What was I going to do? Spend thousands of pounds having work done? Work that we’d spent thousands on already. In the end, we decided just to sell the place and split what little money we got from the sale after the mortgage was paid off. A clean break for all involved.
A clean break, but not a new beginning. I’m off the property ladder and back to renting a room, living with Ali like the good old days. In some ways, it’s exactly like the good old days because Ali isn’t here most nights and on the nights when she is here, she’s quite chilled out and quiet. I am yet to hear any unnecessarily loud sexcapades, but you’re not going to hear me moaning – so I guess that makes two of us.
I’m glad that Daniel and I were able to sort things out amicably. I didn’t have any energy left for fighting with him. I think he’s happy now; he’s also living in a flat-share, with someone from his work. Things between him and Eva didn’t work out – in fact the last I heard she was moving away to start afresh somewhere else. I don’t think she ever wanted to be an ‘other woman’ – or, at the very least, to be known for it.
‘Do I remember the holiday we were on five months ago?’ I ponder out loud. ‘Oh, you mean my honeymoon, that I went on alone, but then my ex, his new bird/my ex-friend, and my best friend turned up. Oh, and I fell in love with a movie star, won 5,000 Euros, but still managed to come home heartbroken and depressed – that holiday, or a different one?’
‘All right, sarky,’ she replies. ‘Well, remember when you asked me to go on a date with that guy and you said you’d owe me a double date in return?’
‘Oh, Ali, no, please,’ I say. ‘I’m still not over Freddie. The last thing I want is to be the person who gets lumbered with your latest “special friend’s” boring, weirdo friend. And I have so much promo work to do.’
‘How’s promo coming along?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I reply, although, truth be told, it’s a little strange reliving it.
When I got back from my holiday, after a couple of days of wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, I decided the best thing to do would be to throw myself into my work, and, just as Freddie suggested, I wrote a story based on us. Of course, in my version, the end is a little different. When you read romantic fiction, you are here for the ‘happy ever after’ – nothing else will do. In fact, readers feel cheated if they don’t get one.
So around the time where, in my real-life story, I sat Freddie down and told him that things weren’t going to work out between us, that’s where my book goes off in a completely different direction. Instead, I give my characters the ending that I wish I’d been brave enough to go for myself. My leading lady confesses her love for the handsome actor character. He tells her that he loves her too. He’s about to jet off, to film some movie, when he asks the leading lady to go with him. She can do her job anywhere, after all. So the pair fly off into the sunset together, full of hope for their future. When it comes to writing the final scene of a book, I like to keep things realistic; I don’t lay it on too thick. My love stories always end at the beginning – the beginning of the couple’s happy ever after, because that’s the most exciting part. At that point, there are years and years of a happy life on the horizon and that’s the positive note you should end a romance novel on. Not too far down the line because, in real life, that’s when things start to get difficult. Cut your audience off at the hopeful sweet spot, rather than when your couple starts arguing about whether or not their first romantic holiday in years should be to visit the set of The Lord of the Rings.
It was nice, to give my book the ending I never got. Well, not nice. Perhaps bittersweet is closer to the mark.
‘What did you think of it?’ I ask her. I gave Ali an early copy to read, eager to get her opinion. I’ve always written stories with real-life inspiration in mind, but nothing as close as this, and Ali was actually there.
‘I haven’t read it yet, I’m sorry,’ she replies. Ali is currently removing heated rollers from her head. She’s wearing a slinky red dress that lightly skims her enviable figure. ‘I think I lost it. Can you get me another, please?’
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘I guess, even if you think it’s dumb, it’s too late to change now anyway.’
‘That’s true. In that case, go put your best dress on. That black one, with the mesh at the front.’
‘The one you got me for my birthday, that I feel wildly self-conscious in?’
‘That’s the one,’ she says. ‘It’s hot!’
‘Are you really going to make me do this?’ I whine. ‘I’m so comfortable in my pyjamas and it’s winter out there.’
‘You’re too comfortable in your pyjamas,’ she corrects me. ‘So go get ready and I’ll bang what you’re wearing now into the washing machine so that we can wash the tea stains out whilst you’re distracted. You can put them back on again when we get back, and keep them on for another five months if that’s what is going to make you happy.’
‘It is,’ I reply with a faux seriousness. ‘I’ll go on the double date – because I do owe you one after forcing you to go out with Marty – but I will be counting down the seconds until I can put my pyjamas back on.’
‘Atta girl,’ Ali says enthusiastically. ‘I just need to go do my make-up.’
‘Seriously? You look like you already have. Any more make-up and your date won’t recognise you.
‘I just want everything to be perfect,’ she replies.
I eyeball her suspiciously. Sure, Ali takes a lot of pride in her appearance, but only ever for herself, never for a man.
‘Come on,’ Ali orders. ‘I’ll do yours too.’
‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ I reply.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the last time you did my make-up someone asked me what my drag name was.’
‘That’s a compliment for us both, so I’m doing it.’
‘Oh, joy,’ I say.
‘That’s the spirit,’ she says.
