‘No, I know what’s in it, I mean why are you saying that? You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I’ve been eating too much.’
‘Are you fishing for a compliment?’ He smiles at me. ‘You’re not serious?’ he says, his smile faltering.
‘Let’s start walking to the tube, you’ll miss your train,’ I say. The sky has turned slate and the wind has picked up. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘Here. Why don’t you borrow this?’ He takes off his scarf and places it round my neck.
‘Won’t you be cold?’ I say, blushing as I feel the warmth from his skin on mine.
‘I’m fine. You look like you need it – your cheeks have gone all pink …’
‘Just cold, that’s all,’ I say, turning in embarrassment and heading towards the station.
He rushes to catch up. ‘Did I say something wrong before? I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward,’ he says, looking perplexed.
‘No, ignore me, it’s nothing. Anyway, what are you up to this weekend, anything fun?’
‘Absolutely! My mum’s broken her wrist so I’m driving her to Homebase to help her choose grouting.’
‘Rock and roll …’
He laughs. ‘It gets better. Then I’m going round to my ex-wife’s to help her pack up her flat …’
His ex-wife who cheated on him? ‘You two are still friends?’
‘No, not really. But she’s moving to Glasgow and she asked me to help.’
‘Will, you’re a saint!’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, if you’d spoken to me a few years back I wasn’t her number one fan … but … well, time heals and all that.’
‘So they say. How long were you married for?’
‘Just under three years. But we’d been together for eight before that.’
‘You must have got together young,’ I say, trying to do the maths – Will’s about my age, maybe a year older.
‘Youngish. Twenty-two. I think that was part of the problem. I don’t know if either of us knew ourselves properly, let alone each other. Anyway, she did what she did and that was quite hard to get my head around.’
‘It must have been awful,’ I say, remembering with a deep ache in my chest that first sight of Noushka’s legs coming down the kitchen stairs.
He shakes his head. ‘The weird thing was,’ he says, looking momentarily confused, ‘I almost felt like it was my fault, if that makes any sense?’
I nod.
‘But it wasn’t my fault. Fault isn’t even a helpful way of looking at it, anyway.’
‘You make it sound so logical …’
He laughs gently. ‘It took me a year and a half to get to logical. The way I see it now, she did me a massive favour. We could have had kids and that would have been far messier. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m boring you with my life story – all a bit heavy for a Tuesday afternoon!’ he says, looking suddenly self-conscious as we enter the dull yellow light of the tube station. ‘So … I guess this is me. I’ll see you soon, Soph,’ he says, giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘Glad you liked the shake.’
As he heads through the barrier I feel a compulsion to follow him down the long escalator, to keep talking to him. I want to discover his secrets. How can he be so gracious? I want to be like that. Magnanimous. Calm. Storm-free.
Instead, I turn and walk slowly back out to Upper Street.
The minute I reach the bus stop I realise I still have his scarf.
On the way home I wrap it tightly around me. It smells of clean laundry and limes: two of my favourite things.
This road to recovery’s a bit bumpy for my liking. The following evening, Pete brings round a curry. I’m already in pyjamas at 7pm, and after I’ve scraped the last of the chicken dhansak out of the carton I ask him to go round to Tesco’s and buy me some bread and hummus.
‘You can’t still be hungry, Soph,’ he says. ‘Just give it five minutes and you’ll feel full.’
‘And some Ben and Jerry’s too … Phish Food,’ I say, giving him a twenty pound note.
While he’s gone I make a half-hearted attempt to tidy up. Mail lies unopened on my doormat. My clothes form mole hills throughout the flat. For some reason the Marmite is in the fridge, along with my driving licence.
Pete comes back with a small baguette, hummus and a small tub of Phish Food. We exchange glances.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I meant a big baguette.’
‘I’m looking out for you, Soph.’
‘I can look out for myself,’ I say, ripping into the bread. ‘How’s it going with that girl then, Carla, was it? That’s been a while, must be getting serious.’
