Getting Over Mr. Right

by Chrissie Manby

  I opened the text-message window again. I decided I had to type a second message, explaining that I had only written back to him because it was Christmas and it seemed like the right thing to do given the time of year. I would tell him I did not expect or want to hear from him again. I was over him and moving on with my life, which, I might hasten to add, was pretty damn near perfect without him. That would put him straight.

  Before I was able to get that second message out (and in retrospect, thank goodness I wasn’t), the screen on my iPhone changed to let me know that another message was coming through to me. It was another message from the man who had broken my heart.

  “So glad to hear from you,” it said. “Been wondering how you are.”

  Well, what was I supposed to make of that? He had responded to me within minutes. And in such a warm way! My mind whirred with the implications.

  First off, the speed of his response suggested that he was alone. Unless he did have company but had nipped off to the loo to read my text and answer it. Regardless, the speed also suggested that he thought it was important to respond to me quickly. And that he said he had been wondering how I was suggested he actually cared.

  “I’m fine,” I texted back. Then I chanced a question. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” he wrote. “Christmas with the parents. You know what it’s like.”

  I didn’t know what it was like, since Michael had never taken me to meet his mum and dad, but I responded, “I can guess. I actually hosted Christmas at my place,” I added. “For my whole family.”

  “Lucky people,” said Michael’s next text. “You always were a fabulous cook.”

  Wow. My heart beat a little faster. Was that a compliment?

  I was about to text my thanks for the praise when I hesitated. Perhaps it was time for me to stop responding. While I was ahead. That way, if nothing more came of this unexpected exchange, I could at least have the satisfaction of knowing that Michael had sent a text that went unanswered. Not me. It was a small thing, but I knew that it would help me stay happy. God knows I needed all the help I could get. I had enough self-awareness to realize that this was a dangerous moment. If I was a love addict, then these texts were the equivalent of a row of vodka shots to a recovering alcoholic. I put the iPhone down on the coffee table and waited for my good sense to return.

  There were all sorts of reasons why I shouldn’t have been corresponding with Michael. I reminded myself that Michael had not deigned to contact me in months. But if this conversation was going to continue, the very least he could do was pick up his phone and actually call me.

  I stared at my mobile, willing it to ring.

  It did. But not with a call. Another text.

  “It’s been really nice to hear from you,” said Michael’s SMS. “Perhaps you’d like to get together in the new year. Catch up properly.”

  He had suggested a meeting! I could not believe my eyes. I managed to wait a whole fifteen minutes, pacing the kitchen all the while, before I texted him back. “Sure. That would be nice. Call me in January.”

  And that was it for the night.

  I turned off my iPhone to be sure.

  On Boxing Day I went to Becky and Henry’s house. They had entertained both sets of parents and assorted step-parents on Christmas Day and had thus declared that Boxing Day was going to be the very antithesis of that formal family celebration. They had invited only me and Henry’s best friend, Julian, to spend the day with them, doing nothing but eating, drinking, and watching DVDs. I turned up at midday with two bottles of champagne and my legendary trifle.

  I had been bouncing off the walls with excitement all morning. I couldn’t wait to tell Becky about my late-night Christmas surprise. As I waited for the appointed moment for me to leave for Becky’s house, I had been through my text exchange with Michael at least a hundred times, close-reading both his texts and my own, wondering how he would have reacted to each of my messages, hoping that my final message to him had been just cool enough to ensure that he would do as I had asked and call me as soon as the new year began. If not before. Please let it be before.

  The minute it was politely possible to drag Becky off for a moment of girl talk, I did so. Henry and Julian were occupied in trying to set up the PlayStation that Julian had brought with him. (Henry wasn’t allowed one of his own.)

  “I suppose that means we’re not going to get to watch my boxed set of Lipstick Jungle,” Becky said, sighing.

  I didn’t care. I didn’t want to watch anything. I had much more interesting things to do. I wanted to dissect my exchange with Michael with a third party. I needed a fresh opinion. I showed Becky the “conversation” on the screen of my iPhone.

  When she had finished reading, she looked up at me. Her eyebrows were knit together in an expression that I recognized, though I hadn’t seen it on Becky’s face before. It was the look my mother’s face took on when she thought my brother or I was about to do something that worried her. Like take a sky-dive. Or inject heroin. Becky passed the iPhone back to me. She smiled wanly.

  “It’s incredible,” I chattered. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again. But this must mean that he’s been thinking of me. He must have broken up with Miss Well-Sprung, don’t you think? He wouldn’t have gotten in touch with me if they were still together. I’m pretty sure of that. Not on Christmas Day. He’s not that kind of guy.”

  How quickly I had forgotten exactly what kind of guy he really was.

  Becky stopped me midflow by putting her hand on mine and pressing it gently toward the table so that I couldn’t look at the screen of my iPhone, where Michael’s words still flickered. She waited until my eyes were on hers and she was sure she had my full attention. It was a trick she must have used a thousand times on the children at her school.

  “Ashleigh, please tell me that you’re not going to take him up on his offer of meeting up.”