‘Do we know anything about this guy?’ I ask.
‘Mine is someone I’ve dated a couple of times, and it’s going very well. Your guy has been single for a long time, so we’re trying to get him back out there.’
‘Yay,’ I say sarcastically. ‘It doesn’t sound like there is anything wrong with him at all.’
‘You’ve got to move on at some point, you know,’ she says.
‘I know, I know,’ I reply.
I know that I should force myself to get dressed up and go out; it’s just hard to find the will. When I got back from my holiday I had a whole book to write, so it was easy to keep myself distracted. Now that’s out of the way I need to fill my life with something. It might as well be squashing myself into tiny clothes and forcing myself to go out with people I have no interest in. That’s what single people do, right?
41
Imagine the team from Babestation going out for their work Christmas party. Basically naked, overly made-up girls walking through the city in sky-high heels, with only bravado to keep them warm.
That’s what Ali and I look like right now. Well, Ali certainly does. I look like the work-experience girl who is trying too hard.
I think it’s funny, that my try-hard look has come from a complete lack of effort on my part. I let Ali do whatever she wanted, and what she wanted to do was give me big curls, bold make-up, and I wore the black, revealing dress she insisted I wear.
As we walk into San Carlo restaurant the shift from the freezing-cold weather outside to the toasty temperature inside is very welcome. It smells amazing too. I can’t say that, at least by reviving my social life, I can go back to enjoying food in my favourite restaurants, because I have absolutely been ordering food from here, brought to me in the comfort of (not) my own home by the wonderful people of Deliveroo.
Ali checks her phone.
‘We’re here first,’ she says. ‘So shall we sit in the bar?’
‘Okay,’ I reply cautiously.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘We’re early
,’ I point out. ‘And you’re never early. You have rules, on how late you need to be, depending on what you want to achieve. And the extra effort getting ready…’
Ali smiles at me but, in her attempt to appear blank, she just looks shifty.
‘You sit down,’ she insists. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Porn star martini?’
I nod cautiously. It’s a good attempt at a distraction, offering to buy me my favourite drink, but I’m on to her.
I anxiously mess with my phone, keeping myself distracted. I fire up Instagram and do what I always do: meaningfully scroll through my newsfeed, as though that’s why I’m there, before punching Freddie’s name into the search box. I don’t even have to go to much effort; he’s always a suggestion now.
I creep on his profile and see a photo of him posted an hour ago, standing in what I’d guess is his massive, pristine kitchen, brandishing a plastic flask full of some protein drink. He’s smiling, looking straight into the camera. I always feel as if he’s looking at me, as if he knows I’m looking at his photos, and it amazes me that he’s able to get in my head without even trying.
I know I shouldn’t even be looking but I just can’t help myself. We’ve all stalked people we’ve had crushes on or ex-boyfriends online – the problem with Freddie is that there is simultaneously a ton of information about him on the Internet, but at the same time never quite enough. I want to know how he is; I want to know what he’s up to. I spend far too long trying to work out if he looks happy, looking for signs that maybe he misses me. A picture of him with his shirt off and a caption promoting protein shakes is nice, but it doesn’t satisfy me.
I give up, feeling frustrated at myself for even looking. I imagine being an old woman, telling my story to my grandkids as Rose does in Titanic… except somehow ‘Granny banged a movie star on holiday and then ruined the relationship for no real reason’ isn’t quite as epic or as romantic as Jack and Rose’s tale.
I look over at the busy bar to see some guy talking into Ali’s ear. I can tell he’s older than she is, even from behind. He has his hand on the small of her back – I’m surprised she hasn’t given me the signal yet. Usually, if one of us wants the other to swoop in and save them from unwanted attention, we place our right hand on our left shoulder.
I watch as the man’s hand slides further down her back, grabbing hold of her arse. I jump up from my seat and hurry over.
‘You okay?’ I ask her, whispering into her other ear.
‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Here’s your drink.’
‘Where’s yours?’ I ask, noticing only one on the bar in front of us.
‘We’re going elsewhere,’ she says.
‘What, you and…’ I’m about to refer to the random man next to her, except he isn’t random at all ‘… Marty?’
‘Lila, how you doing?’ he asks me. He pulls me in for a hug, as if we’re old friends and not just people who have met twice and on one of those occasions he tried to pay me for sex.
‘Shocked,’ I reply. ‘What about our double date?’
‘This is my date,’ she says.
‘What?’ I reply. ‘I’m so confused.’
‘We’re a couple,’ she tells me.
Marty lifts up his right hand and dances like Beyoncé does in ‘Single Ladies’, showing me that there are no signs of his wedding ring.
‘A couple?’
‘We’ve been seeing each other long distance,’ she explains. ‘I was, well, sort of embarrassed about it. You know me, I don’t really do relationships…’
I remember, back when we were in Italy, Ali saying she really liked him, but she never mentioned it again after that, so I never really gave it much thought. I just assumed it was a similar deal to Max, who she was also really into… until she wasn’t.
Marty looks great. He seems happier and way more relaxed, and he looks as if he’s been working out too – either that, or Ali has been working him out.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say.
