‘Wait,’ Harry said. As though he was manning a barbeque, he grabbed a tray and began to fan the flames. He took a utensil and pushed the smouldering matter around to make space.
Holly slowly reached into the bag. First, she pulled out five years’ worth of sweet, adoring cards written from him to her, and a wodge of ‘I love you’ notes that he’d left under her pillow over the years (one of them written on a sheet of toilet roll).
‘Look at this one here,’ she said, holding up a birthday card. ‘There’s even a little smudge on the writing from where it made my eyes water.’
‘Awwww.’ Everyone took a moment to feel sorry for the card that was about to be incinerated.
‘BURN!’ Olivia shouted, making Holly jump.
‘Right! Yes, let’s burn the lot!’ One by one she tossed the artefacts into the flames.
Then she added the rest of the miscellaneous Lawrence items, and watched through wet eyes as Che Guevara’s iconic face crackled and peeled, along with the little book of Japanese puzzles that would now never be solved. Her face grew hot from the fire. While the others cheered on, a tear slipped down her cheek. But this time it was a tear of letting go. Not of regret but of acceptance. Somehow, seeing each item being physically destroyed before her eyes, the memory was scorched out of existence, removed from her brain, no longer capable of administering torment. For one brief moment, she felt a little like Jim Carrey’s character after his turn on the Eternal Sunshine machine.
Then when she looked up at her friends dancing among the flames, seeing all those memories of Lawrence go up in smoke, she felt a sense of peace, that finally she was free from the agonising possibility of them ever getting back together. Harry had been right – that was the most liberating feeling of all.
‘Wooohoooo!’ she called out as they jumped up and down in the air.
Amid the cacophony of cheers and screams of manic enjoyment came the distant sound of sirens. Seconds later, in among the red and orange glow, there came a blue and red flashing light.
*
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[email protected]
Dearest Bellarama,
I’m writing this email from my cell in Holloway Prison.
Well, I nearly was.
Two weeks ago, we had a small bonfire. Just a cosy event for the three of us, you know, to finally get rid of our break-up bags. (We did le sac de Sam as promised – btw did you still want me to get an urn for Jez’s ash? Let me know. It’s in a Tupperware for now).
Anyway, it was surprisingly therapeutic! I felt cleansed somehow, and lighter, like I’d shed a load of weight! Only, then it got a teeny bit out of hand… when the fire was at its biggest, suddenly, not one, not two, but THREE fire engines pulled up and drove past the flat, slowing down, the firemen gawking out the windows. Then they drove past and we all said to each other, ah it’s fine, they must be here for a real fire somewhere – until the POLICE VAN rocked up. Then an ambulance! Naturally, like the responsible citizens that we are, we all ducked down. Then we heard a policeman yell out that they’d heard reports of a fire on one of these balconies. Luckily, our fire was just at the tiny embers stage by then. But someone had to answer – so I heard myself say, ‘We were just toasting marshmallows I assure you officer!’ Then I probably pushed my luck by offering them some.
Later, in the police interview room, I told the nice policeman all about what had happened with Lawrence. How he owes me a grand, and how he’d just carelessly announced his engagement to the world on Facebook! I told him all about BUC, and what a headcase I’ve been lately, and how this bonfire was basically just an absolutely essential procedure to give us all our sanity back.
And do you know what he did? He said, ‘Christ on a bike, in that case, off you go. Clear off and find yourself a nice boyfriend that deserves someone as pretty as you.’
Then, after that we all ran down the street screaming and laughing, our arms linked. Do you remember that moment at the end of Stand By Me, when the narrator says, ‘I never had as good a group of friends as I did when I was twelve… does anyone?’ It was just like that! Only we’re not twelve, we’re coming up to bloody well twenty-eight, and I feel even less sure of myself as I did when I was an awkward little runt scared of my own shadow! But hey, we’re all in it together, and I’m starting to feel a little less wretched. Which is nice!
Truly though, Belle, it was special and I wish you’d been there. It made me realise, I really do think I’ve never had as great a group of friends as we do right now – I know that we’ll never forget each other, even years from now when we’ve squeezed out some puppies and are living in our dream homes by the sea.
You know, there might be new people joining BUC one day; there might be old veterans passing through. But deep down, I don’t think any of us will really leave. Not even you, even though you’re a few thousand miles away!
