He was watching some totally banal CSI crap I would never bother with, sipping one of the beers that I had bought for him.
‘Hi, babe. How was Amanda?’ He didn’t even look up.
‘Who’s Shani?’ His head swung round like it was on well-oiled castors.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Shani. Apparently she’s your girlfriend…’ He opened and closed his mouth several times, presumably rushing through excuses to pick the perfect one.
‘I haven’t seen Shani for years. She was the one I was with just before you.’
‘Is that the best you can come up with?’
‘Babe, I promise, she’s no one. We broke up ages ago.’
‘Was she the one you were with when you should have been with me at Christmas? Or were you with Niko?’
‘You know I was with Niko!’ He looked relieved, probably because he was telling the truth.
‘With Niko as in fucking Niko up the bum?’
‘Are you mental? I’m not gay.’
‘Explain this then!’ And I shoved Amanda’s phone in his face with the video already blasting out what could only be described as sex sounds and the occasional crack of a whip against bare flesh. My insides had melted into a queasy mess, the glass of wine stinging my throat as it threatened to reappear. Ifan’s face drained of colour until only his lips were showing signs of life.
‘Babe—’
‘Don’t fucking babe me, you total twat. Get your stuff and leave Grace and me alone. I don’t ever want to see you again.’
‘No, I can explain.’
‘Really? Get your stuff!’ And before I knew what I was doing, I’d launched myself at him and begun slapping him round the head, tearing at his hair, trying to yank it out.
‘Stop it, Ali!’ Amanda yelled, and she grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me off him. He was covering his face like a child, cowering against the back of the sofa.
‘What the fuck? You’ve got the cavalry here too?’ Ifan cried when he dropped his hands.
‘Yes she has, and you should be fucking grateful or she would have ripped your head off.’
‘Look, Amanda, that video was years ago. Before I met Ali.’
‘No it wasn’t. Chris found the date in the original and it was in November. This Shani person posted it while we were on honeymoon. You’ve obviously been stringing Ali along and this poor Shani, when all the while you’ve been shagging whoever you like. Men included.’
‘You knew I wanted a threesome!’ he accused me, ignoring Amanda. The gloves were obviously off now there was no chance of redemption. ‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d agreed!’
‘Get out! Get your crap and leave. I hate you!’
He stood up, towering over me and Amanda, barely contained rage festering behind his eyes. I was so glad she was there because he suddenly felt menacing. He stormed off to the bedroom and proceeded to crash about and Grace stumbled into the living room minutes later, rubbing her eyes, her face all puffy from sleep.
‘Mummy, what’s the shouting?’
‘Nothing, Grace. Here, lie down on the sofa.’ She slumped down and lay her head on a cushion and I pulled the furry throw over her. Amanda sat down next to her and stroked her head. Ten minutes later Ifan thundered past us into the hallway and started ramming things in his rucksack.
‘I’ll get the rest of my stuff tomorrow.’
‘No you won’t,’ Amanda coolly said. ‘You’ll give Ali her key now and she will bag your shit up and leave it in the hallway outside.’
‘What if someone nicks it?’
‘No one is going to want your crap, believe me.’ Something about the way Amanda looked at him made him back down and open the door. He threw me the keys and I caught them one-handed, then he shoved his bike out through the door. I couldn’t believe it was just ending like this; it was so sudden. I rushed to the door to watch him go and an image of Sandeep sliding his pants down assaulted me.
‘You fucking cock womble!’ I yelled so hard my throat almost split. The thumping started on the ceiling from Mr Watson upstairs. ‘You can fuck off too,’ I mumbled, defeated.
‘Well done,’ Amanda said, and gave me a massive hug. ‘That must have been so hard.’
‘I can’t believe it. I was in a relationship this morning and now it’s over.’
‘He was so below you. It’ll take time to get over it, but you’ve had so much worse happen to you that was way shitter than this.’
