by Hazel Hayes
Among the belongings Theo left behind was his old mobile phone. He had only recently upgraded and left the old one in his desk drawer – now my desk drawer – and for weeks I had resisted the urge to turn it on and find out what he’d been saying about me to his friends; that would, of course, be a massive breach of privacy and no good would come of it. But at 4 a.m. on this particular night his right to privacy seemed suddenly unimportant. I had to know who wrote that email. So I charged his phone, switched it on and typed in his PIN number; there had been no secrets between us, after all.
I found a conversation between him and two of his female co-workers, Lesley and Victoria, in which he had sent them my email and asked them to draft a reply. I should mention at this point that I used to work at the same company as Theo – him in the accounting department and me writing press releases – so I had met these two women quite a few times at conferences and Christmas parties and such. We weren’t exactly close friends, but I knew them well enough to be absolutely mortified by this. Not to mention I’d been aware for some time of a flirtation between Theo and Lesley.
There was a lot to take in, but one part that stood out was Victoria suggesting that Theo avoid the phrase ‘I’ve moved on’.
‘It sounds too much like you’re seeing another person,’ she said.
‘Oh really, Vicky?’ he asked. ‘Then how do I make it clear I’m seeing multiple people!?’
He then wrote the word LOL, in all caps, several times.
‘I’m moving in several different directions?’ she suggested.
An excessive number of LOLs followed.
After this they spoke at length about what a crazy bitch I am. He said that I’d been messaging him, acting weird, and that he was ‘terrified’ I would show up at his office unannounced. For the record, I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but I took some joy in the fact that he was afraid I might. Theo said he needed to send this ASAP to ‘get me off his back’, then they joked about my email to him, and I crumbled.
Suddenly, the faces of every one of his exes flashed through my mind; women I’d met at parties or weddings or school reunions, each one of them a ‘crazy bitch’, according to him. He never spoke to any of them; he had cut them out immediately following their breakups. He confided this to me, joked with me about it, just as he was now joking with these other women about me. I got angry then, not at him but at myself. I had known he was capable of doing this. I was just too naive and too arrogant to believe he would do it to me. We all think we’ll be different, don’t we?
I opened his messages and the first conversation I found was with Darren. I scrolled back to the date of the breakup and found the usual supportive messages you’d expect from a friend; Darren saying it was the right thing to do, assuring him we’d both be okay, suggesting they go out for a pint to talk it over. Theo never seemed to take him up on this offer, though, and instead struck up a conversation with an old uni mate named Isaac.
Just four days into what Theo was then calling our ‘break’, Theo started telling Isaac about the women he’d been pursuing. He said he’d ‘gone back to that club last night and got another girl’s number’. He talked about a woman he’d met online who he was going on a date with (he took her out for breakfast on his birthday, as it transpires). And he seemed particularly keen on a girl named Natalie, who he’d been introduced to at a friend’s party.
Isaac and I had never really got along – his sole purpose in life was to get laid – so I was surprised to see him being jovial but firm with Theo. He suggested that Theo slow down a bit and process what he was going through. He also pointed out that Natalie had just gone through a breakup too and might need to be alone for a while, something Theo should maybe consider himself. It had been a long time since I’d seen Isaac and apparently he’d gone and done some growing up. But Theo was having none of it. He said that Natalie being unavailable only made her more appealing, and then he went on to describe in great detail the kinds of things he’d ‘like to do to her’.
Through a deluge of tears and with shaking hands I continued. I wasn’t proud of myself, nor did I feel one iota of guilt. Perhaps I should have – these were his private messages, after all – but I didn’t have the capacity to care.
What followed was a blurry montage of conversations with other male friends – some lewder than others – as well as messages to the women themselves. Each time, Theo opened with a similar comment about how he’d enjoyed meeting the girl in question, then followed up with a funny quip specific to their interaction (the tailored touch, nice) and ended with an invitation to grab a coffee or go for a drink, or a run, depending on her interests. It was all so measured, so strategic that it gave me chills. One conversation got pretty filthy pretty quickly, including pictures from both parties, and I couldn’t close it fast enough.
By 5 a.m. I was having a complete meltdown. I called Maya. She answered the phone and was met with the sound of my raspy breaths.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Are you choking?’
I managed to croak a ‘no’ at her.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need me to call an ambulance?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need me to call the police?’
‘No.’
‘Are you just having a mental breakdown relating to your recent breakup?’
‘Yes. That one.’
‘Well, I’m here. And I’ll stay on the line. And you can just talk when you’re ready.’
God bless this woman.
Once I’d regained something akin to normal breathing, I told her what I’d found. She listened quietly for a long time and then, finally, she spoke.
‘Right. Well. He’s a cunt.’
I agreed.
‘I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, because what you’ve just seen is both disgusting and heartbreaking. But I think we can all agree that you are better off without that sociopathic twat in your life. Also, for what it’s worth, he’s not okay. This is him acting out because he’s incapable of processing his emotions. You’ll deal with this. You’ll bounce back. He won’t.’
How does she always know exactly what to say?
