Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  January 2010 I lay staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how it had felt to be that happy. Not a great deal came to me. I tried to recall the wild excitement I’d felt whenever Michael’s name appeared in my inbox when he was still in Kosovo; how ecstatic I’d been when he had terminated his contract to come back three months earlier than planned. A tear ran down my cheek. My life back then – nearly two years ago now – felt worlds apart from the rotten, painful pit it was now. I couldn’t bear the grief. The loss. The sense of being so completely alone in the world. I wiped off the tear with a crusty pyjama sleeve. You never deserved him, Fran, you knob-end! Of course this was going to happen! The aching expanse of sadness strapped itself a little tighter across my chest. Of course I hadn’t. I’d always known, deep down, that I was punching above my weight with Michael. Why would someone like him want some scruffy girl who talked to cats and got the answer to ‘Who painted the Mona Lisa?’ wrong in the pub quiz? It had been ten days now. Ten days since Michael had picked me up from work on my thirtieth birthday, all smiles and kisses and with a ring-box-shaped bulge in his pocket. Ten days since he’d helped me out of a taxi in front of the Ritz, only to veer off into Green Park, take my face in his hands, look me deep in the eyes and tell me he wanted to break off all contact with me for three months. Ten days since I’d stopped caring about anything, other than making sure I was still breathing. I rolled over on to my side and bunched myself up. ‘I don’t know how to do this,’ I whispered to Duke Ellington, who was asleep next to one of Stefania’s tofu wraps. I really didn’t know how to do this. How to tolerate another minute of the pain. All I wanted was for someone to take me to the vet and have me put to sleep. I was quite sure that the rest of my life would be miserable. I looked at the space on the wall where a childhood picture of Michael with Trumpet the dog should have hung and started to howl again. When I came to a few hours later, Leonie was sitting by my bed rolling a joint. Since I’d commenced my badger-like existence, she’d visited regularly to check I was alive and not eating cat food. My reading lamp had been switched on and some sort of green gunky stew was steaming frighteningly in a rustic pot on the bedside table. ‘Hello,’ she said briskly. ‘Happy new year!’ I looked at her, then at the stew and closed my eyes again. Why was everyone so intent on keeping me alive? Hang on. ‘Happy new year?’ I asked croakily, dragging myself up into a semi-sitting position. Leonie tapped the joint against her knee and started the next one. ‘Yes. I suggest you begin the year by taking a shower, Franny. You’re a bit ferret-like now.’ I gazed blankly at her. I was beginning to see the world divided into two groups of people, Those Who’d Had Their Hearts Broken, and Those Who Hadn’t. Leonie was definitely of the latter category. ‘Didn’t your mum call you to wish you happy new year?’ she asked, sprinkling green skunk liberally into the Rizla. I reached over, took the joint she’d just made and lit it, coughing. ‘She did, actually,’ I replied after a long toke. ‘She just said I was going to become a mad old woman who smelt of urine.’ After a brief silence, we laughed. ‘Excellent.’ Leonie was still laughing. ‘Oh, God, poor Eve. What a mess. When you’re feeling better, Franny, I really think you need to try to sort her out.’ I didn’t say anything. Opening the Mum box in my head was beyond my capacity at present. It was just too painful. I’d failed with my own life and the idea of failing her, too, was frankly intolerable. ‘She should be here, looking after you,’ Leonie added pointedly. Leonie had kept me in Lucozade and joints for ten days now; a practice she could ill-afford with her job as a charity street mugger. But if it were a choice between Leonie and Mum, there was no contest. I couldn’t cope with Mum’s gin breath and a lecture on how this break-up was my fault. Leonie handed me some Lucozade (‘No, Fran, you need to drink it, please’) and reached for my hand. ‘You can do this, Franny,’ she said kindly. ‘You really will get through it, I promise, my love. It’s only three months. Ninety days!’ ‘But – but how do I know he’ll take me back after three months? Why would he suggest a separation unless the relationship was dead?’ I sank back into bed again. ‘I just don’t understand. I thought he was going to ask me to marry him.’ Leonie squeezed my hand. ‘We all did, Franny. Perhaps he just had a freak-out about the commitment. Don’t forget, men are complete knobs when it comes to stuff like that.’ I tried to stem the flow of tears with my grubby duvet cover and she handed me a tissue. ‘But stay strong. Don’t contact him for three months and then, hopefully, you guys can start again once he’s sorted his head out. OK?’ I cried even harder. Chapter Six

  March 2008 Sent: Mon, 01 March 2008 14:02:56 +0200 From: Slater, Michael [michael.slater@itnnews.com] To: O’Callaghan, Frances [frances.ocallaghan@itnnews.com] Subject: CONFIRMED! Franny! It’s all sorted! I’m coming home! I wind up things for ITN over the next two weeks and then I’m back on the 28th! I start at the Independent on the 30th. They wanted me sooner but no can do. Better run. Some wannabe journalist wants to take me out for lunch so he can beg me to help his career. Yawn. Can’t wait to see you. Michael X ‘Not sure about that one, Franny,’ Dave said doubtfully. He was sprawled across my sofa with Duke Ellington purring innocently on his lap, while Leonie removed the next outfit from its hanger. She glanced over, resplendent in an old vintage tea-dress, fiery red hair cascading down her back, and smiled her agreement, throwing me the next ensemble. I felt a little snag of jealousy. Leonie would never have to call an emergency Gin Thursday: Outfit Special if her lover was returning from Kosovo. She’d just throw together some brilliant concoction (that on me would look like a jumble-sale find) and the lover would fall at her feet in an agony of desire. As much as I loved Leonie, I did rather wish that she wasn’t five foot nine, glorious, Highly Sexual and Extremely Cool. But Michael was coming back for me, not Leonie. I felt a swell of pride and excitement. ‘Don’t look, Dave,’ I shouted, as I hopped into the kitchen to change. I’d done a lot of shouting this evening – mostly at times when talking would have sufficed – but I couldn’t help myself. It was only two days until Michael came back to London and I was jangling with nerves, anticipation and high-functioning madness. ‘Don’t worry about it, Frannyface. We’ll find the perfect outfit by the time the night’s out!’ Leonie called reassuringly. I peeped round the corner of the kitchen cupboard just in time to see her and Dave exchange despairing glances. ‘Stop that!’ I shouted, wriggling into a pair of ribbed tights. ‘You pair of ballsacks have no idea how hard it is to be in first-time love aged twenty-eight! I need your support, not your condemnation!’ Dave patted Duke Ellington and took a sip from his can of Guinness. ‘Right you are, Fran,’ he said calmly. ‘You sure about being in love?’ Leonie asked, as she rescued her gin from the clothes I was throwing back into the sitting room. ‘YES!’ I shouted. ‘This is my big love story! This is IT! Michael’s invaded my soul!’ I added dramatically. ‘Oh, Christ, Franny! Be careful. Just let him invade your lady garden for now and then we’ll see about letting him into your soul, OK? You don’t actually know him that well yet.’ I ignored her and showed them the next outfit. ‘Well? Good? Bad? Fat? Too young? Too … ? Arrgh!’ Dave got up. ‘Right, Fran, enough. You look great. Take this gin and tonic, sit down and shut up You’re being a wee psycho,’ he said, pushing me on to the only dining chair that wasn’t covered with clothes. ‘I completely agree,’ Stefania said, arriving through my kitchen door without knocking, as was her custom. ‘I found Francees vatching Michael’s broadcasts on ze Interweb yesterday,’ she added evilly. Leonie started laughing. ‘Oh, Franny,’ she said, sitting down next to Dave. ‘You’re going to have to get this under control. Michael’s only a man! He might turn out to be a complete knob!’ Stefania picked up Duke Ellington and left without any further comment. I felt a bit embarrassed. ‘Come on, Leonie, he’s moving back to London for me,’ I said. ‘It’s a big deal.’ ‘I know, I know. I’m just saying be careful. Has he found a job yet?’ ‘Yes! With the Ind
