The Single Girl’s Calendar

by Erin Green

  Seven years with Andrew had prepared her for anything. They’d grown up together, enjoyed good times and endured a few rough patches, such as when holidaying with his pals in Ibiza was more important to him than her. Other couples might have split but they’d seen it through together. It was a phase, like any other. She’d supported his career choice and now his position at the airport was assured. He was working long, stressful hours but that was the nature of the beast as an air traffic controller. In return he’d gained a solid foundation, financial stability and the opportunity for future promotion.

  Esmé was proud of him. Proud of herself too. She wasn’t ambitious, unlike her cousins who frequently called hers ‘a lowly office job’. She was happy selling stationery. Happy supporting her man. Her Andrew. Behind every successful man was a strong, supportive woman – Esmé knew she was a fine example. Supporting his career equated to supporting their future, their lifestyle and their future family.

  With the cover gaping open, Esmé pulled frantically to retrieve the duck down duvet from its clothing.

  Marianne was right. Some men need a little push in life. They knew what they wanted, had what they knew they wanted and yet, trundled along until someone pointed them towards the altar. Once on track there would be no stopping Andrew, much like a wind up clockwork toy on parquet flooring.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been planting tiny seeds for a while. It wasn’t an issue she could force as boldly as Marianne had but the hinting, the constant references to other engaged couples and the barrage of wedding invites from friends – all helped to pave the way.

  Andrew was comfortable in their relationship. Too comfortable, if truth be told. So tonight was the night. And tomorrow, their seven year anniversary, would be their engagement day.

  ‘I’ll get the worst part over with,’ she sighed, collecting the fresh duvet cover from the wicker chair. ‘Three rounds of wrestling, then my relaxing shower.’

  Esmé’s hands began gathering and rippling up the inside of the duvet cover fabric to locate the top corners.

  A March engagement could easily become a June wedding; she’d plan like crazy between now and Easter – though seriously what was there she didn’t already know? She knew which dress, knew which cousins would be bridesmaids. Money wouldn’t be an issue thanks to Andrew’s astute saving habit and her parents’ additional gifts – she was their only daughter after all. The horse and carriage, the fresh flowers, matching rings, the once in a lifetime honeymoon in the Maldives and not forgetting the sumptuous reception at The MacDonald Burlington Hotel – perfect for a city centre wedding. How romantic would it be to have the reception where they’d first met? Or more precisely, above where they’d met in The Bacchus wine bar situated in the vaults beneath the hotel.

  How had seven years passed so quickly?

  A girls’ night out with Carys, her life-long school friend, was not supposed to be a ‘pick-up’ night. Simply two ladies sharing a bottle of merlot, a good chat and a few girly giggles. Yet, every time Esmé had looked up to speak to Carys, his dark smouldering gaze interrupted her focus. Could he have been more obvious? His constant staring had been verging on improper. And finally, after thirty minutes, he’d braved the distance between his group and their table to introduce himself.

  She’d played gooseberry to Carys’s beaus on more than one occasion, so fair was fair.

  Esmé smiled at the irony as her hands busily worked the duvet cover. Seven years of dating had led from one dimly lit room to another, though tonight would guarantee more than a scribbled phone number and a promise to call. Like then, she’d be ready and waiting. He’d made her wait three days. Carys had been certain he’d call in two given his reluctance to leave their table as his friends drank up and moved bars.

  Esmé began flinging the medley of pillows and satin cushions to the far side of the room. The decorative headboard looked ugly and bare without the satin pillows. Another purchase chosen by Andrew, and which frequently embarrassed her in the throes of passion when it vibrated against the wall.

  From the foot of the bed, Esmé grabbed the neatly folded hospital-bed corner of the spent cotton sheet, she gave one hefty pull in order to strip the mattress in one fluid movement and that’s when it appeared.

  An earring.

  Esmé paused and stared at the offending item lying, as proud as punch, just off centre by their large headboard.

  A gold dangling earring complete with a turquoise crystal. An earring that she had never seen before.

