‘Thanks, mate,’ he laughs, pulling Perfect Lexie into him and kissing the top of her head protectively. ‘But on a serious note, what you guys don’t know is that once all our boxes had found their way inside last weekend – and once our families had decided they’d had enough of us working them too hard and begged to go home – I asked Lexie to be my wife.’
I’m unaware of anyone else’s reactions as I’m too busy trying to control my own.
My face is stuck in a singular smiling expression – unable to take my eyes off the newly engaged couple.
My stomach tightens as I wait to hear more – because there is more, he couldn’t possibly just leave it there, could he.
Those knowing instincts are confirmed when Dan waves his hands above his head to shush the babble of excitement from their thrilled loved ones and the squeals of exultation from Alice, Phoebe and Hannah.
‘I’m glad you’re all happy,’ he laughs, licking his lips before continuing. ‘From the moment I met Lexie I knew unquestionably that she was the girl of my dreams – the girl I hadn’t been aware I was looking for, because I wasn’t sure such a mythical human existed. Funny, caring, kind, clever … ditzy – I knew I’d do all I could to make her the happiest girl alive.’
Including dumping me and breaking my heart, I think.
Blink back that emotion.
Blink back those tears.
You will not do this.
Not here.
Not in front of your mates.
Not in front of that fucker.
‘… and now I hope I’m going to be able to make her the happiest wife alive,’ he scoffs.
‘You would not believe how hard it’s been keeping this a secret,’ squeals Perfect Lexie to much laughter, as her arms flap by her sides with excitement.
‘I don’t know how she’s done it,’ muses Dan, shaking his head in mock astonishment before pulling out a blingful ring from his pocket and placing it on Lexie’s wedding finger.
Their audience erupt once more, the noise startling me and making my head cloudy.
Can this really be happening?
Why am I here?
‘So, if you’d all raise a glass and join me in saluting my wonderful wife to be, my dream girl – Alexa Hansford. Soon to be Mrs Tipper.’
‘Soon to be Mrs Tipper,’ choruses the room.
With my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands to control my emotions, I raise my glass along with everyone else, although I can’t quite trust myself to open my mouth and join in with the toast. Instead, I keep my jaw clenched and smile – my eyebrows raised in what I hope looks like happy surprise, rather than something I’m doing to keep control of my devilish tear ducts and my face that wants to screw up in disgust.
It’s then that I feel Carly’s hand rest on my knee, as the rest of our friends giddily get up from their sitting positions and head to congratulate the newly engaged couple.
‘You okay?’ she whispers, leaning in to me discreetly.
Before I can answer, my eyes lock with Perfect Lexie’s friend Alice’s, who’s looking at me rather untrustingly, as though she’s trying to suss out my reaction.
Grabbing hold of Carly’s hand, I lift my face up into a smile. I even manage a laugh – although it’s more of the hysterical sort than of the happy variety.
I stand up, with my hand still in Carly’s, and step towards the ecstatic crowd that’s gathered around the newly engaged couple.
‘Congratulations, guys,’ I manage, once I’m stood in front of Dan and his Perfect Lexie.
‘Cheers, Sar,’ Dan beams, pulling me in for another Issey-Miyake-fuelled embrace that near enough chokes the life out of me. In fact, in that moment I wish it was more than just a metaphorical choke – I wish the aftershave would morph into a pair of hands that could throttle me away from this happy scene that I should most certainly not be a part of.
‘I’m so pleased for you guys,’ I muster with a cough, escaping his hold and turning to face the thrilled expression on Perfect Lexie’s face.
‘That means so much,’ she replies, her hug squeezing me just a little too tightly.
4
I have no idea how I made it through the rest of the night, but I knew that I couldn’t leave and that I couldn’t do anything that would highlight my very existence in any way. I’d never live a dramatic scene down, and staying there whilst blending into the background was my only option.
On reflection, it makes complete sense why exes can’t be friends once one of them has shat all over the other’s feelings and left them in a brown muddy puddle of despair.
