We Were On a Break

by Lindsey Kelk

‘As long as it takes,’ I said. My pulse was still steady. This was the right thing to do, my body knew it, even if my brain was struggling to catch up. ‘But I promise by the end of it, I’ll know where I was going with this whole thing.’

  ‘A likely story,’ he replied with softer words. ‘So what now? Am I allowed to call you? Are you still my girlfriend?’

  ‘I am definitely still your girlfriend.’ I gave myself a questioning look in the door of the bathroom cabinet. ‘And you can call. I’m not going to fall off the face of the earth or unfriend you on Facebook. It’s just my whole life is you and the surgery at the moment and I realized it’s a really long time since I took stock of everything. What I want to do with my life, where I want to go.’

  ‘I’m not sure I love the sound of this,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. ‘But I’m in, whatever you need, we’ll work it out.’

  ‘And just so we’re clear,’ I said, digging my fingernails into my palms. ‘I’m thinking we’re not seeing other people while we’re on this break thing. Is that all right?’

  ‘Definitely not seeing other people,’ he agreed. ‘That’s not even a question, you moose.’

  ‘Good.’ I stood up, the cold ceramic of the bath sticking to the backs of my legs, and peered out the window just as the security lights decided it was dark enough for burglars and Adam took a step back into the light. ‘It’s OK, you know, everything’s fine.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true, is it?’ he said, meeting my blue eyes with his. ‘I love you, Liv.’

  ‘I love you too, yeti,’ I said, touching my fingers to the window before shutting it. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  Adam raised his hand in a wave, phone still close to his face as he took a few slow steps backwards out of the yard and disappeared out of the circle of the security light. I could still see that hideous T-shirt though. Nodding to myself, I went back into the living room and curled up on the sofa as Daniel Craig crawled up my body and pressed himself against my stomach. I pulled my grandmother’s blanket over the two of us and closed my tired eyes, hoping against hope that I’d still believe I’d done the right thing in the morning.

  Liv would often tell me how the village had grown since she was a little girl, how they never used to have a proper supermarket, how the post office did half days on Wednesday and everything shut on a Monday but no matter how many times she tried to impress upon me the importance of our very own proper coffee shop inside our very own proper Tesco, it was hard for me to adjust from London life.

  I took the long route home, in no rush to get back to an empty house and a cold bed, wafting my hand past privet hedges, tapping low stone walls as I walked by and crossing the street to avoid a gaggle of teenage girls, loitering with clear intent, round the corner from the little shop. It had a proper name, the little shop, but that was what everyone called it and referring to it as anything other the little shop only incurred looks of confusion and assured everyone within hearing distance that you were not a local.

  It had been a true arse of a day. If I still lived in London, I’d have called Tom or one of my other law-school mates, summoned them to the pub and drunk myself into a stupor or at least until Match of the Day came on, whichever came first. Now, that wasn’t an option. I’d spent my first year in the village working like a dog, trying to convince Mum and Dad I’d done the right thing by leaving law school. Then, when I started seeing Liv, I didn’t really bother trying to make new friends. We were joined at the hip from the beginning and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  ‘More fool you,’ I muttered, pretending to ignore the catcalls from the girls on the corner when really, I was filing them away in my ‘still got it’ mental folder. I glanced back over my shoulder only to see them making obscene gestures and high fiving each other. I picked up my pace: the last thing I needed was a reputation as the village perv.

  This break could be a good thing, I told myself, as I uncoiled the cable of my earphones from around my phone and scrolled through my iTunes, looking to drown out the tame Saturday-night sounds of Long Harrington. Liv clearly said we were not breaking up and she wasn’t seeing other people. This happened, didn’t it? Couples needed a time-out from time to time. All she was really saying was that we wouldn’t see much of each other for the next couple of weeks. That was all. No big deal.

