‘Yeah …’ he shrugged, nonchalantly.
‘You sure?’ I encouraged, finding it strange that he wasn’t forthcoming with every detail of his first day in his important-sounding position. I was worried he hated it. ‘Is it not what you thought it was going to be? Because everyone feels weird when they start somewhere new – you’ve just got to get used to it.’
‘No, the job’s fine …’
‘Oh. Is it the people? Are they cliquey? You’ll charm your way around them in no time. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?’ I babbled with a smile – stuffing a whole floret of broccoli in my mouth and gaily munching away.
Watching me, Dan took a deep breath and delicately lowered his knife and fork on to his plate.
Pensively, he lent across the table and grabbed my hand affectionately – his thumb rubbing the back of my hand.
For a moment I thought he was going to propose – and the first thoughts that crossed my mind were that my knife was still lingering awkwardly in my left hand (mid-pie-slicing), and that I possibly had bits of broccoli stuck in my teeth. I quickly manoeuvred the knife with my right hand and swept my tongue along the front of my teeth, before looking up at Dan with a sheepish grin on my face.
Funny that I felt shy in that moment, and acted coy and demure.
Rather shamefully, Dan wasn’t smiling back in quite the same way though.
He was smiling, but the smile wasn’t one of unconditional love. Instead, it said ‘sorry’. It’s a look that has haunted me ever since and physically makes me shudder with embarrassment – especially as I’m still able to recall the slowness with which my own loving smile slid from my face as it tried to maintain an element of hope for our situation.
But the fleeting thought of a declaration of never-ending commitment puffed out its last breath as it withered away and died quietly. Instead, Dan enlightened me in unknown matters of the heart. His heart.
‘The thing is, Sarah …’ he began, before proceeding to tell me everything that had been on his mind for the previous few months. He’d started to see me more as a friend, not someone he was hoping to grow old with. He’d apparently felt that way for quite some time, but meeting Perfect Lexie (and fancying the pants off her) had only helped to confirm those thoughts. There’s not much you can say when someone is as brutally honest as that. Besides, rather annoyingly, what choice did I have? Screaming at him wasn’t going to change his mind. Instead, I chose to nod along to his heart-breaking monologue and flick burnt bits of flaky puff pastry around my plate, all the while biting into my bottom lip to stop myself from crying.
I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t.
Not in front of him anyway.
I cried bucketloads over the subsequent days and weeks (then months and now nearly two years) – but in that moment, in our little kitchen-diner, I managed to hold them back.
Dan witnessed me being composed and mature in my response.
So at least I managed to keep some dignity.
And that’s where our story should’ve ended. He should’ve moved out and disappeared into the sunset with Perfect Lexie, leaving me to eat my chicken pie in peace. But that never happened. It was never an option. Even if I’d wanted to (and I did want to), I couldn’t just cut him out of my life because of our best mates, who we’d jointly acquired at uni during the best days of our lives.
My rocks were his rocks.
My happy memories with them were his happy memories with them.
Now, that sucked.
My friends – our friends – gathered around me in support, of course they did. They were there to throw away my snotty tissues, to ply me with endless shots to drown my sorrows and then carry me home when the Sambuca had woken the emotional wreck inside me – but I knew they could only be there for me in that capacity for so long before they felt awkward about the situation. I didn’t want them looking at me, with my mascara running down my face and my lips puffed out in ugly-girl-crying-horror, and wonder when they’d be able to go hang out with fun-time Dan again. Because you can bet that he wasn’t in the same state that I was. Not when, within a week of splitting up with me, he was already out on dates with Perfect Lexie. He’d moved out of our flat pretty sharpish, but that didn’t mean I was unaware of his whereabouts … thanks to me having access to his email and all of his social media accounts. Yeah, yeah – I’m awful, but he really should’ve been on top of changing his passwords, seeing as he specialized in all things digital.
With Dan lost – absconded into the arms of Perfect Lexie, I didn’t want to lose my friends as well when they got bored of my moping ways. If pushed, they would choose fun-time Dan, of course they would. I would too if the choice was between a sullenly desperate me and a happy him!
