We’re not alone in our power dressing. Three men are sitting at the end of the long table waiting for us, all suited up with brightly coloured ties and perfectly pressed shirts. They rise to greet us. The first is an elderly gentleman, the second is a kid in his early 20s, the third is….
My heart stops.
Unfortunately, my legs also stop, which Angrypants and Stalker are not expecting. Angrypants smashes into the back of me, and Stalker into the back of Angrypants.
“Oof.” I hear Sam.
“Jonesy, what the fff… hell?” Sarah hisses as she regains her composure.
I don’t answer. I cannot take another step forward. He Who Shall Not Be Named rises to shake my hand, smiling like a snake.
***
There are several dating rules that have transcended cultures and crossed even the most extreme international boundary (i.e. they apply in Saudi Arabia too). These rules are entrenched in humanity’s basic moral code. One of them is that if a guy decides to break up with you in order to pursue a hotter, prettier, taller, slimmer version of yourself, he is a jerk. Another is if a guy cheats on you with a hotter, prettier, taller, slimmer version of yourself, he is a super jerk.
And if a guy cheats on you repeatedly with a hotter, prettier, taller, slimmer version of yourself, then breaks up with you for said hotter, prettier, taller, slimmer version, then decides to use the excuse, “But babe, we never actually established we were in a relationship” while you’re still wearing your engagement ring, he is the Antichrist.
I will never, ever forget that day. I swear I’m still going to be thinking about it on my death bed. I hadn’t seen it coming. The previous weekend we had been checking out reception venues and I’d almost decided on the dress. He called me that morning asking if I wanted to have lunch. Manhattan Grill? I had been busy at work (as usual) but Angrypants wasn’t around and I’m not one to pass up a steak. Halfway through our cow flesh feast, after a casual conversation about our mornings and the movement of his stocks on the LSX, he had said matter-of-factly,
“Penny, we need to call off the engagement.”
In my right hand my fork fell onto my plate. In my left the bread roll I had been holding dropped into my lap, smearing butter all over my skirt.
Those words were the verbal equivalent of him taking the butter knife I had just used and stabbing me in the heart with it.
Then he told me he had met someone else. That felt like he had lodged the butter knife deep in my chest and was slowly twisting it. The agony was palpable, real. It was just as bad as any physical torture I could imagine.
I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing for a few minutes. When the air eventually found its way back into my lungs I started wailing so loudly that the Maître d’ came over and asked if everything was okay. We walked out of the restaurant and he sat me down on the step.
“But… but… You told me those messages on your phone were from an old married woman from your work? You told me they were nothing?”
He hadn’t responded.
“How could you!” I had yelled.
“Penny, we never actually established that we were in a relationship.”
My tear filled eyes momentarily dried. I had looked from him, down to the engagement ring sparkling happily on my finger, back to him. He went on to say that he was not my partner, had never been my partner and had never considered me to be his.
“I never considered us ‘serious’.” He had raised his hands to put ‘serious’ in virtual quotation marks, “I mean, were you? I know over the past few years we’ve travelled, lived together, all of it, but did we ever actually establish a meaningful connection, which is the crux of a relationship? No, I don’t think we did.”
My heart, lungs and other vital organs collapsed from the butter knife blows, and I dissolved into a weeping mess of pain that I didn’t come out of for what seemed an eternity. It was a specific type of grief, one filled with fear and physical agony, like someone had taken a giant ice cream scooper and gone to work on my organs. I’d never experienced anything like it.
So this is what a broken heart feels like.
The next few days were spent in a state of shock, not really registering what he’d said. Then over the next two weeks it dawned on me that something very bad had happened. I cried every ten minutes that first week. It was like a preset timer, every ten minutes the waterworks would start. I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t eat a thing (lost ten kilograms in eight days and the bones of my chest started to jut out – not a good look). Then the preset timer reset itself to every thirty minutes, so that in the second month I cried every hour, but still didn’t eat much, didn’t exercise, didn’t go out. In the third month I cried once a day, usually in bed while trying to fall asleep. By the fourth month my doctor had prescribed me with anti-depressants (after Emma forced me to make an appointment), so that in the fifth I cried hardly at all. Six months in and I was back to exercising and eating normally again. But I remained a shattered vessel for a long time.
My friends’ approach to comforting the new-suicidal-me varied hugely,
“He’s an utter twat, not even worth you thinking about anymore,” was Chloe’s comfort line.
“No matter what, I’m here for you. Even if I have to sleep over every night for the next year, I will!” Emma’s comfort line.
My sister was always doing something to cheer me up during those months, cooking dinner or putting on Breaking Bad or sleeping over. It turned out she only had to sleep over six times, all during that first week. I didn’t want to be alone. I couldn’t be alone. So we stayed up all night, night after night, watching awful Rom Coms like Hangover II and Couples Retreat. I don’t know how we managed to stay up all those nights and still go into work the next day.
“Penny, you are beautiful, you are fun, you are nice. You’ll be snapped up in no time!” was Mags’ comfort line.