ependent! Isn’t he clever?’ Dave got up to get some more Guinness out of the fridge. ‘He doesn’t mind working in print rather than broadcast? That’s quite a change.’ I’d been wondering about that myself. What if he came back, realized he didn’t like me and then was stuck with a job he didn’t want? The idea scared me. A lot. ‘He seems really pleased about it,’ I said carefully. ‘And I think I believe him. I mean, he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t want to, right? He told me he was up for anything as long as he could be with me.’ Leonie shook her head. ‘God, you two are going to be disgusting, aren’t you? Attached at the mouth.’ I threw a pair of discarded tights at her. ‘Stop it. Be happy for me! You haven’t been in love before!’ ‘No, I deal mostly in lust. And I’m very happy about that. Look at you! For fuck’s sake!’ ‘Weren’t you like this when you met Freya?’ I asked Dave. He thought about it. ‘Aye, I was pretty pleased,’ he said reflectively. ‘But I’m not as insane as you, Fran.’ ‘Well, I bet she was in this state, even if you weren’t.’ ‘I don’t think so. She’s pretty cool, Freya. Doesn’t get worked up that easily.’ I tried not to glower. Of course Freya had been as cool as a bloody cucumber when she met Dave. She was everything I wanted to be but wasn’t. Calm. Balanced. Long and wispy and Fairtrade. Dave opened his can. ‘Who’s the latest shag?’ he asked Leonie. She grinned in a slightly filthy manner. ‘Knut. He’s Swedish. He pledged fifty thousand pounds on the street last week.’ I gaped. ‘What the hell did you do to him?’ ‘I just chatted to him, Fran,’ she replied fruitily. I felt a little stab of envy. ‘How do I learn to be as sexy as you?’ I asked. She twirled a strand of hair casually between her finger and thumb, evidently pleased. ‘Having sex is a good place to start,’ she said. ‘How long is it since you got some?’ I thought. ‘Um, a while.’ I felt a bit shy discussing my sex life in front of Dave but Leonie was having none of it. ‘When? Who?’ I felt more embarrassed still and started to blush. ‘Er, it was Johnny,’ I mumbled. Leonie was clearly appalled. ‘Christ, Fran, he was ages ago!’ ‘I’m not sure I know how to have sex any more,’ I said. Dave put his hands over his ears. ‘Would you like some instructions?’ Leonie was beaming with excitement. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No,’ Dave shouted, looking wild and afraid. Leonie took off her cardigan and leaned in, glowing. ‘Oh, Fran, I have long awaited this day.’ She pulled a notepad out of her bag. ‘I think we should start off by getting you a sex toy.’ ‘Are you mad?’ Dave said. ‘She’s Fran! You can’t leave her in charge of machinery – she’ll have his eye out!’ Leonie ignored him and started drawing a diagram of a penis. Dave got up and ran to the toilet. ‘Leonie, is there any chance of you writing some sort of manual for me?’ I asked, as she sketched in the testicles. When Dave came back he ordered us to stop. We’d only got as far as ‘how to get his pants and socks off simultaneously’ and I was by no means done. But before she had a chance to reply, my phone started ringing and I jumped a million miles into the air. Michael? My heart sank when I saw it was Mum. I looked at the phone for a few seconds with a screwed-up face, then answered it, feeling guilty that I hadn’t been to see her for nearly two weeks. ‘Mum,’ I said, as enthusiastically as I could. ‘Good evening, Frances,’ she said grandly. She was speaking slowly, which meant she was drunk. ‘I take it you’re in the pub.’ ‘No. Just having a couple at home with Leonie and Dave.’ ‘I see. Well, Fran, watch your drinking, please. I don’t want you to end up with a problem.’ The cheek of it! ‘Sure thing, Mum. How are you? What’s going on?’ ‘Well, Frances, in your absence, I’ve been having a rather trying time. The trouble with the gardening staff has continued apace and I’m afraid I had to let them go today.’ She paused dramatically, obviously delighted with her role as Lady of the Manor. ‘Eh? What do you mean “them”? How many do you have?’ ‘I had four.’ ‘But, Mum, it’s only March … I don’t understand. Why did you have gardeners in at this time of year?’ I got up and walked outside to sit on the steps. ‘Because, Frances, Cheam in Bloom starts in June and my garden needs to be in absolutely exquisite shape by then. I have held the winner’s cup in my front room for the last three years and I simply will not tolerate losing it to Laura. I’ve heard she has had the gardeners in since Christmas in her attempt to punish me.’ ‘Right. So you sacked your gardeners why?’ When I returned to the sitting room twenty minutes later, trying hard not to give in to the gnawing sadness I felt every time I spoke to Mum, Leonie was on the phone to Knut in my bedroom, emitting filthy shrieks and shouting quite openly about her plans for his knuts. I slumped down next to Dave. He patted my shoulder. ‘You’re very good, taking care of your mum the way you do,’ he said. ‘You should be proud of yourself. She can be a right selfish shite at times.’ ‘Don’t, Dave. I know you’re on my side but she’s not a bad mother. She’s just miserable and wrapped up in her own world. Can you imagine being someone’s mistress for seventeen years? Knowing he’ll never leave his wife? Knowing his wife detests you? I just wish she’d get rid of him.’ ‘Did she ask you how you’re feeling about Michael’s return?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Nope.’ I tensed, afraid he’d say something horrid. In spite of everything, I couldn’t bear the thought of someone criticizing Mum. But Dave said nothing. He just nodded. ‘And how’s her drinking?’ he asked eventually. ‘Out of control,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve said I’ll go down there tomorrow to see her. I’m going to try to talk to her about it.’ Dave winced. ‘That won’t be easy. Give me a bell if you need to, OK? And well done. You’re being a really good daughter.’ Leonie exploded from my bedroom with red cheeks and an unsettling dirty look in her eye. ‘You’d better not have been having phone sex in there,’ I told her. She smoothed her hair, kissed me and Dave, then picked up her bag. ‘People, I have to go.’ She giggled. ‘There is a lot of rudeness to be had over at Knut’s hotel. Apologies.’ She hugged me as I let her out. ‘Good luck, darling. Stay calm at the airport and try not to be mental, OK?’ I watched fondly as she strode off across the yard, saluting Stefania’s shed. Leonie and I had met in hospital shortly after she was born, when her mother had attended a class on how to bathe newborns led by Mum with me as her demonstration model. While the mums chatted afterwards in Kingston General, Leonie and I – me with a sort of wispy black Mohican and Leonie with a squashed little red face – were left in cots next to each other. According to Mum, Leonie had peered very seriously at me for a while, then stuck a tiny fist in my face. I had taken it on the chin. We had been inseparable from that moment, living less than half a mile apart and going through playgroup, primary and secondary school together. We’d tried, half-heartedly, to stage a temporary separation by applying to different universities but in the end had admitted defeat and gone to Leeds together, where Leonie had set up what was effectively a knocking shop in her flat in Boddington Hall and I did slightly less well on the floor below. We had emerged as two very different girls. While I became a career fiend, Leonie spent her days on the streets as a charity mugger, barely earning the minimum wage and living in a Stoke Newington bedsit smaller than my sitting room. A never-ending stream of men had flowed easily through her life; even under harsh interrogation I had failed to get her to admit that she wanted a real relationship. But something was not quite right. The girl I had grown up with used to dream of being a poet with long beads, a twenties haircut and a parrot, not to mention having a husband who was a member of the aristocracy. Her current lifestyle utterly baffled me. As she disappeared through the tall wooden gates of my yard I resolved to help her find love. Love was good. I knew she’d like it. Chapter Seven