‘I know six months is a big commitment,’ he continued, ‘but as we’ve been living together for two years, I didn’t think it would be too big a step.’
I felt my shoulders sag and the energy seep from my whole being. So that’s what he meant about plans for the future. A six-month gym contract. Not a lifetime together. Tears pricked my eyes and I rapidly blinked them away.
‘That’s not the only present I’ve got for you,’ Jason said.
Maybe? He reached under his seat for something then pushed a sports shop carrier bag across the table with ‘Love, Jason’ scrawled across the front in marker pen. Maybe not. I peered into the bag and reluctantly pulled at the shiny leopard-print material. Oh. My. God. ‘A leotard?’
‘You’ll look fantastic in that.’ I really think he believed it.
I tentatively dangled the offending article over one finger and clocked the size 8–10 label. I wanted to scream at him: When have I ever been a size 8–10? When have I ever liked leopard-print? When have I ever indicated that I’d like to wear a leotard instead of a baggy T-shirt and leggings? After more than two years together, don’t you know me at all? Yet all I said was, ‘Thanks, Jason. It’s lovely,’ trying to sound as though I actually meant it. I suspected the accompanying smile looked more like a grimace, but Jason clearly didn’t notice. He looked so pleased with himself.
‘I knew you’d like it. I was only going to get you the gym membership, but when I was in the shop the other day, I spotted that in the sale and thought it was so you.’
How? How could he possibly think a leopard-print leotard was so me? I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as I hastily shoved the Devil’s gym kit back into the bag.
‘Firefighter Wilkes!’ A booming voice startled me. ‘You come to my restaurant.’
‘Mr Crocetti!’ Jason stood up and embraced a large man wearing chef’s whites.
‘Luigi, please,’ he insisted. ‘And who is the bella donna? Your wife?’
‘God, no!’ Jason said. ‘We’re not married. She’s just my girlfriend, Sarah.’
I stared at Jason, mouth open. ‘God, no’! Did he really just say that? And ‘just my girlfriend’? He did. He said, ‘God, no!’ That would mean the idea of getting married to me was… I couldn’t finish the thought.
‘Buona sera, Sarah.’ Luigi reached for my hand and kissed it. ‘Your man here, he save house. He save rabbit. He is hero.’
‘He did what?’ My head felt fuzzy. I needed some air, but I had a wall on one side and a loud Italian on the other.
‘He save house. He save rabbit,’ Luigi repeated.
‘I was on a shout today,’ Jason explained. ‘Small fire in Luigi’s garage. Their pet rabbit was overcome by smoke but I did mouth-to-mouth and—’
‘He save rabbit. Bambini so happy. I say to him come to my restaurant any time. On the house. You choose anything. He suggest tonight. I say of course.’
‘Thanks Luigi,’ Jason said.
‘Enjoy.’ Luigi leaned over and patted my arm then pointed at Jason. ‘Hero,’ he said, bowing. Then he headed towards the kitchen.
I felt the colour drain from my cheeks as I stared at Jason. ‘It’s free?’ I whispered. ‘The meal? Champagne? Tonight?’
‘I know. How great is that? Don’t get mad at me, but I hadn’t got round to booking anywhere so the timing was perfect. Like I could afford to bring you here again if it wasn’t on the house.’
He grinned at me, clearly thrilled with himself and oblivious to the impact of his actions. I lowered my eyes to my hands, which were hanging limply in my lap, and focused on the bare engagement finger. It was never going to be a proposal. It was a last-minute freebie and I was such a stupid fool. Sighing, I covered my left hand with my right one.
‘Are you okay?’ Jason asked. ‘You don’t look very well.’
‘I thought you were bringing me here to—’
‘To what?’
I looked up from my hands. He genuinely looked flummoxed. He’d forgotten what happened here last time and what he’d said.
‘Sarah? To what?’
‘Nothing,’ I muttered. ‘It doesn’t matter. Would you excuse me?’ I stood up slowly, holding on to the table, fearing my legs wouldn’t hold me. ‘Must go to the ladies before the food arrives.’
Humiliation and disappointment burned at the back of my throat as I stumbled through the crowded restaurant. I fought hard to keep it together until I made it to the ladies, but I’d barely closed the cubicle door before the first heaving sob shook my body. Slumped on the toilet, I didn’t care who heard. Anguished cries echoed off the marble walls and cocooned me in my pain.