Mags’ approach involved a lot of positive reinforcement and to be honest, hers was the one that cheered me most. I wanted to be snapped up. I wanted some proof that there were still nice guys out there. I wanted to be able to look in the mirror and say, “Yep, still got it.” Instead, over the next year I would look in the mirror and see a colossal failure.
And now, eighteen months after The Really Awful Breakup, here he stands, the man who crushed my spirit and buttered my chest.
***
“Penny! Nice to see you, you look great.”
He shakes my hand while I stand frozen, a human lump of shock. I remain there, deaf and dumb, shaking his hand over and over and over again. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. Don’t smile. Don’t scowl. Don’t do anything or you will faint. I can hear Sarah and Sam making introductions but it feels like they are speaking from a galaxy far, far away. I can barely hear anything over the deafening helicopter noises battering my eardrums from the inside. I think it’s called ‘brain panic’. Or it’s sudden onset tinnitus but that’s silly, I’ve never used power tools and I keep my ears really clean.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak as I let go of his hand.
Was he always this short or am I just comparing him unfavourable to the Stranger?
“I’m Lloyds’ new Commercial Manager.”
“But… But you’re a stock broker?” I stutter.
“Things change, Dumplin’.”
I’m not surprised, a broker as allergic to making money for their clients as you ought to switch careers. But I hold my tongue. Sarah’s voice is echoing in my head next to the anxiety attack helicopter noises, her line from earlier playing like a broken record, ‘We cannot afford to stuff this one up… We cannot afford to stuff this one up... We cannot afford to stuff this one up...’
I must refrain from lashing out at this scumbag.
I must survive this meeting.
I haven’t noticed the rest of the room has sat down, while I’ve continued to stand in a daze. Angrypants clears her throat loudly from the head of the table where she’s seated herself. I swiftly
sit down, shaking myself as I do. Get a grip, you can do this. Sarah is speaking and I silently thank God I’m not running the show today. If I was the most senior lawyer here it would be me in charge of the agenda.
He Who Shall Not Be Named hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I can see him from the corner of my eye, but I refuse to return his gaze. My attention, and that of everyone else in the room besides my ex’s, is locked firmly on Sarah, who has always had such a commanding stage presence,
“Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with us today. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Sarah Daye and I will be the signing partner for the transaction. We have printed copies of the agenda for your convenience and as you can see it is tight. I’m conscious that you all have day jobs to go back to, so we will keep this to under an hour. This is Sam Grabowski and to my left is Penelope Jones, your senior associates and go-to guys. Before we discuss the nitty gritty of the deal, let’s go over the overarching objectives. You intend on selling your offices in Central Grand, is that correct?”
The old dude, who I read from the agenda is the Development Manager, responds, but I’m not listening. I’m using every ounce of energy I can sap from this morning’s breakfast (four slices of Marmite toast and six coffees) to avoid his glance. I can feel his beady little eyes on me. Under the table, my knuckles are going white from squeezing the edge of my seat.
Half an hour in and I’m thinking things might work out after all. Sarah is captaining the ship and I’m keeping as low a profile as possible. I’m also slightly arching my neck to the left, because to my right is the Development Manager had begun to reek of gin and Marlboroughs. I guess he’s started to sweat through his shirt, seeing as the room is rather warm. He’s a curious looking fellow, this smelly old man. With only a few grey hairs left around his temples and a sharp, small, pointed beard, he looks like a chubster Lenin.
Just as I begin to relax, He Who Shall Not Be Named pulls a bag out from under the table and I see it’s his laptop case. The laptop. The blood drains from my face. How does he still have that thing? How did it not break?
His laptop starts making loud pinging noises as it loads, all of its lights flashing flamboyantly. Sarah stops mid-sentence and stares at my ex disapprovingly. No one is allowed to interrupt her when she is on a roll, not even a client. Her glare could burn a hole right through that poor little Apple logo.
“Sorry, my laptop has been playing up for a few months, it’ll settle down in a moment,” he apologises.
“Quite alright,” Angrypants replies, with as much conviction as a washed up actress endorsing the youth restoring powers of home-brand moisturiser.
I watch He Who Shall Not Be Named start typing on that keyboard and my body starts giving off small, involuntary shudders. I should never have done it.
OId Man Smelly addresses myself and Stalker,
“When do you anticipate signing?”
Stalker replies that it’s not an election year, government approval is a shoe-in and Lloyds and the potential buyers are in reasonably strong financial positions. Barring unforeseen circumstances few delays are anticipated, ergo (he’s taken a leaf out of Sarah’s ergo-and-other-wanker-buzzword dictionary), the deal will be complete in twelve weeks. He sounds confident and knowledgeable. If only they knew about the head slamming incident.
The Lloyds men nod their heads in approval and Sarah looks pleased. But just as she is about to close, He Who Shall Not Be Named turns to me,
“Miss Jones, have you had much experience in transactional work?”
You know I do you moron, we lived together for two years.
“Yes, I’ve been in Real Estate law for five years, seven if you include my years as a clerk in Melbourne.”
“And you understand the confidential nature of this sale?”
“Of course.”
Where is he going with this?