  “But … why shouldn’t I?”

  “Where do you want me to start? You should not be seeing that man. You should not have been answering his texts. You should not even have been reading his texts. You should have deleted them unread. Michael broke your heart, Ashleigh, and you’ve spent the best part of a year acting like a head-case as a result. You lost your job, you lost your flat, you almost lost your best friend. And then he texts you and you agree to meet up with him. For goodness’ sake, where’s the sense in that?”

  I murmured something about time and distance and closure and whatnot.

  “You got closure. When he went off with that other girl. You were getting over it. Remember how happy you were last week? What offends me most,” she added, “is that it’s not as though he even called you. He didn’t actually pick up the phone.”

  “He must have picked up the phone,” I pointed out. “He texted. You have to pick up the phone to text.”

  “He texted! How much effort do you think that involved? Can’t you see what’s wrong about that? It’s the most passive form of communication available. It took no effort whatsoever and involved absolutely no risk. He didn’t even bother to talk to you. He just sent you a text asking if you fancied meeting up and you agreed. If I had received a text like that, I wouldn’t be in the least bit flattered. I would be less impressed than if he hadn’t bothered to get in touch at all. At least his continued silence would have suggested consistency.”

  “But he’s reaching out,” I suggested.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Becky growled with disappointment. “If he were really serious about making amends for being such a grade-one arsehole, he would have actually dialed your number and held the phone to the side of his head and talked to you. He would have risked hearing that you were angry with him. He would have taken the time to find out how you are and perhaps even to say sorry for having let you overlap with Miss Well-Sprung.”

  “Perhaps he plans to say that when he sees me. Face-to-face.”

  “If you see him,” said Becky, “I will never speak to you again.”<
br />
  “But I thought you said that nothing would ever stop us from speaking to each other again,” I reminded her.

  Becky rolled her eyes. “Don’t do it,” she said in a whisper. “For the sake of your mental health, Ashleigh. Please.”

  Out of respect for Becky’s opinion, I didn’t mention Michael’s texts for the rest of the day, but even while I got stuck into some game on the PlayStation, I still had one eye on my iPhone, which I had switched to silent out of politeness. Every five minutes or so I picked it up and shook it, to check that it was still working. Just in case someone was trying to get through.

  But Michael didn’t text me again. Not that day. Or the next. Or the next. Or at any time during the following week.

  I saw in the new year at my brother’s flat. I had expected it to be a fairly raucous affair, fueled by Special Brew, but his new girlfriend was having quite the civilizing effect on him. With Chloe in charge, the party food had been upgraded from Pringles to sausage rolls and fish goujons. All from Marks & Spencer.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jack was there, seeing as Chloe was his sister. He was wearing another cuddly sweater. Navy blue this time.

  “Is this one pure cashmere?” he asked me, holding out his sleeve for inspection.

  “I think there might be a hint of silk in there,” I told him.

  “How do girls know these things?” Jack was amazed.

  I didn’t tell him that the label was sticking out at the back of his neck.

  Chloe, who was very much getting into the role of hostess, insisted on a game of Trivial Pursuit. An ironic game, Lucas pointed out quickly. In which we would have to drink every time we got an answer wrong.

  Jack asked if he could be on my team. We got just one answer wrong. I was impressed by Jack’s general knowledge.

  “I loved to read as a kid,” he said. “Still do.”

  “But it does mean we’re a long way off being as drunk as the others,” I pointed out.

  “And you’re especially pretty when you’re tipsy,” said Jack.

  “Winners have to finish whatever’s in their glass in one go,” Lucas announced then. I’d already knocked back half a glass of Chardonnay in a nervous reaction to Jack’s compliment.

  When the game was over, Jack stuck close beside me. He talked about his favorite books, all of which I felt I should have read, none of which I had. He told me about his gap year spent building a school in Rwanda.

  “It just seemed important to give something back.”

  He surprised me at every turn. Though he was the same age as my brother, he seemed so much more mature.

  There was no doubt that my first impression of him had been very wrong indeed, and I began to think that Jack was the kind of guy a girl could happily spend more time with, even without the benefit of a skinful of shots. As midnight drew near, however, I made an excuse to break off our conversation and headed for the bathroom. While the rest of the party counted down the last few seconds of the year, I was sitting on the edge of the bath, with my iPhone in my hand, willing that screen to illuminate with news from the person I really wanted to see in the new year with.

  But midnight came and went and there was no message.

  I couldn’t quite believe it. I would have put money on getting a text from Michael on New Year’s Eve. Wasn’t it an obvious excuse for an SMS? Best wishes for the new year? I tried not to be disappointed. Had I been a little more perceptive, I might have seen that it was annoying to think that, had Michael not sent me his Christmas wishes, I wouldn’t have expected to hear from him at New Year. I should have been angry with myself for having allowed that Christmas exchange to fill me with new expectations just waiting to be dashed. Those expectations had ruined my evening.

  “What happened to you at midnight?” Jack asked when he found me. “I was hoping for a kiss.”

  I gave him a glancing peck on the cheek.