‘She’s fun, but … you know, she’s not the one.’
‘Does she know that?’
‘What?’
‘That you’re wasting her time?’
‘I’m not going to propose to her.’
‘But if you know it’s not right, why carry on?’
‘We’ve just booked a holiday in June, I’ll finish it after that probably.’
‘But if you feel that way before the holiday, why lead her on? Why don’t you just finish it now? That’d be kinder to her.’
‘Stop comparing me to James.’
‘No, seriously, are you just waiting for someone better to come along, so you don’t have to be on your own?’
‘Soph. I’m your friend.’
I start to weep. ‘Then please say something that will help me move on. I can’t seem to shake this sadness.’
‘You just need to get some perspective,’ he says, giving me a hug.
I just need to get some more bread.
Get some perspective. Your self-pity isn’t helping – move on.
Of course I KNOW THIS. But it might as well be written in Webdings:
But my brain still tries to find the meaning in Webdings. I see a love heart, unanswered questions, big black voids, a man in the distance next to a yacht and a bus – two forms of escape …
Zapf Dingbats is more like it:
I should be on Top Gear. I can now distinguish the purr of a Maserati from any other performance car with my eyes closed. If I hear one, let alone see one, panic grips my guts.
Suddenly London is aswarm with midnight blue Maseratis. Whenever I spot one, I automatically squint to see if James is driving it. It’s amazing how many middle-aged men with a slight chin drive midnight blue Maseratis.
God forbid I ever have to cross at a light in front of one. I can’t help but stare: these men all have the same expression. It reminds me of an old Garfield poster I had on my wall as a kid, with Garfield saying: ‘It’s hard to be humble when you’re as great as I am!’ They often have a sullen twenty-something girlfriend next to them. That’s such a simple equation, even Amber could do it:
40 < < 55 + = + < 30
And all these men race off before the light’s turned green, flooring their accelerators, as if you could ever get anywhere in London fast.
That is the best thing about a long distance relationship: breaking up is not so hard to do. But according to Google maps, James lives only 2.5 miles from my door by car, 2.1 by foot.
I walk the streets in fear of seeing him, or worse – him seeing me. I start wearing noise reduction speakers on my iPod, and taking the bus at all times.
It is now March. Spring has yet to sprung and the London sky is relentlessly grey. A year ago, I was sitting opposite James in the Dean Street Townhouse, eating the Queen of Puddings and falling in love. Today I’m sitting opposite Devron in Boardroom 4B, watching him demolish a Benjy’s egg and sausage sandwich without chewing it.
Ton of Fun Tom, Julie from packaging and I are here, waiting for Devron to wipe the egg dribble from his chin and then brief us on the ‘Change of Direction’ he so sweetly shit-bombed last week.
Zoe has already told me what the ‘Change of Fucking Direction’ is: the Fletchers deep freezer is the retail equivalent of the Deepthroat car park.
Our Research Unit has tapped
into twenty-first century lifestyle trends and identified a new female audience ripe for exploitation: SLOTs, Single Long Terms. They’re ‘cash rich’, ‘lonely’, and ‘dissatisfied’. They want single-serve portions of their favourite comfort foods without the temptation of eating a family pack.
‘Right, Soph, I don’t want you getting all creative with your bin liner biscuits. What we need is three low-cal treats to appeal to these women – 30 to 45, ABC1s. Research says that custard is a big win – reminds them of happy childhoods.’
‘Hang on. I’ve just done a year’s work with Appletree on custard, I’ve got twelve products that are launch-ready, can I use some of those?’ Will deserves this brief after all the work he’s done on it.
‘If you can get them down to less than 3% fat and crush them on costs – 30% cheaper – yes. If not, go from scratch. – I was thinking perhaps we could invent a biscuit that has custard in the middle. Hit these women in their tea break.’ I’ll hit you in your tea break, dickhead.