Eventually the tears stopped flowing and the shaking subsided, but the pain in my heart remained. I blew my nose and wiped wearily at my wet cheeks. How stupid had I been to think he’d brought me here to propose? How could I have got it so wrong?
I rose slowly, dropped the pile of soggy tissues into the toilet pan, flushed it and watched the tissues disappear along with my hopes and dreams. The words he’d said to Luigi echoed in my mind. Not his wife; just his girlfriend? Where the hell could we go from here? Not up the aisle, that was for sure.
But a nagging voice in my head said, ‘Don’t get angry at him, Sarah. This is your fault. You’ve had over two years to tell him you don’t love the gym or hiking or mountain biking like he does. What do you expect? The poor guy genuinely thought he’d bought you something you’d love because you led him to believe that you loved working out as much as him. This is your doing; not his.’
I didn’t want to listen to that voice.
One Year Later
2
I stood on the pavement staring down at the lower-ground-floor Victorian flat that Jason and I had rented for the last three years and twenty-three days. The keys dug into my palm while I watched the changing light of the TV screen flickering through the voile-covered window. A cold wind tugged at my coat and tickled my nose. I shivered and sniffed. Then I sniffed again, breathing in the unmistakeable aroma of a fresh, garlicky, homemade lasagne. Jason made a mean lasagne when we first met. He cooked a lot in the early days but now the freezer was packed with ready meals.
A feeling of nostalgia overcame me for those early happy days. Maybe the smell was coming from our flat. Maybe he’d have remembered it was my thirtieth and cooked as a birthday treat. Yeah, right. And he’d have done the washing up and vacuumed the flat. Was that a pig flying past? Jason was between shifts so would have spent a couple of hours at the gym followed by a bike ride and would now be lying on the sofa, game controller practically welded to his hands.
How had a whole year passed since the disastrous non-proposal? I’d returned to the table that night to find Jason tucking into his starter. If he noticed my red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, he never said a word. My sudden loss of appetite was embraced as more free food for him and my silence on the train home was put down to fatigue following a tough week at work. Had he really been that clueless?
I sat down heavily on the top step, trying to muster the strength to go inside, and rummaged in my bag for my phone. Instead of making me smile, my Facebook newsfeed full of birthday wishes acted as a depressing reminder of all that was wrong in my life: ‘Happy 30th birthday. Hope Jason’s taking you somewhere nice.’ ‘Happy 30th Sarah. Can he top Luigi’s this year?’ ‘Hope you’ve had a fabulous day and that Jason has a weekend of pampering planned.’ Chances of that: zero. Especially as he hadn’t even acknowledged it was my birthday when I’d left for work that morning. Mind you, barely acknowledging each other had become our existence and I was exhausted from it.
Could I face another year like this? I didn’t want to die all alone like my Uncle Alan, but was this really better than being alone?
A text arrived.
✉︎ From Elise
Our Jess and Lee are back from Rome and they’re engaged!!! I’m at Minty’s with them & Gary. Her diamond’s bigger than mine. Outrageous! Look forward to speaking to you tomorro
w to find out all about your big birthday night out xxx
My shoulders drooped even further. Elise’s little sister was engaged? But she was six years younger than me. She couldn’t be getting married. Not before me. But she’d clearly met the right person whereas I… I looked up at the window and shook my head. It was time.
Standing up, I brushed some dust off my skirt and made my way down the stone steps. I unlocked the door, stepped inside the hall, took a deep breath and announced as brightly as I could, ‘Jason? I’m home.’
No answer. Just the sound of machine-gun fire. My hand moved towards the knob on the lounge door but I drew it back and headed for the kitchen instead. Perhaps a little Dutch courage first.
Given that the flat smelled more of sweaty socks than lasagne, I was right in my prediction that he wouldn’t have prepared a meal. An overwhelming feeling of weariness took hold of my whole body as I slumped against the kitchen doorframe and surveyed the carnage. How did he do it? Useless, lazy, slobby… The damp washing festered in the machine. The A4 note I’d stuck to the front of the machine stating in large marker pen capitals, ‘Please hang us up’ lay on the worktop covered in crumbs and a coffee cup stain. Mugs languished in dull beige liquid in the washing up bowl. Banana peels, empty crisp packets and part-drunk glasses of squash obliterated the worktops.
I grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine from the fridge and took a large swig. A little shocked with myself for drinking from a full-size bottle of wine – what next, vodka out of a paper bag? – I reached into the cupboard for a glass, poured the rest and took a long glug. ‘Happy thirtieth birthday, Sarah. Shaping up to be just as crap as your twenty-ninth.’
Stomach rumbling, I opened the fridge again and began rummaging. What could I eat? I settled on a jar of crunchy peanut butter even though I don’t actually like the stuff. Spoon in hand, I heaved myself onto one of the uncomfortable stools at the narrow breakfast bar. Whoever designed the stupid things – undoubtedly a man – definitely didn’t have size 16–18 bottoms in mind.
I gazed around the kitchen. A pile of cards and a couple of small packages lay next to the breadbin. Feeling like there was nothing ‘happy’ about my birthday, I left them where they were.
Twenty minutes later, Jason walked into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his bits. ‘You’re home.’
‘Looks like it.’
I watched his eyes flick from me to the empty bottle of wine to the peanut butter. He didn’t pass comment anymore but I knew what he was thinking whenever he caught me mid-binge: No wonder you’re fat. You were slim when we met. You went to the gym. You cared about your appearance. Now look at the state of you.
‘You’ve still got your coat on,’ he said.
‘Have I?’ I hadn’t realised. The only things I was aware of were how hungry I still was, how I had peanut butter welded to the roof of my mouth, how the wine had gone straight to my head, and how I’d lost all feeling in my left buttock. My right one probably wasn’t far behind.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘Nearly ten.’ I watched him reach for the fridge door and wondered why I used to think he was out of my league. He was certainly tall and dark but was he handsome? Not really. It was true what they said about personality. That fit body, which I once hadn’t been able to keep my hands off, did nothing for me anymore. I was also blatantly aware that, after a year of comfort-eating, my body did nothing for him either… except perhaps repulse him. Working late for the past year to avoid facing up to the reality that Jason wasn’t The One after all meant I got home too late to cook, so I lived on a diet of chocolate, crisps, doughnuts and takeaways. This took its toll on my bank balance, my figure, my confidence and our relationship. We argued constantly at first. Then we started ignoring each other so I ate more to comfort myself and… well, it was a pretty vicious circle.
He closed the fridge door. ‘What’s for dinner?’ He flicked the top off a bottle of lager. It dropped to the floor where it lay on the tiles next to a tomato stalk and what looked like a blob of salad cream. He wouldn’t pick it up. He didn’t care. And, at that very moment, I realised that neither did I. I slid off the stool, reached for my post and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Jason.’
‘Do what?’
‘Live like this.’
‘I haven’t had time to clear up.’
‘I don’t mean the mess.’ I looked up from my post and fixed my eyes on his. ‘I mean our relationship. I want us to break up.’ The minute the words left my mouth, I felt liberated. I felt light as a feather. I felt… Oh crap, he was about to protest.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’ Stay strong. Don’t say it was just a suggestion. Don’t agree to try again. You can do this. You may as well end it and be alone because what you have right now is not a relationship. You’re like flatmates who don’t even like each other. ‘We’re not right for each other. This last year hasn’t exactly been relationship heaven, has it?’
Jason stared at me, completely poker-faced. I willed him to say something. Agree. Protest. Shout. Cheer. Just do something. He gulped the rest of his drink down and banged the empty bottle on the worktop. Then he flashed me a dazzling smile and said, ‘Well, thank God one of us finally had the guts to say it. Sarah, you’re a life-saver. Do you fancy getting last orders in down at The Griffin? Don’t look so shocked. Come on. I’ll buy you a birthday drink.’
So that was that. Just over three years together had ended. No tears, no recriminations; just two drinks, a packet of Scampi Fries and an amicable conversation about what idiots we’d been to let it drag on so long. We agreed to give notice on the flat and sell the car, and I’d get custody of the cats.
I couldn’t have felt more relieved that the ordeal was finally over although it had been so easy that I couldn’t stop kicking myself for not having the guts to end it sooner.
