by Zoe May
‘Yes, you are overbearing. You just assume I’m up for doing all the things you want to do all the time, but maybe I don’t like spending my weekends being dragged around homeware stores or upcycling dressing tables. I might actually be really bloody bored and unhappy, you know!’ Paul barks.
Other diners look our way again. One woman rolls her eyes and shakes her head, before returning her attention to her calzone. This is mortifying. I look towards the exit. I really do want to just get up and leave, and yet I can’t. I need to get to the bottom of all of this. I feel so rattled. It feels like the man sitting opposite me isn’t the Paul I know, but some other incarnation. Even the slumped way he’s sitting is different. His eyes are usually soft and relaxed, sleepy almost, and yet tonight they’re cutting and belligerent. In a way, Paul’s choice of venue is perfect, because it’s almost like we’re on a first date all over again. I feel like I don’t even know the person sitting opposite me.
I take a sip of my drink and make a deliberate effort to steady myself.
‘Paul, if you hate going to IKEA so much and you’re so desperately bored and unhappy, how am I meant to know unless you tell me? Or, I don’t know, express it in SOME WAY!’
The woman who was rolling her eyes two minutes ago looks over again, giving us yet another disparaging look. I roll my eyes right back at her and she quickly diverts her gaze.
‘Okay, well I’m telling you now, alright?’ Paul points out. ‘I hate IKEA, okay? I HATE it! One trip every now and again is fine, but we’ve been at least once a month for two years! I hate assembling flat pack furniture. I hate upcycling furniture. I hate spending my Saturday mornings sanding stuff. I hate eating takeaways after a day spend doing odd jobs around the house. I hate being your unpaid handyman. There’s only so much a person should care about furnishings and you’ve pushed me. I reached my limit a long, long time ago. I’m bored. I am so bloody bored!’
I look down at my lap, wishing the ground would swallow me up. I know people are looking, but I don’t care anymore. My hurt has eclipsed the embarrassment. How can Paul act like I’m such a bad person and I’ve done such terrible things, when all I wanted was a nice cozy home for us. Okay, I might have taken my interest in home furnishings a bit too far sometimes. And okay, I might have started an Instagram account dedicated solely to the interior of our house, featuring before and after shots of different rooms and images of old junk furniture we’ve managed to do up, as well as wallpaper cuttings, color schemes, shots of pretty curtains and stuff like that. I get that it’s a bit middle aged and maybe quite uncool, but it’s not like I’ve cheated on Paul or lied to him or been emotionally abusive, and yet from the way he’s acting, you’d think I’d done something terrible, truly terrible.
I glance up. His hands are clenched into a ball on the table, his jaw is tight, his eyes burning. He looks like a ball of rage. You’d think I was the worst person on earth looking at him.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. You hate DIY, I get it. I’ll stop involving you in it. We can stop spending so much time and money on decorating,’ I relent. ‘But why have you quit your job? I get that you don’t like it, but what about….’ I trail off.
‘What about what, Rachel?’ Paul spits.
I don’t reply.
‘You were about to say, “What about the house?” weren’t you?’ Paul sneers.
I gulp. I look away. Okay maybe he’s right and I was about to say that, but I don’t want to lose the house. We’ve worked so hard on it.
‘Seriously,’ Paul scoffs, shaking his head.
The waiter comes over and places our meals down. In spite of everything, my margherita looks pretty good. It’s piping hot, the cheese bubbling, and yet, I don’t feel like eating anymore. The waiter offers us parmesan and we accept, half-heartedly. After grating it on our pizzas as we sit in tense silence, the waiter retreats.
Paul stares at his pizza but doesn’t touch it. He shifts in his seat.
‘I… I… I need a change,’ he says, wrenching his eyes up at me, his expression desperate, almost imploring.
‘Okay… What kind of change? What kind of job do you want?’ I ask, lifting a slice of my pizza and tentatively taking a bite.
