Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  Date seven: Freddy Bonnie Tyler drawled sexily about being in love, lost somewhere in France, while I poured some Whiskas cat milk into Duke Ellington’s bowl and danced around my kitchen. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, which I’d opened wide even though it was only March. I didn’t care. I was the happiest girl on the planet! I sat down at my table with my phone and some marmalady toast and wrote a grovelling cancellation text message to Freddy. It was a shame to miss out on meeting him, really. He’d made for a very lovely distraction from the cesspool of Internet dating but it would have been mean to meet up with him now. It was all about Michael Slater for me, the man of my dreams who did posh journalistic assignments in Paris for the Independent. MICHAEL AND FRAN: the greatest love story of all time! I could barely contain myself! I pressed send and mouthed an apology: Sorry, Freddy. In another life, maybe. I took a large bite of toast and wriggled my legs excitedly. This time next week I might have a beautiful old Egyptian ring on my finger! I might know what it was like to wake up with Michael again! I might not be on my own. In my state of wild overexcitement I forgot that it was only nine twenty-three a.m. and I called Leonie. ‘Mmpfff?’ It was Alex. ‘Oh, God. Sorry. I’ll call another time. ’Bye!’ Gross. ‘Holding Out For A Hero’ came on and I started jumping and dancing. I had to share this with someone. Stefania! Surely the Parisian development would be enough to convince her that Michael and I were serious. I scampered off to my room to put some jeans on and looked out of the window to check that her red-and-white curtains had been opened for the day. I stopped in my tracks. Stefania was just walking into her shed. Not in a Sunday-morning-just-popped-out-for-some-rye-bread kind of outfit but in a Saturday-night date outfit. I stared as she unlocked the shed door and then wandered in, distinctly floaty and happy and sort of … post-coital. I shut my curtains quickly again. This was insane. Stefania didn’t have sex! And if she did, who was she having it with? A small tendril of unease wrapped itself delicately around my stomach. Something wasn’t quite right here. Surely she wasn’t … Surely it wasn’t possible that … No. Today was not the day for these thoughts. Today was the day for celebration and whooping. My boy was waiting for me in Paris! Life was good! I tried Mum. ‘Hello, darling! Are you OK?’ ‘Yes! I’m amazing! How are you?’ ‘Putting one foot in front of the other, Franny. It gets a little less awful every day. I just booked myself a little trip to Devon, actually, for next weekend. Lots of walking, hearty meals, time for me to do some of my AA stuff. I was going to call you and ask if you wanted to come. I’m a bit scared about it but I can’t lock myself in the house for ever.’ I bit my lip, feeling horribly guilty. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry. I’d have loved to. Count me in next time. But I can’t, I’m going to be in Paris.’ My mind raced. Should I cancel? Go to Devon with Mum? Or was this something she needed to do on her own? ‘Don’t worry. I’m not sure I’d be great company anyway, darling. I’ll probably be really ratty and horrible, worrying about whether or not I’ll crumble and drink. So, Paris! How exciting! Are you going with Leonie?’ ‘No. I’m meeting Michael. The ninety days are up, Mum, and he sent me a message saying how much he loves me and that he’s bought me tickets to go over there for the weekend!’ Mum paused. ‘Well, that sounds lovely, Franny. And you think he wants to get back together?’ ‘Er, yes! You should have seen his email, Mum, he’s booked us into this amazing hotel and we’ve got tickets for the opera and stuff. I’m beside myself!’ Mum laughed hesitantly. ‘I can hear that,’ she said. ‘But, Fran, just be sure to think it over properly first. And make sure you find out exactly why he ended it, OK?’ ‘Oh, Mum, not you too. Can’t anyone be happy for me?’ I asked sadly. ‘I hear you, Fran. Just be sure that you’re happy with his explanation.’ ‘Fine, fine. I will. Look, would you like me to cancel and come with you to Devon?’ ‘No. I’ve got my challenge, you’ve got yours. Just make sure you do the right thing, OK?’ Deflated, I sank on to my bed. Bonnie Tyler was still pumping away in the kitchen but I wasn’t in the mood for her now. It would be nice if someone could be excited for me, I thought darkly. My phone buzzed with a message from Freddy. Gutted. But thanks for being so honest. I hope your ex really does redeem himself because you sound ace. I considered going back to bed for a while but the sun was streaming quite insistently through the window on to my face. This wasn’t a day for bed. I’d go for a walk. I’d go to Hampstead Heath, stride up Parliament Hill, get some colour in my cheeks and munch a scone. Children watched in wonder as their kites tore through the breezy March sky above Parliament Hill. Dogs galloped foolishly after frisbees that they would never catch, and sturdy, good-looking dads carried their sturdy, good-looking children on their shoulders. My hands were shoved deep in my pockets as I sat on a bench overlooking the city, with a pair of slightly hopeful sunglasses sliding off my nose. My thoughts jumped in a very scrambled manner between Mum’s words of warning, Stefania’s possible love affair, Freddy, Leonie, Alex and, of course, Michael. I wondered what he was doing right now. My guess was sleeping. I smiled to myself, imagining him unconscious and prawn-like in a gigantic Louis XIV bed somewhere. What happened that day, Michael? Why did my thirtieth birthday begin with you running me a bath and end with you breaking my heart? I threw a ball for an unfeasibly silly Labrador and settled back into the bench to go over the events of that night one last time. When I’d burst into Reception at ITN, higher than a teenager on White Lightning about my new job on the election team, Michael had been oddly unenthusiastic. ‘It’s OK,’ I’d reassured him, tucking his scratchy scarf inside his coat. ‘It’s just until May. I’ll only be working insane hours for a couple of months.’ He’d looked at me for a few seconds, and then his face had cracked into a wide, warm smile. ‘Happy birthday, Frances O’Callaghan. You’re ravishing!’ he said, throwing his arms round me. ‘And congratulations,’ he whispered. He hugged me for a long time. Hard. I grinned into his face, like a toothy lunatic. ‘We can talk politics in bed now!’ I leaned forward and kissed his nose. ‘Any news on your promotion?’ ‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘As in, no, I didn’t get it. But it honestly doesn’t matter. Let’s go and celebrate.’ ‘Oh, Michael, I’m sorr–’ ‘Honestly, it’s fine. This is your night. There will be plenty more opportunities, Franny.’ He really did seem fine. Normal. Michaelish. As we went to leave, an exhausted-looking Stella and Dave arrived, Stella gulping down a large coffee and Dave, like a big hairy giant in an old sheepskin coat, carrying his camera. He saw us and came over, shook Michael’s hand and ruffled my hair. ‘Where are you two lovebirds off to tonight, then?’ he asked. He put his camera down and started assembling a roll-up, smiling as I tutted my disapproval. Michael put his arm round my shoulders. ‘It’s a secret,’ he said, winking at Dave. Dave laughed and shoved his fag behind his ear, picking his camera up. ‘Well, I hope it’s somewhere special. Nothing less than the best for Princess Fran on her thirtieth birthday.’ He kissed me on the cheek and walked off, whistling ‘Happy Birthday’. Grays Inn Road was bustling and utterly freezing. But I couldn’t feel the cold. I was thirty years old, I was a specialist news producer who was about to crack politics, I had the best boyfriend in the world (who might, or might not, be about to propose to me) and life felt good. Scrap that, life felt bloody amazing. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked Michael eagerly, sounding like I was en route to my tenth birthday treat in the Wimpy Bar. He looked sideways at me and smiled. There was something strange about his voice when he said, ‘You’ll have to wait, young lady.’ He put his arm round me and pulled me into his side. And that was when I felt it. Something hard, small and square in the inside pocket of his coat. My stomach flipped. A ring-box. A million comets whizzed around my chest and my head swam with excitement. Michael retreated into silence once we had hailed a cab and I wondered if he was practising his speech. I silently tried out my tearful acceptance as blinking Christmas lights slid over his face. We passed through Holborn and then along Shaftesbury Ave
nue towards Piccadilly Circus, tourists swarming round our taxi. London was pulsing with life and here I was at the centre of it with the loveliest man on the planet about to get down on one knee. In taxi. Think you might be right about M proposing. So nervous, I wrote to Leonie. Eventually, and somewhat to my surprise, Michael asked the taxi driver to pull up outside the Ritz. Leonie texted back: FUCK! TOUCHING CLOTH! I grinned uncontrollably. Michael knew I loved nothing more than a bit of gilt and gold plating. How sweet of him to bring me here! He paid the driver and helped me out of the taxi. His hand was shaking violently. I smiled encouragingly at him, thinking about my wedding dress. It would be raw silk and knee-length. I’d be carrying three lilies and my hair would be pulled back into an elegant knot at the nape of my neck. I’d get Dad over from Spain to walk me down a rustic aisle and hope that Mum didn’t get too drunk and punch Gloria, Dad’s wife. ‘Let’s go for a walk first,’ Michael said. He sounded terrified. ‘I knew you’d be late so I booked a table for nine. We could go and sit on our bench.’ And with that he drifted off down the ramp into Green Park with me following reluctantly. Much as I liked going back to the bench where we’d drunk weird Slavic meths on our first proper day as a couple, I was keener on glamour and diamonds tonight. Michael sat down on the bench and stared out at the park. My heart started thumping again. ‘Franny. I need to talk to you about something,’ he began. Oh, Jesus! On a bench? I couldn’t believe it. My eyes filled immediately, stinging in the freezing air, and I smiled so hard that my cheeks hurt. I raised my eyebrows to let him carry on. He looked tortured, the poor thing. ‘Fran. I don’t know how to say this. I can’t believe I’m sitting here saying this to you on your birthday. But we have to break up for a while. I’m so sorry. I need a few months on my own.’ A police car was roaring up Piccadilly from Hyde Park Corner, sirens blaring; its flashing lights flickered across Green Park. As its urgent beacons lit up his features I knew, however impossible it was, that he meant it. Less than an hour later, Leonie had half carried, half dragged me into my flat, which felt like it had been abandoned months ago. Michael’s tea mug was on the table, but beyond that, there was no trace of him. He had spent most of the day moving his stuff out. He’d told me this in comforting tones as if I would somehow be grateful for his foresight. I wailed. Leonie had thrown open the door of the sixties faux-teak drinks cabinet she’d bought me for my twenty-first birthday. ‘Fran, what the hell is going on in here?’ she murmured, sorting through bottles of Co-op Irish Cream and weird foreign liqueurs that had been festering in there for years. Eventually she hauled out a bottle of Grey Goose that Michael had forgotten to take. Duke Ellington had arrived through the cat flap, something alarming in his jaws. He eyeballed me for a while, then proudly deposited a half-mouse on the kitchen floor. I wouldn’t mind being that half-mouse, I thought. Head eaten off, not a care in the world now. ‘Hello, Duke Ellington,’ I mumbled. He gazed at his half-mouse and miaowed. ‘Duke Ellington, if you aren’t nice to Fran tonight I’ll skin you alive,’ said Leonie, as she’d rummaged in my freezer for ice. He’d flicked his tail haughtily and minced off to sharpen his claws on the leg of the dining table. Through waves of misery I smiled. If nothing else, I still had my horrible cat. ‘Right.’ Leonie had handed me a vodka. ‘So, can I get this absolutely clear, please? Michael says it’s not working for him and he’s suggested you both take three months out of the relationship.’ I nodded, tears sliding down my face into my vodka. ‘And he wouldn’t explain why?’ I shook my head. ‘Nothing?’ I shook my head again. ‘No. It was like … it was like he didn’t even know himself.’ Michael had just kept rocking backwards and forwards, crying and muttering, ‘I just can’t do this right now, Fran, I can’t do it. I can’t be with you.’ ‘And no contact between now and … what? Late March?’ Leonie had been visibly appalled. ‘He said a clean break would be better. Said he can’t work anything out if we’re still in touch.’ A big, suffocating hollow was beginning to open in my chest. ‘He said he’d call me at the end of it.’ Leonie had downed her drink and thought for a few minutes. ‘Right. Well, for starters I’m confiscating your phone. Next I think we should probably get wasted and wake up in a pile of our own vomit. Then at some point tomorrow I’ll make you a bacon sandwich. Deal?’ Now a sturdy dad ran past me with a child hanging off his back. ‘RARRRR!’ he yelled. I smiled. What on earth went wrong in people’s brains when they had kids? Would Michael be like that if we became parents? Thinking about that night had left me feeling pretty strange about meeting him next week. And, as usual, I had drawn a blank. There had been nothing, nothing, in what he’d said that could explain his motives. I’d literally begged him to explain but he’d just got up and walked away, leaving me howling like a werewolf on a lone bench in Green Park. Even the man who looked like he was there to flash people had given me a wide berth. Mum and Stefania were right: I was going to need a very, very good explanation. The immutable fact was that Michael had left me howling in a park on my thirtieth birthday and he was damn well going to have to tell me why. Should I demand an explanation before I go? I wondered uneasily. Before I pack my heart into a suitcase and get on a train heading for the Gare du Nord? My phone buzzed. Freddy again. Still gutted. Let me know if you change your mind. I bet your ex is a cock. I deleted it irritably, but another arrived only a few seconds later. And then I smiled. This one was from Michael. Just woke up and realized that you’ll be here this time next week. So excited. Can’t wait to start again. I’m so sorry about my fuck-up, I was just a bit mad for a while. But I’m sane again. And I LOVE YOU!xxx It was OK. It was fine. Everyone was allowed to have one breakdown, surely. I was safe! I smiled at the rarrrring dad and strode off down the hill in search of scones and other bread products. Date seven had been aborted but in its place something far better was brewing. Chapter Thirty-eight