Getting Over Mr. Right

by Chrissie Manby

  The four weddings would begin with Becky’s, which was to take place in less than three weeks. Thursday was to be her hen night.

  As Becky’s best friend and chief bridesmaid, I had been charged with arranging her send-off. Back when she first announced her engagement, I had happily taken on the project, though, despite the fact that we’d been friends since childhood, there were very few other girls whom I knew properly on the guest list. Since she’d met Henry, Becky had, inevitably I suppose, spent more time cultivating his pals than vice versa.

  Still I realized that I was in trouble when I sent out the first round-robin email, asking everyone on Becky’s list to let me know what might be a suitable date. I had no idea how difficult it was going to be to dovetail the school/holiday/fertility arrangements of a dozen assorted London ladies. Just when I thought I had the perfect day, one of Becky’s invitees (someone who was married to one of Henry’s former coworkers) wrote to tell me that she would be unable to attend on that particular evening as it coincided with her ovulation. I resisted the urge to write back and tell her that coming out and getting rat-arsed with the girls might actually increase her chances of getting laid at the right time.

  “Amanda can’t make the eighteenth,” I told Becky.

  “Oh, no,” said Becky. “We have to have Amanda. Her husband is really high up in a company that Henry’s applying for a job with.”

  I got out my diary again.

  And that’s how Becky’s hen night came to be on a Thursday, rather than the more traditional weekend evening as I had envisioned. Likewise, my plan to spend an afternoon doing the wine-tasting tour at Vinopolis was swiftly voted out in favor of a meal at a smart restaurant in Mayfair. Once Amanda the ovulator got her way over the date of the hen night, she started moving in on the other arrangements, too. She sent an email to everyone on the list raving about the restaurant where she’d had her own “extremely grown-up” hen party and everyone agreed it would be perfect for Becky’s send-off, too. I had no choice but to agree, though the sight of the menu made me blanch. I had organized group outings before and was well used to the fact that someone would skip off without paying their share. If that happened on this hen night, I would be unable to pay my rent. For months. But Becky was really excited about the idea and so that was that.

  Thursday rolled around.

  I felt like the slowest girl in school when I met Becky’s friends. I knew immediately that I had worn the wrong outfit. My skinny jeans and sparkly top combo, which got a grudging nod of approval from Ellie, was way too casual for the venue and the crowd. I swear that one of them was wearing a black velvet Alice band (and not in an ironic nod to the eighties, which was what I had been aiming for with my pixie boots).

  When the woman who turned out to be Amanda arrived, she actually handed me her coat as she walked into the room. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “You look as though you work here.”

  I gritted my teeth behind a smile and made a mental note to make sure I was sitting a very, very long way away from that cow. But Amanda wasn’t the only one I didn’t fancy sitting next to. Perhaps it was because I had arranged the evening that Becky’s new friends acted as though I was the hired help. I tried and failed to break into several conversations as we milled in the bar, sipping cocktails (largely virgin ones). I was met with looks of pure horror when I attempted to get the party started by suggesting that we all don novelty headgear from Claire’s Accessories.

  “I suppose I’d better have one,” said Becky, picking out the least horrifying pair of deely-boppers. “Since I am the bride-to-be.”

  But I could tell even she was embarrassed.

  “Your table’s ready,” said the woman who really was in charge of the restaurant. Not a moment too soon.

  I let the other women seat themselves and squeezed in at the very end of the table, opposite an empty seat. There’d been a cancelation. One of Becky’s hens was ovulating a day earlier than expected.

  Though all of the women were in theory my contemporaries, they seemed from a different generation. To my left was Isabelle. Her husband had been at college with Henry. As I understood it, she’d just celebrated her thirty-third birthday, but she looked much older. For most of the first course she was engaged in a conversation about prep schools with the woman opposite her. When that woman got up (six months pregnant, bladder fit to burst), Isabelle turned her politest smile on me.

  “Do you have children?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Would your husband like to have some?”

  “I don’t have a husband,” I admitted. “In fact, I don’t even have a boyfriend right now. I just got dumped!” I said gaily. I tried to chink my glass against hers, as if to toast my hopelessness. She smiled tightly, as though I’d said something slightly distasteful.

  “Oh, poor you,” she said, but there was little sympathy in her voice.

  “Turned out he’d been seeing someone else for the last few months,” I continued. “She’s an interior designer. She was doing up his office. You think you’re safe when they’re at work, right? How wrong could I have been …”

  Isabelle nodded along, but she was noticeably relieved when the pregnant woman came back from the ladies’ and complained about her stretch marks. That seemed to be infinitely preferable to talking about my faithless ex-boyfriend.

  What is it about single women that makes married women so nervous? I wondered as the conversation carried on without me. Did Isabelle think that being dumped was catching? Did she think I was on the prowl for a new man? It wasn’t as though her husband was there to steal, if I suddenly decided that I had to have a man right at that very moment. I wondered if Becky would stop inviting me to her house as soon as she had a wedding ring on her finger. Probably not. At least, not while Henry’s best mate, Julian, was still single. In fact, since I split up with Michael, I think on balance Becky had actually invited me over more often. I was a welcome addition to her table plans while Julian continued to muck up the nice even numbers.

