Letters to a Love Rat

by Niamh Greene

  Mary the therapist thinks I should come clean about it all. She says that not telling people the truth about why we broke up was a mistake and symptomatic of my lack of self-esteem. Which is fine in theory, but I can’t be expected to have much self-esteem when I find out, all in less than an hour one rainy afternoon, that not only has the love of my life been cheating on me, but he’s leaving me too. There was no way I could have told people that. It was far better to say that it was my idea to split and that there was no third party involved. We’d grown apart, but we were still great friends – that was the line I used and everyone seemed to believe me. Only Anna knows the truth, and that’s because she wrangled it out of me after one vodka too many. Mum would die if she ever found out. Mind you, she might stop telling me I was a fool to let you go if she knew that I had come home early from work one day to finish an article in peace but instead found you and a busty brunette under my best Egyptian cotton covers. The Egyptian cotton covers I had so painstakingly ironed to perfection before I’d changed the bed linen that morning. And everyone knows how tricky Egyptian cotton can be to get crease-free, even if it is of superior quality. Yes, Mum might change her tune about how wonderful you were if she knew the truth, although I can’t be totally certain of that because she really was crazy about you – everyone was.

  Anyway, I tried to distract Mum from her rant by asking her about the cruise. She had a wonderful time, dining at the captain’s table, playing boules and reading beside the seawater pool. Do you remember her cruise buddy, Leona Merkel? Well, it turns out that Leona’s daughter, Lee, is a book publicist now, so Mum’s got her hands on an advance copy of Carla Ryan’s steamy new bonkbuster, Second Chance at Love. Mum highly recommended it – she even agreed to lend it to me once she calmed down. I’ve never read anything by Carla Ryan – chick lit isn’t really my thing – but then again the book looks like the closest I’ll get to sex for a while, so I really can’t afford to be picky.

  I almost told her that Anna has set me up on a blind date – that would have cheered her up, especially because he’s an accountant. Mum loves accountants. She says they’re the last bastion of good sense in a nonsensical world. I know she says that because, when Dad left, her own accountant uncovered the stash of cash that he’d squirrelled away in a secret bank account. He had to hand half of it over, and Mum’s been an ardent admirer of the accounting profession ever since. In the end, I decided against mentioning it. I think it’s best to see how it goes before I raise her hopes. When she left I was so tired that I couldn’t even finish putting all those terrible photos of us back where they belong – under the stairs.

  Eve

  Do You Have a Picture-perfect Partnership or Does Your Body Language Mean Your Relationship is Doomed?

  Do our simple quiz and find out!

  When you’re watching TV together, do you:

  a)Snuggle up as close as possible, wrapping your limbs round each other.

  b)Sit comfortably close together, occasionally touching.

  c)Sit on different seats, sometimes in different rooms. His fidgeting drives you crazy.

  In photos of you as a couple you are usually:

  a)Looking lovingly at each other, completely oblivious to the camera.

  b)Standing angled close together, smiling widely.

  c)You don’t have any couple photos. You’re never in the same room for long enough.

  If people comment on your appearance as a couple, they usually say:

  a)You could have a stylist, you look so well matched in every way.

  b)You could be brother and sister, you look so much alike.

  c)You can’t be a couple. You look like complete opposites.

  In bed, do you:

  a)Lie welded together. You love the feel of his skin against yours.

  b)Lie close together, side by side. You love the comfort of being with your man, but you don’t need to constantly touch him.

  c)Lie with your backs to each other. You’re thinking about moving into the spare room – his snoring makes you want to scream.

  Results

  Mostly As: Your body language screams passion and romance – you’re in the first flush of love! Try not to panic when things settle down a bit.

  Mostly Bs: The passion between you has dimmed a little, but that’s all right with you! You’ve moved to a deeper understanding of each other. You know you don’t have to be all over each other like a rash to prove your love – bravo!

  Mostly Cs: According to your body signals, you can’t stand the sight of each other. Maybe you need to reconsider your future together?

