Letters to a Love Rat

by Niamh Greene

  I pause. If I want to make it sound plausible, I might have to pretend. Otherwise, God knows what she’ll say to him.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, feeling bad. ‘That’s why, you know…’

  ‘That’s why you broke up? Oh, that’s awful.’ Samantha’s eyes are filling with tears. She leans across the table and grasps my hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I’m starting to feel guilty – she’s really falling for this. But it’s for her own good. There’s no way I can let her quiz David about his writing – I have to concentrate on completing the interview and then getting out of here as fast as possible, that’s the only way I’ll be able to get through it.

  Samantha has left her seat and is leaning across the coffee table to hug me. She really needs to work on her boundaries, but maybe now is not the time to bring that up. As she moves to comfort me, her bag tips over and everything falls to the ground. Top of the heap is a massive pair of designer sunglasses, with diamanté encrusting on the sides. Another idea comes to me. If I was wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses maybe David wouldn’t notice my haggard face as much. These are so huge they’d cover most of my face.

  ‘Um, can I borrow the sunglasses?’ I ask. ‘David doesn’t like to make eye contact with people – it’s part of the condition. It freaks him out when people look him straight in the eye. If I’m wearing these he mightn’t feel so uncomfortable.’

  ‘Of course!’ she hisses, thrusting them at me. ‘Quick, put them on – he’s coming.’

  My stomach lurches – this is it. He’s here. I just have time to shove on the glasses before he’s standing in front of me.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. His voice is exactly how I remember it. Low and gravelly.

  I see his face and all at once I can’t speak. But I don’t have to, because Samantha leaps to her feet.

  ‘David, I am so thrilled to meet you – I’m such a fan!’ She grabs his hand and pumps it energetically and then immediately leaps away from him. ‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry. You probably don’t like people touching you, what with your condition and all…’

  She looks at the floor. I know what she’s doing – she’s trying not to make eye contact with him because of his sociophobia.

  ‘Touching me? No, that’s fine.’ David looks confused.

  ‘Oh, that’s good. I just thought…’ Then she remembers that I have told her not to talk and she falls silent.

  He’s standing before me. Oh my God, he looks amazing. I have to say something. My mouth is completely dry. I have to say something.

  I struggle to my feet and the glasses slide down my nose.

  ‘Hi, David,’ I croak, pushing them back on. ‘Nice to, um, see you.’

  ‘Molly.’ He nods at me. But he doesn’t shake my hand. He doesn’t kiss me on the cheek. He doesn’t hug me warmly. He hates me – it’s written all over his face. And why wouldn’t he? I destroyed him.

  ‘Would you, um, like a cup of tea?’ I say, praying the glasses won’t move again. If they do he’ll see how awful I look and I desperately don’t want that to happen. Not when he looks so gorgeous.

  ‘Sure,’ he nods, and it might be my imagination, but I think he smiles at me. I feel my insides go wobbly.

  ‘OK. Let me take care of it,’ I say.

  That’ll give me time to regain my composure. To give myself a stern talking-to. To try to remember that, even though my husband is missing, I am a married woman and therefore not allowed to have these sorts of feelings for ex-boyfriends. But before I can move, Samantha leaps in front of me.

  ‘Let me!’ she volunteers. ‘I’ll sort that out. Tea for everyone!’

  ‘No, that’s OK – I’ll go.’ I glare at her.

  No, no, no, my insides are screaming. Don’t be left alone with him. Not good, not good to be alone with him.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She slaps me away. ‘I’ll do it – that’s what I’m here for after all, to help!’ Then she winks conspiratorially at me. ‘Why don’t you two… you know, catch up.’ Then she’s gone.

  I will kill her. I will. I will.

  I try frantically to think of something to say. Small talk? Should I ask him what he thinks of the awful weather? Traffic? Global warming? Reality TV?

  No, stick to the task at hand. Get straight to work – that’s safest.

  ‘So…’ I rummage in my bag and fish out my jotter and my Dictaphone to play for time. ‘I have some interview questions lined up.’

