Getting Over Mr. Right

by Chrissie Manby

  “Though it is pretty unbelievable,” she admitted. “I’ve never heard of anyone over the age of fifteen being dumped by Facebook.”

  “Then there’s no way that’s what happened. He would have told me.”

  “But he has told you. He’s told all his Facebook friends. Incredible. I can’t believe he’s been such a shit.”

  “I’m going to go to his flat to find out what he’s thinking,” I said.

  “Do not go to Michael’s flat,” said Becky.

  “But I have to. I have to know what’s going on!”

  “But you know what’s going on. The selfish, thoughtless idiot has dumped you. On Facebook. Like a total coward. Even my year sevens show more sensitivity. You’ve left him messages and you’ve sent him texts and emails asking for an explanation. The next step is up to him. He has to get in touch with you and tell you what is happening. At the very least he needs to call you and give you an apology for being so … so thoughtless.”

  “But I can’t wait that long,” I told her.

  “Sweetheart, you have to. If this is going to have any kind of happy ending, you absolutely have to remind him that the way he’s behaving is not nice or right at all. If and when he rings up or comes around, you have permission to give him hell. Nothing else. You must do nothing else, do you understand?”

  “But—” I whined.

  “No buts,” said Becky. “Stay strong. If he’s going to act like a child, you have to treat him like one. You have to show him that you’re not to be messed around with. If you don’t do what he’s almost certainly expecting, if you don’t go around and sit on his doorstep, howling at the moon like an abandoned dog, that just might get him wondering whether he’s been so clever after all.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. The first time Henry started bleating about being unsure whether he was ready for a relationship, I simply told him that I was absolutely ready and if he wasn’t up to the job, I would start looking for a new boyfriend. He soon got his act together.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t need to. Henry’s wobble lasted less than two hours.”

  As she said that, I heard the voice she used for the children in her class at school. It was the voice that said no nonsense and got exactly that.

  “Now, are you feeling any better?” Becky asked. “Do you want me to come around and sit on you to make sure that you don’t do anything silly?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay. Here’s what you should do. Concentrate on your work for the rest of the day. Then, when you get home, make yourself a cup of tea and sit down in front of the television. Watch The Apprentice. Watch your DVD boxed set of Lost if you have to. But do not contact Michael again. Definitely do not go to Michael’s flat. You have to promise me that. Because this is a waiting game now and I want you to win it.”

  “Thank you,” I said in a tiny voice.

  “I’m sure everything will work out. Now I have to get back to my year twelves and the Reformation. A teacher’s work …”

  “Right. Thanks. I’ll do what you suggested.”

  But there was no chance that I would be able to concentrate on work. I had to get out of the office.

  I told Ellie, my assistant, that I thought I had food poisoning. She told me I didn’t look any worse than usual but agreed I should go home at once. The positive aftereffects of Becky’s pep talk lasted for, oh, at least three-quarters of an hour after I got back to my flat. About as long as it took me to make a cup of tea and go through my DVD collection looking for that Lost boxed set. Whereupon I realized that I didn’t have my Lost boxed set because Michael did. We had once spent a whole weekend tucked up in his bed watching the series from the very beginning. Even with Michael’s learned commentary, I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I had so enjoyed being under the duvet with him for a whole forty-eight hours, getting out only to accept a pizza from the delivery boy.

  The memory of that weekend assailed me like a chimpanzee with a sledgehammer. Feeling suddenly quite weak with the shock of my Facebook dismissal, I lay on my back on the sheepskin rug from Ikea and stared at the ceiling until the tears came. And come they did, racking my body until I was a sniveling, snot-faced shadow of the girl I had been when I set out for work that morning.

  What on earth was happening? I struggled into a sitting position and wiped the snot away on the back of my shirtsleeve. Was I really dumped? How was it possible that Michael wanted to end things? Anyone seeing us together that Lost weekend would surely have placed money on our being together for a very long time. Forever, in fact. I remembered how Michael had smoothed my hair from my forehead and kissed the tip of my nose, telling me that I made him feel like a shy sixth-former again. He made me feel the same way. I was giddy with the kind of love you can only feel when you’ve never been hurt before because, somehow, being with Michael had cleaned the slate. Being with him had magically blanked out all those years of disaster and rejection.

  Those feelings can’t be faked, can they? I had felt sure that when Michael told me that he loved me, he meant it. Why would he have stopped meaning it? His strange behavior had to be due to something else. Perhaps he was suffering from an undue amount of stress at work and I just hadn’t noticed. Perhaps I hadn’t been supportive enough. I knew that lately I had been moody, too. Things in my own office hadn’t been so great and it was possible that Michael was getting fed up with me bringing home my worries when he had so many of his own. I could change that. I could buck myself up to help him. I would do whatever it took.

