by Niamh Greene
I smile across the table at her. If only her publishers knew what she really looked like they might reconsider putting her photo on the jackets of her books.
‘You told me when we first met that you had found your soulmate. Was it Charlie?’
‘No,’ I say eventually, and I know it’s true.
‘Well, if Charlie isn’t your soulmate then who is?’
I twist my glass again but I don’t answer her, I’m terrified to say it out loud. Because saying it out loud means I would have to admit it to myself, and I’m not ready to do that.
Carla stares at me and then smiles widely. ‘Let me ask you this. If this was a Carla Ryan novel, if you were writing this story, what would be your happy ending?’
A scenario comes flooding into my mind but I push it away quickly. There’s no point even thinking about it because this isn’t some chick-lit novel where the happy ending appears miraculously out of nowhere. This is real life, and real life is far more complicated.
‘I’ve been asked to write a feature on why I got married,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘OK, go on.’
‘The thing is, I can’t remember why I did. Do you think that’s strange?’
‘Like I say, people get married for all sorts of reasons,’ she says. ‘The heroine in my first novel married a man she didn’t love for money.’
‘I didn’t marry Charlie for his money, I know that much.’
‘Why do you think you did then?’ she asks softly.
‘Because I wanted to forget someone else.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
‘Your true soulmate?’
‘Yes.’ A tear slides down my cheek. I can’t believe I’m confiding in a complete stranger like this, but it feels like the right thing to do.
‘Everyone makes mistakes, Molly,’ Carla says, reaching across the table for my hand. ‘It’s never too late to start again.’
I say nothing, but I know it is too late for me. David hates me now and I can’t turn back the clock. Everything is my fault. Mum and Dad getting killed. David and I breaking up. Even Charlie leaving. I never should have agreed to marry him in the first place. It was a mistake – a huge mistake.
‘Thanks for the drink, Carla,’ I say, pushing the glass away from me and getting to my feet. I need to go. ‘This really helped.’
‘No problem.’ Carla smiles. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I have a deadline.’ And then I hug her and walk out, suddenly knowing what I have to do.
Julie’s Blog
8.00 p.m.
Just helped Mr X move all his stuff out of my flat. He begged me to let him stay and I almost caved in. Almost. Until I found a half-written letter that was shoved under one of the piles of anthropology books he had stacked everywhere in the living room. A letter he was writing to his wife, begging her to let him move back in. By the sounds of it, he’d already written her one and she hadn’t replied, so this was his second attempt to worm his way back into her affections. It was right then and there that I knew for sure: Mr X never loved me, not ever. He just loved the idea of me. Maybe like he loved the idea of being married, before he actually went ahead and did it. He’s just the classic commitment-phobe – wanting what he can’t have and then running a mile when he gets it. I almost want to warn UC One about him, because I know that’s where he’s headed – right to her front door. And she’ll probably welcome him with open arms. Yes, I almost want to warn her. Almost. But for the moment they can have each other.
9.00 p.m.
This is complete and utter bliss. Watching trash TV, eating takeout and looking forward to hooking up with the girls later to go clubbing. At last I have my life back.
9.30 p.m.
Text from the janitor:
Hey you, wanna meet in a cow shed near you anytime soon?
Open Forum
From Broken Hearted: Was I right or was I right? I’m so glad she’s rid of him. Hopefully she’ll have better luck with the janitor. At least he’s not married.
From Devil Woman: You hope.
From Hot Stuff: He couldn’t be… he sounds so nice!
From Sexy Girl: You never know, I guess. Hey, do you guys wanna meet up tonight? Go for a drink?
From Angel: That’d be GREAT. Can we go to Blazin’ Saddles again? The cocktail hour is from 5 till 7 p.m.
From Devil Woman: Easy there, Angel. You might start to enjoy yourself if you’re not careful. And before you ask, Graphic Scenes: no, there was no HOT SEX.
Eve
Dear Charlie,
This will have to be a very quick letter because I’m getting ready for my grand dinner party. I’m so nervous and I don’t know why. Everything is prepared and ready to go: I’ve peeled the potatoes and the vegetables, I’ve basted the chicken and I’ve set the table. I’ve even remembered to buy some herbal tea, just in case Homer would like some afterwards. Or anyone else too, of course. Maybe his girlfriend likes herbal tea, although from what I hear those cheap and nasty alcopop drinks might be more up her street. Anna says she’s definitely a bit dim. Apparently she only reads trashy magazines and she’s obsessed with all the WAGs and their giant designer handbags and sunglasses. According to Anna, all she ever talks about are her hair extensions, and even then she can barely string a sentence together properly. I can’t imagine what Homer sees in her if that’s true – he’s so well read and cultured, even though he never rams it down your throat. I remember the look on his face when I caught him reading Chekhov on a tea break – he was almost embarrassed to be found out, it was so sweet. What could he possibly see in someone who only worries about her acrylic nails? I just don’t understand it.