‘Also he has stupid hair. It’s very generic.’
‘That’s fair,’ I said.
‘And he was a bit racist.’
‘Whoa! He’s not racist.’
‘Well, he was always weird with me,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but not because you’re black, for fuck’s sake! He’s weird with all my friends. This is part of the problem, Maya, he’s socially inept!’
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘but his grandmother was a racist old hag. Lord rest her soul.’
‘She was,’ I agreed.
‘And his mother’s not much better.’
‘Don’t get me started on his fucking mother, Maya.’
We laughed at this but the laughter didn’t feel right. There was a hollow sort of ache in my chest.
‘I failed,’ I said finally.
‘At what?’
‘The relationship.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Maya, ‘You can’t fail at a relationship. That’s like getting off a roller coaster and saying you failed because the ride is over. Things end. That doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t worth it.’
‘I’m not sure it was worth it, Maya. What did I get out of it?’
‘You got what you needed,’ she said. ‘And then one day it wasn’t what you needed any more.’
‘I don’t even know when that day was.’
‘I think it was a while ago, my love,’ said Maya, sadly.
‘Were we ever happy? I’m not being dramatic – I genuinely can’t remember.’
‘You were happy,’ Maya assured me. ‘You were fucking delirious. I saw it with my own two eyes. And things being shit now doesn’t erase all the good stuff. It still happened. Pain is just an inevitable part of life.’
‘It fee
ls like I’m getting more than my fair share of it sometimes, that’s all.’
‘You’ve not exactly been lucky, no,’ said Maya, ‘but everyone has their shit. And I know there’ll be more shit for me down the line. Even if Darren and I don’t get divorced, one of us will get sick and die and I’ll feel my pain then. It’s just a matter of when.’
‘This isn’t your best pep talk ever.’
Maya laughed.
‘My point is, the only way not to feel pain is to never love anyone.’
‘That’s beginning to feel like a real option,’ I said.
By 6 a.m., Maya needed to get up and make breakfast for her baby, and I apologised profusely for making her day that bit harder. She of course told me it was fine, but as soon as I hung up, I ordered her a bunch of flowers anyway. Then I went to the shop to buy some boxes because I had decided during our phone call that today was the day I would pack Theo’s things.
I had a video call with my mam which lasted roughly eight hours; she went about her business in the background, tidying the house and making phone calls and cooking dinner, while I separated our record and DVD collections, stuffed his clothes into bags, packed boxes full of books, and stacked all of our framed pictures up against one wall. I sifted through our ‘memory box’, the general detritus of a four-year relationship, which I had collected from the start. There were hundreds of photographs and postcards and ticket stubs, but the birthday cards were the worst part; his handwriting, his promises of loyalty and love, even our silly little in-jokes. My mother told me to rip them up, but I couldn’t. I felt sorry for myself then. It wasn’t fair. Why should I have to do this alone? How come he got to just move out and move on? He would never have to look at this stuff again or sit, like I am now, sorting through it all. I was sinking, fast, when my delightfully dark mind offered me a solution.
I took a drawer full of important documents and files – his bank statements, tax records, letters pertaining to stocks and shares, even his birth certificate – and I emptied it into a massive cardboard box. On top of all these things he would absolutely need to find at some point, I poured the contents of our memory box and a bunch of funny-looking stuffed animals we’d collected from zoos around the world. I added his collection of 1977 mint-condition stormtrooper figurines for good measure. Then I picked it up, shook it really hard for about thirty seconds, put it down and sealed it. I called it ‘The Box of Doom’. Maya suggested I cover all his clothes in glitter too, but I felt that was a step too far.
By that evening, one half of my bedroom was stacked full of boxes and I had officially moved from sadness into anger, a far more productive phase of the grieving process.
I didn’t reply to the email Theo didn’t write. Nor did I contact him about the messages I shouldn’t have seen. I spent the following week working, seeing friends, and redecorating the apartment. Then, when I was ready, I called him to say I had boxed up his stuff and would appreciate if he could come collect it as soon as possible. He seemed thrown by my matter-of-fact tone. I enjoyed that. But much more than that, I enjoyed his suggestion that he ‘drop by in a cab’ to pick it all up; he seemed genuinely taken aback when I explained that he had actually been living with me for quite some time and during that time he had amassed a lot of belongings. When I told him to hire a removal van, he let out a long, unnecessarily loud sigh to indicate just how much of an inconvenience this was. I pictured him there, phone in one hand, rubbing his forehead with the other, eyes scrunched up, and in that moment I was glad to be rid of him and his stupid, stressed-out face.
He’s standing in the hallway now, looking into the bedroom, processing the new decor and the number of boxes I’ve stacked from floor to ceiling.
‘There’s so many.’
‘I did say,’ I call back from the kitchen. As I reach into the cupboard for some mugs, he speaks again, quieter this time.
‘Thanks for packing it all for me.’
He glances towards me, all doe eyes and guilt, and for a moment he is my Theo again.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say.