  The handful of spent cotton dropped from her clutches and she slowly sidestepped towards the head end of their bed. She needed a closer look but any sudden movement might cause the item to disappear. It didn’t. It stared boldly at her.

  Had he cheated? And, in our bed! Had she slept all week with another woman’s earring inches from her own gold studs?

  Esmé wasn’t sure how long she remained statue like, staring in silence, but when Andrew arrived home from his shift at the airport the silence was broken for several hours.

  Chapter Three

  The MacDonald Burlington hotel looked nothing like Esmé imagined. Esmé envisaged that her arrival at the grand establishment would be on a warm summer’s day in June. Where she’d step from a glistening horse drawn carriage, in a beautiful bridal gown and glide through the entrance hall upon the arm of her new husband. They’d smile inanely and be met by the sweet smell of honeysuckle and delicate white roses amidst a cloud of gypsophila.

  Instead, she stood alone, at ten minutes to ten, on a dark chilly March night staring up at the intricate masonry of the hotel façade, where sculptured ladies with pert breasts and scanty togas frowned at her from a great height. Esmé grimaced. She’d heard enough excuses from Andrew regarding pert breasts and cheap decoration.

  Behind her, New Street railway station hummed with the busy footfall of travellers despite the late hour.

  ‘When did an impromptu hotel stay become part of my Thursday night plan?’ she muttered, as she dragged her overnight case towards the marbled lobby.

  According to her schedule, she and Andrew should have consumed the champagne, dined on cordon bleu food and now be making the most of clean sheets and mood lighting. Instead, she was standing before the impressive reception desk booking a two night stay which felt awkward but necessary. Esmé watched the kindly features of the pretty receptionist prepare her plastic room key.

  How many young women with red raw eyes and a hurriedly packed case had the uniformed blonde checked in this evening?

  Having refused a morning paper, an early morning call and a continental breakfast in bed, Esmé handed over a suitable credit card and haphazardly scrawled her signature.

  She stood in silence, appreciative of the receptionist’s swift and precise booking routine, plus the speed with which she relayed the serving times for breakfast and ironically, bade her a cheerful ‘good night’.

  Room 325 was unlike the room Esmé had planned to sleep in tonight. Kicking off her shoes, she flopped onto the double bed, ruining the arrangement of decorative satin pillows.

  A large abstract painting hung above the bed. An image of orange and blue swirls forming huge arcs of colour upon a square canvas.

  ‘That’s what my brain feels like,’ muttered Esmé, twisting her head from left to right to make sense of the image.

  Her argument with Andrew replayed in her head, word for word.

  ‘How could you, after all we’ve gone through together?’

  Silence. His dark eyes had darted around the room avoiding her direct gaze.

  ‘I trusted you. I gave you everything and you repay me like this!’ Esmé had flung her arms around emphasising the ‘everything’ element, making sure he was following her rant.

  Silence. He’d loosened his tie, then stood dishevelled after a long day at work. Esmé could make out the tiny shaving nick on his chin that must have occurred after she’d left for work this morning. In her mind’s eye, she could see him grabbing toilet t
issue and applying a torn corner. He’d have been agitated, sworn and eaten his breakfast whilst bare chested, hoping the tiny cut would dry and scab before chancing his white shirt collar near it. She knew him that well. Or did she?

  ‘Who is she?’

  He’d answered immediately. Sadie. Esmé instantly hated the name, adding it to the shit list of her life. Sadie-from-work. Esmé’s mind ran a photo-fit of each female she’d met at the airport’s annual Christmas bash or recent retirement parties. Sadie didn’t appear in the attractive line-up.

  Esmé imagined her as leggy, svelte and naked. Andrew had reluctantly confirmed naked sometime last week upon their cotton sheets while Esmé and Co. completed their annual inventory at Stylo Stationery.

  Esmé hadn’t waited for an apology as he pocketed the earring for safe keeping. Instead she’d verbally launched at him with accusations and hurtful name calling. Her questions had come thick and fast. Where? Why? When? How? She’d hardly given him a chance to answer before the next question was launched like a warped version of Mastermind. He hadn’t ‘passed’ on any question.

