Читать книгу Drive Me Crazy - Portia MacIntosh - Страница 16

Chapter 6

‘Honey, I’m home,’ I call out, as I do every night, and my dutiful little cat runs up to me and shows me affection, like she always does when I get home. It was Will’s idea that I get a pet, so that I had some company when Amy finally moved out. I would’ve preferred a puppy, but a kitten was less work. Cats are much more independent, and don’t take much looking after. They’re capable of showing affection, but they don’t need to. They’re happy on their own, doing their own thing – the perfect pet for me then.

As much as I love Honey, sometimes I look at her, and feel like she’s the first step to my never-ending spinsterhood, a reminder that I’m going to be forever alone. Deep down, at the back of my mind, I do worry that I’m going to live here at the top of my tower until someone comes to rescue me from a life where I have more cats then I do husbands. Even if I don’t get more cats like the crazy cat lady I imagine I’ll turn into, one cat still makes that a fact. Unless, of course, we’re counting other people’s husbands, but that’s merely a technicality, isn’t it?

The first thing I do is head for my wardrobe, where I hang up my clothes, before taking a seat at my dressing table. I let my hair down – immediately scraping it into a bun and removing my make-up. Despite it being June there’s a chilly breeze tonight, so I put on a pair of pink flannel pyjamas, which, despite being purchased from Victoria’s Secret, are sexy by no stretch of the imagination. Then I head for the kitchen, throw some diced chicken into a pan and cook it, before throwing in a packet of stir-fry sauce. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with having this for dinner, it’s just that it’s this kind of healthy, low-fat, low-calorie, low-fun stuff that I live on to make sure my new dresses keep fitting me. I am bored of it, but I toss it around in the pan with the wrist action of a professional chef, breaking only to pop out onto the balcony to water my plants.

I never really thought I had a problem with my weight, until that first time Will pointed out that I was making unhealthy lifestyle choices. I wouldn’t say he was keeping tabs on my weight, but he started making helpful suggestions about how I could drop those extra few pounds I’ve been carrying around. At first, I was good at it. It was simple maths, just eat less and move more and those few pounds melt right off. But then, when I wanted to go back to eating ‘normally’ Will explained to me that I would pile it all back on – and more. The diet was OK for a few months, but I miss food so much. Eating steak just reminded me how much I love it, and I miss chocolate more than anything, which is probably why I’m powerless to resist when someone literally offers it to me on a plate. I’m healthier though, right? I’ll live a longer life, even if it will be a joyless one without big bars of Cadbury’s chocolate to keep me happy.

After sitting at the dining table to eat, all alone, I make myself a cup of tea, grab a SkinnyKwik chocolate cereal bar (a poor excuse for the real thing) and get comfortable on the sofa, ready for another night in, all alone.

Netflix has become my best friend. I recently started binge-watching Breaking Bad of a night and, I have to say, I am hooked. It’s a huge shift in genre from the last thing I watched, which was Gossip Girl, but as much as I loved that, Breaking Bad is just something else. Watching the journey Walter embarks on is eye-opening to say the least, and as much as it is reminding me that life can be short, it is also showing me just how much you can change your life. In a way, I relate. No, I’m not embarking on a career cooking meth – even stir-fry is a stretch for my culinary skills. Walter is trying to be this Heisenberg persona to fit in with his new world, just like I am trying so hard to fit into Will’s world. I’ll be interested to see how it plays out for him – and me. It’s hard to imagine anyone can keep up the act of pretending to be something they’re not, not without someone figuring out that they’re a fraud, or them turning into the person they’re pretending to be and losing their identity for ever.

As I sit here on the sofa, alone, cuddled up in the dark, with my new favourite show on the TV, I realise something: my relationship with TV is a lot like my relationship with Will. It takes me on an emotional roller coaster. It can make me so happy and then leave me so crushed in so much as a scene. A happy ending can lift my mood, just like a plot twist can distract me from my thoughts all day, or a sad scene can leave me feeling devastated. A character death leaves me feeling like I’ve actually lost someone. I mourn them. I think about them, about what the show would be like if they were still in it, just like I wonder what my life would be like if I’d made different choices. TV never lets me down, though. It keeps me entertained on these lonely nights. It excites me… I’ve just realised I’m living vicariously through Walter White.

It’s a particularly tense moment of the show, and as I await the fate of a main character, I feel my fists clench and my nails dig into the palms of my hands. The TV is silent, I am silent and just as tension is building my phone comes to life on the table in front of me, lighting up and vibrating with a message, causing me to jump out of my skin. As my heart finally stops pounding, I narrow my eyes, giving my phone a suspicious glance. Who is texting me? People hardly ever text me. Not since I got involved with an unavailable man and alienated all my friends.