  “Maybe I’ll get a better one next year,” he said.

  It wasn’t until the third of January that I finally got the text I had been waiting for. And what a text it was.

  “Are you still up for getting together one evening?”

  I waited ten minutes before texting back, “Yes.”

  “Great. How about next Wednesday night?” Michael wrote.

  “I’ll cook.”

  “At your place?”

  “Of course at my place. Do you remember where it is?”

  “Has he mentioned Miss Well-Sprung yet?” Becky asked. “At the very best I imagine he’s texting you because she’s realized what a no-hoper he is and she’s dumped him.”

  “He didn’t mention her so I’m guessing that she has gone, yes,” I said.

  “Don’t guess,” said Becky. “Ask. Most men are natural estate agents at heart. If you don’t ask them what the problems are, they certainly won’t volunteer them. Though I would put money on the reason behind Malevolent Michael’s reappearance being that he isn’t getting laid.”

  I smiled.

  “You shouldn’t be so happy about it!” Becky lectured me. “You don’t want a man who only wants you because he’s not having sex with anyone else. You want a man who wants to be with you above everybody. Not as a last resort.”

  “Perhaps that’s not what is going on. Perhaps he’s dumped Miss Well-Sprung because he realizes that it’s me he wants to be with after all.”

  “Don’t you think that momentous epiphany might have been worth an actual phone call?”

  “Perhaps he wants to tell me in person.”

  “In which case, don’t you think he might have wanted to see you a little more urgently?”

  “Everyone is busy between Christmas and New Year,” I suggested lamely.

  Becky put her head in her hands. “You shouldn’t go,” she said, “but I know that it doesn’t matter what I say. You’re going to meet up with him and you’ll almost certainly offer him one more chance to break your heart while you’re at it.”

  “I won’t,” I promised her.

  “Whatever you do,” said Becky, “make sure that he pays for dinner and you do not sleep with him. Make sure he takes you to a really nice restaurant and make sure you take a cab home, alone, straight after dessert. You can have the most expensive dessert on the menu because he’s picking up the bill. But do not get drunk. Don’t take the risk. No sex. There must be no sex whatever happens. Promise me, Ashleigh, that even if he begs you, you will not get naked with him. Even if he tears great clumps of his own hair out with frustration, you will not sleep with that man.”

  “I promise,” I said. “I will make sure he takes me somewhere great, that he pays for dinner, and that he doesn’t get laid as a result.” Thank God I hadn’t told her that Michael had already suggested his house as the venue for our long-awaited reunion. Becky would not be impressed by that. “But you must understand why I have to do this. There are so many questions.”

  “But there’s really only one answer,” said Becky. “He dumped you on Facebook. He didn’t love you, Ashleigh. That truly is the bottom line.”

  Despite the fact that Michael had suggested—and I had agreed—that we meet at his house, an option that required close to zero sartorial effort, I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I spent the greater part of the following day in a beauty salon, prepping myself with the kind of care and attention I would ordinarily reserve for a black-tie event. Or, I imagined, for my own wedding.

  “There’s no need for you to get your bikini line done,” Becky reminded me when we spoke on the phone at lunchtime, “because you’re not sleeping with him, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. Though, of course, a bikini wax was the very first treatment I had subjected myself to that morning. I told myself that it had nothing whatsoever to do with meeting Michael. It was purely a matter of essential upkeep. I might decide to go swimming, for example. The fact that I hadn’t been swimming in about eight years was neither here nor there. Why shouldn’t I be grabbed by the ur
ge to throw myself into the local lido and bob among the wart plasters at any moment?

  I was getting very good at making excuses for myself, even to myself, wasn’t I?

  Anyway, even though I say it myself, I looked the best I ever had as I walked out of that salon. My newly coiffed hair bounced and gleamed. My freshly exfoliated skin glowed as though I had just come back from a holiday in the Maldives. My nails were impeccably polished. I felt lighter and lovelier than a girl in a shampoo ad. If Michael was ever going to fall in love with me again (you’ll note I was still assuming that he had been in love with me before), it would be that evening. I was in full bloom.

  I arrived at Michael’s apartment at eight o’clock on the dot. I was wearing a chic knitted dress and knee-high boots with impressive heels. I was working it. I had even received a whistle from the taxi driver who dropped me off outside River Heights.

  Michael was wearing a pair of ratty old jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Oh,” he said, when he saw me and clocked that I had come empty-handed. “I was rather hoping you might have picked up a bottle of wine from the off-license on your way over. I haven’t got anything in the flat.”

  Was that it? Eight months since we had last seen each other. No big hug. No comment on how lovely I looked. Not even a So good to see you.

  “Wait there,” Michael said. He nipped back into the house to pick up a jacket. “We’ve got to have something to drink.”

  So we walked to the off-license, which was somewhat difficult in my glamorous new boots. Still …

  “I’m glad you could come over tonight,” he said as we walked. “I’m snowed under at work so I wanted to be able to stay at my laptop until the very last minute.”

  “Oh,” I said. And there was me thinking that his cooking for me was supposed to imply that he wanted to make an effort.