Jason kissed me goodnight – a gentle peck on the cheek – then hailed a cab to a friend’s house to avoid a night on the sofa and to give me some space to think.
Which is exactly what I did. In fact, I lay awake most of the night thinking. And worrying. About the important stuff like where I’d live, how quickly we’d sell the car and how we’d detangle our finances, as well as the little things that suddenly seemed important at 3 a.m. like who’d keep the tea-light holders we’d bought in Greenwich Market last summer and whether I’d have to pay Jason for his share of the cat scratching post.
Rain tapped gently on the window, then with more ferocity. The rhythmic drumming eventually sent me into a troubled sleep where I reverted to my thirteen-year-old self, shivering outside Uncle Alan’s flat.
‘Uncle Alan? It’s only me,’ I shouted through his letterbox.
Drops of icy rain from the overflowing guttering splashed onto my head and trickled down my neck. I sniffed as a large drop ran down my nose, then instantly recoiled from the letterbox, clutching my nose, as a stench akin to rotting meat hit me. Urgh! He must have left the chicken out of the fridge again. I held my breath as I lifted the flap again. ‘I’m going to let myself in.’
Tucking the carrier bag containing the Sunday papers under my arm, I fished in my jeans pocket for the spare key and unlocked the door, bracing myself against the overpowering stench. My stomach lurched and I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth, thankful that I’d skipped breakfast.
‘Uncle Alan?’ I called through my fingers. ‘Don’t say you can’t smell it this time.’
A few flies buzzed round my ears and I swatted at them with my hand. Placing my bag down in the hall, I slowly removed my waterproof and hung it on the peg next to the beige mac that he never left home without. My hands shook slightly as I eased off my wellies and called again, ‘Uncle Alan? Are you being a grump again today? I won’t help you with the crossword if you are.’
Heart thumping, I waited for his response. Nothing.
I swatted a few more flies before creeping down the hall towards the lounge at the back of the flat. ‘Uncle Alan?’
I paused just before the lounge doorway and listened again. Over the rain, the thunder, and the flies, I could hear the thump, thump, thump of my heart.
With my hand still over my nose and mouth, it took all my strength and courage to step from the hall into the lounge because the sinking feeling in my stomach told me that our regular Sunday routine was about to be broken forever.
The curtains were partially closed so the lounge was in darkness. I tentatively felt along the blown vinyl for the light switch. As my fingers reached the plastic casing, a flash of lightning lit the room like a floodlight. And that’s when I saw him. Lying there. Over the thunder I heard a scream. A girl’s scream – a terrified, pained sound.
I sat upright now, heart thumping, as a flash of lightning lit my bedroom. ‘Uncle Alan?’ I whispered. When the thunder crashed, I shivered and dived under the covers, clutching my teddy bear, Mr Pink, reminding myself that I was thirty years old, not thirteen. I needed to think positive thoughts. I needed to picture him alive instead. I needed to focus the routine we used to have. At 10 a.m. every Sunday, I’d announced my arrival through the letterbox, let myself in and headed for the lounge where I found him reclining in his favourite chair, dunking a plain digestive in milky tea. With a life controlled by diabetes, that plain digestive was his one weekly treat. A strawberry milkshake and a couple of chocolate digestives would be waiting for me. I admired his restraint at never succumbing to the chocolate ones himself. We’d have our drinks while I told him about my week at school and what I’d been doing in my after-school clubs, then I’d help him with the crossword. I say help but I certainly wasn’t the brains of the partnership; my reading saved him the faff of putting on his glasses and my writing spared the arthritic aches in his hands. His body may have let him down but his mind was sharp with a million facts and details.
Another flash of lightning lit the room and, with it, a vision of Uncle Alan flashed into my mind – the lightning revealing the swollen face, the marbled yellowy-grey skin, the soiled trousers – and I shuddered. I wished I hadn’t been the one who found him that day. But if I hadn’t, it would have been Mum, Dad or my brother, Ben and I wouldn’t have wished the gruesome discovery on any of them either. If only I could erase that image from my mind and picture him instead as the grump with a heart that I knew him to be, with a big frown but twinkly grey eyes that teared up each time I hugged him goodbye.
New Beginnings at Seaside Blooms Page 2