Читать книгу The Single Girl’s To-Do List - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 10

‘I’m going to kill him,’

I nodded.

‘I mean, I’m going to destroy him. Hold him down, punch him in the face and then rip off each limb before beating his face in with the soggy ends.’

‘’K,’ I agreed.

‘And then I’m going to—’

‘Emelie,’ Matthew interrupted, reaching down to scoop me up from the floor. ‘You’re not helping.’

I leaned into my friend and squeezed my toothbrush in one hand, my phone in the other.

‘Want to give me that now?’ he asked, holding out his hand. I gave him my phone.

‘And the toothbrush?’

I reluctantly passed it over.

Matthew and Emelie had crossed London in record time and made it to my door before I’d even moved. I had called Matthew, he had called Emelie and she had called Domino’s but they weren’t delivering yet. But the thought was there. I’d given them the abridged version of what had happened since I’d got in the cab, punctuated by sniffling, sobbing and general self-pity and, in turn, they’d filled me in on what had happened at their end which basically consisted of Paul knocking Simon on his arse, Matthew watching with admiration and Emelie landing a kick to the crotch while calling him something terrible in French that didn’t really translate. When the police were called, my three musketeers had scarpered to the nearest McDonald’s and Simon had crawled into a cab. Which was where my story took over.

‘It never occurred to me that he would come here,’ Matthew said, stroking my hair as I sat on the sofa. ‘We were going to come over but you didn’t answer the phone so I assumed you were asleep. You always reply if you’re not asleep.’

‘I did sleep,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘I know you will,’ he said. ‘Of course you will be. You’re well rid of that arsehole.’

Was I rid of him? Surely he was the one who had got rid of me? And I wasn’t an arsehole. I didn’t think.

‘You’re so going to be all right.’ Em was brewing enough tea to quench the thirst of Bristol. ‘How about a bath? A bath might feel good.’

‘I don’t know.’ How did someone not know whether or not they wanted a bath? Oh good, I’d gone mad.

‘Well, whatever you want to do, just tell us.’ Matthew kissed the top of my head and looked at me expectantly. ‘Or, you know, sit there in silence and we’ll just talk at you. Either way.’

The clock on the DVD player said it was 10.00 a.m. The Mad Men DVD has gone from the top of the DVD player. How could it only be 10.00 a.m.? Your life wasn’t allowed to go down the shitter before noon on a Saturday, surely. Simon must have taken the Mad Men DVD. I should get changed. I actually should have a bath. But a bath would make my foot hurt. I cut my foot. And what was I going to get changed into? Pyjamas would be too pathetic; clothes seemed too optimistic. Maybe I could go back to sleep. It was still early. If this was a normal Saturday and I hadn’t just been completely screwed over by the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with, I’d probably still be in bed.

‘Rachel, are you thinking things and not saying them out loud?’ Matthew asked.

Oh, I was.

‘He’s taken the Mad Men DVDs,’ I said eventually. My voice sounded thick and tragic.

‘Had you finished watching them?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘Fils de pute,’ Emelie breathed. ‘It’s one thing to take a girl’s toothpaste, it’s another to take her Don Draper—’

‘Right, bath first,’ he said, giving Emelie the nod. She immediately stopped refilling the kettle and hotfooted it into the bathroom. Taps turning, water running, Emelie swearing when she scalded herself on our hot tap just as she always did. ‘OK?’

I really couldn’t do much more than nod. It was like I was asleep with my eyes open. Somewhere between two and twenty minutes passed before Emelie called that the bath was ready. Matthew helped me up and gave me a gentle push towards the bathroom.

‘You’ll feel better, really.’ He shut the door before I could start stripping off. Amazing best friend though he was, Matthew was wildly uncomfortable around female nudity. He had been very clear from the outset that he had no interest in seeing so much as a boob from either of us. Emelie had, of course, flashed him within three weeks of living together, but I’d managed to retain my modesty. ‘Amazing what a bath can do.’

‘It’s ready.’ Em manoeuvred her way behind me in my tiny bathroom and pulled as much as my hair as she could into a ponytail on the top of my head. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘I’m good.’ I peeled off my vest and dropped it on the bathroom floor. Five more minutes and it probably would have crawled off my back itself. The skinny jeans were more committed to sticking with me. It took me a good couple of attempts to wrestle my way out of them before Em stepped in with one good hard tug and yanked them down over my knees. Hanging onto the sink, I watched her scoop them up, flash me a grin and then shut the bathroom door behind her. Standing in front of the mirror in my bra and pants, hair piled in a giant pineapple on top of my head, crying, with a bottom lip so low you could hang coat hangers off it, didn’t make me feel pathetic at all. Have a bath, Rachel. You’ll feel better, Rachel.