  ‘Are you leaving? Or am I?’ On reaching question number two hundred and nineteen Esmé had fallen silent. There was nothing more to ask. She waited for his reply, a simple shrug was all he could muster.

  What should she do? Demand that Andrew leave the apartment immediately? But did she want to be here alone? It wouldn’t feel right, it wouldn’t feel like home, not now.

  She’d never walked out on a relationship before, let alone her home. Should she call her parents to collect her a.s.a.p. and bring a transit van to haul her belongings back to their house in Sheldon? Finally, amidst her rising panic, and before Andrew’s staring gaze she thought of a new question.

  What would Carys do in this situation? Esmé knew instantly. At twenty-nine years of age, having shared half her life alongside Carys, Esmé knew what she would do. Cool, calm Carys would take charge, she’d stand no nonsense. And, neither would Esmé, not this time.

  Exhausted, tear-stained and hungry Esmé had grabbed handfuls of her underwear and a fresh set of clothes and stuffed them into her overnight wheelie-case before hastily leaving apartment nine.

  She scurried back over the interconnecting canal bridges, closely followed by the distinct rattle of tiny plastic wheels, and made her way into the city centre seeking a bed for the night. She dashed past the early evening drinkers, the winos and other arguing couples silhouetted by lamplight.

  She needed space to think. Apartment number nine offered no such luxury whilst Andrew breathed in and out. And her parents’ semi-detached would instantly become a melting pot of parental smothering should she land there at this late hour.

  I’ve done the right thing. I’ve taken control and removed myself from the upset. Andrew.

  It’s what the A-list celebs do in times of trouble according to Penny’s trashy magazines. Frequently, amidst a relationship crisis, the rich and famous jet off to Dubai or some other far flung corner of the globe to find solace on a sun kissed beach. How many times during coffee breaks had they pored over a grainy image, shot with a long-distance lens, showing a model in oversized sunglasses in paradise. Now, Esmé was the damsel in distress. Thankfully, the paparazzi would never be interested in a gal from Brum with red eyes and dashed hopes.

  Esmé imagined her parents’ spare room and its trendy wooden futon with creaky slats and scratchy orange padding. What a joy that would be to snuggle up on each night. Maybe she should stay schtum rather than tell her parents?

  Calling anyone right now would only complicate matters. They wouldn’t be able to resist adding their point of view which would swirl around in her mashed head – much like the abstract painting in orange and blue.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as her heart grew heavy.

  Was there any chance that this would pass? Any chance that she could look at Andrew’s hands and not imagine them caressing another woman? Was there any possibility that she could ignore the basic facts? Andrew had admitted he had kissed, held and…

  Esmé couldn’t bring herself to name the act.

  A fresh bout of tears erupted.

  This wouldn’t pass.

  Tomorrow, their seventh anniversary, instead of smooching along Vyse Street she’d be holed up here where she’d relive tonight’s discovery a million times before lunch. The shock would begin to lift and by morning the hurt of his lies, the loss of seven years and her new found hatred of a stranger called Sadie would surely descend at break neck speed.

  Clambering to her feet, she plodded to the large window, pulling aside the cream voile and staring at the busy street below dressed in its finery of neon lights and looming shadows. A miniature world of busy lives dashed back and forth along New Street, wrapped up in their own existence and unaware of her pain and tear-stained scrutiny.

  Had the caterers delivered their evening meal? Esmé recited the gourmet menu: lime infused chicken satay skewers, sumptuous steak Diane (basic but Andrew’s favourite) followed by huge rum babas smothered in thick double cream.

  Esmé shook her head to erase the image as if it were the Etch-a-sketch from her childhood.

  She picked up her mobile and speed dialled ‘Gourmet Delights Ltd’.

  ‘Hi, can you confirm if a delivery has been made to apartment nine, Symphony Court?’

  ‘Lady, we’re closed. No more orders until the morning,’ came the distant voice.

  ‘Please, I need to know… was the Nixon order delivered?’

  ‘Hold the line, please.’