  Molly

  ‘OK, so the theme for the next issue is “True Love”. Capital T, capital L. We’re talking romance, we’re talking true blue, we’re talking TOGETHER FOR EVER. Are you with me?’

  I flinch as Minty’s voice booms round the room.

  Samantha and I are locked with Minty in her office to ‘brainstorm’. Minty loves to brainstorm, mostly because she is the only one ever allowed to speak. So far, I’ve told her that Carla Ryan has agreed we can shadow her for a day, but that’s all I’ve managed to say. Minty did a very good impression of not caring that I’ve bagged an exclusive with the queen of chick lit, but I could tell she was pleased – she’s scowling less than usual, which means she’s in quite a good mood.

  Right now, I’m only half listening to what she’s talking about. Really, I’m thinking about Charlie and why he still hasn’t contacted me. There’s been no response to my last text and I’m starting to panic now. Tanya and Alastair think I should turn up at his office, demand an explanation and force him to talk to me. A showdown in front of all his work colleagues is the last thing I want, but I’m running out of options. The feeling that this isn’t some sort of silly misunderstanding that we’ll be able to laugh about when we’re old and grey is growing stronger every minute, and it’s getting harder and harder to shake the awful feeling that he’s actually serious about leaving me.

  But I’m trying not to think about that. Instead, I’m pretending to take lots of notes in my jotter, to make it seem like I’m hanging on Minty’s every valuable word. Samantha is copying me; she looks as if her hand is about to fall off, she’s writing so fast. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about the time Minty caught an intern picking at her nails instead of paying attention and then made the poor girl’s life a complete misery. Minty has a unique take on employee rights: she doesn’t believe in them. If you work for her she thinks she owns you – and you’re supposed to be glad about it. In fact, you’re supposed to lick her size-eleven wedges as well as her skinny ass as much as you humanly can or she will make your life a living hell of cappuccino-making and photocopying.

  ‘I’m thinking old-fashioned love story.’ Minty is now waving her hands about to show that she is being creative and inspiring. As she speaks, she twirls her trademark chiffon neck scarf – the one she thinks makes her look distinctive and everyone else knows is a decoy to hide her sagging turkey neck.

  ‘We want love in a bucket. Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy and girl live happily ever after. No second wives, no brats and no complications.’

  Minty hisses this last bit. She married for the third time last year and rumour has it her adult stepchildren refuse to be in the same room as her – not that I blame them. I’d refuse to be in the same room as her if I didn’t work here.

  ‘I’m thinking straightforward, pure, uncomplicated. Are you with me?’

  Samantha and I nod simultaneously like we both understand exactly what she’s talking about, even though my husband is a runaway and Samantha’s boyfriend is a death-row prisoner she has never met. Straightforward, pure and uncomplicated don’t exactly apply to us.

  Not that we can tell Minty that, because as far as Minty is concerned we don’t have lives – not ones that exist outside of these office walls anyway. I could never tell her what’s happened, because she has zero tolerance for people who bring their personal problems into the wor
kplace, and anyone who has ever made the mistake of doing so has lived to regret it. Like that time when Michelle from Accounts’s boyfriend was caught sex-texting his old teacher, and poor Michelle was found sobbing her eyes out in the Ladies: Minty marched Michelle into her office and told her that if she didn’t get a grip quick then she could pack up all the cute teddy bears and love-heart photo frames littering her desk, go straight home and not bother coming back. Thinking about it, if Minty knew how well I was hiding the shambles that is my life from everyone, she might be quite impressed.

  ‘Now, which no-hopers are looking for some self-promotion this week?’

  Minty looks disdainfully through the paperwork in front of her, raking her sharp, pointy fingernails down the list of possible contributors and flicking violently through perkily worded press releases from fawning publicists as she goes. Getting writers who have a new book to promote to pen a piece for the magazine is a cheap way to fill the pages of Her. We mention their new book; they write the article for free. Everyone’s happy. It helps to get ‘names’ of course – writers who have strong media profiles add cachet to the magazine, and having cachet is what this business is mostly about.