Tearing my eyes away from the sex bomb in the mirror, the actual bath itself looked amazing. It was full and overloaded with bubbles, and the steam scented the room with a relaxing, clean smell – lavender and something. All I had to do was get in. One foot, then the other and, soon, I’d smell clean and fresh too. My skin would be pink and soft, the bubbles would tickle the back of my neck and, whether I liked it or not, my muscles would relax and I probably would feel a bit better. Only, I didn’t want to feel better. I wanted to wallow and mope and run the events of the last twelve hours over and over in my mind. I didn’t want tea; I didn’t want baths; I didn’t want sympathetic friends. I wanted my boyfriend back. But if I didn’t get in the bath, a) Matthew and Emelie would know and b) I would smell. Couldn’t hurt to show willing. That was, of course, unless the bath was scorching red hot and took the skin off my foot.

Outside the bathroom, I could hear my friends’ emergency summit. The joys of cheap Nineties renovations: the walls in this place were paper thin.

‘Right, I’ll strip the bed and you take the photos of him down,’ I heard Matthew directing. ‘I’ll bloody boil-wash the bedding. I want every trace of that shit out of this flat before she gets out the bath.’

‘Done and done,’ Em replied. ‘I can’t believe he’s done this.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I really thought this one was going all the way.’

Me and you both, I thought. Me and you both.

‘Then thank god he’s done it now. Imagine if they’d actually got married.’

‘I know, I mean, how do you pretend you’re happy for someone marrying a knob-head?’

I sank back into the bath. My friends thought Simon was a knob-head? But we’d been together for five years and they’d never said anything. I knew I was never at risk of either of them trying it on with him – aside from the fact he had a penis, he really wasn’t either of their types, but still. They hated him so much they were pleased we’d broken up?

I held a bright pink foot out of the water and checked my toenail polish. It needed changing. Theme of the day. Turning on the cold tap with my toes, I tried to come up with reasons as to why Em and Matthew would dislike Simon so much. Admittedly, they didn’t have that much in common. Simon was pretty much a full-time bloke. He watched football, played video games, enjoyed the work of Will Ferrell, the body of Megan Fox and the music of Coldplay. That didn’t make him a bad person, just a straight 29-year-old man. Maybe he hadn’t always been completely comfortable around Matthew in the early days, but that was just because he didn’t have that many gay friends. And maybe he’d been a little too comfortable around Emelie on occasion, but she could hardly pretend she wasn’t flattered by his clumsy flirting. And he was a good boyfriend. He cooked, mostly because I couldn’t. He did all the man jobs, brought me flowers when he’d worked late, always remembered my birthday, never cancelled on plans, came to every last wedding, birthday and christening I dragged him to without complaint. He wasn’t selfish or greedy, he didn’t cheat or lie; he was a good man. We were happy. We had a routine. And apparently I wasn’t alone in thinking this was going to end in a ring and a white dress and a rousing rendition of ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ on the floor of a nice hotel somewhere in Surrey.

But no. No ring. No white dress. No group dance number. No explanation. Maybe if I spoke to him. Maybe if I got a real explanation, we could still talk this through. I could still get him back.

After what I hoped was a decent amount of time, I heaved myself out of the still-hot water and towelled down. Matthew wouldn’t appreciate the show of skin but, as my dressing gown was in the bedroom, this was the best I could do. I just wanted to put on some clothes, pick up the phone and get this sorted. Matthew and Emelie were standing in the living room, my bedding dumped on the floor between them.

‘What now?’ I asked, feeling all my newly acquired get-up-and-go get up and go. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Emelie looked up, panicked. ‘Wow, you look better. Why don’t you go and get dressed?’

‘I look like shit,’ I said, tightening my towel around me. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen? Did Simon call?’

‘No,’ she said. Matthew slipped something into his back pocket and stepped behind Em. ‘Get dressed then we’ll go and get something to eat. You must be starving.’

They were the worst liars ever.

‘What did you just put in your pocket?’ I asked Matthew.

‘Nothing.’ His voice was higher than mine.