  That was good – that sounded very professional. I just have to keep that up and I’ll be fine.

  ‘OK.’

  He’s smiling again. Not as guarded this time – a bit warmer. Which is nice. Very nice. There’s that tiny dimple at the side of his mouth. I’d sort of forgotten that. God, that’s cute. And I think I can smell the musky scent of his cologne. I close my eyes behind my glasses and breathe it in. That cologne. It’s my favourite.

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Yes?’ I gulp. Oh no, he’s going to say something. Something deep. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me. What if he asks me to explain why I broke up with him? What if he tells me I broke his heart?

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’ What if he leans across the table and kisses me? I gulp again. Where did that thought come from? Why on earth would he want to kiss me? Would I want him to?

  I’m blinking stupidly at him. Luckily he can’t see because of the massive glasses. Thank God I thought to put them on.

  ‘Why are you wearing those glasses?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The glasses. You’re sitting in a hotel lobby wearing sunglasses.’

  ‘Ah, the glasses.’

  I’ve got to think of a good excuse quickly. I can’t mention my haggard face, obviously. Perhaps I could say they’re a fashion statement. Or that I’ve become famous since we last met and I need them to fool the paps. My mind is racing.

  ‘Em, I’m photosensitive,’ I stutter.

  ‘Photosensitive?’ He raises his eyebrows. His gorgeous, bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Yes.’ I firmly push the glasses back onto the bridge of my nose – they’re so heavy I’m terrified that they’ll slip again. ‘My eyes are very sensitive to the light – they get red. And bloodshot. And watery. It’s horrible.’

  ‘That sounds painful.’

  He believes me. I’m so relieved.

  ‘Very painful. I have drops. Special drops. I have to put them in every day…’

  ‘That must be annoying.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Where the hell is Samantha? Has she gone to China to get the tea?

  ‘You weren’t photosensitive before.’ He’s still staring at me. His eyelashes are so long. I suddenly remember the way they used to droop onto his cheeks when he fell asleep.

  ‘Sorry?’ I really wish he’d stop looking at me like that.

  ‘When we were together. You weren’t photosensitive then.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s something that can develop. Out of the blue.’

  ‘So you just woke up one day and it had happened?’

  He leans back in his chair and smiles at me again. There’s that tiny chip on his front tooth. I always loved that chip.

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’ I look at my jotter. I can’t look at him any more.

  ‘And it affects you even when it’s raining outside? When it’s not even sunny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I have to change the subject. I clear my throat and try to concentrate. I have to start, move on, get out of here, not sit here staring at his mouth. Even if it is mesmerizing.

  ‘So, we’d better start the interview, I suppose – thank you for agreeing to it.’

  He shrugs. ‘My publicist thinks it will help promote the book. Though I’m not sure how much I trust her judgement.’

  He’s not smiling any more.

  My heart contracts. He’s only doing this to promote the book. Not to meet me again. Of course – that makes perfect sense, why would I even think otherwise?

&
nbsp; ‘Right. Well, the theme for this issue is true love.’

  ‘So I hear.’ He’s still staring at me. I wish he’d stop it, I really do.

  ‘My, um, first question for you is: have you ever been in love?’

  I try to hold my pen but my hand is shaking. I click on my Dictaphone quickly. Thank goodness I remembered to bring it so I can record the interview. There’s no way I can write like this.

  He pauses.

  ‘Yes. Once.’ His voice is low, almost a whisper.

  I raise my eyes to look at him.

  ‘Have you? Ever been in love, that is?’ he asks. His face is grim.

  I try to say something but I can’t. I swallow.

  ‘But how stupid of me to ask you that. Of course you know all about love. I hear you got married.’

  He’s looking pointedly at my ring finger.

  ‘Um, sort of,’ I whisper.

  ‘Sort of?’ His mouth twists.

  I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him that everything’s a fat mess. That Charlie is gone, that I’m starting to think that my big white wedding was a sham, that I can’t stop thinking about him. But I can’t because he hates me. It’s written all over his face. He despises me. I can’t say anything.