  Besides, I had enough on my plate right now. We both needed to get our other stuff taken care of without worrying about the other. If her dad really was retiring and she was taking over the vet’s she’d be even busier than ever and I had the bar to worry about. I’d been so excited when I won the job I hadn’t really stopped to think about how much work it would be, going into a major build like this on my own. If I had proposed to Liv and she’d accepted, I’d be losing my mind. The last thing I needed was to be choosing centrepieces when I ought to be focusing on my first proper project and, knowing my girlfriend, I would absolutely end up taking care of all the details. As much as I loved that woman, she was not good at working out the little things – that was my department.

  The only real problem was, I didn’t want to be on a break. I wanted things back how they were before we went to Mexico: Liv in my bed when I woke up, Liv secretly swearing at the Keurig coffee maker because she’d buggered it up again, Liv rubbing my shoulders after a long day in the workshop, Liv curled up in my arms at night.

  ‘It’s a good thing,’ I argued with myself out loud. ‘People do this all the time.’

  Just to make sure, I opened a browser window and typed out girlfriend wants a break and held my breath. 46,700,000 results. At least I wasn’t alone. Skipping past the troll-dwelling Reddit boards, I scrolled down until I found actual advice from an actual woman in what seemed like a reputable Australian magazine.

  If your girlfriend tells you she wants to take a break from your relationship, your most obvious reaction might be to assume the worst. But don’t! Women communicate differently to men and even if her request seems like a bolt out of the blue, she may have already given you some subtle signs that flew under the radar. Before you panic, look back over the past few weeks and above all else, remember the three Cs of successful relationships; care, communication and compromise.

  Seemed sensible, I thought, reading on. There could have been signs. I’d been so wrapped up in the proposal I could have missed something.

  1. Have you been less available to your girlfriend lately? And I don’t necessarily mean physically! Perhaps you’ve been busy with work or preoccupied with a family matter and she has been bumped down on your priority list. Men sometimes fail to vocalize their concerns with their partner, either because they want to resolve the issue alone or don’t want their significant other to see them struggle. If this is the case, your girlfriend might be asking for a little more of your attention. Contemporary society has conditioned women to be afraid of asking for what they want for fear of being seen as too demanding. She could be letting you know she needs more of your time without wanting to seem too needy.

  I looked up to cross the road in front of the junior school. I had been less available! Emotionally and physically! But only for the last week. Before that, Liv was my morning, noon and night. If anyone had a right to feel sidelined, it was me. If I had a pound for every time I’d had to microwave my own dinner because she was on an emergency call, I would have at least thirty pounds. Which might not sound like a lot but really, it was. Not that I minded, I knew how much she loved her job, but I was pretty sure that one didn’t explain our situation.

  2. Did she say she wants a break or needs a break? The choice of language here could be a clue. Saying she wants something suggests your girlfriend is open to a compromise and simply requires your understanding. If she told you she needs the break, it may be that she genuinely feels smothered or overwhelmed and is trying to shock you into changing your behaviour. In this instance, reassure her that you love her and show her you’re there for her, then see what happens.

  Did she say want
or need? It was so hard to remember. Maybe the next point would be more helpful.

  3. A woman who knows herself and her needs is a true prize and you should be proud to be with a woman with such a degree of self-awareness and self-worth. For the most part, if a woman wishes to end a relationship, she will do so. If she is truly asking for a time-out, the best thing to do is establish ground rules right away – how long is the break? Are you allowed to date other people? – then give her the space she’s asked for. Don’t keep calling – let her miss you! Constant, overwhelming communication when she’s asked for a break won’t help anyone.

  So, according to this article, I needed to respect her request for a break, be there for her, communicate but leave her alone and give her more attention as well as more space at the same time. Piece of piss. Swiping back to the search page, I opened the first Reddit article in hope of finding something more reassuring.

  ‘She’s dumping your arse, she’s shagging somebody else, don’t be such a moron,’ I read out loud under my breath as I turned the corner to my house. ‘No wonder she’s had enough of you, how stupid can one man be?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Mrs Johnson, my next-door neighbour, blinked at me as her Boston terrier piddled up against a street light.

  ‘Evening, Carol,’ I said with a nod at the dog. ‘Lovely out, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s that on your shirt?’ she asked, staring at the finger-flipping parrot I’d somehow managed to forget about.

