The elephant recoils. ‘Bloody hell, mate. Steady on!’
What??
‘That word’s a bit much, ain’t it? No need to go that far!’
Er . . . I’m sorry? I say, instantly flaming red with shame.
‘Okay, no worries. Just watch it, though. Up to now, this book has been perfectly suitable for a nice, wide audience. Let’s not risk the sales figures and review scores by going too far with the bad language.’
What? Book? Sales figures? Review scores? What the hell are you on about?
Troy the elephant contrives to look extremely guilty. ‘Never mind, mate. Forget I said that. Trips into the subconscious can sometimes go a little bit too far. Once you’ve hit the metaphysical, it’s best to slam on the brakes and backpedal like a bastard.’
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
‘No, me neither,’ Troy says unconvincingly. ‘Maybe we should have a little break and listen to the sitar music. Calm ourselves down a bit.’
And with that, the background sitar grows a little louder, and Troy the elephant starts to bob his head about in time to the melody.
This is all extremely weird.
‘You can say that again,’ Troy says, continuing to bop back and forth to what is rapidly beginning to sound like a very familiar piece of music – albeit one played a lot slower, and on a sitar.
I sigh.
That’s the Super Mario theme, isn’t it?
‘Yeah, course it is. Makes perfect sense, given the context.’
I might just lie here quietly for a few moments.
‘I would, if I were you . . . which I am, of course.’
While the sitar Mario theme is a tad annoying, I am able to zone it out of my thoughts, and consider the revelation that the elephant – or my own subconscious – has just provided me with.
I have a pathological need to be in love with someone, and because I want that above all else, I’ve become a bit of a pushover – with everyone, not just women.
‘Now you’re getting it, Bruce,’ Troy says, blissing out to the sitar with his eyes closed.
So how do I stop being like that?
Troy ponders this for second. ‘Dunno. I guess you have to know why, before you can know how.’
I roll my eyes. Very philosophical.
‘Elephants are philosophical creatures,’ he replies.
Not very helpful ones, though.
Troy shrugs. ‘Possibly not. Let’s just enjoy the sitar a bit more. It’ll calm you down. Have a look at this lovely pot of geraniums as well. They’re very soothing – and I’m sure they’re entirely unconnected to what we’ve been talking about.’
A pot of bright-red geraniums pops into existence in front of my eyes. It looks exactly the same as the one I bought my parents for their garden.
I look at Troy suspiciously from over the geraniums. Is there a reason you decided to show me these geraniums, Troy?
‘Why do you ask?’ the elephant replies, contriving to look innocent.
I don’t know. They just feel a little too . . . symbolic for my liking. As if you’re trying to tell me something . . .
‘Such as?’ Troy says, giving the geraniums a long sniff with his even longer trunk.
Oh, I don’t know. That maybe the geraniums are meant to represent my parents in some way . . . and that they might have something to do with this pathological need for love I seem to have?
‘Search me, cobber. I’m just your subconscious, remember.’
Yes. An extremely unhelpful subconscious at that! Why can’t you just give me some straight answers, instead of teasing me with symbolic geraniums?
‘It’s straight answers you want, is it, mate?’ Troy says, eyes narrowing.
Yes!
‘Like . . . everything laid out in front of you with no ambiguity or confusion?’
Yes!
‘None of this beating around the bush nonsense?’
That’s right!
Troy smiles. ‘Ah well. You should have just said so.’
Aaaargh!
The elephant takes a deep breath, widens his eyes and starts to speak. ‘You see, mate, your problem is that—’
Suddenly, light streams into the pod as the hatch is opened. I see Mr Floaters peering in at me. ‘Time’s up!’ he says with a smile.
‘No! No!’ I roar, thrashing around in the water. ‘Close it again! Put me back in!’
Mr Floaters looks a little shocked at my outburst. ‘Sorry, sir. But your thirty minutes have elapsed.’
‘What?!’ I cry, incredulous. ‘That was never thirty minutes!’
‘Yes, it was, I’m afraid.’
I slap one hand on to the water, splashing it everywhere. ‘But he was about to tell me about the geraniums!’
Mr Floaters now looks utterly confused. ‘About the what?’
‘The geraniums! The elephant was about to tell me what they mean!’
‘Elephant?’ Mr Floaters says, wisely beginning to back away from the pod a little as I sit up straight.
‘Yes! Troy the Australian elephant! He was going to talk, damn you! He was going to tell me what’s wrong with me!’
‘Umm. Are you having an episode?’ Mr Floaters asks.
‘What?’
‘Are you having an episode, sir? Only, I’ve not done the training for people having episodes, yet. That’s next month.’
‘Episodes? What, like on Netflix?’
‘No. I mean . . . you know . . . episodes.’
Wimsy’s head appears over his shoulder. ‘He means, have you gone completely barking mad, Ollie?’
I stare up at my friend for a moment, trying to think of a decent response. ‘I don’t think so. Though, at this stage in proceedings, I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, I’ll be honest with you.’
Wimsy holds out a hand. ‘That probably means you’re alright, then. It’s the ones who don’t think they’re at least a bit mad who you have to look out for.’
