called him straightaway but his phone rang out. What the hell was he playing at? My rage was building by the second. I called again – no answer. Three times – nothing. Huddling under a flimsy awning, I texted him with such anger and speed that I kept punching in the wrong letters; I cursed as I retyped.
Your little love affair made the papers. I deserve a fucking phone call.
Nothing.
I walked down the street, calling Iz. Dammit, why was no one answering their phone, today of all days. I had almost made it home – and was consumed by what I would say to Jesse when I finally got to him – when my phone beeped.
I’ve just seen papers. It’s complete bullshit, Han. No idea where it’s come from. Lisa just a workmate, nothing going on. I’m sorry you’re upset, understand why of course, but it’s nothing to worry about. Can’t call coz we’re in crisis meeting about being sued, but will call asap. X
His text threw me. What exactly do you write back to something so dismissive? Okay, honey, I believe you – can’t wait to see you next week! xxx Not likely. A text was the easy way out. He was a coward. I needed him to defend himself in person, or at least over the phone.
Oh, well, okay, I guess everything’s fine then coz you say so. Are you for real?! Be a man and at least defend yourself over the phone.
I told you, I’ll call when I can. Settle down.
Oh no he didn’t. He didn’t just patronise me when he was the one who had been busted cheating. Mumbling a brand of swear words usually reserved for angry pirates, I pumped out a few replies, but none of them nailed the exact sentiment I was trying to express, which was along the lines of: Gosh, you’ve really annoyed me! I am quite upset with you and wish you many hours of torture in a Chinese prison and a string of nasty STIs also.
Midway through composing The Text, my phone rang.
It was Iz. Finally.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
‘No, not yet. What’s happened?’
As usual when talking to Iz, I exaggerated a little for dramatic effect.
‘There’s a huge story on Jesse in the gossip section saying that he’s having an affair with the weather girl!’
‘He’s what? What do you mean he’s having an affair? Jesse doesn’t have affairs… Jesse can’t be in the gossip section. Han, this is mad; I don’t understand!’
‘And he’s denying it, but in such an arsehole of a way that I’m starting to think it might even be true.’
‘Oh Han…this is just awful. Is there proof? Like a photo of them together? Do you think that it might just be total rubbish, like when they say Lindsay Lohan is pregnant but really she’s just eaten pasta?’
‘There’s no photo – but several eyewitness accounts. And you know these things don’t just come from nothing. And he does always work back, and travel for business, and she would too, so it’s not like it’s far-fetched to think he could be, be…cheating…’
The tears came on without warning and with great ferocity. As I sobbed into the phone, Iz comforted me with ‘there there’ and ‘Han, you just let it all out,’ until finally I calmed down to sniffs and eye-wiping.
‘I guess you’re right, Iz. I should get some better proof before I take this as gospel. But how? It’s not like I can call this Lisa girl and ask if she’s been sleeping with Jesse, is it?’
‘Hmmm. Well, I guess you’ll have to rely on Jesse to tell you the truth. Which I’m sure he will, and you know you’re fierce at body language so I’m sure you’ll be able to tell if he’s lying.’
‘Fierce’ was Iz’s new favourite word, and she used it to describe everything from a new bra she’d bought to the weather. Last month everything was ‘magic’.
‘That’s all fine and good, but he’s away for another five days. How am I meant to see where his eyes are looking over the bloody phone?’
Iz was the right person to ask – she was the chief detective of love gone foul after having overstayed her time in a self-destructive relationship with an absolute arse of a man called Finbar. He hadn’t so much as cheated on Iz as brought her into his harem of women.
‘Okay, when he calls you do the psychologist’s trick and be silent so he does all the talking. Works a treat: they get all awkward and over-talk, and that’s when you’ll
catch him out. If there’s anything to catch him out on. People always feel they have to fill any gap in conversation. Oh, and if he ridicules it all, and defends himself excessively without being prompted, that’s a bad sign too. All bad liars do that. They usually even protect the tart they’ve been cheating with, too, can you believe it? And if he starts making final comments, using you being pissed off as a sign that you two may as well give up altogether? Very bad sign.’