  ‘Shouldn’t worry about it, Carol,’ I assured her, heading up my driveway. ‘Have a nice night.’

  She was hardly one to judge, I thought, looking back at her disapproving face. I knew for a fact the doggy dumps I regularly saw dotted up and down the street were from that terrier and if you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after your own pet, you really had no place commenting on the latest men’s fashions fresh from the catwalks of Milan.

  11

  ‘She’s almost ready.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how my night of not drinking had turned into birthing a cow with a white wine hangover but there I was at seven thirty on a Sunday morning, wearing rubber gloves up to my armpits, kneeling in a shed full of soiled straw while my dad whistled the theme tune to Hollyoaks. Mum was right; he’d definitely been watching Channel Four.

  ‘Can you see the water sac yet?’ he asked, ruddy cheeked and a hundred per cent hangover free.

  Holding in a not-so-dry heave, I shook my head. I’d woken up in the middle of the night and attempted to put myself back to sleep with a brand-new cocktail of my own creation, half a glass of chardonnay and half a glass of sparkling rosé, washed down with the dregs of a bottle of cabernet and three strawberry Pop-Tarts. Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered my conversation with Adam and every time I opened them, I second guessed myself. Was a break the best idea? Had I made a huge mistake?

  ‘You look exactly how I feel,’ I whispered to the cow. ‘Only, I’ve got a load of booze in my stomach instead of a miniature cow. Basically the same though.’

  ‘I’m not sure we needed to come out, Peter.’ My dad dusted off his knees and stood up beside another ruddy-cheeked pensioner while I gipped quietly at the side of the cow. ‘She seems as though she’s doing fine to me.’

  ‘She was making a god-awful racket before you got here,’ Peter replied. I still had trouble taking Farmer Jones seriously. Jonathan Roberts, Abi’s cousin, claimed he had shot him in the arse with an air rifle when he was little but he’d never been able to prove it and I was still too scared to ask.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could hang around until the calf’s out. Karen is one of my favourites.’

  I looked up quickly. Karen? Karen the cow?

  ‘Absolutely,’ Dad said, thumbs in his belt loops, smile still on his face. ‘We’re happy to stay as long as we’re needed. Aren’t we, Livvy?’

  I nodded my head slowly, lips sealed together. I would not vomit.

  ‘Sorry to have called you so early.’ Farmer Jones gave me the same look he had given me when he caught me climbing over his back wall with a tiny backpack full of Kiwi 20/20. ‘Jack’s on his holidays or I wouldn’t have bothered the pair of you.’

  Jack Townsend was the closest thing Dad had to a nemesis. And by nemesis, I mean he was also a vet. They used to belong to the same golf club and Dad insists that, once upon a time, Jack Townsend called him a ‘shithouse’ at the Rotary Club Christmas dinner. It seemed unlikely to me but who’s to say what those crazy kids used to get up to at the Rotary Club? Technically, Jack wasn’t even a business rival of Dad’s. Townsend & Townsend specialized in livestock and large animals, they didn’t look after pets like we did which was why I was not used to spending my Sunday mornings, hungover, with my arm covered in cow-friendly KY Jelly, preparing to shove it into a cow’s birth canal.

  ‘Always good for us to keep our hand in,’ Dad said, casting a glance down at me and my lubed-up limb. ‘So to speak.’

  ‘I’ll go and make some tea,’ Farmer Jones said, hands deep inside his waxed jacket pockets. It was bloody freezing for September. ‘Looks as though we could be here for a while. Milk and sugar?’

  I gave him a thumbs up from the business end of the cow while Dad settled himself on an old milking stool by her head. I’d set up a dustbin by the side of us, ostensibly to be used for birthing related business but in reality, it was my puke station.

  ‘Now then,’ he picked up the bottle of vet lube and squinted to read the tiny writing, ‘what was all that about last night?’

  I tried to swallow without throwing up.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give you a shock,’ he said. ‘Mum and I discussed it and we both thought you’d be excited. You’re more than ready to take things over, Liv, I don’t need to tell you that.’