‘Yes, but I had you then, and you were going through the same thing. Now I’m on my own.’
‘You’re never on your own. Come on, let’s get Grace back into bed.’
I picked her up off the sofa and carried her through the doorway. The room looked like it had been rudely ransacked by psycho-grannies at a car boot sale: drawers spewing their contents and clothes strewn everywhere. I would sort it tomorrow. Grace buried herself under the duvet and I sat on the edge of the bed. This was an unexpected turn in the plot. As I leaned down to kiss Grace good night she stirred.
‘Mummy, what’s a cock womble?’
3
Reality Bites
The following week on my way to the French Café, I ran, head down, past Sandeep and Mary’s shop, Kahn’s News. Violent feelings seesawed between wanting to hurl a Molotov cocktail furiously through their window; to pinning them both to the floor under my knobbly knees while Amanda tarred and feathered them. Even in my revenge plot fantasy, Amanda remained as annoyingly Switzerland as ever. ‘They didn’t know he was your boyfriend,’ she would reason with me outside the shop as I gripped an old pillow, a tub of PVA, a pair of scissors and a petrol bomb, dithering between the two methods. ‘If you want revenge, move on with your life. It’s the best revenge ever.’ But not as instantly gratifying…
The return of the post-break-up palpitations and clamped-shut stomach was most unwelcome. The only silver lining was that I could barely eat, which was a saviour after a gluttonous Christmas and working on photo shoots where a constant conveyor belt of tempting pastries and delicious cakes were always on offer. I’d found myself unwittingly humming the Black Beauty theme tune under my breath on a continual loop in an attempt to mitigate tension. It was my dependable musical mantra from my childhood that usually worked in any given situation: calming Grace down after a fall, soothing a raging hangover or just giving general succour to a busy head about to implode. However, today it was up against a tide of grief too strong to assuage.
How had I let yet another man just walk all over me? It wasn’t like I’d suffered a traumatic childhood, or enjoyed people abusing me in some masochistic way, but it was a pattern I had noticed emerging over my love life’s sprawling back catalogue. Every man I had ever loved had either been some kind of addict with a planet-sized ego or had needed rescuing. I missed Ifan so much, despite the fact he was an absolute turd, and even a whole week later all I wanted to do was text him. I had to physically sit on my hands as anxiety whooshed around my rumbling guts and tightened its grasp on my racing heart. I pushed open the door of the French Café and spotted Amanda sitting at the back by the TV fake fire. She waved me over.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, sliding a laminated menu across the table towards me.
‘No, I feel horrendous.’ And I promptly burst into tears.
‘I thought you would. It’s starting to sink in now.’ She patted my hand as I blindly surveyed the menu, not really wanting anything other than to stop feeling like this.
‘I can’t believe I’m on my own again. And I don’t even know how I’ll ever meet anyone new – you’re married and Jacqui’s not even on the same continent any more. All my wing women are in retirement.’ I blew my nose on a paper napkin. I knew Ursula was still available for fun and frolics, but she wasn’t a mum, and she also didn’t mind being single.
‘Hey, why do you need to meet anyone? You’ve just broken up with a douchebag. Having some time alone would be the best thing now. Gather your thoughts and find out who you
are. Stop listening to Radio One like Ifan – you need to switch back to Radio Four and be you again; embrace it!’
I laughed weakly. She was right. Instead of the usual nonsensical post-break-up ritual of sleeping in Ifan’s abandoned T-shirt, I had continued to tune in to Radio One to lessen the loss, even though I hated all the drivelling DJs.
‘You need to feel the pain, not cover it up with another shit relationship or you will end up trying to mould that man into who you want him to be all over again.’
‘Oh God, I did do that! The amount of times I wished Ifan had a better job or more money or more drive and ambition. He just didn’t. I fancied his physical appearance but was always waiting for him to change. I think I wanted him to be more dynamic, like Jim.’