It’s nothing like the delicious smoky woodfire pizza we had last time we were here, but it’s tasty nonetheless. It’s a decent margherita, and I need something tasty and familiar amid all this confusion.
‘I don’t… I…’ Paul fingers the crust of his pizza, peeling back a slice.
He looks at it, as though contemplating taking a bite, but drops the slice, sighing. He pushes his plate aside and buries his head in his hands instead.
‘I’m not getting another job,’ he tells me, eyeing me warily, before nervously looking away again.
‘Umm… Okay…’ I reply.
I’m trying to keep my composure, aware that other diners are still casting the odd glance in our direction, but this conversation is testing my patience.
‘Paul, what are you talking about? If you’re not getting another job, what are you going to do? Am I going to support you, because if that’s the case, don’t you think we should have spoken about this? We should have worked out a budget, decided how it’s going to work. You shouldn’t just spring stuff on me like this!’
I might have got a bit shrill at the end, but I think I mostly kept my cool.
‘A budget,’ Paul tuts. ‘That’s so you.’
I scoff, my reserve of sympathy and understanding running dry.
‘Okay. So you’re offended that I would have liked to have thought about a budget to support you with this major life decision? Fine,’ I sneer, rolling my eyes.
‘I don’t need your support,’ Paul states, regarding me coldly.
‘Okay, so how are you going to live then?’
‘I won’t need much,’ Paul insists, finally picking up his slice of pizza and taking a bite.
‘Right… I mean, we do live in London, Paul. It’s not exactly cheap,’ I point out.
Swallowing, Paul places his pizza slice back down. He takes a long deep breath.
‘I’m not going to be in London anymore,’ he says, meeting my gaze.
His expression is cold and tough, but a flush appears on his neck that he always gets when he’s anxious.
Now I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
‘So where are you going to live?’ I ask imploringly, my voice tremulous with frustration.
‘Sorry…’ Paul sighs, a note of empathy appearing in his frosty eyes.
He sits up straighter, almost formally, and fixes me with a steady gaze.
‘I’m sorry Rachel, but I need a break. I need to get away. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to India,’ Paul blurts out, with a sad, apologetic smile.
‘India?’ I echo.
‘Yes. I need to get away,’ Paul reiterates.
‘So, you’re going to India?’ I laugh.
Surely this is a wind-up? As if he’s actually going to India!
‘Yes,’ Paul confirms flatly, without a trace of humor.
‘What?’ I utter, a shiver of dread flowing through me, as it dawns on me that he might be serious. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I need to get away, like I said. And I’m going to go to India, where it’s cheap and I can support myself. I want to clear my head, take some time out,’ Paul tells me.
‘But India? It’s so far…’ I stammer, unable to take it in. ‘What are you going to do there? Travel around like a hippy? You’re having a mid-life crisis,’ I conclude.
Paul shrugs. ‘Maybe I am, but it is what it is.’
‘Oh right, okay. It is what it is, is it?’ I parrot back at him.
I’m aware that I probably sound a bit erratic now, but I don’t care anymore. My boyfriend of six years has randomly decided to jet off to the opposite side of the world. How am I meant to feel if not a bit erratic?
‘I can’t believe this,’ I balk. ‘What are you going to do? Find yourself?!’
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‘Stop taking the piss, Rachel,’ Paul snaps. ‘Maybe I am going to find myself. What’s wrong with that?’
‘You’re thirty years old!’ I snap. ‘You’re not an 18-year-old on a gap year. Haven’t you found yourself already? I mean, who have you been for the past thirty years if you haven’t?’
‘I don’t know…’ Paul admits in an ominously quiet voice, his eyes strained, pricking with tears.
My anger dissipates slightly as I glimpse the sadness in his eyes. Paul rarely gets emotional. Maybe that’s why I haven’t noticed how unhappy he is. He has this stoic northern mentality that means he’s rarely moved by much, seeing emotional outpourings as self-indulgent or weak. Maybe he has been unhappy and felt the need to just carry on like nothing was happening, locking down how he really felt. Perhaps I should have checked in with him more. We probably should have discussed our priorities around DIY and holidays. I shouldn’t have automatically assumed we were on the same page. Maybe I have pushed him too hard.