In other news… just this week, our Harry seems to have got himself a girlfriend. I’ll let him tell you about how he got a date with her – it was dead romantic! It’s got quite serious with them, quite quickly. The least serious part being her name. It’s Harrie – I shit you not – short for Harriet. It must be so odd when they call each other’s names out in bed. If they do – ew, I don’t want to think about it!
Me, I’ve given up militant dating and replaced it with READING. Remember Harry bought me that book that’s longer than the Bible? Well I’ve finally started it. It’s all about how to structure a story for screenwriting, and now that I’ve finally got into it, it’s amazing. Still not sure how to apply it to actually writing the short, but I’m hopeful the magic will happen somehow. I’ve GOT to get away from my job and evil Jez one way or another. The show is diabolical; like, beyond offensive. But it’s not just that. I just keep fucking things up. I’m either exporting things wrongly, cocking up the sound levels, or worse, not putting the cut together as punchy as he wants. Starting to really wonder if a job is this hard, maybe it’s not right? Shouldn’t the thing you do day in day out come naturally to some extent? I mean, with you, you just open your mouth and sing – the most natural thing in the world!
All this time I’ve been blaming it on Jez for being a grade A C-word, but maybe it is me being in the wrong job? Have I been busting a gut to save a career that actually isn’t what I’m meant to be doing? Is it just because I did all those unpaid internships that I’m forcing myself to stick with it – out of kindness to my younger self?
Sorry. That’s enough now – I’ve rambled on. We’re really missing you, B. Hope to god you’re safe. OH AND HAPPY EFFING ALMOST CHRISTMAS (trying my best to ignore it this year!)
Xxx Hol xxx
31. Ctrl Alt Del Ldn
It’s a quirk of the British winter that, every year, when the curtain has finally been drawn on it, people remark to one another, ‘Brrr, that was a tough one, wasn’t it?’ But on this Sunday night, as Holly threw yet another inside-out umbrella into the bin by her flat, she felt confident that this particular winter – with its infernal cold, its epidemics of unemployment and swine flu – was definitely worse than any other. It was like winter, squared, with knobs on. The schools were closed. No one could get to work. Theatre shows that had been rehearsing for weeks were cancelled, never to have another outing. By mid-December, the coat of gloom had worn everyone down; you could see it in their faces. Still, mustn’t grumble. Drink less and whinge less: those were her twin goals this week, she reminded herself as she opened the front door.
‘Christ! Enough with the white stuff!’ Olivia said to Holly as she walked in.
‘I know! I’m so bored of everyone saying how snowy it is! Get over it!’ Holly let slip as she took a seat in the cosy lounge, which – Harry having had his wicked way with it – now looked like Christmas on heat, with paper chains, a fully decorated Christmas tree, and silver tinsel hanging from all the walls.
‘And all that’s on the news now is SNOW. Narrated by Jon Snow!’ Harry said, emerging from the k
itchen.
‘OK. Successful dates, anyone?’ Olivia began.
‘Nada,’ Holly said, taking her second piece of quiche and hoping no one was counting. ‘Currently going through the most epically long dry patch.’
‘Waiting for a wet patch, then?’ Olivia asked.
‘Ugh, Liv. Nice to know you’re filling the lewd gap now Bella’s away.’
Olivia did a mock bow. ‘I like to do my bit. So, I have a suggestion. Why don’t we all go out dancing on New Year’s Eve?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Harry said, ‘maybe not actual hectic clubbing. Or swing dancing. But just some low-key pub-dancing, forward slash, going to various house parties?’
‘All right,’ Holly said. ‘It could be a nice thing to do to together after our enforced separation.’
‘Are you not looking forward to Christmas? I am!’ Harry said.
‘That’s because your family is The Waltons,’ Holly said, looking at him as though he was from another planet.
‘For the last time, it is not my fault that I came from a two-parent family!’
‘Sorry. It’s just… Christmas is to those with dysfunctional families what Valentine’s Day is to singletons.’
‘BAH HUMBUG!’ Harry said.
‘I’m with Hol on this one. My parents are spending Christmas in Aruba! So I’ll just be at my aunt’s house in Gerrards Cross, with my twin cousins who are incapable of conversing about anything other than reality TV. So I suspect we’ll be mostly stuffing our faces and watching shit telly all day.’