I pause my show and grab my phone. It’s Will! That’s so weird; he very rarely texts me. I don’t give myself a chance to worry. I grab my phone and open it.

Will: Hi.

Me: Hey, you OK? xx

Will: I’m good. Steph out. I’m babysitting. What are you up to?

Oh, so that’s why he can text me, because he’s alone tonight. Not that I’m complaining – it’s nice to hear from him.

I’m not quite sure where to place it, but there seems to be a line – a generational gap – where people above a certain age seem to be bad at texting. Perhaps it’s because they were just that little bit too old to get caught up in MySpace and, for some reason, they just never signed up to Facebook like everyone else did. At the moment it’s around the forty mark. Messages are blunt, to the point and without kisses or emoji. Occasionally you’ll see a ‘LOL’ but it’s ten years too late. That’s when I notice the age gap, when he LOLs, when I realise that he’s never going to find a message containing nothing but a banana emoji funny. I remind myself that I shouldn’t find that funny either, because I’m a grown-ass lady.

Me: Just reading a book in bed. You?

Liar. But I’m not about to tell him I’m over-emotionally investing in a TV drama about the drug trade. It hardly screams ‘wife material’ does it?

Will: Just in bed. Thinking of you. What are you wearing?

Oh no he didn’t. In all our time together, sexting has never been a part of our thing – hell, regular texting is hardly a part of our thing. Will always said it was too risky. It’s when he says stuff like that, that this feels wrong, like I’m a dirty little secret. I remind myself that I know the score, but there’s always this little niggling feeling somewhere at the back of my mind that this is wrong.

I glance down at my pink flannel PJs.

Me: Pink lace bra and pink French knickers.

Another lie, and one that no female would ever believe because we all know how uncomfortable going to bed in a bra is, especially an underwired one.

Will: Send me a photo.

As I read this, I feel my eyebrows jump up and my eyes widen. He’s never said anything like that to me before. I think for a moment. It’s weird and I know it, but one thing that has always served me well is to wonder: ‘What would Stephanie do?’ when it comes to Will. So not to make any mistakes, I always consider my actions and whether they make me worthy of Will, and I am fairly certain that swapping sexy photos is not something Stephanie would do – and that’s Will’s type – but he’s asking for it. It’s not like I’m sending him one out of the blue. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing the type of lady Will goes for – the type I have painstakingly forged myself into – would do, and there’s a voice in my head telling me that it’s not the kind of thing I would do anyway, so…

Me: Nice try ;)

Will: Come on. I’m alone and I’m fantasising about you. Need a visual and I miss you.

Me: You’ll be seeing me tomorrow. Surely you can wait until then? Hehe.

When Will talks to me and interacts with me like I am a human being, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. Not the business-related stuff he says at work or the blunt texts he sends me to try and keep me sweet, but when he says things in a way that makes me feel like he’d probably be a bit bothered if I died. Those are the moments I live for.

On the flip side, when he doesn’t text me back, it hurts like hell. Being able to see that he’s read my message, but hasn’t replied; it doesn’t feel good and it makes me do stupid things. I try and think of reasons to talk to him, to coerce him into replying to me, just to get a message from him, just to have a moment where I know he remembers that I’m alive. On the occasions I don’t hear back from him, I’ll double-text him. I know it’s a needy thing to do, but I can’t help it. Our conversations that end with a goodbye and a kiss leave me feeling on top of the world – another successful interaction – but when he doesn’t reply, I can drive myself crazy wondering why not. Is he with his wife? Playing with his kids? Does he really think that much about me when he isn’t with me? Because I think about him a lot. I often wonder how his day is going: if he’s feeling OK, if he’s happy or sad, if he’s having fun. I see things in shops and think that he’d love them, or it will occur to me to forward silly internet memes to him, because he might find them funny (even though I usually decide that he won’t find them funny and don’t bother), but does he feel that way about me?

Even if it is because he’s fantasising about me, the fact he says he misses me means the world to me. What’s interesting is that, although I often fantasise about Will, it’s rarely sexual. I imagine what it would be like to cuddle up on the sofa and watch TV with him, to walk down the street holding his hand and to be able to take him along to parties with me as my plus one.

Amy’s wedding is coming up and I’m dreading it. I hardly ever get invited to these things, but it would be nice to have someone to go with. Someone to support me, someone to complain about the food with and dance with until the small hours. Someone to get drunk with, go home with and have them take care of me and make me breakfast the next morning. That’s the kind of thing I fantasise about.

Will: OK. Will see you tomorrow bright and early.

Me: Sweet dreams. Love you xxx

Will: You too.

I place my phone back down on the table, ecstatic about hearing from Will outside of work hours. In a way, I’m lucky that Will has such a busy job. It means he spends more time at work than he does at home, but it’s always nice to hear from him during time that is not ours.

I grab the remote and hit play. Now, where was I…