  ‘Well, congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together.’

  I swallow again. ‘Thank you.’

  If only he knew the truth. I look at the next question in my jotter and cringe. I have to ask it or Minty will eat me for breakfast.

  ‘Do you believe in soulmates?’ I croak.

  I already know the answer to this question. I know the answer because he told me often enough that we were soul-mates – that we were meant to be together, that the universe had decided that we were a perfect match and that our first meeting in that nightclub was destiny. I used to tease him and say that if destiny had a hand in it, could we not have met somewhere more glamorous, like Paris maybe. My eyes water thinking about it.

  His eyes, meanwhile, are like flint.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘What?’ The force of his words hits me like a physical blow.

  ‘The idea that there is one person in the world who’s meant for you and you alone is ridiculous. An idiotic notion that the greeting card companies want us to believe. Anyone who believes that is very foolish.’

  He’s almost snarling. I can feel his hatred for me bounce across the coffee table, and I blush.

  Before I can say anything in reply, Samantha is back.

  ‘Here we go!!!’ She slams a full tray onto the low table. ‘I’m sorry I was soooo long – service in here is really slow! Now, I got coffee and tea so we can have a choice – wasn’t that a good idea? And – bonus – there’s free biscuits!!!’ She beams happily at us both.

  ‘Actually, I have to go.’ David stands up abruptly.

  ‘Really?’ Samantha’s eyes widen. ‘Are you finished already?’

  ‘Oh yes, we’re finished,’ he says, staring pointedly at me. ‘We finished a long time ago.’

  Samantha glances at me, but I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  ‘OK, well, we’ll contact you to organize a photo shoot to accompany the piece. You could make our cover – wouldn’t that be exciting!’ Samantha is doing her best to fill the awkward silence and I feel so grateful to her I want to cry.

  ‘I’m sure that will be thrilling.’ David’s voice is flat. I keep my eyes on the table. ‘Call my publicist, she’ll arrange it.’

  Then, with a tight smile, he strides away, and behind my massive designer sunglasses I feel a tear slide slowly down my cheek.

  Julie’s Blog

  9.01 a.m.

  Mr X is working from home again this morning. Tried to wake him up but he just grunted at me, said he had some reports to complete and that he’d see me later. For a split second I felt like suffocating him with my goose-down duvet before I left – the one he’d been hogging again all night. I was nearly tipped over the edge when I discovered he’d cleared my cupboards of all my favourite breakfast cereals. He insists on cooking porridge from scratch for breakfast – which would be OK, but he’s already burnt the bottom of my best saucepan. And he’s so fastidious about recycling. I know it’s all very admirable and good for the environment, but I really don’t need to see a ten-point plan of the ways I can improve my carbon footprint tacked to my fridge door first thing. I need a coffee. A very strong coffee. Thank God the janitor sorted the machine out.

  9.04 a.m.

  UC One has just asked me if she thinks we should throw Mr X a ‘little party’ for his birthday tomorrow. She wants to ‘get some cream cakes’ and ‘have a singalong’. I had no idea that tomorrow was his birthday, but UC One never forgets the special dates in everyone’s lives thanks to her handy desk diary. She is going to conduct an ad hoc straw poll among all other UCs to determine support for the idea before going ahead.

  9.26 a.m.

  UC One back at desk to confirm that she has taken a straw poll and other UCs think it would be ‘fun’ to buy cream cakes and spring a birthday surprise on Mr X. I considered telling her the whole thing was a horrendous idea – even worse than the time she organized karaoke in the canteen for the Be Happy At Work Day, but I felt a bit sorry for her so I didn’t. I mean, I’ve already scored the Dick Lit gig and will get lots of glory for that. I should probably let her organize this as a sort of little consolation prize. So I lied and said it all sounded like a nice idea. Then I pretended to be absorbed in writing press releases so she would go away and leave me alone.

  10.03 a.m.

