by Danny King
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if Charley didn’t show up; rethink my whole strategy, probably, but the one thing I wouldn’t do was enter into some sort of slanging match with her. I’d liked Charley too much to want to us go down that route. I knew some couples who sniped and bitched at each other for months after they’d split up. Years even. Sometimes for longer than they’d even dated in the first place. I guess it’s just easier like that sometimes. We invest so much raw emotion into a relationship that some people have real problems letting go without seeing a return on their investment, whether it be hugs and kisses or sticks and stones. We all want to know that we mattered to the other person at one stage or another, even if it was just for a short while.
Equally none of us want to simply sink into the mists of time without laying down some sort of marker to be remembered by. And that goes for relationships as well as church walls, so some people hang around long after they should, slinging accusations at the former loves of their lives and ordering them fifty home-delivered pizzas a night.
But that wasn’t for me. I was determined to do this right. Things hadn’t worked out and that was too bad. Really. But I’d do the right thing and bow out with my dignity intact so that Charley would eventually come to realise that the uncouth, uneducated and unclipped bricky who she’d thought was beneath her was, in fact, the best fella she’d ever met.
For all the fucking good that would do me… To my surprise, on the dot of half twelve, Charley stepped through the door and clocked me almost straight away on the far side of the Whispering Gallery. The very sight of her made my heart almost turn and run and for one headlight-staring moment I wondered if I had it in me to go through with it. Wouldn’t it be simpler and easier just to let her do it to me, to save me from having to do it to her? Quite possibly, so I had to quickly remind myself why exactly I was getting my retaliation in first… …if I could remember.
Oh yes, all that stuff.
Charley looked a little breathless herself and I was about to draw a few hasty last-minute conclusions to shore up my resolve when I remembered that she had just walked up two hundred and fifty-nine steps. She was allowed to look breathless. Just this once.
What didn’t add up was just how confident she looked. She looked happy, smiling and assured, like she didn’t have a worry at her door, while I had spent the entire last week wringing my handkerchief out into a bucket over the state of our doomed relationship. It was funny, but it hadn’t even occurred to me up until this final moment that Charley might show up with anything other than a matching expression to mine. Yet here she was, as happy as a florist’s daughter on Christmas morning with a pocketful of pixie wishes.
That just about summed us both up in a nutshell as far as I was concerned and convinced me there really was no more of this relationship to run.
Come in, Tel the trowel, your time is up.
‘Hiya [kiss kiss], I wasn’t sure if you were joking when I got your text about meeting here,’ Charley said, plonking herself down next to me.
‘You found it OK?’ I asked.
‘Oh yeah, I’ve been here before,’ she told me, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest as Charley had generally been everywhere and done everything before. That said, I could walk into the Lamb in Catford tomorrow and have a pint of my favourite lager put on the bar without having to say a single word, so it wasn’t like I didn’t have anything to show for the last ten years either.
‘Have you been up to the Golden Gallery yet?’ Charley asked, but I just shook my head and told her I hadn’t. ‘Oh well, perhaps we can…’
‘Charley,’ I said, taking a deep breath and seizing the moment.
‘We need to talk.’
Charley’s eyes narrowed and her smile slipped a few degrees, but I didn’t give her a chance to respond, too concerned was I that she’d pip me at the death with a lightning-quick ‘I agree, we do, but let me just say what I’ve got to say first’ strike of her own.
‘I think you’re great and I… I really, really like you, but… I… I just think… I… I think I’m going to have to call it a day. You know, between us,’ I finally got out, my innards in knots over words I could scarcely believe I was speaking. ‘Look, it’s not you, it’s me,’ I added, figuring I might as well use that one up before she could.
Charley stared at me with uncertainty, then broke away from my guilty gaze to look into middle space, clearly flummoxed by what I’d just said.
‘I just think we’re very different people,’ I continued in earnest. ‘We’re into different things. We’re from different places. And we’ve got different parents. Er… we’re just… you know, different. And honestly, I’m not saying that I don’t like you, because I do, I just don’t think… we’re really [what was that expression? Er, that was it]… going anywhere,’ I explained. ‘You know what I mean?’
‘No, I don’t,’ she suddenly snapped, obviously annoyed that I was the one doing the dumping. I guess she was probably more used to being the dumper than the dumpee.
‘Look, it’s not you…’ I tried once again, but Charley just cut through my default setting with an angry hiss.
‘Stop saying that,’ she barked, before pressing, ‘Is this about last week?’
‘No,’ I denied. ‘Of course not. Er, well, yeah, sort of, I guess.’
‘Look, it’s not my fault that you…’ she started to say, but I stopped her right there as I didn’t want her thinking that this was a single-issue dumping. It was much more than that. Much, much more.
‘No, no, OK, it’s not about last week,’ I corrected myself.
‘But you just said…’
‘Forget about that. Forget about what I just said. I didn’t mean it. I was just… [saying the first thing that came into my head?]. Look, don’t worry about last week. OK?’
