The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files)

by Bloom, Anna

  20th October

  My head. Again.

  Seriously, you would think I would learn.

  Last night was completely bizarre, this is how it happened.

  We decide to have a pub-crawl down the High Street. This is not a great idea as Jayne is renowned for getting completely paralytic. Meredith is not much better. Obviously, I am the mature one who can handle my booze.

  So anyway, there we are on our girl’s only pub-crawl, which is a lot of fun. We are having one glass of wine only in each establishment. Halfway down High Street, who should we bump into? Oh, yes, that’s right, my complete arse of a brother and one of his dubious connections who has tried it on with me numerous times over the years and has never gotten anywhere.

  I become highly suspicious of Meredith who is acting her surprise at seeing Tristan completely over the top.

  Creepy man-friend Eric, who is greasy and potbellied, automatically starts trying to put his arm over my shoulder. I duck away and manage to put Jayne in-between us. This works out well. She seems quite keen on his advances despite the fact that he has just tried them on me. She has had four full glasses of wine by this point, so perhaps her vision is slightly impaired.

  Onto the next bar, all in good spirits, we consume a lot of spirits as well. Someone suggests a juvenile game of Truth or Dare where the dare is a shot of something terrible. Needless to say, I have my fair share of shots. It’s not as if I can be honest about anything in the present company.

  I receive a text from Ben:

  Hope you’re having a gr8 time xx

  Then, another text from Ben:

  Can’t concentrate on band talk. I keep thinking of that cab after Fez.

  And another text from Ben:

  Now I am thinking about our date, everyone pissed off I am not concentrating.

  This makes me grin like an idiot.

  Bar Five

  The grin is wiped off my face. John is here, and I have a terrible feeling of being completely set up. He gushes and slobbers all over me as he comes over to see me for the first time in over a month. I have to try really hard not to gag as he kisses me hello full on the mouth.

  “There’s my girl. Shnice hair,” he slurs, raising a hand to slide through the offending cut.

  I think he may have been at the bar for a while. “Hey, John, it’s good to see you,” I lie, shamefaced.

  Tristan gives me a wink, which I don’t understand, and Meredith looks between John and I like she really doesn’t get it.

  I know. I don’t either.

  So anyway, John joins our little gang along with his two buddies. Our girls’ night is now being completely over run by men. Not that the other two seemed to mind. Jayne ends up doing something disgusting with Eric, and Tristan and Meredith are whispering sweet nothings to each other. I feel a sharp stab of envy as I watch them. They met, they liked each other, and then they get to sit there whispering in each other’s ears, giving each other puppy dog eyes.

  Suddenly I feel really lonely. Silly, because I am surrounded by people, but there is only one person that I want to be with, preferably re-enacting the black cab activities. I remove John’s hand from my knee and head to the bar where I proceed to knock back three more vodkas to numb the pain.

  I manage another hour. John is really pleased to see me, and it makes me feel terrible.

  The guilt I am experiencing is completely out of control. John is gushing about how wonderful I am and how clever and brave I am being by going to Uni. Little does he know that all I have been doing at Uni is stalking the boy that lives in the room next to mine.

  So far at Uni I have learnt:

  Ben likes Marmite on his toast for breakfast, preferably doorstop, always white.

  Ben does not eat baked beans. He thinks it is devil food.

  Ben does not like to wear shoes in the house. Taking his shoes off is the first thing he does when he gets home.

  Ben’s eyes are the same colour as the sky at midday.

  Ben has a middle name beginning with the letter R, but he will not tell me what it is.

  Ben has two sisters who still live in Dorset and think he is a twat. I can’t imagine why.

  Ben knows the best way to prepare a bacon buttie is to make the bacon extra crispy before putting it on heavily buttered bread with just a smidge of ketchup.

  So you can see why, when pressed by John as to the things I have been studying, I don’t have a huge amount to say.

  Bar Six

  I do not make it to bar six. It is close to midnight and I just want to go home. I duck out of John’s embrace goodbye. He tries to talk me into letting him come back to Uni with me so we can spend quality time together, or, in other words, have sex.

  Um, no, thank you. I would rather have my eyeballs stabbed out.

  I wave desperately at a black cab. Mumbling something about a headache, I dive into it and relax against the seats as I shut my eyes for the five-minute journey back to Uni. The whole ride I cannot stop thinking about the cab back from the Fez club and the feel of Ben’s hands. Taylor Swift is belting out “Sparks Fly” egging me on, and by the time I make it out of cab, I know exactly what I want to do.

  I fall through the front door and then try Ben’s door. It’s unlocked so I just go in.

  “Lilah?” He is sitting cross-legged on his bed, guitar across his lap.

  In silence, I strip off my clothes to my underwear and climb onto the bed next to him.

  He doesn’t say anything, just puts the guitar on the floor and turns towards me, his hands sliding around my waist like they are made to fit there.

  9.25 a.m.

