by Jenny Colgan
Matt looked like he was about to sigh again, then stopped himself. ‘Posy. Posy, look.’
Posy sat down. ‘What?’
Matt shook his head. ‘I had no idea you felt this way. That you were so . . . what the fuck were you doing going to see your ex?’
Posy bit her lip. ‘Because . . . well, it seemed like a good idea. To close a door on the past. And I just wanted to be sure. To make absolutely sure that I’ve moved on and I’m ready, I promise.’
‘So was it—’
‘No. It wasn’t him. It was Chris.’
‘The big chap you dated at university?’
‘About a hundred years ago, yes. It was nothing, nothing at all. I just wanted to be sure of you.’
‘But why . . . why couldn’t you just talk to me about it?’
Posy hung her head. She didn’t know the answer.
‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Well, don’t act as if it’s an unreasonable question.’
Posy stared at the floor.
Matt spoke slowly, as if trying to compose himself. ‘You know, I didn’t want to be in your life to be the one who is just normal. Or “good enough”. Or no trouble, or there to take care of you because you’re tired of messing up, which was all news to me, by the way, but all your girlfriends did manage to get the point across throughout the evening, thanks for that.’
Posy stayed quiet.
Matt looked up. ‘When we were up that mountain . . . I mean, it took quite a lot, you know. I didn’t just do it on a whim, or because I thought you could fix me or anything like that. I did it because I loved you heart and soul and was willing to dedicate my entire life to you.’
This was a long speech for Matt, and Posy didn’t know how to react. Except to remember herself, bouncing around the party like some queen of the world who’d managed to haul some daft sap into marrying her, with a terrible sense of embarrassment and shame.
‘I was . . .’ she said tentatively. ‘You know Leah was just talking bollocks?’
Matt shrugged. ‘In vino veritas and all that,’ he said.
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Posy. ‘I speak constant bollocks all the time when I’m pissed. What about that time I tried to convince you that butterflies were girls and moths were boys?’
Matt’s mouth twitched, but he stifled it. Then there was a long silence. Matt heaved himself out of bed and moved towards the chest of drawers. Then he turned to face her.
‘Posy,’ he said, resolutely. ‘I’m not breaking up with you.’
Posy’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She felt her heart fall down a lift shaft.
‘Shit! You’re breaking up with me!’
‘I’m not breaking up with you. What did I just say?’
‘You said, “I’m not breaking up with you” in a way that made it totally obvious that you are in fact breaking up with me!’
Posy felt the first hot tears rising to the surface. She glanced down at her hand.
‘Hang on!’ said Matt. ‘Don’t throw that Starbucks at me! Hear me out!’
‘If I do throw the coffee, will you be nice to me again?’ said Posy. She felt like her chest was opening up, exposing a huge raw chasm, a great pain, to the whole world. Snivelling hard, she ran up to him. ‘Matt?!’
‘Listen. Listen. I was thinking. I’m just . . . I mean, it wasn’t just what you said last night.’
Posy didn’t believe him. She’d ruined it, her and her big gob, just like her mother always thought she would. Oh God, her mother. How was she going to tell her mother? Oh God, her mother was going to be pleased. She choked out a painful sob.
‘Matt,’ she said.
‘I mean, it was everything else - your family, and, well, just people seemed so amazed at us getting married that I thought, Maybe this isn’t the right thing for us right now . . .?’
‘What do you mean, “right now”? We haven’t set a date or anything.’
‘I mean . . . maybe just take a little time out to see if we think this is what we want?’
‘But . . . but you said—’
‘I know what I said,’ said Matt. ‘And I meant it. But then I heard what you said. And I’m just . . . I mean, my mum and dad have been married for thirty-five years, but I don’t think they’ve found it easy, you know? I think they’ve had to work at it a lot.’
‘And mine just couldn’t be bothered?’ said Posy, bitterly.