‘No, Terry, it’s not OK. I don’t know what’s going on. What’s going on?’ Charley asked, which was a girlie classic and one my ex, Jo, used to use on me all the time. It’s a simple technique that girls learn at an early age that turns the tables on us mug blokes. Basically, the way it works is this: there’s a problem; you both know about it and you’re both constantly reacting to it, but neither of you can say anything about it because the moment you do, the other one can then accuse you of being petty, oversensitive, stroppy or suspicious, so that all at once the argument becomes about that rather than about how much time they’re spending down at Morrisons. It’s a lost cause trying to talk out your concerns with women because at the end of the day, it’s never their fault. It’s always yours.
At least, it was always mine. And I can only go on experience.
‘Charley, we’re just not right together,’ I simply said, causing Charley to turn away for a few seconds before rising to her feet.
I fought the overwhelming urge to grab her hand, drag her back down next to me and plead with her for forgiveness, but the dogs were in the traps and the rabbit was already running. This race would be run.
As it was, Charley didn’t dash off anywhere, like I thought she would. She just stepped away from me a yard or two and leaned against the safety rail with her back to me. I watched her for a moment or two and took the opportunity to try and untangle the knot of reasons in my brain so that we both knew what we were talking about, but without resorting to all that ‘then you did this, then you said that’ bollocks, and I couldn’t find the words.
Couldn’t we both just acknowledge what we both knew? That our ironic little stroll on the other side of the tracks was over. No harm done. Very sorry and all that, but goodbye and the best of luck.
‘You know, I’d love to know when you came to this conclusion because you’ve never said anything to me,’ Charley then objected. ‘And what do you mean, we’re not right together anyway? What is it I’m doing that’s not right?’
‘Charley, please…’ I tried, but Charley was determined to play the apportion game.
‘No, I want to know,’ she insisted. ‘Tell me.’
‘Charley, it’s not you…’ I almost said again, but managed to veer off at the last moment and repeat instead that we were very different people.
This didn’t do for Charley, though. She wanted specifics, presumably to prove to me that I was the one in the wrong, not her. But seriously, what were the specifics?
She’d been born to rich parents whereas I’d been born to a couple that had met on a hop-picking holiday?
She’d gone to a posh school whereas I’d gone to a comp? Occasionally.
She mixed with actors and producers, doctors and lawyers whereas I mixed with a shovel?
She liked lentils and grown-up grub whereas I still liked the odd can of Fanta?
These weren’t reasons for ending a relationship. They were actually pretty stupid in themselves if I’m honest here. I knew this, but that didn’t matter because they weren’t the real reasons we were splitting up. The real reason we were splitting up was… er… er… For a moment there, I almost couldn’t remember, but then it came back to me. It was all down to Charley. She was the one who was getting ready to dump me (possibly for Hugo or Domino? Not sure, I was confusing myself now), not the other way around. I just got in there first, which, when all was said and done, was the real reason she felt aggrieved. That yet another horse had thrown her off her back before she could shoo him away.
That I’d noted the differences between us and decided that they weren’t for me, when really I should’ve been the one down on bended knees thanking her for even looking at me.
How dare I? How dare I finish with her?
This was the real reason my announcement had come as such a blow to her. I’d simply beaten her to the punch.
This was all this was and this was what I had to keep telling myself. Because if I lost sight of it even for a second, I’d be leaving myself open to one hell of a fall when the ball was back bouncing in her court.
Still, there was no reason to be horrible about it. I didn’t want to be horrible and I didn’t want to upset her, no matter what the reasons were, because I seriously did care about her. After all, it was the reason I was doing what I was doing.
‘Charley, please, I don’t want us to part on bad terms,’ I said, genuinely meaning every last syllable of it. ‘Because I really did… do like you. I’ve had so many good times with you – even just being with you – but nothing lasts for ever. And it’s just time to call it a day,’ I muttered, the lump in my throat making me barely audible, even in the Whispering Gallery.
‘I just wish you’d tell me why,’ Charley insisted, but I’d said all I could without the whole thing turning personal.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all I replied. ‘Really. I’m really, really sorry.’
Which didn’t say the half of it.
We stood in silence for a moment, neither knowing what to say next and neither wanting to be the one who lost their composure, and eventually Charley accepted the situation.
She collected her wits, nodded, then shook her head a couple of times and told me she had to go.
‘OK,’ I unhappily agreed, almost accidentally telling her that I’d give her a call in the week. But then I remembered I wouldn’t. Not this week. Not next week. Not any other week. This was the last time I’d ever see Charley. And it was breaking my heart.
Just what the hell was I doing?
‘Bye, then,’ Charley frowned. We paused for a moment, wondering whether or not to kiss, but dilly-dallied for so long that the moment and kiss were lost for ever.
‘Bye,’ I replied, just as she turned and walked. ‘Take care.’
I watched Charley head back around the Whispering Gallery to the exit and got ready to wave when she looked back from the doorway. But she didn’t look back. She just darted on through and disappeared from my life for the very last time. Utterly gut-wrenched and exhausted, I slumped back into the wooden seat to give her a fifteen-minute head start, feeling absolutely sick to the stomach.
I’d just dumped Charley.