‘I’ll probably do a double-decker,’ Holly said. ‘Christmas Day with my mum and stepdad, then Pretend Christmas with my dad on Boxing Day.’
‘Double the fun!’ Harry said.
‘No. Double the pain.’
‘OK, in that case we’ll have to have a big one, to celebrate the family getting back together. As in, our Chosen Family,’ Olivia said.
‘Deal,’ Holly said, nodding in approval.
‘Big enough for Class-A’s big?’ Harry said, taking out his mobile phone and scrolling through his address book.
‘Now you’re cooking with gas,’ Olivia said.
‘Mmm… a little MDMA might help see us through to the other side. But I don’t know – I’ll only do some if Liv signs off on it,’ Holly said, turning to Olivia to see if she was also up for turning their depravity up a notch.
Olivia shifted about in her seat for a moment. ‘Oh go on then, you’ve twisted my arm,’ Olivia said with a naughty glint in her eye. ‘I’ll try some, just this once.’
Later, once the last drop of mulled wine had been sunk, and the last mince pie scoffed, the three of them resigned themselves to the reality that, until they were all a little happier, the only festive spirit they were capable of conjuring up was probably eggnog, and that this Christmas just wasn’t going to be one to remember. So they began their goodbyes, and agreed that Break-up Club would have a brief recess for the holiday period.
Harry stood up. ‘Gather ye round.’
‘Let’s huddle,’ Holly said, opening her arms out.
‘Merry Cocking Jesus’-Birthday,’ Olivia said as they hugged.
‘See you in a week, my babies,’ Harry said. ‘Good luck with your fuckwit families, one and all. Be sure to bring back some good stories. And maybe we’ll give a prize to whoever wins “family most likely to go on Jeremy Kyle”.’
*
[email protected]
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Subject: Bombay Mix-up
Dearest Hol,
Hello? Is that the international BUC helpline?
Am really struggling at the mo. Really missing the boy; keep Face-stalking him, instead of focusing on this amazing place that I’m in. Please can you tell me I’ve done the right thing again? Or send me one of those ‘More reasons to break up with Sam’ lists that we wrote? He has stopped all contact with me now, which I know I wanted, but still it hurts, bad! Think I’m only now seeing the wisdom of Rule Number Six – otherwise, it just comes back to bite you later, and you have to do delayed grieving, which is where I’m at now – on my tod! NOT FUN.
Anyway, thank you for your gorgeously long email. Try not to overthink it on the job stuff, and just see what happens. What will be will be. Who has been evicted from The Madhouse though? Is Borderline P.D. still winning?
It sounds like things are getting a bit intense with the old BUC… Bonfires? Burning rituals?? Really? Are we turning into some kind of cult? Only kidding. We all know it’s been a cult from day one – it’s just a question of where and when the mass suicide will take place… :)
By the way, do you know who popped into my head the other day? That bloke, Aaron, from the bike accident. I had this horrible larium dream – a really vivid flashback of him lying there in the street. Made me wonder if he was OK or not. I still think we should’ve gone to try and find him in a local hospital. You never know – you might have nursed him back to health and fallen in love in the process?! It’s just so hard to meet men in London, I wonder if you missed an opportunity there? Perhaps you could still find him? If you work out where the nearest hospital would have been, they might give you info if you say you helped at the scene of the accident? Or is this one of those times when you’re going to try and talk to me about boundaries again?
To be honest, Hol, I’m really missing your bones. I wish I was back home sometimes, and I’ve never EVER felt homesick before!
Although, there might be another reason I wish I was home: I’ve recently committed a Bella Allen Fail of epic proportions. I’m road-testing my description of it with you now, as I’m scared it’s just TOO AWFUL AND NO ONE WILL EVER WANT TO BE FRIENDS WITH ME AGAIN.
So, here goes… let me know what you think, and whether I should tweak before posting??? Love you, bye, me xxxxx
Bombay Mix-Up, by @LadyGoa
Namaste,*
Hope you’re well. So I’m still having an amazing time and have seen a lot. Recently went down to Lakshadweep, an island off the coast of Kerala, to do some scuba diving. I swam with Butterflyfish! They swim in pairs, and they say here that if you see one on its own then it’s broken-hearted! I hope butterfly fish have a BUC of their own!