  But the other women at Becky’s hen night seemed to have no interest in wasting talk on me. Isabelle was quickly engrossed in conversation with the woman who had stretch marks and I felt, not for the first time, that marriage and children was an exclusive club for which I never seemed to be wearing the right outfit.

  A little later I tried to infiltrate the conversation by offering to refill Isabelle’s glass. She glared at me and looked pointedly at the pregnant girl’s stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” I joked, “I had no idea that you’re not supposed to drink while sitting next to a pregnant woman.”

  “Actually, I’m trying for another baby,” Isabelle explained before she turned back to her companion with a roll of her eyes that I couldn’t miss.

  A brief but horrible image of Isabelle trying for a baby flitted through my mind. I imagined her face straining as she mounted her husband. “Come on! Come on! I’m ovulating right now!”

  I filled my own glass and tried to drink my mind blank again. There was plenty of booze to get through. I’d ordered three bottles of white and three bottles of red, but as far as I could see no one was drinking except me and the bride-to-be.

  I don’t think that anyone addressed another comment to me all evening. It was just me and the Sauvignon Blanc from then on. When I got to my feet to raise a toast to our mutual friend, the bride-to-be, I felt such a lurch that I had to sit straight back down again and Becky went untoasted until Amanda, who had chosen the restaurant, noticed the omission and made a little speech of her own.

  “Dear Becky,” she said, “I remember the first day we met, when Henry brought you to our little garden party and I said to Tristan, ‘This is her. This is Henry’s little Miss Right.’ Well, I’m so glad that I was right and that I can be here today to celebrate your forthcoming marriage. I’ve known you for just a couple of years, but I truly feel, Becky, with my hand on my little heart, that you and I are good friends. I’m sure that everyone around this
table tonight would like to join me in wishing you all happiness for your future. To Becky!” She raised a glass of cranberry juice.

  “Thank you,” Becky replied. “And thank you, Amanda, for choosing this lovely restaurant. I’ve had a truly special night.”

  The women around the table congratulated Amanda on her organizational ability. It was clear that my diarizing spreadsheet was long forgotten. As were my novelty hen-night gifts. Even Becky had discarded her deely-boppers.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “Did you have a good time?” Becky hiccuped as we put the last of the yummies into a cab and started looking for one of our own.

  “They all hated me,” I complained.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m serious. Nobody had anything to say to me,” I said.

  Subconsciously, I was offering Becky the chance to jump in and say that Henry’s friends’ wives had nothing to say to anyone, that they were dull and she hated them, too. Instead, she said, “You weren’t going on about Michael, were you?”

  “No, I was not!” I exclaimed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Becky, you’re supposed to be my friend. I was not going on about Michael. In fact, I only mentioned him once. To Isabelle.”

  “Oh, Isabelle!” Becky’s face practically lit up as she breathed the other woman’s name. “She’s really lovely. You know, she is setting up her own business selling nearly new children’s clothes. It’s called the Angel Exchange.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “She used to be a fund manager.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Until she married Tim, who is one of the few remaining bankers who can afford to take a house in the South of France for the whole summer.”

  “Of course … Well, I still thought she was a cow.”

  Becky looked as though I had personally insulted her. “Perhaps you didn’t give her a proper chance.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t give me one.”

  Becky just shook her head. “I thought when we turned up at the restaurant tonight that you seemed really chirpy,” she said somewhat accusingly.

  “I was, until they all refused to get into the swing of things.”

  “They’re not the kind of women who get a kick out of wearing silly headgear. I’m sorry, but I enjoyed myself and I’m really grateful that you put the evening together. You have to admit that until you came up against the teetotal Mummy Mafia, you were doing fine. I was really glad to see it. I’m happy that you’re starting to get back to your old self again.”

  I knew what she was doing. She was trying to talk me out of my funk, trying to convince me that I felt better than I did. It probably worked on her year elevens.

  “Actually,” I told her, “I’ve been feeling worse than ever. If it hadn’t been for your hen night, I could have spent the entire week in bed, just staring at the ceiling and wondering whether I had enough aspirin in the cupboard to kill myself, assuming I could bring myself to get out of bed to swallow them.”

  Becky frowned. “You don’t really mean that,” she said.

  “I do. I don’t think you believe quite how badly my heart was broken.”

  “It was quite a while ago now,” Becky tried.

  I didn’t take the hint. “Just a couple of months! And the way people talk, you would think that I’m just supposed to get up and carry on like I never even met the man. Nobody wants to listen to me anymore. Not even you.”

  “I’ve listened to you quite a bit,” Becky pointed out.

  “You’re supposed to. You’re supposed to be my best friend. I can’t get hold of you half the time. Truth is, I don’t think you really care.”

  It was a red rag to a bull. Becky’s expression changed from sympathetic to a bit pissed off.