  ‘Bonnie Banks? She’s got a new book out. What’s she like?’ Minty says.

  I like Bonnie Banks. She’s a crime novelist who writes one book a year, every year. She’s done features for the magazine before and they’re always punchy. She also delivers on time, which is rare for an author of her calibre. But I don’t say any of that, because Minty is not really asking me what I think. Her question about Bonnie is purely hypothetical, and I know better than to say anything. The only opinion that matters in the room is hers.

  ‘Hang on.’ Minty narrows her eyes. ‘Isn’t she the bitch who did that piece on office politics last year? That was horseshit.’

  I sigh… but only on the inside. I can’t let Minty see my reaction. I should have known she’d veto Bonnie after that brilliant piece she did last year on bosses who bully. Rumour has it that it was based entirely on Minty’s antics.

  ‘The girl wouldn’t know good writing if it came up and bit her on the ass,’ she goes on. ‘She’s dead to me.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Samantha diligently write ‘DEAD TO ME’ beside Bonnie’s name in her notebook.

  This is one of Minty’s favourite expressions. She talks like she’s a big-shot American magazine editor, even though she’s only the editor of a mid-market glossy that struggles for readership and advertising. The truth is, she’s only ever been to New York on long-weekend shopping trips (rumour has it that she used to fly over just to stock up on shoes – they have a much better selection of extra-large sizes over there). She gets most of her ‘witty’ Americanisms from Sex and the City, which, at the height of its popularity, she watched religiously every week. In fact, her SATC addiction used to be so bad that whatever eccentric mishmash ensemble Carrie Bradshaw wore onscreen on a Monday night Minty would be rocking on a Tuesday morning. Gaudy flower corsages were huge for her. At one stage she wore one almost every day. Now she sticks to the infamous chiffon scarves.

  She glares at Samantha, who beams back.

  I remind myself to tell her not to smile too much in editorial meetings. Minty doesn’t like it: it interferes with her creative flow.

  ‘Joanne Tisdale? She’s not bad.’ Minty twirls her neck scarf again. ‘Hang on, she’s a dyke, right?’ She sighs dramatically as if Joanne Tisdale decided to be homosexual purposefully to annoy her. ‘Scrap her. We can’t have a raving lesbo write about boy meets girl.’

  I see Samantha carefully write ‘DYKE’ beside Joanne Tisdale’s name and then underline it.

  Minty is starting to throw more and more paper around. I can tell she’s getting frustrated because she also starts to pick her nose. She does this to help her concentrate and she has no problem going for it in plain view of us. She couldn’t care less that we can see her shoving her ring finger up there and rooting around furiously. I lower my eyes and force myself to look at my jotter. God only knows what life-size buggers are up her nostrils waiting to be given their moment to shine and I really don’t want to see them.

  ‘What about David Rendell?’

  I almost swallow the pencil that I’m pretending to chew thoughtfully.

  ‘Yeah, David Rendell…’ She says his name again and the room starts to spin. She’s talking about David, my David, my ex David.

  ‘Where has he been?’ she asks no one in particular. ‘Not that I care of course. Well, according to this badly written press release, he has a new book to promote. Let’s get him to do something for our Love issue. It’s always good to get a man’s perspective, even if we totally disagree with it, right?’

  She cackles madly, and Samantha cackles along to show she thinks Minty’s hilarious.

  David has a new book coming out? How on earth did I miss that? I usually keep such a close eye on his writing career, even more so since he’s become a best-selling author.

  ‘Molly. Earth calling Molly.’ Minty is still talking to me, except now she’s using her really sarcastic voice – even more sarcastic than usual, which is very bad news.

  My tongue feels like it’s swelling in my mouth and slowly suffocating me. I have to say something.

  ‘Sorry, yes?’ My voice comes at last. I whip up my jotter again and grip my pencil so I look like I’m ready and eager to take even more notes.

  ‘David Rendell?’ she sneers.