“You will not be able to discuss this sale to anyone, not even your partner.”
That won’t be a problem, my last partner turned out to be an asshole parasite nimrod, so I’m very much single. Actually wait, I take that back. Calling him a parasite would be injurious and offensive to the millions of honest parasitic species out there.
“I understand,” I assert, more forcefully this time.
He What Shall Not Be Named has nothing to add, but the Development Manager turns to Angrypants to continue the line of questioning,
“Can we be frank Ms Daye? We are a tad concerned regarding the manning of your team.”
He looks around the table. The young Lloyds kid and my ex nod their approval.
“Why is that?” Sarah asks, worry lines etching themselves into her forehead.
“One of the lawyers on your team is known for her habit of sharing client secrets during, how should I put this, ‘pillow talk’. You can see how this might raise some concerns for us.”
The Development Manager is looking at Sarah, Sarah is looking at him, but the rest of the room move their eyes to me. I blush a deep crimson whilst clenching my fists ever more tightly under the table. I am mortified, and furious. I’ve never broken a client’s confidentiality in my life! He Who Shall Not Be Named has an amused smile on his face, and it dawns on me. It’s him. He’s been telling them I’m a pillow talker. I’m paralysed with anger. My eyes see red, I’m so angry. My teeth grit, I’m so angry.
How dare he? After all the information he used to ‘acquire’ from his old employer (without the employer’s knowledge, which I call stealing) which could only be described as misappropriation, he has the gall to make up a story like this? I desperately want to stand up and point a finger back at him, tell the room that he is the untrustworthy one, that if someone is going to leak this, it’ll be him.
Stunned and furious by the nasty turn of events, I have no idea of how best to defend myself, so I stay quiet. To the people in the room, my silence is as good as an admission of guilt. Sarah remains cool as a cucumber,
“I assure you our lawyers are of the best repute and uphold the highest professional standards. There is no need for concern.”
***
Back in the taxi Angrypants is not happy. And the feeling is entirely mutual.
“What the hell happened in there Jonesy? You were about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”
I’m so livid with her I can barely control my shaking voice. Angrypants met He Who Shall Not Be Named before he called off the engagement. And she knew he would be there today.
“You knew. You knew he would be at that meeting. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Her eyes widen, then narrow again, then close tightly shut. Her forehead screws up like overused chamois leather and she starts rubbing her temples with her fingertips. She’s obviously controlling an outburst. When she speaks her voice is frighteningly controlled,
“Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t read the agenda?”
Uh oh.
“I… You see, I was swamped with Tesco this morning, and...”
I stop when I see my boss rubbing her temples more violently than I’ve ever seen her do before. I say no more. My anger does a swift U-turn to be firmly directed onto myself. Because Sarah is right. She is one hundred per cent bloody right.
She continues in that eerily calm tone,
“Jonesy, when are you going to learn that working nights and weekends is part of the deal in the Magic Circle? You think you can have a great social life and still get to work at one of the most prestigious law firms in the world?”
I want to remind her that I already work from home on Saturdays but I stay silent. She wants us to be working Saturdays and Sundays, like she does. It’s a miracle she’s found time to get married this weekend.
“Sarah, I can’t stay on the Lloyds job, you’ll have to find someone else. There is a clear conflict of interest.”
“The hell you can’t, there’s no one spare in the team to go around.”
Maybe that’s because you’re the most abusive, awful boss imaginable and most people don’t l
ast two months working in your lousy team.
She takes my silence as a begrudging acceptance of my fate. The rest of the taxi ride is weird, the three of us sit in an awkward silence, staring out our respective windows. Stalker probably doesn’t know what to make of all this drama. When we reach the office Sarah orders us out of the taxi and heads off to another meeting.
Sam and I walk into the building together, the silence heavy between us. I’m shell shocked from the events of this afternoon and feel like taking a long, hot bath, followed by a sleep that lasts a hundred years. Alas, Schmermesco’s file is waiting for me on my desk.
I want to cry.
“You okay, dog?” Sam asks gently, trying to place an arm around my shoulders as we approach the lifts.
I step aside and leave him hanging. I don’t want anyone touching me, let alone him.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
I walk faster, trying to lose Stalker, but he just speeds up. Blast his stalkery ways. We enter a waiting elevator and I press the 12th floor.
“So yo, the Commercial Manager, was he your ex or something?” Sam ventures.
My shoulders slump. I feel broken, and about a second away from bursting into tears, which I never do. Dad always told us crying was for the weak. I tell Stalker that I’ll explain later, then literally run out of the lift as soon as it reaches our floor. I’m reminded that sprinting in heels is not a good idea as blisters immediately form on my toes, but it’s worth it because I find solitude in the toilets. I force back the tears and eventually start feeling better in the quiet sanctuary of the loo. After regaining a bit of composure I make a plan to leave the bathroom and race to my desk, where I’ll remain for the rest of the day.
But as I walk out from the bathrooms my mood turns from depression to agitation. Stalker is prowling the hallway, looking for me.
“There you are! I’ve been looking for you. Can I make you a cup of tea? Lady Grey, right?”
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 8