I take his hand and pull myself up to standing. I can’t help but feel bitterly disappointed to have my session in the tank interrupted at such a crucial juncture.
‘What was all that about elephants and geraniums?’ Wimsy asks as Mr Floaters goes to get me a towel.
‘Oh . . . I don’t know.’ I give him a speculative look. ‘Did you . . . Did you see anything while you were in there?’
Wimsy shakes his head slowly. ‘Nope. Just a whole lot of silence, and a wee bit of snoring, I have to confess. Quite relaxing, though.’ He returns the speculative look. ‘Why? Did you?’
I rub a hand over my face. ‘I don’t know, mate. Maybe? I could have been asleep as well, I suppose.’ I heave a sigh. ‘It all felt so real. And I was close to something. I’m sure I was . . .’
Wimsy gives me a sympathetic look.
I must seem quite pathetic, stood there in my swimming trunks, covered in salt, and looking like I’ve just had something very valuable stolen away from me.
He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, Ollie. You were probably just close to farting. I did that quite a lot in there too.’
I let out a chuckle and climb out of the pod. ‘So you enjoyed it, then?’ I ask him as I take the towel from Mr Floaters.
Wimsy grins. It’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him. ‘Yeah. It was fabulous. I kept thinking about Lizzy. And I didn’t think about Penny, Mr Sparkles or the long one in Phuket once.’ He says this like it’s some kind of miracle.
‘Good for you,’ I tell him.
Wimsy suddenly looks very shy. ‘I think . . . I think I’m going to ask her out. Lizzy, I mean.’
‘Okay,’ I say, smiling.
‘Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do. Definitely. I made my mind up while I was in that tank.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘It was peaceful, you know? It let me . . . let me see things for the way they could be, instead of worrying about the way things were . . . if that makes any sense.’
‘Yeah, I think it does,’ I tell him, with a wry grin.
Well, there you have it.
The flotation tank may have done nothing for me, other than show me how little I know about elephant taxonomy and the symbolic nature of geraniums, but at least Wimsy has come out of the experience well.
I’m no closer to a better understanding of how my mind works – thanks to Mr Floaters and his innate sense of bad timing – but it looks like Wimsy has taken a big step forward, and that makes the experience worth it for me as well, I guess.
I just wish . . . I just wish I could look forward, the way Wimsy spoke about.
I want to think about the way things could be, instead of worrying about the way they were, as well. But I just feel completely unable to do that – because I have this unanswered question hanging over me, about why I have such a pathological need to find love and be in a relationship.
It’s so incredibly frustrating.
There’s nothing else for it. I’m just going to have to go and eat my own bodyweight in chocolate sorbet. And God help Mr Floaters if he gets between me and that spoon. He’s already ruined one sweet revelation for me today, I’ll be damned if he’s going to ruin another!
And who knows . . . perhaps I’ll fall into a diabetic coma, and Troy can come back to finish his bloody sentence.
INTERLUDE
From: Carla Moreau ([email protected])
Dear Ollie,
Thanks very much. I’m sat here with my make-up running down my face.
That last meeting with you and Sam was heartbreaking – and wonderful at the same time.
I’ve been enjoying ‘Dumped Actually’ so much. It’s made me laugh and laugh. I wasn’t also expecting it to make me cry, though!
I wish I could give you the answers you’re looking for, but my divorce from my husband didn’t happen because one of us was needy. It happened because one of us didn’t need the other one enough.
And now I feel like crying again, so I think I’ll move on!
The only thing that really helped me when I got divorced was that I had lots of friends and family to lean on for support. If you can do that as well, you should. My mum was a rock for me. Without her I would probably have fallen apart completely.
So my advice to you would be, if you have loved ones in your life that you can go and be with – do it! Friends, family, it doesn’t matter. As long as you have some moral support from the people you are closest to, you can get through this, Ollie, I promise you.
The very best of luck, and I look forward to reading about what you get up to next!
Very best of wishes and love,
Carla
From: Skeez ([email protected])
Yo Olsberth! How r u doin??
I was like you once, dude – all miz and no smiles, until I changed my life by seeing how RADICAL the world is!
I got off my ass & lived more, loved more & risked more. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done.
I felt like the walking dead when Shelly upped and left me for that dweebus Nolan, but I just woke up one day & knew I had to get high to feel better!
You ever done a parachute jump? You should, dude! It opens your mind, man. It opens everything inside you. Shows you how your world could be.
I had an ephipanany on my way down that first time. Like, saw the future without Shelly, and saw that it might not be that bad, if I just lived life on the edge.
And I never looked back since, cuz. I been jumping and riding and singing and diving ever since, and never, ever felt better in my whole life!
Serious to the max – give it a go. Throw yourself into your new life, by throwing yourself out of the plane!
Bestest and fastest,
Skeez
From: Laurel Pearce ([email protected])
Ollie,
What do we do with you, eh?
In the past few months, I think I’ve felt more sympathy for a man I’ve never met than anyone who I actually know!
I’ve also never been as frustrated with someone, either.
I want to give you a hug, and a big smack at the same time.