Theo goes into the bedroom and, as I pour water over a tea bag, I’m distracted. I look back at the spot where he stood and remember the night he left. Just before he walked out the door I stopped him and grabbed him, and we stood holding one another for what felt like far too long and not nearly long enough. I tried, right there on that very spot, to commit the feel of him to my memory: the weight of his arms, the exact pressure they exerted on my body, the concave dip of his chest where my head rested neatly, how my right hipbone pressed against his left, and how my shoulders folded, birdlike, as he pulled me into him. When he took a step back I remained motionless. He kissed me. Said he loved me. And with that he was gone.
There was a silence then. More than a silence: a vacuum. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I now stood inside a void so dense that my skull might implode from the pressure. The door seemed to bend impossibly towards me, then away, and I reeled, turning towards the kitchen and stepping onto nothing, as though my legs had disappeared. Before I could check if they were still there, a convulsion seized me, and I grabbed onto a door frame, leaned over and retched. Nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten that day. I lowered myself to the floor and lay face down, with my cheek against the wood, and somewhere in the distance I could hear a whistling sound.
I don’t know how long I stayed that way. Hours, maybe – or it might have just seemed like hours – but at some point I flashed on the pregnancy test I’d taken that morning; a blue cross forming in a tiny window. I saw it materialise, over and over, then pushed it away. I can’t think about that now, I thought, I’ll think about it tomorrow. Those weren’t my words, though. They were Scarlett O’Hara’s. And suddenly her voice was in my head and I was twelve years old again, lying in my mother’s bed watching Gone With the Wind. My mother. I should call my mother. I’d been recovering from a particularly horrendous bout of food poisoning. I’d had a fever for two days. And when she thought I was better she gave me apple juice and I vomited it back up, hot and thick. I haven’t drunk apple juice since. I should eat something. I need to eat. I need to call my mother. What will I tell her? What the hell is that whistling sound?
It was me. I was sucking air through what felt like a tiny hole in my throat, and my long, laboured breaths were producing a sound not unlike nails on a chalkboard. I probably would have passed out had my stomach not growled so loudly that the sound actually startled me. I told myself, out loud, to get off the floor, then I scrambled back up the door frame and eventually wobbled my way to the kitchen like a fawn on fresh legs. I ate a piece of dry toast and went to bed, where I lay howling till I fell asleep. I had never cried like that before. The sounds were guttural and animalistic, and I let them come.
The next morning, I went into the office to write – I didn’t need to be there, I just wanted to be around people – and several times that day I excused myself, vomited in the toilet, then got back to work. The day after that I got my hair cut, went to the bank and had a meeting with my publicist in a cat-themed café. I was in shock and I knew it. But I decided that as long as I was still functioning, I should get as much done as possible. It was like I’d been stabbed, and at any moment the knife might be pulled out, sending blood gushing everywhere and forcing me to deal with my injuries. Until then though, I would continue about my business – knife and all.
The third day was the charm. I actually felt myself go. People talk about hearts breaking all the time, but I don’t know how many of them have felt their brain break. It’s an interesting sensation.
I packed a bag and got a taxi to the airport, where I marched up to the check-in desk in a headscarf and sunglasses, and asked for a one-way ticket on the next flight to Ireland. I’d become a scarf-clad cliché.
By the time I landed in Dublin I was a jittery mess. I knew I couldn’t keep going for much longer, so the hour-long wait at passport control was a real fucking treat. When I got through the a
rrival gates and saw my mother waiting there for me, it took every shred of strength I had left not to collapse into her arms and allow myself to fall apart. As she approached me, I held one hand out in front of me and looked at her with a face that I hoped said, ‘I love you dearly, but please, do not show me affection right now.’ She took my suitcase and walked me to her car in complete silence.
I stayed in Dublin for a week, where I spent every day on the sofa, with her next to me in an armchair. We talked endlessly about my breakup, and what would happen next. I refused to simply wait and let things unfold, and I insisted on speculating incessantly about every single aspect of it: why he left, whether he’d come back, if he was seeing someone else, if maybe we could be friends. She nodded at me and cried with me and most importantly, she prevented me from calling him.
I couldn’t eat. I was hungry, but the physical act of swallowing food made me gag. My mother fed me tiny portions; segments of sausage on my niece’s pink plastic plate, sandwiches cut into four triangles – the deal was she’d eat two if I ate two. I was a child again. She even put sugar in my tea, something I gave up years ago. Anything to get calories into me.
Phone calls were made. Family members were notified. Condolences were offered. A breakup is like a death without a funeral.
At night I took sleeping pills, which had been prescribed to my mother after surgery last winter to remove one of her kidneys. I remember the night she called me; I was standing in the frozen-food aisle of a Tesco Metro with a packet of peas in one hand and my phone in the other. She rambled on at length about hospitals and positive thinking and whether or not she’d be fit to cook Christmas dinner, and all I had actually heard were the words ‘tumour’ and ‘malignant’.
‘Are we talking about the C-word here?’ I asked.
‘What!?’ she bellowed. She thought I meant cunt. She hates that word.
‘The other C-word,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she replied, much more quietly. ‘Yes, love. We are.’
