Nine Uses for an Ex-Boyfriend

by Sarra Manning

  He was standing outside the kitchen door, where she’d seen him and Susie kissing, and talking to someone who could only be Susie.

  ‘Look, I told you, I need some time to think,’ he was saying fiercely and quietly, so Hope had to climb back into the tub and press her face right up against the frosted-glass window in order to hear better. The window was freezing cold and she was worried that her skin might stick to it, but well, it would serve her right for eavesdropping. ‘You have to stop this.’

  Hope watched her breath puff out in little clouds until Jack gave a bitten-off groan of frustration. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I can’t see you right now, you have to respect that.’

  Silence.

  Hope hadn’t known goose pimples could be so painful, and she was on the verge of giving up and scuttling for the warmth of her fleecy pyjamas, when Jack suddenly snapped, ‘For fuck’s sake, Suze, I owe her that much.’

  Hope didn’t want to hear any more. She yanked herself away from the open window so quickly that she almost slid over. It was one thing to believe that Susie was her arch-nemesis who occupied the number-one place on her shit-list of people who’d done her wrong and would get their comeuppance one day, it was quite another to have a ringside seat to the utter humiliation of someone who used to be your best friend. Hope had also been the victim of one of Jack’s sudden changes of heart, and it hurt like a sucking chest wound, just like it hurt that Jack seemed to think that counselling was a penance that he had to endure, rather than the cement that would help them rebuild their foundations.

  She pulled her pyjamas on then opened the bathroom door. One glance at the knowing yet defiant look on Jack’s face meant Hope didn’t have to confess that she’d been ear-wigging.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Jack said sharply as he brushed past her.

  ‘But we have to!’

  ‘We can talk about it tomorrow with Angela there,’ Jack said, shutting the bathroom door in Hope’s face.

  They didn’t talk about the phone calls in their therapy session the next evening, because Angela insisted that she wanted them to go on a trip down memory lane, to the very first halcyon days of their relationship.

  ‘How you start a relationship is very often an indication of how you behave in a relationship,’ she told them. ‘It can even be a useful therapy tool in diagnosing and fixing the problems in your relationship.’ She sat back and steepled her fingers, so she could peer anxiously over the top of them. ‘So, how did you two start dating? Jack, you go first.’

  Hope didn’t know why he was frowning when the question was a no-brainer. Chaste snog after Youth Club disco, first date the following Saturday at …

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, we’d lived next door to each other all our lives in a small village. There were only about ten teenagers in the place, so we all knocked about together and everyone just expected me and Hopey to get together, and so we just did. It wasn’t like I sent her a bunch of red roses and asked her to go steady, it was a gradual process, and—’

  ‘What are you—’

  ‘Hope, we’ve talked about impulse control,’ Angela cut in and reminded her sharply. ‘We have a rule that we don’t interrupt when the other person is talking, don’t we?’

  Having been chastised, Hope sank back down. It was the cardinal rule that she was always drilling into Blue Class, except her sharp voice could put the fear of God into them.

  Even Jack had the nerve to shoot Hope a resentful look, as he picked up his thread. ‘As I was saying, it wasn’t like I asked her out and we started dating. We’d sometimes pair up at parties and get off with each other, and we just ended up dating.’

  ‘Hope?’ Angela queried.

  ‘My God, have you got rocks in your head?’ Hope demanded, which was a contravention of another of Angela’s rules, to respect what the other person said. ‘That’s not at all how we started dating. You asked if you could kiss me on the way home from Youth Club on the thirtieth of November, 1998 at approximately ten to ten and then you asked me to go to the cinema with you. Just me. No one else.’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt!’ Hope barked at him. ‘And we went to see the sequel to Babe on the fifth of December, and you paid extra for the superior-comfort seats, and because it was a film about a talking bloody pig and neither of us had any interest in watching it, we started snogging as soon as it began.’ Hope pushed back a stray lock of hair with an angry hand. ‘The fifth of December, Jack! Making tomorrow our thirteenth anniversary.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I thought you picked that date at random because you didn’t know when we started dating either,’ Jack muttered apologetically as Hope turned to Angela, who visibly shrank back in her chair. ‘Anyway, I thought we’d already had our anniversary. You’re always going on about how we’ve been together for thirteen years.’