In each chapter of ‘Dumped Actually’, I’ve willed you on to a better understanding of who you are, and have inwardly cheered when it looks like you’ve made a breakthrough.
But then, things seem to either backslide, or just come to a grinding halt, and I want to pull my hair out on your behalf!
I never intended to get in touch like this, because I know you’ve had so many people email you. One more voice probably wouldn’t do any good! But eventually, I just had to say something to you. I’m slightly afraid that you’ll just keep trying all of these weird, outlandish and possibly soul-destroying antics, until I end up reading your obituary.
So – to hopefully help put a stop to all of that, I’m going to tell you the real secret to getting over a lost love. It’s the one you don’t want to hear, and the one that most people will steer clear of saying, but in my experience it’s always been the only one that’s ever worked.
And it’s quite simply this: find someone else to love.
It’s the easiest and hardest thing to do, isn’t it? But that doesn’t make it any less true.
And the sad thing is it might take years. Everyone wants a quick fix to the problems in their life, but there’s just no such thing when you’re mending a broken heart. It takes time, patience and the love of another person to truly get you back to where you want to be.
The pay-off is that the love you find after the love you’ve lost is usually the best you’ll ever have – because you can’t really know the joy of love until you’ve properly felt its pain first. Not in my experience, anyway. And I doubt you’ll find many who will disagree.
So, that’s my advice, I’m afraid. It’s probably not what you want to hear, but there it is.
No matter how long it takes, the only way to get over a broken heart is with patience, and the knowledge that there is someone else out there for you who’s even better than the one who’s just gone. When you find her, you’ll feel a whole lot better.
Love and best wishes, Laurel xx
CHAPTER TEN
VOWS
I have become obsessed with geraniums.
And not in a healthy way.
I have never before shared my parents’ joint love of gardening, so have until this point in my life never given plants – potted or otherwise – any attention whatsoever.
But now I have become obsessed with geraniums.
Or at least what geraniums might represent.
My subconscious certainly isn’t letting on. And I have no intention of ever going anywhere near a sensory deprivation tank again to make it talk.
I’ve always had a . . . let’s call it a healthy internal dialogue with myself, but I wasn’t aware just how loud that dialogue is until the experience I had a fortnight ago at Floaters.
My subconscious is clearly trying to tell me something. About geraniums. And about my parents.
I feel like the answer is on the tip of my tongue but, as yet, I’ve not been able to get it off the tip and into the outside world. I remain confused, and unsure of how to proceed.
I’ve closed the door on my relationship with Sam, but the door on Ollie remains firmly wide open, and flapping about in the wind. I need answers. I need guidance. I need to speak to the people who know me best.
Just as well, then, that I will be seeing my parents today for their fortieth wedding anniversary vow renewal, to be held in that garden I ran around in so happily during my childhood. While I am there, I hope to get a chance to pin them down for a conversation that might give me some answers.
Like Carla Moreau says, connecting with your loved ones is a great way to get over heartbreak, and I really should take the time to speak to my mother and father about it all properly. Face to face.
They’ve never been all that great about giving me advice after a break-up, but maybe they could shed some light over what my stupid subconscious was trying to tell me. If nothing els
e, I’ll get a crash course in the proper care of geraniums.
My parents are both intelligent, well-respected people, who have done very well in their lives, so they must be able to offer me some kind of advice about how to better understand myself. After all, they know me better than anyone else. They should have insights into the way my mind works that nobody else can provide.
And also, there will be cake.
Everybody enjoys cake.
Even if I can’t unlock the secret of the geraniums (which sounds like the dullest idea for an Indiana Jones movie ever conceived) then at least I’ll go home full of chocolate sponge.
With this positive frame of mind, I drive up to Mum and Dad’s place – to watch them reaffirm their love for one another after forty years of blissful marriage.
The house my parents live in, and the one I grew up in, is enormous. One of those ‘Arts and Crafts’ jobs that were so popular at the start of the twentieth century. They got it for a song back in the early 80s and have never looked back since. It’s probably worth a bloody fortune now. It should be, given that it has views over the Solent and a garden you could lose a squadron of Royal Marines in.
I almost feel like an interloper – coming here in my bargain-basement Asda suit. I’m probably far too common to be seen in this area. It’s a wonder an alarm didn’t go off the minute I drove on to Mum and Dad’s street in my 59-plate Fiesta.
Mind you, it’s not like they’re posh themselves. Both were born to working-class families at a time when that could actively damage your prospects in life. They met at a bus stop. Dad was off to his job as a bookkeeper’s apprentice, and Mum was going to hers at the post office. Both of them were eighteen years old, and both of them maintain it was love at first sight. It took Dad three attempts to ask Mum out as they waited for the same bus, but when he did she said yes immediately, and they have never been apart since.
Married at nineteen and living in the lovely house I’m currently driving up to shortly thereafter (thanks to a little help from my maternal grandfather – who knew what stocks and shares were before anybody else in his street), they lived a blessed life. In fact, the only real shadow cast over their marriage was the difficulty they had falling pregnant. But even that issue was solved in 1986 when Mum got knocked up with yours truly.
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