Realising how serious and morbid what she’d just said was, she backtracked. ‘But I don’t think you’ll get any of those, darling. Seriously, I mean, this is Jesse we’re talking about! He adores you! I’m sure it’s just stupid gossip.’
The idea of staying alert to all of those things exhausted me in advance, but I promised to play silent on the phone when Jesse called, and to phone Iz straight after so she could dissect his words. I consoled myself by confirming I now knew how Jessica Simpson must feel when she read gossip about her relationships.
Not two minutes later, the phone rang. It was him. I stared at his name flashing on my screen and proceeded to cry all over again. I couldn’t answer in this state – no way. I’d be useless at playing policewoman. He’d just play Doctor Soothe and make everything okay, and my only chance to catch him out would be gone. I let it go to message bank, finger poised on the voicemail button for the second the little envelope came up. Beep beep.
‘Hannah, why aren’t you answering your phone? You’re clearly all worked up over this silly article. I know you’re upset and it’s not a very nice thing to see, but I haven’t done anything wrong and I’d at least like the chance to tell you that in person before you write me off. Lisa’s just a friend. Nothing more. And yes, we go to work functions together, but there’s nothing seedy about going somewhere with workmates so I’ve never felt I needed to mention her.’ (Sigh.) ‘Look, call me back, okay?’
So he HAD been hanging out with her! Dirty little tramp. My mind hit the red zone. Maybe the gossip dragon was right! Maybe he was cheating with gorgeous, flirty Lisa Sutherland! I felt my breath quicken.
I had no idea what I would say, but I dialled his number.
‘Hello?’
That he answered like that when my name would’ve come up irritated me immediately.
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh, hey, Hannah. Did you get my message?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, I don’t have much else to say really.’
I bit my lip so as not to explode and ruin my psych-out effect.
He was already being an arsehole.
‘Are you there, Han?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, aren’t you going to say something? I mean, I feel like I’m pretty unfairly under attack here.’
Shhh, Hannah, shhh.
‘And you know, put yourself in my shoes for a second – how would you feel being accused of this and not having a chance to defend yourself?’
‘This is your chance.’
‘All I need to say is that it’s crap, and that if Lisa and I go to a function as workmates, then why should we be crucified? If she were a fat old man, this wouldn’t be happening. It’s a joke.’
He was being defensive. He was defending her. My heart was beating furiously with the realisation that there was a real chance the papers weren’t lying. I had to say something.
‘Why would this just come from nowhere? What does the paper have to gain from making up a story on a couple of over-hairsprayed news muppets?’
‘Oh, gee thanks, Han. Great to see you’re taking some gossip writer’s word over mine. Talk about guilty until proven innocent.’
Hold back, hold back, hold back.
‘I mean, really, is this what our relationship comes down to? Me defending myself against a fucking gossip columnist? Honestly, I thought we were stronger than this, that my word would mean something, but no, seems you’d rather believe the tabloids. But, you know, if that’s all it takes to spell doom, well then, maybe we really are doomed, Hannah.’
There it was. The slimy cop-out. I couldn’t believe it, this was textbook stuff – he had done everything Iz had predicted!
‘Are you for real? You’re busted cheating and that’s your out?’
‘I’m not taking any out, Hannah, because, as I keep stressing, there is nothing going on between Lisa and me.’
‘Could’ve fuckin’ fooled me, Romeo.’
‘Is that necessary? Look, maybe we should wait until I’m home to talk about this. You’re angry and being unreasonable and this conversation isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘Great idea. And with Lisa up there with you, I’m sure you two can nut out a brilliant exit speech for when you decide to tell me that you’ve been thinking, hey, know what, maybe it’s better we don’t see each other and—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t need to listen to this.’
‘Yeah, well, neither do I. Or read about it either, for that matter. I mean, Jesus, how do you think I felt when—’
‘We’ll talk Thursday. Goodbye, Hannah.’
Click.
I blinked a couple of times. I couldn’t breathe, let alone comprehend what had just happened. I had a furious urge to call him back and demand he explain himself, but I knew Jesse. He wouldn’t answer. He preferred to let me steam off my anger when we fought, while he carried on with his lunch/surf trip/toenail-clipping in non-emotional-man bliss.