  Hope rolled her eyes. ‘I was rounding up. That’s how it works. Everyone knows that.’ She sighed. ‘Well, if any of that is indicative of the state of our relationship, then I’d say our relationship is FUBAR, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Um, what’s “FUBAR”?’

  ‘Fucked up beyond all recognition,’ Hope replied. She rubbed the tips of her fingers over her temples. ‘Jesus, Jack, that was one of the most important moments in my entire life and you can’t even remember it!’

  ‘I do remember going to see Babe: Pig in the bloody City,’ Jack said sulkily. ‘Look, so I don’t have total recall of every single last hour of our relationship, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long that I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you.’

  Angela beamed at them both, but mostly at Jack. Hope suspected that she much preferred Jack, who never had to be told off for poor impulse control, which was ironic, considering that it was his poor impulse control that had led them here in the first place. ‘Well, you’ve both done some very good work in this session. I think that’s all we’ve got time for.’

  Hope could have sworn that their sessions were getting shorter as the weeks went by. They hadn’t even had a chance to discuss Susie’s phone-bombing and how Jack was totally not dealing with it. ‘I think that’s only been forty-five minutes, actually, Angela,’ she insisted.

  ‘Oh God, just stop it,’ Jack hissed at her, as Angela squirmed in exactly the same way as Sorcha did when she needed a wee and was too scared to put her hand up.

  ‘No, no, I think that’s all for today,’ Angela squeaked, brandishing her pad as if she was trying to ward off evil spirits, or deflect all the negative energy that Hope was sending her way. ‘Your homework for this week. I’d like both of you to think of your five big relationship milestones.’

  Jack practically dragged Hope up from the sofa, though she had been prepared to stay there and argue that they had at least another five minutes of the session to go. Ninety quid for forty-five minutes. Angela had to be minted.

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ Hope exploded as Jack was still pushing her out of the front door. ‘You act like life is something that happens to you, rather than you being an active participant in it.’

  ‘No, I don’t!’

  ‘And you knew I wanted to talk about Susie and the phone calls. You can’t just keep avoiding stuff.’

  ‘I hate it when you’re like this. You get all angry and you won’t let things go and your face stays red for hours.’

  ‘You need to sort things out properly with Susie,’ Hope said, even though she couldn’t believe she was actually saying it. ‘I’m not saying that I want you to choose between us yet, not when we still have another two weeks of counselling, but you need to let her know where she stands. Firmly but fairly.’

  ‘I’ve tried, I really have, but she won’t give me any space.’ They were just about to turn the corner into the street that led up to the Finchley Road when Jack came to a halt and sank down on the kerb. ‘I can’t take this. I feel like everyone keeps trying to pul
l me in a different direction.’

  ‘Don’t sit down on the ground. It’s cold and you’ll get haemorrhoids,’ Hope said worriedly, placing her hand on Jack’s bowed head. He looked so lost, and all of a sudden, she wasn’t sure that she knew how to find him. ‘Come on, we’re in therapy. Of course it’s going to bring up things that are painful but it’s all part of the healing process, right?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  The ground was glittering with the promise of frost and she really, really didn’t want haemorrhoids either, but Hope sat down next to Jack and put her arm around him. ‘I do say so. It’s like when you hurt yourself and as the wound is healing, it itches something terrible. I guess our souls or our hearts are itching, or whatever.’

  ‘I can’t do anything right,’ Jack mumbled. ‘Even when I think I’ve done the decent thing, it turns out I haven’t.’

  Hope wasn’t sure exactly which of his women Jack was talking about – her or Susie – and she also wasn’t sure that she really wanted to know. ‘I thought we had a rule that what happened in therapy, stayed in therapy?’ she asked teasingly, even though she thought it was a stupid rule and yet another avoidance tactic on Jack’s part. ‘We’ve been out of therapy for ten minutes and, technically, you’re still psycho babbling.’