Plus, their pity irritated the crap out of me fairly quickly anyway – as did their tiptoeing around me whenever Dan came up in conversation, which invariably he did. Our worlds were so ridiculously entwined it was impossible to know where to start the unravelling and separation of our lives. A task that was made more complicated thanks to our friendship group.
And so, I fought back in the only way I could, making the decision to hide my true feelings and act like I was fine with everything. Absolutely fine, fine, fine. Breezy, breezy, breezy. My boyfriend might’ve dumped me after seven years together and jumped all over my heart using a pogo-stick, but hey, we’re all alive and life is so hunky-fucking-dory – let’s all hold hands and sing Kumbaya My Lord around a campfire as we marvel over the wonder that is life.
I was even the first to suggest Perfect Lexie came along to our weekly Wednesday quiz night at our local pub once they were officially a couple (two weeks post split). God knows why I put myself through the torture, but it felt like the only way to gain a little control of the situation I’d become helpless in, even if it did mean that I stayed up in bed wailing the whole night afterwards.
Seriously, she was so annoyingly perfect with her pretty little face decorated with luscious lips and huge green eyes, silky smooth dark blonde hair and killer boobs. She had the sort of humour that all of our friends appreciated, causing them to wet themselves laughing at various times during the night. I’ll admit, it was nervous laughter at first – giving me sideways glances to check I was okay with their treachery, but my goofy smile seemed to put them at ease. In fact, I found the goofier the smile I mustered the more successful I was at keeping up the pretence.
God, it was a tough night.
The only thing that appeased my hurting heart was the fact that Perfect Lexie had the most irritating laugh I’d ever heard. It was nice to find a fault – even if that fault made me want to rip my ears off every time the donkey-on-helium sound ricocheted out of her mouth.
Shaking my head to clear those memories, I scroll over the little Facebook invite in front of me. I’m sure it doesn’t mean that Dan has no consideration for my feelings, even though we dated for seven years, planned to buy a little pug puppy together (a girl – we were going to call her Monroe – Monnie for short) and had talked extensively about our future. Surely not. It’s just that sometimes I’m sure he’s forgotten we even have any sort of extra history outside of our friendship group. Especially when he’s there rubbing his hand up and down Perfect Lexie’s back and giving her bottom a quick grab when he thinks no one is watching. But I’m watching, of course. And the sight always makes me want to vomit – even though it’s been nearly two years (actually, twenty-one months and twenty-five days, but who’s counting?) since he dumped me to be with her and her perfect butt.
My phone vibrating along my desk thankfully cuts into my thoughts. I sigh and let the anxiety drain away from me as I look down at my phone and see it’s my (our) friend Natalia calling.
Everything’s absolutely fine, fine, fine. Breezy, breezy, breezy.
‘Hey lover,’ she shouts as soon as I pick up – she’s clearly power walking somewhere as I can hear wind swooshing past and a babble of people around her.
‘All right?’
I croon back. ‘Where are you?’
‘On my way to Harrods to pick up some pieces I’ve ordered for a client. It’s chaos out here – I think everyone’s already out doing their Christmas shopping!’
‘It’s only November,’ I moan.
‘Not everyone waits until the weekend before and panic buys online.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ I laugh – although there’s no way I’d rather be out in the crowds elbowing people over festive treats when I can do the whole thing from the comfort of my bed in my pyjamas.
‘Anyway, you on the book of face?’ she asks.
‘Where else?’
‘Seen the invite?’
‘What invite?’
‘From Dan? It says you’ve already accepted. Very prompt of you.’
Bugger – I must’ve pressed ‘Going’ by accident. Although, clearly, this ‘event’ wasn’t something I’d be able to dodge too easily.
‘Oh that!’ I tut as though it’s already escaped my mind and isn’t burning a weeping hole into my achy breaky heart (thanks Billy Ray Cyrus). ‘I didn’t realize they’d moved already.’