‘Come on, Posy, I don’t mean that. But they do say kids of divorced parents find it harder to stay married and, you know, I just don’t want us to make a terrible mistake. I really, really don’t want that to happen.’
‘So you’re leaving me.’
‘I’m not leaving you. Actually I was hoping I wouldn’t have to leave you . . . I don’t really have anywhere else to go.’
‘So, what?’
‘I was just thinking we should take a break for a little. I have a lot of work on and won’t be about; we can take any wedding stress off ourselves, and you can think about what it is you really want - me, or some normal, upright guy that could be anyone you’ve pulled off the streets to mend your broken heart.’
Posy winced, realising just how much she’d really hurt him.
‘Matt,’ she said, ‘Matt, I’m so so sorry. If I could take back what I said, what I did, how I’ve been, I would. In an instant. I love you. I love you so much.’
‘Thanks,’ said Matt. ‘That’s nice of you to say and everything. And I would hope it would be enough. But right now, Posy, I’m not sure that it is.’
Posy felt a huge lump swell in her throat. ‘No!’ she said. ‘It can’t be! It was just me, being an idiot!’
‘Well, an idiot is good enough for me,’ mumbled Matt.
Posy couldn’t believe he was serious. ‘Come on,’ she said in a panic. ‘Let’s just go back to bed.’
Surely this would work. OK, she could probably do with a shower, and he certainly could, but the prospect of a bit of hangover-lifting nookie - that would make everything all right, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?
Matt looked at her sorrowfully.
‘No. No, thanks, Posy.’
‘So what did you do?!’
Leah was so horrified and upset she’d forgotten to drink her happy hour cocktail. The umbrella in her drink was exactly the same colour as the slightly unfortunate Ra Ra skirt she’d chosen to wear. The effect was very Club Tropicana.
Posy turned back to the cocktail. Getting cocktails with Leah had seemed like the right response at the time. Matt had gone out for a run, and she couldn’t face sitting in the flat - their flat - by herself. Not when Matt was moving to the sofa. It was unbearable. But now, coming out somewhere filled with laughing people without a care in the world, felt like the saddest thing on Planet Earth.
‘I did what anyone would do,’ she mumbled.
‘What, took off all your clothes and tried to drag him into bed anyway?’
Posy nodded.
‘Then beg around the room, completely naked?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Did you bark like a dog?’
‘In fact, I didn’t bark like a dog.’
‘Oh,’ said Leah. ‘Well, could have been worse.’
‘Oh God,’ said Posy. ‘What am I going to do?’
Leah shook her head. ‘I just can’t . . . I mean, I can’t get my head around it. Can’t you sue him for breach of promise?’
‘I suggested that,’ said Posy. ‘He said that threatening him with legal action probably wasn’t the best way to get him to change his mind about things, on the whole.’
‘But where’s he going to go? Is he leaving you to tell everyone? ’
Posy winced. ‘Well. I thought I might just not tell anyone. Weddings take ages to arrange anyway, don’t they? I’ll just tell them I’ve had a bit of a hold-up with the napkin rings or something. ’
Leah nodded. ‘But you’ve told me now, though. I mean, you know I’d do my best and ever
ything . . .’
‘But you wouldn’t be able to help spilling?’
‘I’d do it in a very sympathetic way and everything.’
‘Hmm. But you’d feel really sorry for me and stuff.’
‘I would.’ Leah smiled. ‘Don’t be daft. I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Doesn’t matter, my mother will sniff it out a mile off. Plus, I ran out of my own engagement party.’ Posy mused for a second. ‘I think this is truly her fault,’ she said. ‘She’s always saying it’s the parents’ fault anyway - everything.’
‘Yeah,’ said Leah. ‘So is he going back to Blackpool or not?’
‘Well,’ said Posy, ‘he has his job here and stuff.’
‘Yes?’
‘So, well, and you know, we’re not really breaking up.’
‘Uh oh,’ said Leah.
‘So I said . . . well, he can sleep on the sofa. Just, you know, till we’ve figured things out.’