  But I had to go there to convince him. Becky’s strategy may have been right for most relationships, but it wasn’t right for Michael and me. We had something that shouldn’t be sullied by game playing and strategic withdrawals. If Michael needed me, I was going to be there beside him, regardless of whether he thought he wanted me there. I was going to make everything all right.

  Becky sent me a text: “I hope you’re not at Michael’s.”

  I sent her a text back: “Of course not.”

  Seconds later I called a mini-cab to take me to the apartment block where Michael lived. As I sat in the back of that taxi, taking half as many breaths as normal to avoid inhaling too much toxic air freshener, I planned my approach. I juggled my iPhone from one hand to the other. Should I call him to tell him that I was on my way? Should I text? I decided against it. Michael had yet to respond to any of that day’s frantic messages from me, so I had very good reason to believe that if he saw my number illuminate the screen of his phone, he would send me straight to voicemail. Even if he did pick up, if I told him I was coming over, he would almost certainly tell me not to. I couldn’t risk that. I had to see him before I went insane.

  As the taxi pulled up outside the block, I panicked again. If I rang Michael’s doorbell, he might not let me in. What could I do? River Heights was a very exclusive development with a high level of security. According to Michael, an oligarch had bought the top two floors of the main building for his chauffeurs. The guy at the gate wasn’t supposed to let anyone in without the approval of the person they were visiting. I knew that, in general, the security staff stuck to that rule rather rigidly. I’d tried to turn up with a surprise cake for Michael’s birthday and they’d insisted on letting him know I was there. “Might be a cake, might be a bomb,” the straight-faced guard at the gate had told me.

  But right then my luck changed. Whoever was meant to be manning the gate that evening was taking a tea break, and the forbidding gatehouse was empty. And here was someone staggering toward the entrance to River Heights with armfuls of shopping bags. It was a man I recognized as one of Michael’s neighbors. We had met at Michael’s flat-warming party. I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name, but as he came near, I said, “The stupid intercom seems to be broken again. Can I follow you through?”

  Michael’s neighbor didn’t question my explanation. He opened the gate with his key and ushered me inside. He
probably hoped I would help him carry his shopping in return. I didn’t. Once inside the complex, I was like a Royal Marine on an undercover mission. I had to get across the courtyard without Michael seeing me from his kitchen window. I stayed close to the neatly trimmed hedges. I took advantage of the shade and shelter of the trees. I made it to Michael’s block unnoticed. But how could I get inside?

  I had to wait for his neighbor again.

  “Is the buzzer broken here, too?” he asked curiously.

  “Seems to be,” I lied. I hopped from foot to foot as I waited for him to find his key and let me through the penultimate door between me and my beloved. Leaving the neighbor with his bags, I climbed the stairs two at a time and composed myself for just a second before I pressed Michael’s doorbell.

  I imagined Michael getting up from his computer desk and crossing the hall, wondering who was ringing, perhaps assuming that it was one of his neighbors since he’d had no call from the gatehouse. I thought I heard his leather slippers on the polished wooden floor. I plastered on a warm and super-friendly smile. I’d decided in the mini-cab that my best strategy was to act as though the whole Facebook thing had been a joke.

  But he didn’t answer the door. I pressed the buzzer again. Perhaps he hadn’t heard it. Still no answer. I lay my ear against the door and listened for sounds of life beyond its blank plywood face. I could hear nothing. No loud music that might have masked my ringing. No sounds of life at all, in fact. But I didn’t take that to mean he wasn’t in. Oh, no. I decided he must have seen me cross the courtyard. He was hiding from me, staying still and silent until I gave up and went home.

  “Michael!” I put my mouth to the crack in the door. “Michael, I know you are in there.”

  Still nothing.

  “Michael!” This time I shouted and knocked at the same time. “Michael! Michael! Michael! Please open the door.”

  My entreaties were not met.

  “Michael!” This time I shouted and hammered and kicked. “Let me in! Let me in, for God’s sake. Michael! We need to talk. For pity’s sake. I love you. You can’t do this to me. I won’t let you. You can’t pretend I don’t exist! Open up! Open up!” I kicked so hard that I made a dent in the plywood. Two dents. A small hole. I had a sudden image of him lying on the floor of his bathroom, a bottle of pills in his hand. Perhaps he’d dumped me on Facebook as a cry for help! I kept kicking.

  “I know you’re in there! I know you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  It was true. He was standing behind me. I turned to face him, my fists still balled.

  “Ashleigh, how did you get in here? And what on earth are you doing?”

  Michael was not alone. He was carrying two of his neighbor’s shopping bags. The neighbor looked almost as anxious as Michael did.

  “What on earth have you done?” I countered. “Have you really dumped me via Facebook?”

  Michael smiled tightly. His neighbor was taking an awfully long time to let himself into his flat.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since ten o’clock this morning,” I continued. “I’ve been so worried. What is happening? You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. More for the neighbor’s benefit than mine, I know now.

