The Good, the Bad and the Dumped

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘I’ll try my absolute best,’ said Posy.

  ‘Will you take my sculpture?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Margie nodded, then went to her desk. She took out a key ring with Garfield on it, and carefully and secretly opened a locked drawer, then a locked cash box inside the drawer. She withdrew a piece of paper.

  ‘Here,’ she said simply, passing it over.

  All this time, thought Posy. All this time she thought Almaric was locked up in her heart; the name she couldn’t even say. And all that time he was right here, locked in a box. She wondered how many other women in the world were walking around with Almarics in their heads. Two per office . . . at least. That seemed an awful lot.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, softly. ‘Thank you. I won’t forget this. I bought you a muffin, actually. But I accidentally ate it.’

  ‘So you had something for me but you took it?’ said Margie. ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’ She went back to her desk. ‘It’s a long weekend. That’s all, OK?’

  Posy nodded and Margie marked it carefully on her wall planner.

  Chapter Twenty

  She wasn’t going to get caught out again by the weather, like she had been in Scotland. Posy packed a bag with the warmest, most comfortable clothes she could find. Even if it was March in - what was this place called? She couldn’t pronounce it, that was for sure. What on earth was it about her that made men want to seek out wild lonely places afterwards? Betws-y-coed. North Wales. Posy had never been to Wales. She had no idea what she was going to find when she arrived. Worst of all, there was no simple way to get there.

  A small voice in her wondered if she shouldn’t give up. But she wasn’t going to. She’d come so far now. She was going to meet her final man. Matt was never there these days anyway, always working or out or avoiding her, she reckoned. Every day that passed, their relationship seemed to vanish further and further into the distance - it was finishing. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Her heart was slowly crumbling. And if the reason, if what had spoilt everything for her, was her lasting feelings for Almaric then she had to confront them once and for all. She had to clear it up. And she needed to get there to do it.

  Well, she might as well ask.

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  He was in the kitchen on the computer. Whenever he was in one room, she made sure she was in another. It was like living in two bedsits. Both of them had to always pretend to be thoroughly engrossed in whatever they were doing and not watching the other at all. Due to the layout of the flat, with its open plan kitchen/sitting room and door on to the bedroom, there were very few angles where you were out of view. It was intensely difficult to look that engrossed in Facebook for that long, and both of them had taken to retreating to the bathroom whenever possible. It hadn’t got to the stage of leaving one another notes on the fridge door quite yet, but Posy was slightly concerned that it might. In her most nonchalant tone of voice possible, she said,

  ‘Uh, I need to . . . Can I borrow your car?’

  There was no way around it. Leah used her little Mini every day to ferry about prom dresses and feather boas to fashion shoots. Fleur couldn’t drive. Her mother’s old Vauxhall was a death trap and as she never used it she could never remember where it was parked and always forgot to renew her parking permit, so it spent most of its time at the Islington car pound.

  Matt, on the other hand, did jog to most of his appointments, and they were all in central London; he could take the tube if he needed to. And he wouldn’t mind, would he?

  Matt looked up, a slightly pained expression on his face.

  ‘Pepe?’

  Posy rolled her eyes. ‘Matt, if I wouldn’t call your car by its name when we were together, I’m hardly going to start now, am I?’

  Matt bit his lip. ‘Uh huh.’

  Even though, strictly speaking, he could have got by without his car, Posy did know how much he loved it. It was a beautiful old red Alfa Romeo with pure Italian style in every inch of it. Matt must have spent more than the cost of the thing just to keep it on the road all these years, but it was a perfectly tuned, nippy little growling monster of a thing, and his pride and joy. Posy remembered how hurt he’d been when she’d accused him of having a poser’s car when they first got together. She’d instantly retracted it. This car was his little work of art; he always kept it under a tarpaulin, and was happy to spend Sundays polishing it up. Posy had always found something incredibly retro and touching in this when he went out to tinker, or talked longingly one day of having a garage. It just made him seem so much of a man, a dad; so grounded. So she patted the car occasionally too, and complimented it all the time. In return Matt would occasionally - and grudgingly - let her take it to Ikea or the supermarket, fretting nervously at the windows all the time.