Oh my fuck!
I’d just dumped the woman of my dreams.
I couldn’t help but wonder why.
No, it was no good thinking like that. What was done was done and done for a good reason. I knew that. And while I didn’t exactly take comfort in the knowledge, I knew that I knew it. Which was about the best I could say about it.
And if you like, I’ll tell you something else I knew. About this place, St Paul’s. I knew that Sir Christopher Wren had designed it back in the 1600s after the old cathedral had been destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. I knew that Nelson was buried in the crypt downstairs. As were Wellington, Florence Nightingale and Lawrence of Arabia. I knew that the great dome had been a symbol of Britain’s defiance during the Blitz, that Prince Charles and Lady Diana had got married here in 1981 and that, after Big Ben, St Paul’s was the most instantly recognisable landmark in London. It was certainly the most blatant, towering some three hundred and fifty feet above the Square Mile and being easily visible from Hampstead Heath to Crystal Palace.
I knew all of these things and more, but most importantly, I knew that every time I saw St Paul’s Cathedral from now on, I’d think of Charley.
Just as I knew (or at least hoped) that Charley would think of me.
25 :-( ?
I spent much of the next day checking my mobile to make sure that it hadn’t rung in my pocket without me hearing it. It hadn’t. Neither had it run out of battery power, forgotten how to receive a signal or clogged up with an avalanche of texts. It just hadn’t rung or received anything. Anything. From anyone. Which, by definition, included Charley.
I couldn’t decide whether I was surprised, disappointed, suicidal or monumentally relieved at this. Probably, if I’m honest here, disappointed, with just a dash of wrist-pondering for effect, because deep-deep-deep-deep down, at the back of my mind, in a corner of my brain I usually reserved for lottery-winning daydreams and flying-saucer fantasies, I’d half hoped she would call. I know it’s nonsense. After all, I had just unceremoniously dumped her out of my life, so the chances of her calling were right up there with lottery wins and flying saucers, but still, I hadn’t completely given up hope. Which was totally the wrong frame of mind to be in but, human nature being what it is, was all but inevitable. I mean, don’t we all hope and pray for a happy ending when everything goes tits up? Don’t we all pray for last-minute miracles? Whether we find ourselves up the financial Swannee without a penny to paddle with, in dire health straits, seven goals down to our arch-rivals or in midair following an ill-thought-through balcony short cut. Don’t we all hope and pray for six beautifully bouncing balls, a revolutionary breakthrough in deathitis tablets, five minutes of utter insanity from the referee or a passing mattress lorry to save us from that terrible onrushing reality we’re bracing ourselves to pancake across?
I know I did.
I hated it when shit things happened to me. And yesterday had been about as shit as I’d ever known. And contrary to all my expectations, it didn’t soften the blow that at least I’d been the one who’d done the dumping because this just scribbled one enormous fucking question mark right over everything I’d done yesterday.
What if I’d been wrong?
What if I’d been wrong about everything?
Fuckkkkkkkkkkk…!
It didn’t even bear thinking about, which was ironic really because up until yesterday, when I could’ve done something about it, this particular question hadn’t even occurred to me, yet the next morning, when everything was too late and sunk beyond salvageable, I suddenly couldn’t stop thinking it. Which did leave me wondering just whose side my brain was meant to be on anyway because the bastard seemed to have it in for me.
And all of this misery, all of this agony, all of this uncertainty could’ve been so easily wiped away with one call from Charley. Even a single text.
Hi T, how r u? :-(. U 3? Wnt 2 ><? Hv2 u @ me& % wth £ if thts ;-/!!! Cxxx
I would’ve loved to have got one of Charley�
�s bizarre hieroglyphic texts the following day, not least of all because I could’ve read absolutely anything I liked into it.
But she didn’t text. She didn’t call. And she didn’t race around to bang on my door in the pouring rain until I swept her up into my arms and promised her I’d never bin her again.
Charley was gone.
And that was the way she was going to stay, no matter how she felt. If indeed she did feel otherwise. See, in my parents’ day, perseverance was seen as a quality, faint heart never won fair maiden and that whole heap of false hope, but these days, if you showed the slightest bit of interest in someone who didn’t respond exactly the same way, all your courageous heart ever won you was a restraining order and a caption in your local paper informing the rest of the community that you were a ‘nuisance’.
And this wasn’t just true for blokes. Any girl who’s ever sent her ex-boyfriend a conciliatory card at Christmas to show there were no hard feelings has never been seen as anything other than a dangerous bunny-boiler ever since Glenn Close did her bit for broken-hearted women everywhere.
And who wanted that?
It was humiliating enough to be dumped by some stupid thicko tradesman who wasn’t fit to kiss your Guccis, without everyone thinking you were desperate to win him back. After all, Charley could do ten times better than me. Maybe even twenty times if she really pushed the boat out. She knew it. Her friends all knew it. And I knew it too. She could’ve had anyone she wanted. Guys with money. Guys with good jobs. Guys with flashy cars, fancy Armani suits and their own skiing equipment – that they actually owned. No problem. A girl like Charley. That was how great she was.