‘Okay fine, we’ll go to India, have a proper break. We’ll sort this out,’ I insist, smiling encouragingly.
So tonight hasn’t gone exactly as I wanted it to and I’m definitely no closer to getting engaged, but love is about sticking by someone during the good times and the bad. It’s about doubling down when things get tough. Going to India isn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list, but if that’s what it takes for Paul to feel better again, then so be it.
‘No, Rachel. This is a holiday for us, it’s a holiday from us. This is something I want to do alone. I don’t want to “sort this out”,’ Paul insists exasperatedly, doing air quotes. ‘I want to leave.’
‘Leave?’ I croak, my head spinning.
‘Yes, I’m leaving the country, and I’m leaving you,’ Paul states, sadly but firmly, his expression chillingly serious.
He’s leaving me. I blink, unable to quite take it in.
‘But… but… what about the ring?’ I ask, picturing him lingering by the jewelers near my work, checking out engagement rings.
‘The ring?’ Paul frowns. ‘What ring?’
‘I thought…’ I feel my cheeks start to flush. ‘I thought you were buying an engagement ring?’ I ask.
‘Oh God.’ Paul groans, lowering his head into his hands, looking as mortified as I feel.
‘What is it?’ I utter.
‘I wasn’t buying a ring,’ Paul tells me, looking sheepish. ‘I was selling one.’
‘What?’
‘I sold my mum’s engagement ring to fund my trip,’ he tells me.
His words hang in the air between us. My dreams cave in. I’m a fool. Ever since I saw Paul outside the jewelers, I’ve had a spring in my step. I’ve felt excited to be moving on to the next phase of my life. I’ve been able to ‘like’ pictures of friends’ weddings on Facebook without feeling that increasingly familiar twinge of sadness that it’s not me walking down the aisle. I’ve felt hopeful for the first time in ages. I even bought the stupidly expensive dress I’m wearing because I was so convinced Paul was going to pop the question and instead, he’s ending things. He’s ending our entire six-year relationship. He’s pawned a family heirloom that his mum wanted him to propose with in order to jet across the world. Alone.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel,’ Paul says, looking guilty.
‘It’s okay,’ I utter. ‘It’s fine. I understand. Enjoy India.’
I stand up suddenly, causing my chair to screech back across the floor. I grab my coat and my bag and turn to leave, my pizza uneaten on the table.
‘Rachel, don’t…’ Paul protests, although his tone is half-hearted and the shamefaced look in his eyes tells me he wasn’t exactly expecting this to go swimmingly.
I blink back tears as I hurry away.
Chapter Three
It’s fine. I’m absolutely fine. So my boyfriend’s going to India to find himself. It’s cool. So, he didn’t come home last night. No big deal. So I got home and opened his side of the wardrobe and found that he’s removed all his clothes. No problem. He needs something to wear while he’s over there, right?
I’m fine, I tell myself for the four hundredth time this morning as I stand in the rattling Tube carriage on my way to work. I’m exhausted from a night of tossing and turning and trying to convince myself this is all just a bad dream, and yet I’m simultaneously wired from having mainlined practically two litres of coffee when I got up. I’m fine, I tell myself again as a Transport for London announcement momentarily pierces my mantra, to inform me that we’re at Chancery Lane station. What?
Damn. I barge through the throng of passengers, dodging sweaty armpits and morning breath and papercuts from people holding copies of Metro, before bursting free onto the platform. Great, just great. I was so lost in my own self-pitying, yet defiantly un-self-pitying thoughts, that I completely lost track of where the hell I was and missed my stop. I’ve never missed my stop, zoning out like that. Not in the eight years I’ve worked for Pearson & Co.
‘Oh no,’ I grumble, looking down at my watch.