Another lie. Of course I knew that they’d bought – yes bought, not rented (that showed proper commitment – bet they even have a joint bank account to match), a house together just off Columbia Road – my dream location and, rather annoyingly, within walking distance (it’s the other side of the park) from the little rented flat I share with Carly, the third girl from our original university friendship group. The flat is the same one Dan and I shared together. The one he deserted me in. I should’ve moved, I know that – but it’s so close to the park and affordable. Plus, Carly was looking for somewhere to live after coming back from yet another travelling gap year (this time in Thailand, Cambodia and Laos), so it seemed a shame to have all the upheaval of finding somewhere new and then moving when the flat I was already in was actually all right and probably better than anything else we’d be able to find in the area. Sod all the ghostly memories surrounding the place and my weeping whenever I looked at Dan’s empty wardrobe space. Well, that void has been filled and it’s a girlie pad now. There’s even a Ryan Gosling poster hanging in the living room to prove it.
‘I think their parents went round to help shift boxes over the weekend,’ informs Natalia.
‘That’s nice.’
‘I’m surprised they’re doing a party so soon, though – I’d have thought they’d want to settle in first.’
‘Any excuse for a drink,’ I say dryly.
‘Apparently it’s a gorgeous place,’ Natalia continues to natter on. ‘I’m going to get home envy. I know it. Every time I go somewhere new I can’t help but plan through everything I’d do with that blank canvas,’ she chuckles down the phone, disappearing into a land of interior design and all things decorative. It’s no wonder Natalia was snapped up by a huge design house and is given hundreds of thousands of pounds to spend on each new build acquired by the company. So many of their clients have more money than sense, but that’s something Natalia doesn’t mind. She lives, breathes and dreams soft furnishings and can sniff out a Farrow & Ball wall a mile off – giving you not only the name of a particular paint or wallpaper, but the actual catalogue number too. She’s a rare breed. ‘Dan will be absolutely tasteless and shoving any old crap from Ikea in there if given half a chance, but I’m sure Lexie is going to do an amazing job on it – she’s got a whole scrapbook of plans. She showed it to me the other day.’
‘Great!’ I interject with more gusto than necessary, not wanting to hear any more about Perfect Lexie. I’d love to say I’m not as bothered by her presence in our lives as I used to be (I’m aware how unhealthy it is to hold a grudge for so long over her perfectness – she can’t help it), but she’ll always be the girl who I got left for, so I don’t really want to sit here hearing my best mate Natalia gas about how fab she is. ‘Pub later?’
‘Of course,’ Natalia responds. ‘Where else would I be on a Wednesday night? We’ve got to win our crown back.’
When we first started pub quizzing we were pretty naff, but somehow over the years we’ve become semi-decent pub quizzers and (thanks to the world of twitter keeping us all up to date on current affairs – yes, I do use it for more than just stalking Jessica Alba’s beautiful Honest Life) we’ve managed to scrape our way to success. A grand total of thirteen times we’ve topped the leader board and won a free round of drinks – no drink tastes as good as a free one and the last time we received one of those was two weeks ago. Last week we lost to a team of local performing art students who we’d never even seen in the pub before. Tonight, it was time to reclaim our winner’s title.
‘Sweet. See you there!’ I chirp, putting down my phone, closing my webpages along with the ghastly Facebook invite and immersing myself in my to-do list – a collection of chores that I’m sure aren’t worth the time I spent slaving away at university – or the debt it put me in. The first three bulleted tasks are to pick up dry-cleaning (easy and I love an excuse to get out of the office), phone the DVLA to query the three points Jonathan’s wife Dianne accrued when speeding up the M6 in their Bentley (not entirely sure what they expect me to do) and look into getting Beyoncé tickets for Jonathan’s teenage daughter Harriet and her mates (a gig that has been sold out for at least six months). Not one of those are TV related at all, but I guess that’s the life of a PA – it’s my job to make Jonathan’s life as easy as possible so that he is able to perform to the best of his abilities in his job … which includes making his home life easier too. Well, it takes a pretty understanding wife not to mind the many late nights and weekends of unkept plans, a fact she constantly reminds him of.