‘We can’t change people; we can only change ourselves. Honour all your feelings and let them pass through you or they will just try to face you down another time twice as badly and you’ll be back to the beginning.’
‘I hate the pain! It hurts. I’m not good at change or being on my own. I want to be married and live in a family.’
‘I know, but think of the pain as the proving process, like if you were making sourdough. We all love sourdough bread!’ And she waved over to the counter where delicious-looking crusty loaves were stacked up on top of each other, and glass cake stands groaned under the weight of sumptuous chocolate creations and pink-iced fancies. ‘If you don’t let sourdough prove three times, it stays flat and won’t transform into something yummy. By speeding up proving or not paying attention, or leaving out a stage, you can damage the end result. Each stage of your grief is a prove and it takes time and effort on your part – it isn’t a passive process. Once you actively work through the range of emotions, you will come out the other side a better version of yourself. You will have self-awareness and understanding, make better choices, be calmer, possibly be able to have some alone time without the constant need to fill it. Just see what happens. It’s all positive – you don’t want to be an under-proved flat loaf with no air bubbles, do you? We all need the bubbles: they’re what make us yummy.’
‘Why do you always make me cry with your Beardy Weirdy analogies?’
‘But that’s good. It means you’re making bubbles. Acknowledge them and let them float off, like bubbles do!’
‘I wish I lived nearer you. I hate my flat. It’s too far and too small and damp, and Grace still hasn’t got her own room.’ I knew I was being a whinge bag but I honestly couldn’t stop; my pity party was in full swing.
‘Well, you can do something about that, can’t you? Ask the universe for a better flat that you can afford, nearer me. Write it down and burn it. Don’t set fire to the flat, though.’
The next day when Grace was at school, I decided to visit East Dulwich and pop into the Beardy Weirdy shop for some Rescue Remedy and anything else to improve my perennially shit life. Walking down Lordship Lane always made me feel so much brighter than looking at the dreary pound shops in un-gentrified Penge. I loved the individual traders and cute coffee places, bars, pubs and cafés in East Dulwich, where there wasn’t a bargain bin of Hob Brite to be seen. I felt like I belonged here within the buzz.
As I approached my favourite shop, Mrs Robinson, it triggered a guarded memory from my life with Jim. When we had first looked round East Dulwich all those years ago, just as Jim’s divorce had come through, we’d been so excited at the prospect of buying our first home together. We’d bought ourselves a present in Mrs Robinson, a large rustic blue salad bowl, a symbol of all the lovely meals and potential parties we would host as a couple once we’d found a house. I remembered feeling so happy in the queue to pay that I’d had tears in my eyes; we had the whole world ahead of us. It was everything I had ever wanted wrapped up in a beautiful neighbourhood filled with families and young people.
I yearned for that happiness again, that budding excitement at the beginning of a shared life together. Choosing things for a new house, painting walls, arguing in IKEA over which rug suited the living room, deciding whether we should get a dog, cooking huge Sunday lunches for lots of guests, our door always open. My own longing for it was like a physical weight in my chest, pressing my heart into my belly amid the hopelessness that it was now so far out of reach.
I stopped in front of Mrs Robinson’s aspirational window display and gazed past the distressed leather bucket-seat armchair and shiny chrome standard lamp, my eyes settling on a young couple. The man was bouncing up and down and when he turned to the side I could see he had a baby in one of those slings, trying to soothe it. His partner was picking up cushions and showing them to him, and he shook his head at each choice. Then he nodded at an ironic print of a pug’s head in a gilt frame and her face lit up. They kissed. I felt a sharp pain stab me in the throat as tears engulfed me. They were living the life I was supposed to have. I abruptly turned away and walked off, banishing any more memories that tried to surface. What had I been thinking, letting Jim in my head again. It was in the past. I had been going forward, until Ifan’s antics. This was why I never allowed myself to wander too far down memory lane…
Once I was in the health food shop, I browsed the heaving shelves, searching for my miracle cure among the myriad bottles, reading the microscopic essays about their transformative properties. I looked up from one extortionate bottle of essence spray that promised to rejuvenate my life and curb my stupid twat ways and caught the eye of a lady who looked vaguely familiar. She smiled and I returned the greeting, trying to place her. She came over.