‘Where did you think I was last month when I went away for a week?’ Ali asks giddily, clearly so very proud of herself for such a well-executed con.
‘Well, I could tell you were being kind of secretive about wherever you were going. I just thought you were going to the Czech Republic for more breast…’ Ali stares daggers into me, so I reroute my sentence ‘…cancer charity fundraising.’
‘Nope,’ she reveals with a cackle. ‘I was in LA, hanging out with this guy. And he’s here for work now, so we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.’
‘Well, I’m really happy for you,’ I tell her – and I mean it; it’s nice to see her so happy. ‘Both of you. And I’m even happier that there isn’t actually a double date lined up. I was dreading it. I suppose calling that favour is the only way you could think to get me out of the house.’
‘I can’t believe they’ve put your champagne shot inside your porn star martini,’ a voice says behind me. ‘What do they think this is, a Jägerbomb?’
His voice paralyses me. All I can do is stare ahead at Ali and Marty who are both grinning like idiots.
‘He’s behind you,’ Ali mouths at me.
After a moment’s hesitation, I finally turn around.
‘Hi,’ Freddie says.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘Okay, we’ll leave you two to it,’ Ali says.
She hugs me from behind, squeezing my shoulders.
‘You’re welcome,’ she whispers into my ear.
Freddie, who already has a glass of something in his hand, offers to carry my drink over to our table. A table for two. I can’t believe how well Ali has played me.
‘You look…’
‘Like Ali,’ I say, finishing his sentence. ‘Ali dressed me.’
‘I was going to say you look amazing,’ he replies.
We sit down at the table and for a moment we just laugh.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ I blurt.
Freddie looks so different from the last time I saw him. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve missed him or if it’s true, but he’s better-looking than I remember. His hair is neater and much shorter. He looks bigger, as if he’s found new places to store new muscles. He’s wearing trousers and a shirt appropriate for winter – I guess the version of Freddie that I knew had a tan and was always wearing summer clothing.
‘In London, or having dinner with you?’
‘Oh, are we having dinner?’ I ask, my voice getting higher and higher as my sentence goes on.
‘If you want to?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Of course. I… Oh, boy.’
When I first got here I welcomed the heat. Now I feel as if I’m sweating. I know I should be playing it cool now but I can’t. I can’t believe Freddie is here, sitting across the table from me. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see him again.
‘It’s okay,’ he reassures me, giving my hand a brief squeeze on top of the table. ‘I’ll talk for a while, if you like? Sorry, I think… Marty and Ali thought this might be a good surprise.’
‘I am definitely surprised,’ I reply.
A young waitress places a bottle of water down on our table. She notices Freddie and smiles at him. Then she looks at me.
‘It’s okay,’ she whispers into my ear. ‘I used to get starstruck too. Just try to remember that famous people are just like you.’
Freddie laughs.
‘Remember, I’m just like you,’ Freddie jokes once we’re on our own again.
‘I just… can’t believe you’re here,’ I say for probably the millionth time. ‘I just saw you on Instagram. You were at home…’
‘So, you’ve been looking at my Instagram, huh? Those sponsored posts are planned way in advance – that picture might have been taken before we met.’
So much for wondering if he looked happy or as if he missed me in his photos.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, changing the subject from my Insta-stalking. I suppose it’s a much better way to get an
swers, by asking questions. It beats trying to read between the lines of his image captions.
‘I’m in London for a few months, filming the second Eden movie,’ he explains. ‘That’s why I look so neat and tidy. And why I’m drinking diet soda. I had to get back into shape to play Edward. I feel like a dork.’
‘I can’t believe the you I met on holiday wasn’t in shape,’ I say. ‘You look great.’
‘So do you,’ he replies. ‘How are things?’
‘Erm, not bad,’ I start. ‘I’m living with Ali now, which is exactly as I remember it – apart from the screaming orgasms, but I suppose that’s because she’s been having a secret affair with Marty.’
‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Daniel,’ he says. ‘You were right to give it a try. I’m sorry if it seemed like I was trying to get in your way. God, I’ve wanted to say that to you for months.’
‘We didn’t even try,’ I tell him. ‘We were never going to.’
‘Oh,’ he replies. ‘Sorry, I thought you said…’
‘Yeah, I did. I didn’t know what else to do. I was planning on saying something completely different to you that night but…’
I don’t know how to finish my sentence. Everything just sounds so stupid.
‘Well, I have a confession to make,’ Freddie says.
‘Oh?’
‘I read your book. Your new one.’
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. It never occurred to me that he might read it.
‘Wait. It’s not even out yet,’ I say.
‘Yeah, my manager knows a woman who had a copy,’ he jokes.
Ali! So much for her saying she lost it.
‘I liked the ending,’ he says. ‘The book seemed pretty accurate up to then.’
‘I have to write happy endings,’ I reply. ‘And I really messed stuff up with us.’
‘You know you said you were going to say something different that night,’ Freddie starts. ‘Do you mind me asking what it was?’
Honeymoon For One Page 27