I’m about to look up the number for the DVLA when Jonathan comes out of his glass cubicle and over to my desk.
‘Sarah … ?’ he starts with a frown as he looks down at his mobile phone, oblivious to the crumbs that have dusted his black sweater vest.
‘Yes, Jonathan?’ I smile, happy to be distracted, hoping he’s got a wonderfully exciting and creative task for me to take on.
‘Could you get me a cup of tea? Mine’s cold – oh, and two sugars this time, please,’ he adds, with what appears to be a conspiratorial wink.
Clearly that’s not something to tell his wife about. The extra spoonful of sugar I mean. Not the wink.
Eurgh.
2
After scrambling through rush hour on the tube and heading home to freshen up, Carly and I find Alastair, Josh and Natalia already sat at a table in the corner of our local that we’ve christened ‘our spot’. Surrounded by plum plush cushions and dimly lit in the dingy pub setting, the table is scattered with empty crisp packets and, judging by the empty glasses in front of them, the boys have moved on to their second pints of the night. Having already had a trip to the gym (lads) to play squash (not so laddy), they’re both in their comfy clothes, looking rosy-cheeked from the exercise and the gym’s piping hot showers – meaning they smell yummy and fresh, too.
Natalia, on the other hand, is still in her smart grey work suit (she loves a fitted jacket/skirt combo) and is perched to the side of Alastair, frowning into her iPhone – no doubt scouring the internet for an antique piece of furniture or discontinued piece of fabric made in the deep dark holes of some faraway place. Her petite frame is hunched over in frustration, but as Alastair nudges her to let her know we’ve arrived, the worry dissolves and she looks up with a beautiful smile, sweeping her long dark hair away from her tanned face and flicking it elegantly over her shoulder. She jumps up from her seat and wraps her arms around both of us at once.
We sway in our hug, all ‘Aahing’ at being reunited – something that never fails to spread a tinkling of happiness through my weary workday bones.
‘Hiya,’ sings Carly with a grin, breaking away and plonking herself down next to Josh, who instantly pulls her in for a hug and kisses her on the head. My bearded blond friend is unquestionably the best hugger to have ever graced the earth – it’s one of his
better qualities and makes up for the fact that he’s usually late for everything and is the messiest person ever. His hugs really surround you and make you feel safe – it’s probably aided by the fact that he’s not muscle-ready like Dan, or model-thin like Alastair. He’s simply wonderful.
‘Beer?’ Josh asks, as Carly picks up his pint and takes a swig from his glass. There’s no need for polite etiquette here – there never is when you’ve seen each other in the worst states possible.
‘Please,’ Carly grins, her freckled face making her look like a naughty child. Even though she returned from travelling a couple of years ago (just in time to witness me get savagely dumped) she’s still managed to maintain her bohemian look – her white blonde hair looks continuously windswept no matter what she does with it, and her clothes always have that slight ‘rolled out of bed’ look about them. A look she manages to pull off effortlessly. If I tried out that style I’d appear ten sizes larger than I am and my mum would be chasing after me with an iron. Oh the shame that’s attached to a creased top in my family home!
‘That’s us, then,’ says Alastair in his warm Leeds accent, looking around the table once the drinks and food have been ordered. His thick long hair is pulled up into an effortless man bun, giving me serious hair envy. It seems so unfair that my hair – which, as society has led us to believe, should always be down in lusciously flowing locks – is frizzy and uncontrollable, whereas his – which society denotes should be kept short and boring – is hair I’d sell my left foot for. Alastair really has that trendy East London look perfected with his man bun, tattooed arms (I could sit for hours looking at that inked artwork and still manage to find something new that I hadn’t noticed before – angels, aliens, clock faces, pin-up girls – they’re all in there), and his ability to pull off the double denim look with ease – I’d just look like I was auditioning to be in a B*witched tribute act if I attempted anything similar.
Dream a Little Dream Page 2