‘OK, give it here.’ I held out my hand. ‘Whatever it is, give it.’

Matthew and Emelie looked at each other. Giving him her best Care Bear stare, Em shook her head but he just nodded and pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and bit his lip.

‘Matthew,’ Em put her hand on my shoulder, holding me back, ‘don’t.’

‘Why don’t you get dressed first …’ he started, but I was too fast. Pushing Emelie onto the sofa, I narrowed my eyes, tightened my ponytail and checked the towel. Before jumping onto the sofa and leaping onto Matthew’s back. With one arm around his neck, I grabbed at the piece of paper in his hand while he ran around in circles, squealing like a woman.

‘Get her off!’ he shrieked, lapping the room like a headless chicken.

Emelie rolled back on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her, hands pressed against her face. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying and I really didn’t care. All I knew was that I was getting that bloody piece of paper. Matthew was on his fourth lap of the living room when I finally managed to snatch it out of his hand. At the exact same time as I lost my towel. Ignoring the fact that at least three of my neighbours were watching me take a naked piggyback ride around my living room on a six foot four gay man, I slid to the floor and quickly scanned the note.

Matthew came to a standstill, panting far too heavily for a man who worked out as often as he did. ‘Jesus H Christ,’ he wheezed, eyes wide and a look of complete horror on his face. Em composed herself quickly and wrapped my towel around me. But I wasn’t too worried about being naked at that moment. I was far more concerned with the contents of the note.

It was pale and blue and lined with raw, torn edges down one side where it had been ripped from a notebook. My notebook. Someone had been in my bag, ripped a page out of my notebook and left me a very brief message.

Rachel,

I’m sorry. It’s not going to work. I’m away with work this week and then I’m moving out.

Sorry.

Simon

I read it three more times before looking up at my friends. Matthew’s expression was somewhere between traumatized and apologetic. Emelie just looked so incredibly sad. I opened my mouth to say something, anything to break the tension, but all I could manage was a sharp intake of breath. This was it? This was all I got? The note scrunched up too easily, until it was just a few sharp corners in my palm, and when I opened up my fist, it sat there like a tiny ball of nothing. When I opened my eyes, it was still there. A tiny, innocuous piece of paper that had just completely broken my heart.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Half eleven?’ Matthew guessed.

‘Is the pub open?’

‘It’s London,’ Em picked up her handbag. ‘There’s always a pub open somewhere.’

I nodded and clutched my towel closed around me. ‘I’ll get dressed then.’

Happily, we didn’t have to search for long. Within the hour we were safely stashed away in a dark corner of a dark pub up the road from my flat. With a bottle of white wine on the table and three orders of posh fish fingers on their way, we were set up for the afternoon.

‘So your options are, we can get drunk, slag him off and stagger home with a kebab.’ Matthew ticked off the options on his fingers. ‘Or we can get drunk, you can cry and embarrass yourself horribly, then we stagger home with a kebab.’

‘Tell me there’s an option three.’ I tried to stop myself from poking my finger through the hole in my leggings. I’d blame my shoddy ensemble on the speed with which I’d got dressed, but really, most of my clothes were either entirely too much or just a bit shit. No one cared what the make-up artist was wearing on set and I’d developed something of a black leggings, white T-shirt uniform over the last couple of years. Didn’t take too much thinking about when you were rummaging in the drawers at five a.m.

‘Option three, we get drunk and plan your fabulous new life and then stagger home with a kebab,’ Matthew finished.

‘Do I get a vote?’ Emelie waved her hand in the air. ‘I want option three. And I’d also like to suggest pizza instead of kebabs.’

‘No, it’s got to be kebabs,’ Matthew declared. ‘This is the only time I can eat one without hating myself afterwards. All calories consumed within forty-eight hours of a break-up are null and void.’

‘Any more rules I should know about?’ I asked.

‘Oh god, loads,’ Em chimed in. ‘You’re allowed two sickies from work, three late-night phone calls to me and himself without any complaining, as much ice cream as you can humanly consume. You get to go on a credit-card-trashing spending spree as long as you only buy completely ridiculous things you’ll never wear in six months’ time. What else?’

‘You’re allowed to shag someone completely inappropriate as long as they’re really fit,’ Matthew added. ‘And you never have to call them again.’

‘Probably give that one a miss for now,’ I said, checking out my split ends. ‘I’ve had a bikini wax, maybe I could just get vajazzled for you?’