  I pouted and tried a shrug. Didn’t feel great.

  ‘And you’re old enough to take on the extra responsibility.’ He sounded as though he was reassuring himself as much as me. ‘I’m not going to be around forever, Livvy, and I don’t want to work myself into the grave.’

  I took a deep breath through my nose and tried to open my mouth. Nope, not ready. I really didn’t want to have this conversation with him until I’d sobered up and considered my response. As it was, all I had right now was me shouting ‘I don’t want to and you can’t make me’ before storming off to my room and I had a feeling that wouldn’t work any better at thirty than it had at thirteen.

  ‘It means a lot to me that you’re doing this,’ he said. ‘Your mother was always worried about me pushing you into the business but you were a natural. And thank goodness you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, your granddad never thought much to lady vets but you would have proven him wrong, love.’

  Thankfully, I didn’t need to speak to let him know how I felt about that.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Dad said, chuckling at my expression. ‘But things were different back then. He’d have had you sitting out front, taking names and numbers. And what a waste that would have been. You’re twice the vet I ever was.’

  And a million times more hungover, I added silently. My dad really was a brilliant advert for sobriety. A brilliant, annoying advert that I would have gladly sacrificed to the first god who offered to get me out of this shed and back into my own bed with a bacon sandwich, a cup of coffee and the first two seasons of The O.C.

  ‘Of course, I’ll be around if you need me,’ he assured me, getting up from his perch in order to get wrist deep inside Karen again. I couldn’t work out whether he hadn’t realized that I had yet to breathe a single word or if he was simply thankful for the opportunity to get his speech out without argument. I tried to look humble and appreciative and engaged, all while investing every atom of my being into not chucking up. Squatting beside a cow’s dilated cervix was not helping. ‘And we should start interviewing for another vet as soon as possible, lighten your appointment load so you’ve got more time to get to grips with the business.’

  It hadn’t occ
urred to me that we would have to bring someone else in. Interviewing was not a skill that came naturally to me: the last person I brought in was the nurse we had before David and that had been terribly tense after I came in early one morning to find him locked in one of the dog crates, wearing a leather gimp suit and covered in, well, the exact same stuff I was covered in. We had to let him go. As did his wife.

  ‘A family business is a wonderful thing,’ said the half-man half-cow beast that had been my father. ‘The thought of you carrying on the surgery, it makes an old man very happy, Livvy. And who knows, maybe one day your children will take it over?’

  I’m never having children, I replied silently. Just cats. And cat vets are even less likely to be accepted by the patriarchy than women. Probably. Karen the cow let out a heavy, loud moo, distracting my dad just long enough for me to retch over my shoulder. Oh, dear god.

  ‘Oh, she’s not happy.’ Dad pulled his arm free and clapped his hands. ‘Action stations, Livvy. Have you got the chains?’

  I held up the chains and the calf puller as the cow howled.

  ‘Right, it’s all go from here,’ he said, getting down on his hands and knees and inspecting the area. ‘Watch how I grip his legs. You’ll be doing the next one on your own, after all.’

  All at once she began to squirm and a round, opaque bag full of yellow fluid fell out of the cow and straight onto my feet. Without missing a beat, I turned away and puked into the dustbin.

  ‘Ah,’ Dad frowned as I stood up, trying to work out how to wipe my face when my arms were covered in heavy duty lubricant. ‘Are you not well?’

  He couldn’t hide his disappointment but I knew if I told him I was hungover he’d be even more upset.

  ‘I had a kebab on my way home last night,’ I said, sacrificing my jumper by sliding my hand inside my sleeve and wiping off my face. ‘Must have had a dodgy one.’

  ‘That’ll be it,’ Dad agreed readily. When I proudly announced my first period at the dinner table, he had excused himself and I heard him crying in the downstairs toilet. He might think I was old enough to run a business but he wouldn’t deal well with the thought of me getting leathered and upchucking an entire bottle of wine while we were working. ‘Well, don’t worry about that. Birthing a calf isn’t strictly in your everyday job description anyway. Perhaps you can send the other vet out on farm calls.’