  ‘I am not! I don’t do psychobabble,’ Jack said but he lifted his head and smiled weakly as if he was up for Hope trying to jolly him out of his existential despair. ‘Well, I try not to.’

  ‘We can talk about it next week with Angela,’ Hope said firmly, because she was bloody sure it was going to be the very first thing they talked about as soon as they plopped their arses down on her sofa. ‘I mean, this business with Susie, but until then we won’t worry about it.’

  Unless she keeps calling, Hope thought, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it, and hopefully she’d cross it calmly without losing her temper. Anyway, it seemed to have Jack’s vote and he was looking happier.

  ‘Well, at least we only have two more sessions to go,’ he said brightly and with evident relief, though Hope wasn’t sure that he was any closer to reaching a decision on whether he should stay or go. Therapy didn’t seem to be helping – Jack regarded it in the same way as the Delafields’ cat, Charlton, regarded a trip to the vet to get shots and a thermometer shoved up his fundament.

  It was getting to the stage where Hope knew she couldn’t delude herself for much longer. The odds were stacked against her. Jack was with her in body, but his heart was somewhere else, about three miles away in Highgate by her reckoning, and she wondered what would happen if she called his bluff, because she didn’t know how much longer she could put up with Jack’s prevarication, especially as his prevarication was beginning to look a lot like cowardice. If she said, ‘Fine, I give in. Go to her. I just don’t care any more,’ would Jack be gone faster than she could blink?

  But Hope wasn’t that brave, and, God help her, she did care. ‘Come on, you’re not a bad person. You’ve made bad decisions and you’ve acted like a dick, sure, but you haven’t done anything so terrible that it’s killed my love for you,’ she said. ‘I’m not even saying that as yet another ploy to get you to choose me, I’m just stating it for the record.’

  Jack glanced over at her with a look so tender it made Hope wish that she didn’t love him as much as she did, because these days that love was more pain than pleasure. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he said.

  ‘No, you really don’t, but you’ve got me,’ she said, and Jack was still gazing at her like his eyes could say all the things that he refused to, and panic swept over Hope in an icy, shuddering wave, because it felt as if that soft, penetrating look might be the warm-up before Jack told her that Susie did deserve him. Hope stood up so quickly that she got a headrush. ‘This is silly, just sitting here like this. Your arse must have gone numb by now. I think your penance for psychobabbling should be paying for dinner at the cheesy Italian in Camden. No splitting the bill.’

  Going to the cheesy Italian in Camden for a debrief on Angela’s thrilling choice of one taupe ensemble after another, and to speculate on her private life, had become a tradition.

  Jack staggered to his feet and stamped up and down to try and coax the feeling back in his legs. ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just because it’s you, and I kinda love you, I’ll even throw in a slice of tiramisu,’ he said, his arm settling around her shoulders like it belonged there again.

  ‘Are you feeling all right now?’ Hope asked, as they once again set off for Finchley Road.

  Jack didn’t answer at first, and just as Hope was about to repeat the question, he nodded. ‘I know I’m being a total pain in the arse right now. In fact, I’ve been a total pain in the arse for months, but I’m starting to feel all right. And, I’m beginning to think you and me are going to be all right, too. Better than all right. I think we’re going to be just fine, Hopita.’

  JACK HAD BEEN an absolute textbook boyfriend for the rest of the evening, telling Hope scurrilous stories about celebrities that Skirt had shot recently, and even asking the waiter for a doggy bag because her stomach was still tied up in knots and she could only manage half her lasagne, though normally he hated to do that. Then when they’d got home, and she’d realised that she’d come on, he’d given her a back rub and made her up a hot-water bottle, without even being asked.