  ‘David Rendell, right.’ I write his name down, as if it isn’t already branded on my memory.

  ‘Hang on…’ she drawls. ‘Didn’t I hear that you used to have a thing with him a few years ago?’

  She leans back in her custom-made leather chair and assesses my reaction. She’s enjoying this, I can tell.

  ‘It won’t be awkward, will it – now that you’re married?’

  Samantha swivels to look at me, her eyes wide. This is all news to her. I’ve never told her about David. I’m not sure how Minty even knows. Then again, Minty seems to know everything about everyone.

  ‘Awkward? With David?’ I gulp. ‘Of course not!’

  Then I smile as convincingly as I can, even though I think my breakfast is about to reappear. I can almost taste the cream cheese bagel that I wolfed down before this meeting inching its way back up my gullet.

  ‘OK… perfect,’ Minty drawls, trailing her neck scarf slowly through her fingers and smiling slowly. ‘Well, in that case, let’s go full throttle. Scrap his feature – let’s do a lead interview with him instead. I want his thoughts on true love. Does he believe in love at first sight? Has he met his soulmate? That sort of shit. Get a half-decent photo and he might even make the cover. From what I remember he’s quite the hottie.’

  Samantha writes ‘HOTTIE’ in her notebook beside David’s name. Then she draws a love heart and a smiley face beside it.

  I swallow. This cannot be happening.

  ‘So you’re OK to do the interview?’ Minty smirks at me.

  ‘Of course!’ I stutter. ‘This is great!’

  That is a big fat lie. This is not great. This is terrifying, but I’m trying not to let that show. I’m still smiling – well, I’m more or less gritting my teeth, but Minty probably won’t notice the difference. What on earth will I say to David? How will I even begin to have a normal conversation? Because he wasn’t just a fling, he wasn’t just someone I used to have a thing with a few years ago, as Minty put it. He was the love of my life. I can still vividly remember the first time I saw him in that crowded Lesson Street nightclub. Tanya had persuaded me it would be a good idea to go clubbing. It wasn’t really my thing, but another unsuitable man had just broken up with her and she had declared that dancing was the only thing that would cheer her up. I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I went and tried to pretend that getting jostled around a hot, packed club was my idea of a great night out. But then a sleazy guy who’d had one too many beers and whiskey chasers pinched Tanya’s bum and she retaliated b
y throwing her gin and tonic in his face. She wasn’t in the habit of doing things like that, especially not when paying ridiculous nightclub prices for minuscule drinks, but because she’d been dumped again she was in a spectacularly bad mood. And so she decided that no one was touching her bottom without her express permission, least of all a sweaty, overweight drunk who could barely stand or see straight. But getting a drink in his face didn’t deter this guy, it only spurred him on. When he groped her again, Tanya threw my gin and tonic in his face. And that’s when things turned nasty. The drunk’s mood changed and he started screaming abuse at Tanya, shouting that she was a dick tease and a slut and all sorts of awful names. I was starting to get scared, and I could tell that even Tanya was getting nervous – this guy had us backed into a corner and he was furious. I quickly realized that he wasn’t just a bit drunk – he was way past that, and probably capable of anything. And that was when David stepped in. In less than a minute, security was hauling the drunk away and David was buying us new drinks to replace the ones Tanya had wasted. Tanya downed hers in record time – she wouldn’t admit it, but she was really rattled. And so was I, but not by the groping drunk – by David. The minute I looked in his liquid brown eyes I felt this huge connection to him. It was like something I’d only ever read about in trashy romance novels. I felt like I knew him, knew the bones of him, and we’d only just met. It was that powerful.

  Within days we were inseparable. Within weeks I had moved into his poky little flat, where the water was always cold and the radiators never worked but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter a bit because we were utterly, blissfully happy together. We were madly in love but we were also best friends who could make each other laugh until our sides ached. And the sex – well, the sex was like I’d never experienced before. Sometimes madly passionate, other times slow and tender, but always, always amazing.