  “Then what is it?” I asked. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I suppose you had better come in.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Before somebody calls the police.” He took me by the upper arm, as though he were apprehending a shoplifter, and pulled me inside. We went straight to the kitchen. He kept hold of my arm until we got there. Perhaps he was scared I’d throw a punch if he let me go. When he finally did let me go, I stood opposite him with my hands on my hips and said, now that I was no longer worried that he’d suffered a sudden breakdown and killed himself, in the fiercest tone I could muster, “So?”

  My wait outside his front door had rather rattled my composure, but still I saw Michael’s eyes flick appreciatively from my cleavage to my knees and back again.

  “Are you going out to dinner or something?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s just … I just thought I’d wear a dress. That’s all.”

  I had put on my best little black dress, figuring that if this breakup was for real, I needed all the help I could get.

  “Oh. Okay,” said Michael.

  Then he said he was hungry and started to make himself a sandwich. As an afterthought he asked if he could make me one, too.

  “I didn’t come here for a sandwich,” I said. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

  Michael looked pained. “Let’s have a glass of wine first.” He motioned me toward the kitchen table and poured two glasses of Pinot Grigio. His smile was so sweet right then, I could almost believe he was going to tell me the Facebook thing had been a big mistake and he hoped I would forgive him. Talk? he’d laugh. The only thing he wanted to talk about was my day and how soon I could take a few days off to go to Venice …

  “How did the meeting with the people from Effortless Bathing go?” he asked.

  “I canceled when I saw what you’d written on Facebook.”

  Michael frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t want that to happen.”

  “But what did you think would happen when you declared yourself single like that? And then unfriended me? I couldn’t ignore it. I tried to get through to you so you could tell me what was going on but you wouldn’t take any of my calls. I was going mental. There’s no way I could have given a presentation in that state.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think you were allowed to access Facebook from the office. I didn’t think you’d see it until you got home.”

  “What? Is this a joke?”

  “Look, Ashleigh.” He focused his gaze on his hands and I knew that the “Dear Jane” speech was about to begin. “You and I have had some good times. I consider you to be a really great friend …”

  “Really great friend?” I squeaked.

  “Yes. Really great.” He nodded. “But lately I’ve been wondering if it’s time for me to be on my own again. We’re going in different directions, you and I. I’m holding you back.”

  A subtle variation on “It’s not you, it’s me,” as Becky would later point out.

  “You’re not holding me back,” I said. “I’ve never said that.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I just know. Look, when you and I got together, I had only recently come out of a long-term relationship. It had been difficult. That breakup turned my world upside down. I didn’t know myself. I wasn’t myself. Yet it felt right when I met you and we got together. You brought me back to life.”

  “And that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It was fantastic. And I’m very grateful. But now I realize that you need something different from me. Something more than I can give you. I know that you want to get married and have children …”

  “I don’t,” I protested. “I never said that. Never. Not once.”

  It would strike me much later that I hadn’t dared.

  “But you don’t have to. I know you’re not happy with things the way they are.”

  “I am,” I lied. “I am.”

  “Ashleigh.” Michael sighed. “I’m not happy with the way things are.”

  “Then tell me what you want me to change!” I begged him.

  “There’s nothing I want you to change. I just can’t do this any longer” was his reply.

  I tried to take his hand, but he moved it deftly out of the way on the pretense of picking up his wineglass. He smiled at me again. It was a pitiful smile of the kind you give a door-to-door salesman even as you’re closing the door on him. “We have to break up,” he said with another sigh. “I just want to be on my own.”

  “Look,” I said. “I think you’re being too hasty. What about all the wonderful things we have in common and the good times we’ve had?”

  I reminded him of a few. Big nights out
. Camping trips. The time we made love beneath a bush in Kew Gardens.

  He couldn’t disagree that had been fun. “I’ll never forget those times,” he said. “They’ll always be dear to me.”

  But I wouldn’t, was what he was saying.

  “You’ve got to understand that I haven’t taken this decision lightly,” he continued. “I’ve been thinking about breaking things off with you for the past six months.”

  “Six months!”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Since October.”

  “And all that time I thought that we were moving forward,” I said. “I thought we were getting closer to a proper commitment and you didn’t tell me otherwise.”

  “It was all in your head,” he informed me. “I never made you any promises.”

  No promises! The arrogant swine. I should have left right then, with my head held high. That might have made him consider the sense of breaking up with me. But I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t get up and walk away. I couldn’t say Fuck you and see if that brought him to a different viewpoint. I had to cling on. I had to beg. I had to make a fool of myself.

  “You don’t have to promise me anything,” I said.

  Michael let me plead my case for the best part of three hours, but though he claimed to agree with much of what I said about the good times we’d had together, he would offer me no hope whatsoever. He was adamant that his future had no room for me. Except as a friend. We could always be friends, he assured me.