  These were all splendid acts of boyfriendliness, but now it was Saturday morning and Hope wondered what kind of mood Jack would be in today. She rolled over with a groan because she had cramps and a nagging ache in her lower back, and saw that it was an unbelievable ten thirty. She’d set the alarm for nine, which counted as a decadent lie-in, so she could go to the gym. Though she hated to admit that Miss Hill, her old PE teacher, had been right, Hope found that exercise really was the best thing for period pain. Once she could actually will her body out of bed.

  If she got a wiggle on, she could still make the spinning class at noon, Hope thought, as she made no effort to even sit up. She was just thinking of maybe at least pushing her hair out of her face because it was tickling her when the bedroom door was gently nudged open and Jack walked in with a laden tray.

  ‘Happy thirteenth anniversary, sleepyhead,’ he said cheerfully and a little smugly, as Hope finally sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  ‘What’s this?’ she gasped, though she could see what this was. On the tray was her favourite breakfast of a lightly toasted bagel with softly scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. There was a glass of orange juice, and her nose twitched before she even took note of the cafetière, because Jack had made proper coffee, even though they both agreed that it was usually too much of a faff and made do with bulk-buying when it was on special offer.

  It was unexpected and thoughtful and unutterably lovely, but what made a tear leak out of one sleep-encrusted eye was the single white rose, bobbing gently in a plastic champagne flute.

  Hope opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a very ineffectual, ‘Oh, Jack …’

  Jack carefully placed the tray on her knees and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I realised that I’d been rubbish at our anniversary for the last twelve years, what with not knowing that it really was our anniversary.’

  ‘It must have taken you hours …’

  ‘I had to get up at eight on a Saturday to go to Waitrose. There’s proof right there that I love you,’ Jack sniffed. ‘I don’t get up eight on a Saturday for just anyone and I remembered to turn off your alarm …’

  ‘This is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me,’ Hope said truthfully. She looked down at the tray with a face full of shame. ‘I haven’t got you anything. Everything’s been so up in the air, and you always say that anniversaries don’t count unless you’re married.’

  For one giddy, head-spinning moment she wondered if Jack might have reached a decision that weighed heavily in her favour and bought her an engagement ring on his way back from Waitrose, th
ough his options would have been severely limited and it would probably have had to come from Argos. And Jack was pulling something from the pocket of his jeans, and giddy and head-spinning were replaced by panic and a dry mouth.

  ‘Well, it is our thirteenth anniversary, which could be unlucky, but I think we should reclaim thirteen as our lucky number, make it feel special, the way I want you to feel special,’ Jack said, his hand closed around something that Hope couldn’t see.

  And if Jack did love her, really loved her, then yes, actually, he needed to put a ring on it, and now Hope was calm and ready to meet her destiny – and also curious to see if Argos did anything tasteful in the way of princess-cut diamonds in a white-gold setting. ‘Well, I feel pretty special,’ Hope murmured, and she’d have sworn that all she wanted was to be properly engaged, just that, but she could already see herself dieted to the bone and willow-thin as she gracefully glided up the aisle in a bias-cut, 1930s-style ivory wedding dress, her father smiling proudly down at her as he patted her hand …

  ‘Aw, Hopey, I know you feel rotten because the only special thing going on is your special lady-time, so I got you this,’ Jack said as he placed a box of Feminax on the tray next to her white rose. ‘I even remembered to get you some raspberry-leaf tea.’

  Hope wasn’t quite prepared for the crushing tsunami of disappointment that engulfed her. If Jack was going to propose, then this would have been the perfect time to do it, what with the talk they’d had on the icy pavement last night, and the hand-holding between courses at the Italian restaurant, and even letting her have the bed, though it was her turn to sleep on the sofa. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself, though. ‘We’re going to be fine’ didn’t necessarily translate as ‘Let’s make things official’ – they did still have to sort out the small print, and right now with her tummy cramping and her back aching, she needed Feminax more than she needed a solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. ‘I think this has to be the best thirteenth anniversary anyone has ever had,’ she said effusively, leaning forward carefully so she could kiss Jack’s cheek. ‘And I’m making your absolute favourite tea tonight, and I’ll even tidy up as I go along.’