‘I don’t even want to know.’ Matthew plucked his iPhone from the selection on the table as it began to vibrate. He took a quick look, swiped at the screen and stared for a moment.

‘Are we keeping you from something important?’ Em asked so I didn’t have to.

‘You’re always keeping me from something import ant,’ he replied. ‘But I still love you. But back to Ms Summers. Have you got a busy week?’

‘Working on Monday, the shoot will probably run over to Tuesday,’ I shrugged. ‘More knicker work. More Ana. More Dan.’

‘Then we haven’t got long to get you started on the road to recovery.’ Em took a tentative sip of her wine. It was a little bit early, even for her, but god bless her for giving it her all. ‘And over your hangover.’

‘I can’t believe he’s just gone.’ I rested my elbows on the table. ‘Is that what usually happens? They just leave?’

‘Never had one stick around long enough to answer that question with credibility,’ Em admitted. ‘I lean towards just not answering calls and texts until they stop trying.’

‘And you know, I personally favour the screaming row complete with plate smashing, potential violence and optional public scene at three in the morning,’ Matthew said. ‘Leaving a note seems terribly middle class and straight to me.’

‘What do I do though?’ I knocked back half the glass of wine. Start as I meant to go on and all that. ‘I mean, after the wine and the kebab. How am I supposed to be single?’

‘This isn’t your first break-up. You know you’re going to get through it.’

‘Not my first break-up, but it is the first time I’ve been dumped.’

The table fell silent. There was a chance I’d lost the sympathy of the room.

‘Oh my god, it really is, isn’t it?’ Matthew breathed. ‘You’ve never been dumped before.’

‘And actually,’ Em set down her glass and brushed her wild red hair behind her ears, ‘what’s the longest amount of time you’ve been single?’

‘It’s not like I haven’t had my fair share of shits,’ I defended myself quickly. ‘I just always managed to get in there first with the whole “ending it” thing.’

‘But you’ve never really been single, have you?’ Matthew was pulling his ‘I’m thinking’ face. ‘You’ve been with Simon, what, five years?’

‘Yep.’ I tried to swallow as much wine as I could before we opened the ex files.

‘And if I recall correctly, you broke up with Jeremy on the morning of Fat Theresa from Media Studies’ wedding and met Simon at the reception.’

Poor fat Theresa from Media Studies – we’d graduated how many years ago and she still couldn’t shake the nickname? Actually no, scratch that, she was fat and she was married, why should I feel sorry for her? I wished I was fat and married.

‘And before Jeremy it was, who, Will?’

‘Will the wanker?’ Em clapped her hands. ‘Oh, he was funny.’

‘No he wasn’t, he was a wanker,’ I corrected. ‘He was cheating on me with about twenty-five different people.’

‘And yet you insisted on giving him a chance.’ Matthew narrowed his eyes. ‘And then another chance. And then another one. I really never understood that one. He wasn’t even that hot.’

‘I think it was because he wasn’t Martin,’ I theorized.

‘Martin. Lovely, lovely Martin,’ Matthew smiled. ‘I miss university boyfriends. They were so simple.’

‘Yeah, except lovely Martin was shagging his English lecturer,’ I reminded them, refilling my wine glass. The booze was definitely necessary.

‘And me,’ he added. ‘But not until afterwards, obvs.’

‘I just never thought about it before,’ Em waved to the waiter who was aimlessly wandering around the pub with our fish fingers. ‘How is it possible that you’ve never ever been single?’

‘Because I’m awesome?’ I ventured.

‘Aside from the obvious,’ she replied. ‘Everyone’s single at some point.’

I chopped a fish finger in half and dipped it in far too much tomato sauce. Few things made me happier than ironic menus in trendy London pubs because really, nothing made me happier than fish fingers. Why hadn’t I ever been single?

‘It isn’t like I line blokes up,’ I said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here now, would we?’

‘Suppose not,’ Matthew was only half paying attention as he built a shaky fish finger sandwich. ‘So this is all going to be new to you. Wow.’

‘I just can’t believe it,’ Fish fingers and Sauvignon Blanc went together surprisingly well. ‘I thought I was going to be engaged by the end of the year, now I’m just going to be one of those crazy women on the bus wearing too much blusher, carrying a cat in a bag.’

‘No you’re not,’ Em tugged my messy ponytail. ‘You’re going to be fine. Better than fine. Single and amazing.’