I’ve told Tom that Homer’s coming tonight, and I think he understood me because he’s licking his fur far more than usual in preparation. I’m convinced he’s been pining since the flat was finished – he’s definitely been off his food. He even turned up his nose at salmon steak yesterday.
Larry called to say that he’s really looking forward to meeting everyone, which was sweet of him. He sent me a massive bunch of roses today. The delivery guy had trouble carrying them in from the van, they were so enormous. It was lovely to get flowers, and very thoughtful of him, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of you. Do you remember when we had that terrible row about environmental politics? You were cross because I’d forgotten to buy that eco-friendly washing-up liquid you liked to use, the one that never lathered properly. I said you needed to lighten up, and you said that if everyone took that attitude then the planet was doomed. We ended up sleeping apart for three days, until you sent me an enormous bouquet of pink roses to apologize.
I remember my first thought when I got them was that if you were so devoted to environmental principles then why didn’t you go pick me some flowers and give them to me yourself, instead of buying an ostentatious display of out-of-season blooms flown in from Holland? A hand-picked bunch of daisies would have meant so much more to me than an over-priced bouquet. But then I never wanted grand displays, I only ever wanted simple romance. I think it was right then, right at that second, that I saw through you for the very first time, even if I didn’t admit it to myself at the time. You couldn’t be bothered thinking about what I would really like, you just picked up the phone and used your credit card and you thought that would placate me. I don’t even like roses, do you know that? Daffodils are my favourite flower, which is funny because, when I think about it, the shade that Homer chose for my walls is almost exactly the same colour as spring-time daffs.
Anyway, it’s unfair of me to compare Larry to you. I need to give him a chance; he seems like a really nice person, even if the thought of kissing him again is not setting my soul alight like Anna says it should. She says I should be thrilled that he seems so interested and doesn’t think twice about sending expensive flowers at the drop of a hat, but then she always was more high maintenance than me. She’s been training Derek for years to give her exactly what
she wants. It’s just a pity that now, when he buys her the expensive underwear she loves so much, he can’t help trying it on first.
I better go. I want to get a head start on the gravy before my guests arrive.
Eve
Are You Easy to Impress or High Maintenance?
How high are your standards when it comes to love? Take our test and find out!
On a first date you expect a man to:
a)Take you to a fancy restaurant. You also want flowers and chocolates, at the very least.
b)Be kind and make you laugh. Fancy restaurants are usually overrated, so you don’t care where you go.
c)Turn up. The last guy you dated stood you up on a regular basis.
Is a man’s appearance:
a)The most important thing to you. There’s no way you’re going to be seen with Will Ugly.
b)Not that important. In the end, looks count for very little.
c)You feel so lucky that any man would ask you out that his looks never come into it. You’re just grateful for what you can get.
On a special anniversary you expect a man to:
a)Go all out. You’re talking jewellery and you’re talking seriously big.
b)Make you a special card. Homemade gifts always mean so much more.
c)You can’t imagine your man ever remembering a special date. He never has before.
Results
Mostly As: You’re as high maintenance as they get, but you need to examine how your relationship really works at its very core. You and your man may not last unless you set more realistic expectations and focus on what’s really important.
Mostly Bs: You and your man strike a healthy balance between caring for each other and setting realistic romantic expectations. You two are set for the long haul!
Mostly Cs: You need to raise the bar, girlfriend! If you have such low standards you’ll never find a man who treats you well. You deserve better, so aim high!
Molly
Dear Charlie,
From the outside, you and I might have looked like a perfect couple, but the truth is that things were wrong from the start. I didn’t want to admit that to myself, I didn’t want to see that we weren’t right for each other. I wanted to believe that because you seemed to love me, getting married was the right thing to do. What you didn’t know was that I also hoped it would help me forget someone. Just as when Mum and Dad died I hoped that running away would help me escape the guilt and grief. But running away and trying to hide solves nothing, I know that now.
The awful truth is that when you left straight after we got back from our honeymoon I was shocked but I was also relieved. I didn’t know why you left then and I don’t want to know now, because, if I’m honest with you and myself, it would never have worked between us. We were never meant to be together, not really – you know that as much as I do. I know in my heart that trying again would be a mistake, and I’m sure you do too. Goodbye, Charlie. I wish you happiness and true love in your life.
Molly
‘This is your feature on why you got married?’ Minty finishes reading the letter aloud, scratches her right nipple and frowns.
‘Um, yes,’ I say.
I’m in trouble – she hates it. I’m going to be fired. I’m going to be given three minutes to clear my desk. Samantha is going to get my job.
‘I know it’s shorter than we planned, but I think it works.’
‘Is all this true?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Well…’ She pauses to search for the right words and I brace myself. ‘Good work.’ She scratches her left nipple.
Good work? She likes it! She actually likes it.