  “Come on, Ashleigh,” said Becky. “You have to see why it’s difficult for me to keep sympathizing with you so long after Michael actually dumped you. It’s not as though we’re talking about the end of a marriage. You weren’t married. You weren’t engaged. You weren’t even living together. The way I see it, you and Michael weren’t even having a proper relationship. You were just dating.”

  “For two and a half years?”

  “Yes. Did you ever spend Christmas together? No. Did he ever introduce you to his parents? No. Did he ever talk about the future? Not beyond the next weekend. You were dating. Just dating.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Was that really what Becky thought? Was that what everybody really thought?

  “It wasn’t that important,” she continued.

  “It was two and a half years of my life! Two and a half years! We both know plenty of people who got together, got married, and got divorced in the space of two and a half years. Are you saying they have more reason to be upset?”

  “It’s not the length of time you were with someone that counts,” said Becky. “It’s the depth of the commitment. Getting married is commitment. Living together is commitment. Anything else … For goodness’ sake. Look at it realistically. It’s ridiculous, grieving like this over a couple of years of going to the cinema on Saturdays and having the odd mini-break. When Michael’s schedule allowed it, I hasten to add. You got foolishly attached to a man who thought of nothing but his own happiness and squeezed you in when it suited him. He never took your needs into consideration. It’s time for you to put it behind you. I need you to put it behind you because it is bloody well driving me mad!”

  I could only open and close my mouth in soundless agony.

  “Since the day you met Michael he has dominated your life. When you were with him, it was bad enough. I don’t think you have any idea how much time you spent analyzing every date, every night you spent together, every phone call. It was obvious to me from very early on that you were on to a loser, but I did my best to support you and I have to admit that when you called to tell me he’d dumped you, I was glad. No more bloody Michael, I thought. How wrong could I have been? How on earth can you still have so much to say about a man who walked out of your life over two months ago? There is no new information here. He’s gone. It’s over. It’s done. Now I’m sure you’d rather talk about something more cheerful. I know I would. When are we going to get together and get in some practice for opening the dancing at the reception? Henry isn’t too bad, but Julian is awful and since he’s the best man …”

  “I don’t feel much like dancing,” I said.

  Becky frowned. “Ashleigh, I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m just telling you the truth as I see it. And sometimes the truth sets us free. I want you to be happy and I think the first step to being happy is for you to let go of this ridiculous fiction that you’ve lost the love of your life. Michael certainly didn’t see it that way.”

  “But …”

  She laid a hand on my arm. “Michael was a shit for dumping you like he did,” she said, “but the fact that you’re still so miserable so long after he’s gone is entirely your fault. Your recovery is up to you. You have got to move on. Do it for me. As my wedding present.”

  Her face took on the approximate expression of one who was concerned for my welfare, but all I could focus on was a peculiar little upward twist at the corner of her mouth that suggested what she really wanted to do was laugh in my face. Was this my best friend? If she thought so little of my heartache, then why would anyone else think any more of it?

  I moved my arm so that her hand slipped away.

  “Ashleigh, don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? Hurt? Get someone else to be your bloody chief bridesmaid,” I spat. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Your sodding wedding. As if I didn’t know that before your nasty little speech. Well, thank you very much for showing me what a true friend is like. You can forget about me being at your wedding at all.”

  I didn’t wait for a taxi. I stomped off in the opposite direction, leaving Becky to go home alone.

  When I got home, my answering machine was flashing angrily. Becky had left
six messages to go with the three she had left on my mobile. I knew that I had scared her with my threat that I wouldn’t be at the wedding. It wasn’t just that I was her chief bridesmaid; I was also making the cake. I imagined her panicking that there would be nothing for the guests to watch her cut with her new husband. Her perfect day would be ruined. But I wasn’t about to call her and put her out of her misery. Not when I was so miserable myself.

  I knew that I should just go to bed. On the other hand, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I knew I would just lie there staring at the ceiling, ruminating on all the things that were wrong with my life. Especially in comparison with Mrs. Isabelle Extremely Loaded and Mrs. Amanda Perfect and the rest of Becky’s new snotty yummy friends. I was in the kind of mood where it seems like a good idea to open another bottle of wine and drink the lot. All on your own.

  As I drank, I replayed Becky’s accusations. One thing in particular had struck me as cruel. “Michael was a shit for dumping you like he did,” she’d said, “but the fact that you’re still so miserable so long after he’s gone is entirely your fault. Your recovery is up to you.”

  But I was trying, I told myself. I was doing everything humanly possible to get myself back on track. I had tried everything, from knitting to voodoo. That day at work I had even created a PowerPoint presentation on Michael’s bad points, as per the advice of another breakup website. The idea was that I should watch the presentation every day until those points sank in and started to feel real, until I started to believe that I was well shot of him.

  I needed to see that presentation now. I poured myself another glass of wine and opened my laptop. Then I spent a jolly three hours adding to the page titled “Michael’s Physical Shortcomings” in GettingOverMichael.doc. It almost made me smile. Especially when, following the advice that the more clearly you can visualize something, the more effective your visualizations will be, I decided to search the Internet for amusing illustrations for “odd-shaped toes,” “cold sores,” and, my favorite of them all, “short dick.”