‘You’re Ali, a friend of Jacqui’s, aren’t you? You used to sometimes go to her yoga class on a Friday. I’m Francesca.’ She had a really kind face, quite beautiful, with startling emerald-green eyes. Her vibrant wavy red hair was pushed off her face with an electric-pink headband.
‘Oh, yes, I remember now.’
She had an air of openness about her, like you could divulge your life story in under a minute and she would somehow understand you down to the marrow in your bones.
‘How are you?’
‘Not great, to be honest. I just split up with my boyfriend.’ I could hear my voice wobble and I silently summoned Black Beauty…
‘Oh, you poor thing. I could kind of tell something was up. Your aura’s dark and heavy.’
From anyone else this would have made me run for my life, apart from maybe Amanda, who was queen of Beardy Weirdy.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out, it’s just very obvious.’
‘No, it’s fine. My aura does feel dark and heavy. I’m here trying to buy something to help me move forward, but I’m a bit lost.’
‘Well, that essence will help; so will some of these flower remedies. Have you thought about chakra cleansing? That can work wonders.’ Her calm delivery made me want to sit in her house and ask her to fix my leaky life like an emotional episode of DIY SOS.
‘I’d love that. Can you do it?’
‘Yes, I’m a shaman. I practise at home, round the corner from Jacqui’s old house in the Mews.’
‘Wow, you live there? It always sounds so exciting.’ The Mews was infamous in East Dulwich. There were so many rumours posted all over the East Dulwich Forum about the residents, the wild parties, the neighbourhood watch complaints and the supposedly D-list celebs that had been spotted zipping in and out of the electric gates.
‘Oh, well, hardly. It’s just a gated cul-de-sac – not glamorous at all!’
‘It sounds perfect. I’d love to live somewhere less isolated. I hate my flat in Penge. That’s part of the grungy aura problem: I wish I lived in East Dulwich again. I miss being here.’
Francesca tilted her head to one side and studied my face carefully, like she was trying to work me out. Or maybe she was actually performing a Jedi mind-reading trick, though you never had to do that with me with my heart constantly pinned chirpily to my sleeve.
‘I think I might be able to help you with that one.’ She smiled kindly and patted my arm reassuringly. ‘Do you beli
eve in fate?’
4
Norman
Norman peered out of his kitchen window, pulling his red silk dressing gown around him – not really a garment for a cold day, but he wore it anyway. Someone was moving into Tina’s old house two doors down opposite, in between Elinor and Carl. Two women so far; maybe they were lesbians? He was sure he had seen the taller blonde lady looking round it a while back, and he swore she had brought a little girl with her. He sipped his coffee and sighed. More new people. He’d preferred it when it had just been him, Francesca and Jo those first three months fourteen years ago, before everyone else had arrived in dribs and drabs.
A gated community was probably not the best place when you preferred living on your own, but he’d promised Lucas he would use the life insurance money to buy it. Lucas had liked it when he’d shown him the developer’s details, and the pot of money covered it completely. It was better than a flat in Brixton, where he would have had to deal with other people’s noises from below and above. He could also sit in the garden when he felt like it, feel the warmth of the sun on his skin and have a holiday from himself. Norman would never have to worry about moving again, dealing with nasty landlords, or crazy young people who blasted music out at all hours. Well, that’s what he’d thought. He had hoped the slightly higher house price would mean sensible people, professionals, would move in, or maybe young families who would be so exhausted from constant care-giving that they’d all be asleep by eight at night. He hadn’t bargained on moving into a neighbourhood where everyone was in and out of each other’s houses like in years gone by, and partied even when there was nothing to celebrate.
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