  Please say no, please say no, please say…

  ‘Lady, yes. Delivered at 9:15 p.m. as instructed… the lady signed for it. Goodnight.’

  ‘Lady… what lady?’ asked Esmé. The phone line went dead. ‘I left the apartment ten minutes before…’

  The bastards! Those two had hooked up and hunkered down on her tailored menu, enjoyed her chilled bubbles – he deserved everything that would be coming to him. Would Sadie move in straight away or would he show some decorum and wait long enough for Esmé to remove her tampons and razors from the bathroom cabinet?

  ‘There’s no going back… not after tonight,’ she muttered to the busy lives below. She watched a young couple holding hands and laughing as they walked along the street. How happy, how cute and yet, potentially destructive. How much time and happiness did they have remaining? Esmé craned her neck as they disappeared from view and her breath misted upon the window as her weekend plan emerged.

  Tonight, she’d be brave. She wouldn’t land on a girlfriend’s sofa with a huge sob story – no, she’d bide her time. No rash decisions. No knee jerk reactions. The very thought of calling either Marianne or Penny crucified all her engagement dreams – Monday morning’s coffee break announcement and drinkies in Bacchus bar were officially cancelled.

  Chapter Four

  Esmé slept with her mobile phone clutched in her hand. A scattering of spent tissues lay scrunched up on her duvet, alongside discarded screw caps and five empty liquor bottles from the hotel’s mini bar. Esmé hadn’t had a good night.

  A film reel of last night’s events played on a continuous loop every time she closed her eyes. Esmé was hoping that a vital scene would change and a different ending would magically occur. Sadly, it didn’t. The sequence was simple: left work, made the bed, found the earring and then all hell broke out. Repeat unchanged.

  Esmé lifted her shoulders, flipped the plump pillow onto the cold side and lay back.

  Had Andrew slept well? Had he slept alone? Or had Sadie reunited her lost earring with its rightful twin?

  ‘Enough. He isn’t worth it,’ she muttered, as she pummelled the pillow into shape.

  It’s not as if they’d never discussed infidelity. When his best mate, Steve, forgave his fiancée, they’d agreed reconciliation would never work in the Nixon/Peel relationship. How could they trust each other again? When his sister, Sarah, became pregnant by her old flame, Terry, they couldn’t fathom how Simon, her
husband, could entertain the idea of raising the boy as his own. And as for Bridie at work, when Nick walked out after just three weeks of marriage – did the woman have no self-respect as she begged him to come home? Esmé and Andrew had agreed. They couldn’t face the social humiliation, the niggling doubts, the constant questioning or secret checking of pockets and purses for early signs of another torrid affair. They’d agreed calmly and maturely – you cheat, it’s over.

  And yet, he’d cheated. And, in their bed.

  Esmé gathered her collection of empties and screw caps, ignoring the wave of guilt associated with the price of them. She could have bought a decent bottle of champagne for the price of those miniatures.

  Her stomach growled.

  Had she eaten anything last night?

  Esmé pinched herself, hard. Ouch! Yep, she wasn’t asleep. The nightmare had actually happened.

  In her head, Esmé could see their kitchen calendar hanging beside their fridge. Today was the date she’d circled with gusto the moment the cellophane was removed. Her hands had eagerly flipped each page and finally, on reaching March, she’d grabbed a pen from the junk drawer. A red loopy circle had signified all her hopes and dreams. Who’d have thought she’d been counting down to a disaster!

  By seven o’clock, Esmé could hear from New Street that the city was beginning to wake: the litter pickers with their yellow dustcarts and commercial waste collection crews were bantering between themselves.

  Work? Urgh! Would it be entirely wrong for Esmé to attend the office and delete today from her holiday allocation? But the thought of disappointing the smiles that would instantly adorn Marianne and Penny’s faces was enough to make her cry again. They would be so excited for her today, it would be all they’d talk about come coffee break.

  Please don’t text asking if we’re strolling along Vyse Street, thought Esmé, as she grabbed her mobile and checked for text messages: nothing. Not even from Andrew.