I sat on a stranger’s brick wall and openly cried. It was a quiet street, but a procession of half-naked Italian male models could’ve walked past and I wouldn’t have had the strength or inclination to hide the fact I was in emotional ruins. After ten minutes, when I had finally got home and the tears had eased to loud sniffing, my phone beeped.
I am sorry about the story in the paper, Han, but I’ve said all I can, and after seeing how little trust you have in me, and with all that’s going on with work, I think I – we – need some space. I’m sorry to do it by text but you’re impossible to speak to right now. I can’t say when but I’ll be in touch.
Had I just been dumped by text?
I could’ve sworn I’d just been dumped by text.
I reread it and realised that, yes, I had been dumped by text by a man. A man who had possibly been cheating on me. Today had to be some sick, twisted joke.
‘I need some space.’ I’ll give you space, fuckface. ‘Space’ was just boy-speak for ‘we’re finished’ and I knew it. How stupid did he think I was, exactly? I wasn’t going to wait around for him to think, ‘Hmmm, maybe I’ll get back with Hannah today. No, wait, I’ve got that golf tournament. Maybe tomorrow…’ Suddenly, a thought flashed through my head. It was, I guessed, the same brand of thought that popped into people’s heads when they were about to be eaten by a grizzly bear and the brain chucks it in and starts misfiring. It was a calm thought, one that cooed that I’d be fine, I’d be totally fine; people break up all the time, right? I’d be fine.
Plus, he had probably, no, definitely been cheating on me, and if he was cheating on me, then I was better off without him anyway.
Prick! Cheating prick!
Was he a cheating prick? I was so confused.
I called Izzy. After three rings I was screaming into the phone, ‘Answer, for fuck’s sake. Just this one time, answer!’
She picked up.
‘Iz… Iz…he…he…we…dumped by…by…text. It’s over!’
‘Hannah, what happened? Ohmigod, Han!’
‘I…he…he…Jesse…you were right about psychology. He ch-ch-cheated on me!’
‘I’m coming over. You’re in no state to be alone.’
I heard Izzy coming down my street before she appeared at my door. Her car wasn’t noisy, but her dragging muffler was. Her car was always dented or dinged or derelict. She barely noticed. Two minutes later she was inside. Her white-blonde backcombed ponytail gave new meaning to the term ‘bedhead’, her green-brown eyes were locked into place with layers of black eyeliner and she was wearing a skimpy coral-co
loured slip-dress that would be appropriate in, say, Miami, and Ugg boots that would be suitable in, ooh, Siberia. This was one of her post-work outfits, based on comfort rather than style.
‘Oh, honey, I am so sorry…’
She held me and allowed me to just cry all over her bare, tanned shoulder.
‘I just can’t believe he could be so cold,’ I said.
‘Let it all out, darling. I’m here now.’
With Iz holding me, rubbing my back, a strange peace washed over me. The situation clearly hadn’t sunk in.
Iz made us some chamomile tea and then listened as I raved about Jesse for two hours. As what came out of my mouth was largely rhetorical, Iz’s job was just to mm-hmm and nod.
‘And, you know, he’s just so selfish, Iz. This whole thing was because of him. I didn’t do anything wrong! And yet, I’m being dumped in one hundred and sixty characters or less! Oh, I hate him. Good luck to that Lisa skank, I say. She can have him.’
Cue more tears.
Iz didn’t know it that afternoon, but as she sat with me I was silently awarding her an A in Best Friend Break-Up Management. (She would’ve got an A+, but the criteria for that included producing Jesse, the two of them admitting it was all a big joke and then hugging me before suggesting we all go for ice-cream.) She was genuinely soothing, and didn’t suddenly morph into a marine biologist generously highlighting the fact that there were plenty more finned, gilled animals in the sea. She just listened and nodded and found positivity where there should have been none.
By 7 p.m., I was exhausted. Now that I’d verbally vomited up those first raw feelings, I kind of wanted to be alone so I could be overly dramatic and carry on like a bit of a loser. Wail a bit, slap pillows in anger and rip photos: that sort of caper.
‘Now, are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?’ Iz stood at the door, eyebrows raised, keys jangling in her hand. If her nail polish had been any more chipped, she could have skipped the remover altogether.