She didn’t sound terribly convincing. ‘But I just want my life back to normal.’

‘No such thing,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘This is normal now.’

Dropping my fish finger back on the plate, I felt my entire face fall. ‘That is so depressing.’

‘No it isn’t, being single is awesome,’ Em said. ‘You just have to get through the shitty break-up stuff and then it’s going to be great.’

‘She’s right,’ Matthew confirmed. ‘When you have a serious boyfriend you just plod on because that’s what you do. But it doesn’t mean you’re happy. Now you’ve got a chance to find out what makes you happy, not what makes him happy or what you like “as a couple”. This is going to be good for you.’

‘I just wish there was a guidebook,’ I sulked. ‘I’m not good with change.’

‘There are loads of guidebooks,’ he pointed out. ‘Millions. It’s just, they’re all shit. And anyway, you don’t need one. You’ve got us and we’re two of the most fabulous single people in London. We’re like … mentors. We could totally get funding from David Cameron: he loves a mentor.’

In the interests of getting a couple of minutes of peace and quiet to eat my lunch, I bit my tongue and bit into a chip. I did feel better for getting out of the house, just as I’d felt better for my bath. And I felt better for the wine and for sitting here with two fabulous friends. But I still didn’t want to feel better, I just wanted Simon back. Feeling the tears trying to make a comeback, I tried to concentrate on something else. Anything else. It was Saturday: what needed doing?

Since Simon had raped and pillaged my to-do list for his heartfelt ‘fuck you’ note, I had to start a new one. Pushing aside my lunch, I started to scribble down everything that needed to be done before I went back to work on Tuesday. I still had to go to the post office, still had to get Matthew’s birthday card and present. I needed to call someone to look at that damp spot – what, a plasterer? And I should probably call my dad, tell him Simon wasn’t going to be coming to the wedding.

‘Uh, Rachel?’ Matthew piped up.

I looked up, end of the pen in between my teeth. ‘Yuh?’

‘What exactly are you doing?’

I looked from Matthew to Emelie and back again. Both had forks full of food paused mid-air and both were staring at me like I might be slightly mentally unstable.

‘Writing my to-do list?’

‘To do what?’

‘Stuff?’

‘Right.’

I looked at my friends once more then went back to my list. ‘It makes me feel better, OK?’

‘As long as it includes “get wasted” and “do a rebound guy”, I’m fine with it,’ Em said after a moment. ‘And put “give Emelie all of Simon’s Peep Show DVDs” on there as well.’

‘You can have the DVDs,’ I promised. ‘But these are actually things that need doing, not a fantasy break-up list.’

‘You’re already pretty far along the break-up list,’ Matthew commented through a mouthful of chips. ‘The actual deed is done, someone’s punched your ex in the face and you’ve even had the break-up sex. I usually take ages to embarrass myself with that one.’

‘Me too,’ Em nodded. ‘Break-up sex is the thing that usually drags this out. You’re doing very well. Everything ticked off already.’

‘Just need to crack on with the being single to-do list then.’ I scratched at the label on the wine bottle, trying not to pout. ‘Stop shaving your legs, get hammered, die alone with cats.’

‘Oh, Rachel,’ Em’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s it. We’ll write you a to-do list. A single girl’s to-do list.’

I tore off a big long strip of label.

‘What?’

Em’s face was lit up like Blackpool. ‘We’ll write you a list. Everything you need to do as a single girl. Everything you should have done by now but haven’t because you’ve been hanging around with that twat.’

‘It’s not a bad idea actually,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m assuming I’m allowed to contribute despite not actually being a single girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘If I thought you were going to say sniff a bunch of poppers, go out dancing all night and then make out with a hot stranger in a public bathroom, I’d let you have more of a say in this, but you won’t because you’re a rubbish gay.’

‘We don’t make out, dear, we’re in England.’ Matthew topped up her wine while giving her the glaring of a lifetime. ‘And just because I’m not falling out of a sauna in Vauxhall at six a.m. every morning having blown three closeted Tory MPs doesn’t mean I don’t have valuable insight into how to be successfully single.’

‘If it’ll stop you two from squabbling like children, I’m in,’ I relented. ‘Come on, then, what’s going on this list? Besides cry myself to sleep on Valentine’s Day and shag a stranger in the toilets at Inferno’s?’

‘Oh, I think we can do a lot better than that,’ Em promised. ‘Much, much better.’