‘It’s very… touching.’
Minty shifts in her seat and blinks hard. I might be imagining it, but there could be a tear in her eye.
‘So, this husband of yours – he’s gone for good?’
‘That’s right,’ I say.
Saying it out loud is scary, but it also feels like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
‘Right.’ Minty narrows her eyes at me. ‘You seem calm.’
She’s choosing her words carefully.
‘Yes. I am.’
‘When my first husband left I was devastated,’ she says quietly.
‘You were?’
‘Yes. That bastard slept with my best friend. I cried for three months.’
‘You cried?’ I can’t imagine Minty ever shedding a tear.
‘Of course.’ She shuffles some papers on her desk. ‘I know everyone thinks I have no feelings, but like I said to Michelle when that ex of hers was sex-texting his old teacher, “Do your crying in private and hold your head high in public.”’
Michelle? Michelle from Accounts? Michelle with the teddy bears and love-heart photo frames? My mind is racing.
‘She told everyone that you said if she didn’t stop snivelling in the office you were going to fire her.’
Minty smiles. ‘Ah yes, I asked her to say that. I can’t have everyone knowing I have a soft side. They’d all take advantage of me then.’ Her eyes are glittering. ‘But you go ahead and cry here if you want to.’
She pushes a box of tissues across the table to me.
‘Actually I’m fine,’ I say.
‘You are?’ Minty is surprised.
I think about it.
‘Well, I will be,’ I correct myself. ‘I just have one more thing to do.’
An hour later I’m in the graveyard, standing at the spot where Mum and Dad were laid to rest. I can’t remember their funerals. Everything from that morning is a blur; all I can really recall is clinging to David and sobbing into his shoulder, sure that nothing would ever be the same again.
I reach across to feel the engravings of their names etched into the marble. There’s a potted basket of colourful flowers nestled at the base of the headstone. They’re hyacinths: Mum’s favourites. Tanya must have put them there before she left for New York. Mum would have loved them. My eyes well at the thought. It still seems so surreal that they’re dead. Even after all this time, I can’t get my head round the fact that I won’t ever see them again. Dad will never again bribe me to smuggle him some of the chocolate the doctor had told him to cut out for the sake of his cholesterol; Mum will never nag me about not wearing a proper coat on a cold day. They’re gone and they’re not coming back. I have to accept that.
‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad,’ I whisper. ‘It’s me: Molly.’
I’m talking out loud, but I can’t stop myself. It’s a good thing the place is deserted: I must look and sound crazy. But that’s why I’m here, after all: to tell them everything that’s happened. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, then another and another. I wipe my nose on the back of my sleeve. There’s no point looking in my bag for tissues: I never remember to buy any.
‘I’ve made a mess of everything,’ I snivel. ‘You’d be so ashamed of me.’
‘They’d never be ashamed of you, Molly.’
I recognize the voice immediately but I don’t move. I must be hallucinating. It can’t be him. What would he be doing here? I’ve finally completely lost it. But somehow it doesn’t seem to matter so much any more.
‘They thought the world of you. You made them proud.’
His voice sounds so real. If I didn’t know better, I could swear he was standing right behind me. I can almost feel the heat of his body.
‘Molly?’ His voice is a gentle question.
It’s only then that I turn around. I’m not hallucinating: it’s David. He’s here.
‘They were great people,’ he says solemnly, his face un-readable.
I nod at him, speechless.
‘What happened wasn’t your fault.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I croak.
How can he say that? If I hadn’t invited them for dinner they’d still be alive and well, playing golf and going to the theatre. If I hadn’t persuaded them both that they couldn’t miss my roasted lemon chicken then they’d be here
. They’re dead because of me.
‘No, it wasn’t. It was mine.’ He hangs his head.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ I whisper, my voice hoarse.
Hearing him say that horrifies me. Mum and Dad loved David like a son. They would never think badly of him or blame him for what happened.
‘If I hadn’t insisted they come over that day, it would never have happened. I wanted them to be there because I wanted them to see me propose to you.’
‘What?’ I squeak. He’d never told me that.
‘I was going to ask you to marry me, and I wanted them to share the moment. But they never made it and that was my fault, not yours.’
‘It was an accident, David.’ As I say it, I believe it for the first time. Mum and Dad’s deaths were nobody’s fault. Not David’s, not mine. It was just a tragic accident that no one could have prevented. Suddenly it’s crystal clear.
His eyes are glued to mine.
‘If you believe that, then you have to forgive yourself. They wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. They would never have wanted that.’
A wall of emotion hits me full force and before I know it I’m wailing in anguish, like I’m in physical pain. I can feel David’s arms around me and I sink into his embrace.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he whispers.
I’m sobbing, great big wracking sobs that make my whole body shake.
I’m so sorry,’ I wail, hugging him so hard that he almost topples backwards. ‘I’m so sorry.’