  So here I am. There is an out of control elephant running through my head, and I have spent the night in my sexy roommate’s bed after ditching my fiancé in the middle of Putney High Street.

  Oh, the guilt. It’s quite bad.

  I need to get up and get back to my room before he wakes up, I can’t help but turn and look at him before I move. I want to kiss him, but also don’t want to wake him up. I need to get up and out of here before he sees me naked in the cold light of day.

  I will just shift the duvet around me so all lumps and bumps are covered then I can sit and stare for a little longer.

  Oh shit. I still have last night’s makeup on.

  9.32 a.m.

  I am still staring at him. It’s kind of hard not to. He is beautiful lying there with his dark lashes resting on his cheeks, hair all over the place and a slight curve on his lips. My cheeks are burning up when I think of last night.

  “Are you staring at me?” His voice has the tone of the cat that got the cream.

  “I’m counting your freckles.”

  “How many?”

  “You made me lose count.” His hand snakes under my duvet barricade and around my waist.

  I stiffen automatically.

  “Please tell me you are not shy or embarrassed?” He pulls me close, his lips wandering along my throat to my ear and then finally my lips, his blue eyes flashing under dark lashes.

  I slide myself over to him and pull him on top. Guess I am not that shy after all.

  Taylor Swift is in my head singing a jaunty rendition of “Love Story.” I may be humming along.

  21st October

  2.00 p.m.

  Okay, things are a weird.

  I’m feeling a bit awkward. Ben and I appear to be stuck in a weird stalemate where we are no longer just flirty buddies but are not yet boyfriend and girlfriend. Well, we can’t be. I still have another boyfriend.

  We hung out most of yesterday in his room, making a little camp and watching telly together. We held hands and exchanged chaste kisses, leaning against each other, but did not repeat the activities of the night before, or the mornin
g, for that matter.

  At 11 o’clock, I fell asleep during a movie and then woke up fully dressed in his bed this morning.

  Feeling really uncomfortable, I made my excuses of study and laundry, and left his room. He did not say anything to make me stay, just watched me with the blues as I backed out of his room.

  Maybe this is just what he does. He must meet lots of girls with the band. Perhaps he just has sex with them and then goes back to being friends.

  Not sure how I feel about that. I need to talk to someone.

  Where the hell is Meredith when I need her?

  The Post-Mortem

  4.00 p.m.

  We have been discussing ‘The Night from Which There is No Return.’ Meredith thinks I am being over sensitive and that I should cut him some slack, I am the one with a boyfriend after all. Her actual words were far ruder, so I am not going to write them down.

  I’m not so sure. I could not get a read on the way he looked at me this morning. He has not knocked for me since.

  “Have you knocked for him?”

  “Um, no. I was waiting for you to tell me what to do!”

  Meredith is no help whatsoever.

  We are interrupted by a knock on the door. Ben peeks in and asks, “Do you want dinner?”

  “What is it?” I ask. Okay, that came out ruder than I intended.

  “Roast chicken.” He looks a bit confused as he answers.

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply.

  “Uh, okay. Ready in an hour,” he says before ducking his head back out of the door.

  Meredith reads me with her all-knowing green eyes. “If anyone is acting weird, it’s you,” she says.

  “Bugger off. He looked practically embarrassed then.”

  “Yeah, he must be really embarrassed, coming in and telling the girl he has been obsessing about and has finally slept with that her lovely roast chicken meal cooked with love and care will be ready in one hour.”

  I elbow her in the ribs, sarcastic cow.

  22nd October

  Today involved the following:

  Awkward breakfast.

  Uncomfortable lecture.

  Awkward dinner.

  23rd October

  And more . . .

  Awkward breakfast

  Uncomfortable lecture

  Awkward dinner

  Oh, and an awkward moment when Ben came out of the shower in his towel. It was a cup of tea I slopped all over the floor this time.

  24th October

  I have been Mum’d.

  “Oh, Dharling, where on earth have you been? Daddy and I have been frightfully worried about you!”

  I automatically grab my packet of cigarettes and open my window wide. No conversation with my mother is complete without the helpful addition of nicotine.

  “Well, it has been weeks. You can’t have been that worried.”

  “Tish tosh, Lilah, don’t be difficult!”

  “Okay. I’m busy studying. Did you want something?” I’m not really studying. I’m busy obsessing about Ben and the whole ‘no talking thing’ we’re doing.

  “Now, now, Dharling, don’t be like that. Shall we do a little bite for lunchy on Saturday? My treat. Let’s say Harvey Nics at noon.”

  “Um—”

  “Lovely! Ciao, Dharling. See you then.”

  And then she is gone.

  My mum is a now rare breed of woman who thinks that anything in life can be fixed by lunch at Harvey Nics and a quick spin around Harrods. I am not exaggerating. There was a rumour once that my dad had participated in a bit of office hanky panky. Instead of freaking out and shouting like a normal woman, my mum just took the American Express to Harrods and killed it. She did not just kill the card, she buried it six feet under and danced on the grave.