‘Do you mean a custard cream?’ I say. I’d like to have invented the custard cream – quite audacious in its day. Not so innovative now …
‘Shit. Okay, just whatever, something for tea breaks. And something that’s good for commuting, and something in a small bucket for those long nights in front of Sex and the City reruns.
‘Can we brainstorm together, pleeease?’ says Ton of Fun Tom.
Tom is as irritating as a raspberry seed in your molar and equally hard to get rid of.
‘Yeah, make sure Tom’s included in everything. The brand is key. On that note, I’ve had some ideas for naming the range,’ he says, opening his file. ‘Okay. One is Fun.’
‘Delia’s got a book called that,’ I say. Besides, one is not fun.
‘Julie, write it down,’ says Devron. ‘Then there’s Serves One, or Suit Yourself.’
‘Serves One sounds depressing,’ says Julie.
‘Suit Yourself sounds cool,’ says Ton of Fun. ‘Empowering. Feminist.’
‘The “Suit” thing doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘If it was “Suite Yourself” – but then that’s too clever-clever, doesn’t really make sense either.’
Devron rolls his eyes. ‘Or something more jokey. You know that ice cream brand, Skinny Cow?’
‘… Yes,’ I say.
‘So, I’m thinking “Fat Cow,” or “Fat Bird,” with a cute pink cartoon cow or bird on the packaging. Julie?’
Julie is shaking her head violently.
‘The research says women love the concept of Skinny Cow,’ says Devron.
‘Skinny Cow and Fat Cow are not the same thing,’ I say.
‘The research also says these women enjoy “badminton, Radio 4 and laughing.” They’ve got a sense of humour.’
‘Yes, but does the research say these women enjoy being called fat?’
‘They’re okay being called cow, what’s the difference?’ says Devron.
‘Big fat difference,’ I say.
‘Fine, Bird then. We’ll put an exclamation mark after Bird!, show it’s tongue in cheek. Mands thinks it’s brilliant,’ says Devron. ‘Speak to suppliers, press play on Fat Bird! And remember – what does success look like?!’
I call Will.
‘Sophie! I was just thinking about you,’ he says.
‘Oh, I know I still have your scarf, sorry.’
‘My scarf? Oh, I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Listen – you’re not going to believe Devron’s latest genius idea.’
‘Go on …’
‘Low-cal treats for single career women …’
‘That sounds doable. What’s the problem?’
‘The name of the range,’ I say, shaking my head with embarrassment.
‘Go on …’
‘It’s dreadful, I can’t say it …’
‘Give me a clue,’
‘It’s totally insensitive.’
‘You’ll have to narrow it down a bit.’
‘Okay. Two words, first rhymes with rat, second with word, highly inappropriate for a dessert.’
‘… Cat Turd …?’
‘No, but he’s probably trademarked that for his value sausage rolls. Okay, think about two words a woman would not want to be called …’
‘… Fat Nerd?’
‘Almost! Swap the N for a B.’
There is a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a small snicker.
‘Oi! Stop laughing! It’s not funny,’ I say.
‘No, it’s deathly serious, Sophie.’
‘It is!’ I say, knowing full well he can hear my smile down the phone.
‘Okay, when are you up to see us?’
‘I’ll come with a proper brief on Monday?’ I say.
‘Can’t wait. Meet you at the station.’
I’ve been going to see a Cognitive Behavioural Therapist twice a week for the last fortnight. I saw a shrink a few times after my dad died and I hated it. If I’m going to spend £60 on something, I want it to be wearable, edible, preferably both. But, I have no time to be depressed. The pills haven’t kicked in yet; intensive therapy is the way forward.
I like my shrink, I really do. She is smart and kind and has a normal-sized body.