  ‘I need to . . . there’s something I have to do,’ said Posy. She looked at him straight in the eye. ‘It’s to do with us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s some things I need to clear up . . . from my past.’

  ‘Like going to see some ex-boyfriend nob-end?’

  ‘Well, a bit like that.’

  It was odd, Posy thought, that she had been prepared - willing - to share her entire life with this man, but she hadn’t shared, in fact, some of the most important things. Like, for example, the first time and how it felt, that time she fell in love and how, when it broke up, she thought she was going to die.

  She flashed on it suddenly. The first tiny crack: Almaric, coming into the pub, looking awkward. After she smothered him in kisses she’d asked him what was the matter.

  ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘None.’ He sniffed. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

  ‘I wanted to go to the cinema.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Shall I wait outside? You can tie me up if you like. Just leave me a small bowl of water.’

  ‘No, of course not. Let me pay for you to go to the cinema.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll get a reputation.’

  They’d stood, looking at each other.

  ‘Well, can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Half a cider? Or a lemonade?’

  Posy had laughed. ‘You are hopeless. Can’t you become a famous potter?’

  Almaric had shrugged. ‘Name me one.’

  ‘That one that dresses up like a woman.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I can’t afford the outfits. Anyway, who cares?’

  ‘Not me!’ Posy had said gaily, going to the bar, stopping on the way to kiss him full on the mouth. He hadn’t reciprocated.

  Had she, though? Was that the first time she’d spotted a chink? Noticed a difference between them? And if she had the time again, would she take him up on that walk? Or walk away?

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘Do you think this is helping, Posy?’

  Posy came up to him.

  ‘Matt,’ she said, looking straight into his face. ‘I am trying everything. I am doing the best I can to save us. I am trying to find stuff out about me, stuff that happened in the past . . . see if I can become the kind of woman you deserve.’

  Matt blinked.

  ‘So I should lend you Pepe? To go look up your exes?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Posy, turning away. What more could she do? She was trying, but it looked like Matt just wanted to stay here, for ever testing out new ways to do knee curls - biding his time, almost, until she gave up, until she left.

  ‘But do you know what’s not helping?’ she asked, turning back. ‘Coming home every day to nothing. To you not wanting to talk, not wanting to make it better. Just ignoring it. Not loving me, not forcing me out; so what do you want? Huh? Do you want me to leave for good?’

  ‘Well, every time I think we should talk, you disappear and I find out you’ve been with another man.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence.’

  Matt looked down.

  ‘Do y
ou want me to leave?’ she asked. ‘Are you just trying to think of yourself as a nice guy and waiting for me to move myself out?’

  ‘What, because I’m not taking myself off on “voyages of discovery” with old girlfriends and other people’s cars?’

  Posy was stung. ‘I just want to know how you feel.’

  ‘Posy, is it really me who needs to change?’

  His face looked so wounded, she wanted to stroke it. Or smack it, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You are perfect, your car is perfect, everything is perfect. Obviously I’m best off out of your way.’

  She marched over to the bedroom and grabbed her coat and her bag. She’d figure it out.

  Just as she reached the door, Matt said her name, softly.

  ‘What?’ she said, turning round, miserable.

  Matt threw her the car keys with some force, and, for once, she caught them. His phone rang. She stayed, watching him. A client. Of course it was. His voice grew soothing and kind. The difference in tone cut Posy to the quick. He used to speak like that to her - joking and teasing her, sweet and funny and organised. She did miss it. She missed it, him, so much. But as she looked at him, her gaze filled with yearning, he turned away and continued his call in the other room. Staying for one second longer, her hand almost outstretched towards him, Posy finally turned on her heel and left the flat behind.