‘You didn’t even get to throw all his multi-coloured tracksuits out of the window then cover them in petrol and set fire to them?’
‘It’s you that wanted to do that though,’ protested Posy.
‘From the second I set eyes on them,’ agreed Leah.
‘I think it’s good,’ said Posy. ‘Nothing too much will change, then he’ll forget what happened.’
‘Which wasn’t that bad,’ said Leah.
‘Which wasn’t that bad,’ agreed Posy, feeling slightly more positive. ‘Then he’ll fall back into bed with me one night, hurrah, and remember that he totally loves me and everything. And it will be fine. Yes.’ She took a large sip of her cocktail, feeling slightly more positive.
‘Yes,’ said Leah. ‘That’s what’ll happen.’ She glanced at Posy’s hand. ‘Where’s your ring?’
‘Uhm, he asked for it back,’ said Posy, deflating again.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Leah. ‘He really has broken up with you, hasn’t he?’
She got another round in.
‘Oh, Posy,’ Matt was saying, in the kind voice she knew so well. ‘I know you’re upset and everything, but I have a five a.m.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Posy, through her tears. ‘It’s just, like, my fiancé has broken up with me? The man I was going to spend my whole life with and marry and everything? And it’s - I know you’ll find this strange - it’s made me quite sad?’
Matt sat down on the bed, gingerly, in case she tried to haul him in again.
‘Do you think I’m not sad?’ he said.
‘You have a five a.m.’ said Posy.
‘Posy, I’m heartbroken. I’ve told you already. I thought I was everything to you - sun, moon, stars. But I’m not. I’m some normal bloke you’ve managed to snare into your crazy world. How do you think that feels?’
‘Ultimately get-overable?’ sniffed Posy.
‘I don’t know,’ said Matt, gently patting her on the shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me,’ said Posy. ‘You’re not allowed.’
‘OK,’ said Matt, getting up.
‘Maybe you should move out if that’s what you think,’ said Posy, throwing her worst fear at him.
‘Posy. Sweetie. It’s our place. I can’t go home, I can’t commute from Blackpool. We’d have to sell up, go our separate ways. Are you sure you want that right now?’
‘So you want to break up with me and send me home to my mums?’
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘I think until we’ve sorted everything out there’s no reason you can’t stay here. We’re civilised adults, aren’t we?’
Posy looked at him. ‘Are you saying there’s hope?’
Matt shrugged. ‘Not if you get pissed every night till two a.m., probably not.’
‘Well, if I’m going to be staying here, I have to be allowed to cry.’
Matt looked at her for a long moment.
‘We’re all allowed to cry, Posy.’
Chapter Thirteen
Posy is resolute and totally fine and nothing is happening in her life.
Posy Fairweather relationship status: In a relationship.
Matt Farmer relationship status: It’s complicated.
It was a cold, sunny February Monday morning. Despite the hangover when Posy woke, Matt gone from his side of the bed, she felt a little better, somehow. She checked the trainer count. All there. He hadn’t gone yet. And while he was still here, there was still hope.
She finished yesterday’s muffin, left untouched, and dressed. OK. Something bad had happened with Matt. But he was still here. And in a sense the fact that it had come up - that she wanted to go and see her exes - was a good thing. She had kept something from him, but now he knew all about it. And the sky had not fallen in. He would come to understand, wouldn’t he? Why she wanted to see Chris? And why, deep down, on some level, she felt she still had to see . . . him.
Well that, for now, could wait. Along with wedding magazines, and frocks, and arguing with her mother - all of that, just for now, could take a rest. And she could fix this. She could. It was fixable. The trainers were still under the bed. She did love him. It would come good. Surely.
‘Heard I missed a great party,’ said Margie as she walked into work the next day.
‘Good morning, Margie. Yes, it was great, thank you,’ Posy said, staving off the others’ concern by explaining it as a passing tiff, easily remedied. That was the best way. Smooth it over, forget all about it. Nobody would mention it.