She says that I should treat the relationship as a gift, a ‘learning experience’. My idea of a gift is a Marimekko teacup, or if you’re feeling flush, a pale blue cashmere blanket. I don’t recall putting ‘learning experience’ on my Christmas list. I’d like to take the following back to Selfridges, please: 1 x clinical depression (size, medium); 1 x dignity removal kit (heavily used). Do you really need a receipt? Just look at my face.
I tell her I feel guilty that I’m not grieving my grandma more. My shrink thinks this must be why the James situation has hit me so hard – my closest relative in London, my dead father’s mother, a double bereavement. But my grandma was ninety-seven, she was bored to buggery. Death was entirely what she wanted.
My shrink also thinks I never dealt with the sadness at the end of my relationship with Nick, and that’s compounding everything. But when Nick and I split up, I felt intact, not in pieces. He’d done nothing to take me apart.
She says she doesn’t think it was ever about my weight, and that James just attacked where he knew I was vulnerable. ‘If it hadn’t been your weight, he’d have pinned it on something else.’
‘Would that be deliberate or subconscious?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Might be unconscious. I don’t know this man.’
For some reason in the following session, I become obsessed with quantifying exactly what level of badness has taken place. Is James an utter fuckface, or a sadist, a bit of a shit or just a coward, immature or just weak, maybe just human or all of the above? Was there an overlap between me and Noushka? If so, how many days, how many hours? Was she in the Cayman Islands with him over New Year’s? This blame game I blame (yes) on my mother. If my mother in California stubs her toe on the sun lounger, it is somehow my fault back in London. When she mislaid her square Japanese omelette pan, she spent a year blaming the builders. I explained to her in many languages (including Japanese) that if the builders were going to steal any of her kitchenware, they wouldn’t take the novelty egg pan, they’d go straight for the Le Creuset. She is having none of it. When she eventually finds the pan she convinces herself that the builders have broken into the house to replace it. She wonders if she should call the police. My mother is nuts. I am officially my mother’s daughter.
‘Can’t you just see it as he couldn’t meet your needs?’ says the shrink. Where’s the fun in that, I ask.
In the fourth session we talk about anger. She feels that I took the body blows during the relationship and am now having a very delayed response to them. The truth is I am furious: furious that I took him back, furious that I didn’t pick him up on all the comments about my weight, furious that I didn’t assert myself more, furious that I shagged him in the car when he was almost definitely seeing Noushka, furious that I put his value above min
e, furious that I believed his version of me.
‘You should be angry at James, not at yourself,’ says the shrink. But I’m too scared to show him my anger, in the same way that when we went to France I was too scared to walk around naked all the time. Like cellulite, I’ve been conditioned to think of anger as ugly, ugly, ugly.
So, I put all the anger where it is least helpful – into the heart of me.
After four sessions, my counsellor says she’s not sure what she can do to help me. I’m not her ‘normal type’.
I ask her to please not use that phrase ever, ever again.
She apologises and goes on to say that she thinks I’ll resist CBT and argue with its principles.
I argue that I wouldn’t be paying for help if I didn’t want help.
She smiles gently, and says that she believes I am holding on to the thought of James in my head because I don’t want the relationship to be over.
Yes! Of course! And I need her to wave a wand and fix me; or better still, help me get him back. I’ll pay her double for that.
‘You can show up here every week but ultimately I’m afraid you’re going to have to do the work yourself,’ she says.
She is so fired.
On the bus home from my ex-shrink, I decide it would be a marvellous idea to call my ex-fiancé and meet for a coffee, share some of the enlightening things I’ve learned in therapy. They’d be helpful for him too. Then he can fix himself and everything will be better and I’ll be free from this pain.
I know everyone says don’t call, but honestly, I feel fine at this precise millisecond and so I dial, feeling an aching sickness as I press the green button on my phone.
It rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when he picks up, sounding surprised.
‘Soph?’
The manically cheery tone I was going to use doesn’t make it out of my mouth.
‘… I need to see you,’ I say.
‘It’s not a good time.’
‘Just for half an hour, for a coffee. It won’t take long.’
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