  There was something healing for the soul, Posy thought, swishing down B roads past green fields and forests in a beautiful red car. At first paralysingly nervous, the thought had come to her: could Matt really hate her more than he did already if she banged up his car? Once she’d moved out of the maelstrom of London traffic and on to the motorway, attracting several admiring glances on the way - for the car - she’d concluded he probably couldn’t.

  Now she felt like she was flying down the winding country roads. Always a city mouse, she’d never really given credence to the idea that driving was anything other than a road-clogging, unenvironmental, unnecessary extravagance. Out here, with barely another car on the road, only the rumble of the engine and the soft swish of the trees outside, she could see the appeal all of a sudden. The radio veered in and out of any recognisable channel, occasionally playing long melodious strings of Welsh. Suddenly, Posy felt freer and happier than she had in weeks.

  She remembered the day she and Almaric had taken off to the seaside, running through the freezing cold water, screaming their heads off and laughing till she thought she would be sick. She remembered the day Matt had taken her potholing. It had been absolutely cold and miserable. She sighed.

  Almaric. He was, he had been, the man for her. She had never been so sure of anything in her life.

  The first time they’d lain in bed together, they’d just gazed at each other, unable to believe in the reality of the other. She’d traced his face with her fingers, then held his - his exquisite, long fingers - while he’d done the same to her, feeling almost awestruck and worshipful. His slender body, with its pale skin and dark hair, his huge eyes, his wide mouth. He was undoubtedly the most beautiful man Posy had ever slept with. She didn’t ever quite believe it. Perhaps that had been the problem. It was like sleeping with a movie star or a pop star - too good to be true.

  ‘I’m very lucky,’ Posy had said one night.

  It was just one normal night, or as normal as life could be in the whirling heaven that was Posy’s life. They’d been out at a concert, snogging all evening, right up the front just by the stage. The bass player had even given them the thumbs-up. The noise and the crowd had been incredible. She had never wanted it to end. They were at her flat - his was effectively a hovel. Even though there were about nine girls in Posy’s flat, competitively not eating cheese, it was still better than Almaric’s bunk bed.

  ‘You are,’ said Almaric, snuggling into the duvet.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Posy sat up on her elbow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What do you mean?”’ Then he said pointedly, ‘I am very tired,’ and tried to grab back the duvet.

  ‘Do you think I’m lucky?’

  ‘What? You said it.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re lucky?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But you think I’m luckier?’

  ‘Can’t we have Stupid Conversation Hour another time? Like, never?’

  ‘No!’ said Posy crossly. ‘I want to know what you meant.’

  ‘Argh! Women!’ said Almaric, and made pretend snoring noises.

  ‘You think you could have any woman you wanted and I’m lucky to get you.’

  Almaric continued snoring loudly but there was a smile playing around his lips.

  ‘Actually I could have any man I wanted,’ said Posy. Well, obviously, not any man. But she resented Almaric’s assumption. Even if it were true.

  ‘Well, good,’ said Almaric. ‘That makes us even then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Posy stubbornly. ‘I’m a hot super-fox.’

  ‘Good,’ said Almaric. ‘Can we go to sleep now? Try not to leave me for a famous celebrity before the morning.’

  Posy bit her lip now, glancing out at the passing countryside on the road. Oh, Almaric. She had loved him. He had loved himself a lot, too.

  Another time; a beautiful summer’s day. They’d had the most gorgeous picnic on Hampstead Heath, and Almaric had lain on her stomach and they’d talked nonsense about clouds passing by and moving into the park, and drank cheap Cava and eaten strawberries and chocolate and crisps and laughed about absolutely nothing. Then she’d started on about how he must come and meet her mother, she was only down the road, and he really hadn’t wanted to and she’d turned it into a big fight about how he didn’t want to meet her family, and anyway, why should he have to? Almaric, she was fast discovering, didn’t really like doing anything he didn’t want to. He was creative and a free spirit, Posy told herself. They were renowned for being just a teensy tiny bit . . . well, she would never say it out loud. Of course he couldn’t wash up his own coffee cups or take her out to dinner or spend time with her family; he had to follow his muse and in any case, the less they went out the more time they had to stay in and make love and she could gaze at him when he was sleeping. She was absolutely sure, had never been surer of anything in her life. So what if he didn’t want to meet her mum? He was the man for her. She was twenty-eight, and it was time. Now she just had to wait for him to propose.