There it was, sitting in her inbox - the summons.
As usual, in her mother’s deliberately formal emailing style, as if out to prove something about her unflinching superiority towards the technical form: Dear Posy and Fleur,
I would be delighted if my two daughters could join me for supper at home on Tuesday evening.
RSVP.
Jonquil.
Immediately, the phone rang.
‘What have you done now?’ demanded Fleur. ‘I thought you said it was just a tiff.’
‘Nothing!’ protested Posy. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Supper at home!’
‘I know.’
Jonquil could not, as she often informed them, run a top-class therapy practice and cook too, and, in fact, it was sexist to expect the woman to do the cooking just because she was in the house all day. What had led Posy to cook had led Fleur to alternate between infuriating raw food fixations and periods where she seemed to exist entirely on fruit shoots, wonton and pain au chocolat without gaining an ounce.
‘I mean . . . what about that time she served us onions with water?’
‘That was soup.’
‘She said it was soup. But actually it was some onions in hot water.’
‘I know,’ said Posy, ‘I could cook. Or maybe we could bring a take-away?’
‘Then you suggest it and she’ll get all cross, like, “Don’t you think I can make dinner for my daughters?” and we say, “No”, and then she puts that face on and says, “How long have you been feeling this hostility?”’ said Fleur, grumpily. ‘And then the take-away is always horrible and Mum thinks it’s for prisoners and down and outs and makes snobby remarks and no one is happy.’
‘That’s true.’
‘It’s not right. I’m not coming.’
‘Well, thanks, then I’ll get it all.’
‘Well, don’t you go either.’
‘And then next time it will be worse.’
Fleur sighed. ‘Well, there’s one good thing.’ She thought of it suddenly, perking up.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’ll definitely be you she’s having a go at.’
‘Why?’
‘Obvious, isn’t it? You piss off to Scotland, then have a big fight with your fiancé and we get summonsed. I shall sit back, look wise and make psychological observations.’
‘Will you?’
‘Oh yeah, I will. I’ll break down your defences till you’re begging to help.’
Posy is dining en famille.
Posy and Fleur met at the t
ube station.
‘Can we just go and have a quick treble gin and tonic before we go in?’ said Fleur, who was equipped with a Tupperware box full of her own supper.
‘No. What’s in the box?’
‘Raw squash and sprouting bean salad.’
Posy sighed. ‘Fuck, I’d rather eat Mum’s stuff.’
‘Come on, if you get a bit drunk you won’t even taste it.’ Posy considered it. The idea was tempting. Unfortunately, the last two times she’d got drunk the effects had been somewhat unpredictable, so she decided against it.
‘Nope. Faster we’re in, faster we’re out. And I’ve brought a bottle of wine.’
‘One bottle.’
‘Yes.’
‘That is not enough.’
The lights were on in the sitting-room window and, in a childish reaction, Posy remembered how pleased she would be to see those coming home from school - it meant her mother was in the house, and not upstairs seeing clients in her office with the brass plate on the wall where they were never ever allowed to go. The sitting-room lights weren’t on very often, but tonight, against the encompassing cold, it still felt like coming home.
From the outside, the place retained some of its grand air - wide stone steps led up to the entrance of the tall Hampstead red-brick, and the neighbouring houses had all been expensively developed, with topiary trees lining the passageway and large front doors painted in heritage colours, with shiny brass knobs.
Their house, on closer inspection, looked like it might be derelict. Piles of newspaper for recycling blocked the top step, along with discarded mail, odd boots and the occasional stick belonging to a neighbourhood dog.
The doorbell had had an OUT OF ORDER PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY sign on it since Posy was at secondary school. How hard was it to repair a doorbell? she wondered, not for the first time. Was it really so unbelievably tricky and time-consuming that it was better to make people rap on the door for twenty minutes every time they came round instead?
‘Helloooo!’ the girls hollered. Nothing stirred in the house.
‘Maybe she’s gone out,’ said Posy.