FRIENDS AND FAMILY DISCLAIMER:
So, I don’t come off well in this next part – AT ALL. In fact you’ll probably disown me. But I’m going to tell it anyway, in the hope it’ll be cathartic? Anyone lily-livered is advised to look away NOW.
It all began the day before yesterday, when there was a massive festival on the beach. It was awesome. Fireworks, barbeque, everyone dancing in the water. Even the locals were there paddling in their suits and saris, while we smutty westerners waded around in our hot pants and bikinis.
Anyway, my friend Hazel and I were dancing in the shallows (trying to not notice the guys weeing in it like it was one big urinal) when I spotted this Adonis of a man in the water, in a black trilby hat. Easily one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. I managed to talk Hazel and the others into us doing a subtle relocation so we were dancing nearer him. I was swimming in my hot pants (complete with dorky money-belt that my lovely sister Daisy made me take to ensure I don’t get my money nicked). I ended up chatting to Mr Trilby and discovered that he was from Amsterdam, he was a photographer, and his name was Yann (name changed for humiliation-prevention purposes). We hit it off, and one of the last things I remember is us kissing for hours under the stars, in the seawater, that I remember even now, felt silky and warm like a bath.
But friends, that’s where the Romance genre ends, and the PSYCHOPATHIC THRILLER kicks in. After heading back to my hut for more ‘kissing’ we then fell asleep. We woke up the next day, still in each other’s arms (I NEVER do that, I’m a need-my-space sleeper), and I remember him saying he was just going to his hut and then he’d come back in a bit for breakfast.
I slowly peeled myself out of the sweaty mozzie net chamber and began to try, with the worst hangover I’d had in some time, to p
iece my world back together. As you know, I can’t see shit without my glasses or contacts, and I had no idea where either of them were. So you can imagine the kind of slow-motion hangover fog we’re talking about here. No bother, I thought, I’ll be able to find them after a nice cold shower. Then I’ll be able to find my – come to think of it, my thing that I’ve not seen in ages - my money belt. It then hit me that I had absolutely no memory of taking it off, or when and where that could possibly have occurred. Surely it should be screwed up in a wet heap on the floor along with my shorts and everything else? But it wasn’t. I began to feel panicky and a little bit sick as I realised it was nowhere to be seen. Trying to keep calm and do lots of that deep Ujjayi breathing business, I began ransacking the room. No money belt, but I did find my glasses – hurrah! With renewed vision, I then noticed the time. It was a whole hour since he’d left, saying he would ‘pop back to his hut’.
When I came out of the shower and he’d still not returned I began to panic and the truth hit me: of course this ridiculously good-looking Yann hadn’t been interested in me. Me, Bella Allen, certifiably crap at men! No! I’d robbed him by punching so monstrously above my weight, and he robbed me right back, of nearly all my money and my cards! With the remaining 200 rupees I had stashed in my rucksack, I headed out to the internet cafe.
As I was logging into my bank on a terminal, I caught something out the corner of my eye. Someone much like the man who had laid next to me all night long was sat right there, on the computer next to me. He was like, ‘Oh Hai! I was just coming to get you. I just had to check my bank; I’m waiting for some money to transfer.’
I bet you are, I remember thinking.
Then he asked me what was wrong, and I had to basically fess up that I’d lost all my money and then, in the nicest way possible, accuse him of taking it.
What happened next was most unexpected. First, he swore blind to me that he would never do such a thing. Then, after helping me search my hut, he insisted on going back to his own hut that he was sharing with a friend. And then he made me stand and watch while he emptied every zip, pouch and vacuum-packed bag in his rucksack, all the while his charming and embarrassed friend is looking on in amusement, no doubt wondering who this silly British slapper was. Then, he pulled out all of his possessions – photos of his family, rolled-up pictures he’d bought on his travels, diaries – which he flicked through to demonstrate that no money was hidden in the pages of them – and a copy of Martin Amis’ The Rachel Papers (he has good taste!), a bootleg CD of Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon (again with the good taste!), an elephant statue for his mum (and by now the heartstrings were being tugged as I was thinking, Fuck-sticks! Here was a genuinely nice boy!). After half an hour of me getting to know him better via the medium of unpacking, it became candidly clear that he hadn’t robbed me, and that I needed to get my proverbial coat.
Break-Up Club Page 32