  Still, lunch with Mum is always a bit of a laugh. Well, it’s always free for a start. And it always involves a tanker-load of gin and tonic.

  I put a quick call in to Tristan. “Have you been blabbing to Mum?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you have, I will cut your balls off.”

  “Jeez, calm down Miss Dramatic.”

  “Is Meredith there?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Ask her if she wants to come to lunch with Mum.”

  “I don’t think that is such a great idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Mum might scare her off.”

  I laugh and hang up. Excellent! I shall not have to go alone. This fills me with cheer in a week that could have been great, but has started to turn to a pile of shit at an alarming rate.

  Mum and I have always had a strained relationship. I just don’t get her! There are no two ways about it.

  I don’t understand how she can be happy swanning around the house all day, so bored that she starts drinking gin at noon, pretending to be an upstanding member of the community with her charity work. How is she satisfied with that?

  What I understand even less is how she thinks that me marrying John is such a great idea, when it would clearly be a case of history repeating itself.

  And as a student of history (sort of) I am only too aware that history really does repeat itself. I just don’t want it to do it with me.

  This reminds me. I must ring John.

  27th October

  It is 5 o’clock, and I am still in a state of shock. Mum pulled a complete fast one on me.

  I cannot quite believe it.

  Lunch was over fast and sober. My alarm bells should have been going off by that fact alone. Another alarm bell trigger should have been Mum’s outfit. Instead of her normal twinset and court shoes, she was wearing flats, some trousers that were borderline jean material and a shirt thing. She looked like she was about to go and bunfight it out at Primark. Even her putdowns were low key.

  “Dharling, I do think perhaps you should join a class or something.”

  “What sort of class, Mum?”

  “Oh, Yoga, Pilates, you know.”

  This should have warned me. Any other time Mum would have just looked me up and down and said, “Delilah, you really are getting frightfully plump.”

  But still, I didn’t think it was weird when after lunch she drained her orange juice (really, orange juice?) and said, “Come on, Delilah, let’s go and look at some of their departments.”

  Meredith, who had been expecting Mum to be a complete head case after Tristan and I had given her advanced warning of what to expect, shoots me a confused look as we trail after Mum’s high-speed power walk.

  The Bridal Department

  Mum’s marathon sprint ends at the entrance to the Bridal department. I just stand there in complete shock. Meredith actually gives an audible gasp when she sees our destination.

  “Come on, Dharling, we are just in time for your appointment.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say ‘What?,’ say ‘Pardon,’” she tuts. “Your appointment? It takes months to get a decent dress made. We need to get cracking with the planning.”

  “But there isn’t a wedding, Mum. Remember?”

  “Oh, Delilah, will you stop all this silliness? You know that you and John are going to be married, so we may as well get on with it.”

  This is not at all what I am thinking.

  I am thinking that a few short days ago I had sex with someone else who I do actually want to be with but am not, all because of some silly question I was unable to say “No” to last year.

  She takes me by the hand and guides me in where I am immediately pounced upon by gushing female sales assistants who “oooh” and “aaaah” over me. They even compliment my crazy short hair, which makes Mum grimace. The hairstyle was not a success with my mother. I s
hall probably keep it short forever.

  “Is this your bridesmaid?” one of the assistants asks, pulling a completely dumbfounded Meredith into our little circle of activity that involves stripping me down to my granny knickers.

  “Yes, she will be,” I say. Not at the wedding these ladies are planning, but when I do get married, Meredith will be standing there looking spectacular in emerald green. I can visualise it now.

  And that is it. They spend the next hour measuring me and then showing me different styles of gowns, which I am made to try on like some life-sized wedding Barbie doll. I stomp out of the changing room each time like a bull in a china shop, wishing I had some of Goth chick’s shit-kicker Doc Martins on. Not one dress I try on has a price tag under two grand. I would never spend that much on a dress, if I ever do get married, which I don’t plan on doing. But if I ever do, I’m making my own personal vow to only wear a dress that costs less than one hundred, preferably even less, actually preferably no dress at all.

  Meredith and I spend the whole Tube trip home sitting in stunned silence.

  “Thanks for saying I could be a bridesmaid,” she says eventually.

  “You’re welcome. You will be, won’t you?”

  “Yeah, so long as you don’t marry that tit.”

  When we get home, I am flabbergasted for the second time in one day. Ben and Tristan are sitting in the lounge on the torture furniture, a heavy smattering of empty beer cans between them.

  “What you guys doing?” I demand.

  Ben shifts uncomfortably under my glare.

  “So, what? You can ignore me for the whole week and then chill out at the weekend and have drinks with my brother?” Clearly my limit for crap has been reached.

  “I am not ignoring you, Lilah.” Ben’s voice caresses my name and I hate the way it makes tears prickle my eyes. It has been a terrible day. I am tired and cannot go on any further. I just stand there with my lips wobbling and on the brink of tears.

  Ben leaps out of his chair all dominating masculinity and grabs hold of me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, lifting my face to his.