I’m meant to be at work in five minutes and now I have to backtrack two stops. I walk as fast as I can through the crowd of commuters, trying to get to the opposite side of the platform.
‘I was reading that,’ a man in his sixties or seventies tuts as I plough past him so forcefully that I accidentally cause him to drop his copy of The Guardian onto the ground.
‘Sorry,’ I throw over my shoulder as I dash further along the platform.
The man shakes his head at me, before gingerly bending down to pick up his paper. I feel like a total pariah - the worst woman in London. Not only does my boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend as I should probably start referring to him, want to get away from me so badly that he’s pawned his mother’s engagement ring in order to jet halfway across the world, but I’ve just knocked a newspaper out of an old man’s hands. I’m about to turn around and go back to help him, and properly apologize, but it’s too late. The man is stooping down to grasp his paper from the ground, but just as he’s about to reach for it, a train pulls into the platform and half a dozen commuters burst off, treading all over the pages.
I gasp, feeling terrible. The man shakes his head disappointedly and hobbles onto the train, abandoning his trampled paper. I try to push the shameful episode out of my mind and dash across the station to the opposite platform, where I stand, staring at the arrivals display, which informs me that the next train will be arriving in ten minutes. Ten minutes! Honestly! I tap my stilettoed toe impatiently against the ground, as if doing so might somehow make the train arrive faster.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the train decides to make an appearance and I hurry into the carriage, even though I’m fully aware that no matter how quickly I get onto the train, I’m still going to be late for work. Deep down, I know it doesn’t really matter. I’m a partner at my firm after all, and in all the years I’ve worked there, I’ve always been on time. It’s just frustrating that on the one day that I want to cling to the illusion that I might have just an iota of control over my falling-apart life, I’m going to be late, feeling as scatty and disorganized on the outside as I do inside.
I grab the overhead rail and try to push the negativity out of my mind and resume my pathetically weak mantra of telling myself I’m fine over and over again as the train chugs along.
By the time it arrives at my stop, I’m already fifteen minutes late for work and when I eventually get to the office, pounding the busy street in my heels, I’m a whopping nineteen minutes late. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
I swipe my pass against the sensor by the door and walk through reception.
One of the temps working at the reception desk looks over from her monitor and smiles sweetly.
‘Morning,’ she says brightly.
‘Morning,’ I chirp back, feeling a tiny bit more human.
The airy, light-filled, marble-floored reception area at work is a soothing slice of tranquility in the center of the chaotic ci
ty, and the receptionist probably doesn’t know how much her friendly smile means to me on a morning like this.
I’m just about to head through the door leading to the corridor where my office is tucked away, when the CEO of the company pulls it wide open, stopping me in my tracks.
Albert Pearson, the founder of Pearson & Co, is standing before me, taking me completely by surprise. There are twenty-five Pearson & Co branches across the country and Mr Pearson is the head honcho. I had no idea he was coming into the office today. Occasionally, he visits but I’m always well aware of it. Everyone is. We get so tense in the days and weeks leading up to a visit from him. The office is always impeccably clean. Everyone is always keen to appear effortlessly on top of their workloads. We all wear our neatest, most expensive suits and do our best to look like model employees. Of course, we muddle along pretty well at the best of times, but it’s important to everyone that we give the CEO the best possible impression. Mr Pearson is quite intimidating after all.
He’s an absolute force to be reckoned with, having created a network of leading law firms from nothing. He’s from a single parent family in east London and his mum worked at the local launderette, yet through hard work and determination, he managed to rise from his humble beginnings to become a multi-millionaire powerhouse. Yet he’s stayed true to his roots and firmly believes in supporting junior staff in getting ahead and having a workforce that’s diverse and inclusive. Our firm probably has the highest number of state school educated lawyers than any other in the capital. As much as Mr Pearson intimidates me, I also have a lot of respect for him. He has better values than my boss, Nigel, who’s your stereotypical money-hungry city lawyer, but Mr Pearson still unnerves me a lot more.