  Have just received terse email from UC One informing me that all the other UCs have voted me in charge of collecting money to buy the birthday cakes. I can tell UC One is furious she’s not in control of the entire charade. She says she will bring the Official Money-Collecting Purse (the one she bought especially for the task and keeps in her ‘bits and bobs’ drawer) to my desk shortly. Once I have collected all monies, I must return it to her ‘promptly’ so she can purchase the cakes ‘in good time’. Strongly suspect voting was rigged by all other UCs purposely to annoy her – they know she loves to organize everything.

  10.08 a.m.

  Just received flurry of emails from all other UCs saying that if I’m officially in charge of collecting the money then I may as well be in charge of buying the cakes too. UC One looks devastated.

  10.11 a.m.

  UC Two says that doughnuts and eclairs should be excluded from cake quota due to her wheat allergies. She suggests substituting with rice cakes.

  10.16 a.m.

  Rest of UCs have suggested that UC Two shoves her rice cakes where the sun don’t shine.

  10.17 a.m.

  Email from UC One to all UCs suggesting that substituting plain rice cakes with chocolate-covered rice cakes could be ‘a nice compromise’. She finished her email with three smiley faces and four exclamation marks.

  10.22 a.m.

  Flurry of emails declaring that everyone should not have to suffer because some people have ridiculous-sounding allergies that probably don’t exist. Eclairs and doughnuts back on menu. UC One is looking defeated.

  10.37 a.m.

  UC One is wondering when I will commence money collection for Mr X’s birthday cakes. She fears if I leave it any longer I may collect ‘insufficient funds’ and be forced to buy ‘substandard patisseries’.

  10.41 a.m.

  Just received email from UC One to ‘follow up on our conversation’. She has kindly reminded me that for office birthday celebrations she feels it unwise to ‘leave anything to chance’, so she usually pre-orders the cakes, ‘to ensure that they are of the highest possible quality’. She included the phone number of her favourite baker, along with his website address and directions to his premises. She concluded the email with two smiley faces and three exclamation marks.

  11.04 a.m.

  Have spent last twenty minutes pleading with co-workers to part with cash for birthday cakes for Mr X. More than one of the
m suggested he ‘pay for his own bloody cakes’. Could sense UC One observing me from her desk, pretending to work but obviously itching to step in and take over.

  11.22 a.m.

  UC One has sent email to say that if I had a cheerier demeanour I would probably wheedle more money from people. She has included two sample jokes she thinks may help. She also included four smiley faces and five exclamation marks.

  12.01 p.m.

  Mr X is still not at his desk. Where the hell is he?

  12.03 p.m.

  UC One has announced that she plans to erect a Happy Birthday banner for Mr X in the kitchenette. She needs her Official Money-Collecting Purse back to collect the extra funds.

  12.09 p.m.

  There’s been a scuffle between UC One and UC Two over the birthday banner for Mr X. UC Two is taking a stand and loudly refusing to hand over any more cash for ‘this overblown celebration’. Other UCs are grumbling among themselves and looking restless.

  12.48 p.m.

  Mr X is still not in. He’s probably devising another recycling schedule to drive me mad, and I’m stuck here with a bunch of losers trying to organize birthday cakes for him. Right, that’s it, I’ve had enough. I’m going out tonight.

  12.51 p.m.

  Email to N and R:

  Wanna go clubbing tonight? Cocktails first – my treat!

  God, I need a night out.

  1.00 p.m.

  Bloody photocopier is jammed. Making strange whirring noises like it’s going to explode. Does nothing work round here any more? First the coffee machine, now the photocopier – I’ve a good mind to call the union. If we had a union.

  1.01 p.m.

  Email to janitor:

  Urgent. Photocopier jammed. Needs fixing ASAP.

  1.04 p.m.

  Email from janitor:

  Say ‘please’.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  1.05 p.m.

  Email to janitor:

  Please.

  1.06 p.m.

  Email from janitor:

  Will be there ASAP. Have to URGENTLY sort out the sugar dispenser in the coffee machine first. People are very fussy about their coffee, you know.