  He’d gone to meet her mum finally, of course, after they’d been together for several months, but he had been sulky and awkward when he got there. Of course her mother was delighted to meet someone who had no interest in sucking up to her - and, even better, had a creative job - and he proved the only boyfriend Posy ever had that she liked. Why, Posy wondered, did that rile her so? That they had really liked one another?

  Was it that just after Adam, who had given her so little attention, and Chris, who, after they’d been together for such a long time, they’d just fitted each other like old socks and old shoes and hardly noticed one another at all, she’d met Almaric, this amazing, wonderful guy, and she wanted to smother him completely in her life; make him share every cell. Because she wanted to share every cell of his.

  He was the man who broke her heart. Broke it so completely, so relentlessly she’d felt she could never have it fixed again. That someone else would do, but not in a way she could ever risk being hurt so much. Someone nice. Someone safe. Well, that plan hadn’t seemed to be working out so well for her either.

  She remembered again Matt’s first visit to her mother. Flowers, a nice bottle of wine, the lot. He’d looked so nervous when he asked if what he was wearing was OK. She’d laughed out loud.

  ‘I promise, it really won’t matter.’

  ‘What, so I could turn up in a boiler suit?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Arsenal top?�
�

  Posy had laughed.

  ‘Oh, no, obviously she’s a Queen’s Park Rovers fan.’

  ‘Rangers. They’re called Rangers. You really don’t know anything about sport, do you?’ He’d tickled her affectionately under the arms.

  ‘I grew up in a very feminine home. I know a lot about Simone de Beauvoir.’

  Matt smiled, nervously.

  ‘You’re not worried, are you?’ said Posy, genuinely disbelieving. Matt was so calm, so sorted, she couldn’t imagine him being scared of anyone.

  ‘Posy, I’ve heard you on the phone to her,’ said Matt. ‘She does sound a little . . .’

  ‘Terrifying?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just her way,’ said Posy, breezily. ‘Don’t let her rile you up too much.’

  Matt looked bemused. ‘Why would she want to rile me up?’

  Posy stopped at the door. ‘You know, that is a good question. Why does she do that?’

  And sure enough, they’d sat uncomfortably in the messy kitchen, until Posy cracked and got up to make tea for them all, while Matt was left to answer sarcastic questions about why people needed personal trainers - couldn’t they control themselves at all? - and Posy pointing out that actually some pepole did see eating as a necessary part of their day rather than a hideous inconvenience, and her mother sneering and saying, Yes, fat people, and after that she’d had to crow Matt along to family occasions with an iron bar. Almaric, on the other hand, had liked her mother and her forthrightness; they’d got along very well, as long as they only went when he could be bothered.

  Great white clouds were massing up behind the cliffs, giving the clear blue sky the look of a line of freshly washed laundry. Posy pulled over the car in a layby and got out. There were new lambs in the fields, she noticed. Yup, much nicer than sheep. It was a fresh day like this that Matt had gone down on one knee.

  She sighed. Oh God, she missed him so much. So much. Was this what love was, then? Infatuations that came and went? A door in your heart that opened, then got slammed shut? When Almaric had broken her heart, she’d thought she would never laugh, never smile, never even see anyone ever again. But then he’d been there. Looking so fit in those damn sweat pants; teasing her, laughing with her, turning her misery into a memory. And now she’d lost him, too. Because . . . because of this man. She hoped he could help her.