I can’t help but wonder why on earth I’ve made everyone else feel comfortable with our situation. Why didn’t I make things more awkward and shout from the rooftops about how unfair the whole betrayal was back when he first dumped me? My thoughts and feelings are completely irrelevant now. Time has moved on – the world is a different place to what it was back then. No one cares what the ex thinks when they assume she’s meant it every time she’s insisted she was perfectly fine with the awkward scenario of her ex remaining in her life – not when she actively goes out of her way to include said new couple in everything she’s arranged for the group since their romantic collaboration – including her intimate birthday celebrations or cosy weekend trips away.
As I lie in bed that night a few thoughts occur to me. One, that I wasted seven years of my life running around after such a heartless twat. Two, that I then wasted the subsequent two years trying to make life easier amongst our friendship group for such a heartless twat. And three, that I’m still wasting my energy and tears on such a heartless twat. I mean … WTF?!
If I were to break my feelings down I’d be able to pinpoint the precise second of the evening that caused me to feel so monumentally crap and discarded – and that would be the declaration of Perfect Lexie being the girl of Dan’s dreams. The one he’d always dreamt of meeting. His mythical human.
I mean, seriously?
Who even uses words like that?!
Plus, if that were the case, then what on earth was he doing with me before she came along? Was I just cheaper than hiring a maid or organizing a laundry service? Was I just convenient?
In answer to my earlier thoughts when the Facebook invite pinged into my life, he clearly didn’t think anything of me and my feelings.
I meant nothing to him.
To clarify, it’s not like I’d want Dan to think of my feelings when proposing to Perfect Lexie – God knows I’m aware I’d be the last thing on his mind in that moment (unless to briefly consider how lucky he was not to have settled with me before meeting her) – but I’d just like him to have had a little bit more sensitivity when dishing out the wonderful news. Was that really too much to ask?
I should’ve hated Dan years ago for his malevolence towards me. Actually, I did. I hated him then for discarding me so easily, for making my happy life so miserable and for bringing that perfect being into our lives to make me feel so inadequate every time there was a social gathering.
I hated him for not loving me back in the way that I loved him.
And I still hate him for all of that.
But now, I mostly hate him for making me feel so discontented.
And then there’s the self-hatred he’s awakened. I hate myself for what I’ve allowed that break-up to turn me into – a grinning psycho, constantly bashing away my true feelings so that I don’t make others feel uncomfortable. Regardless of how much pain that inflicts on myself.
What a twat.
Him.
Not me.
Oh, okay.
Fair point.
Me too.
I should’ve packed up and gone travelling to Australia two years ago. My little brother Max was out there when we initially broke up – I should’ve joined him. I could’ve shacked up with some tanned surfer dude and waved goodbye to pasty Dan and Perfect Lexie. What a missed opportunity.
It takes hours of sobbing into my pillow for me
to realize the real root of my problem. Ultimately, it’s not the engagement, or that I couldn’t compete with Perfect Lexie’s ‘mythical’ ways, or the fact that Dan doesn’t want me – that’s now been true for years and I can honestly say I have no feelings of hankering love towards him at all. His behaviour towards me has shown what a cock he is, so why on earth would I want him back? No, none of those things are what’s driving me into a gut-wrenching spiral of lugubrious hell. Rather, it’s the fact that NO ONE wants me.
Not a single soul.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve not regrown my virginity (it’s not that bad), there have been a few drunken flings since Dan, especially in the early days when I was grateful for any attention from the opposite sex, but nothing more than that. No romantic dates, no heart-lifting declarations, no flutters of the heart to cause me to smile myself to sleep.
Nothing.
Not that I’m in any denial of it being anything other than my own doing. I know that it’s my fault. I’ve erected barriers to stop anyone getting close and able to make me feel so out of control and vulnerable again. But now I can’t help but feel ridiculous for doing that. I’ve wasted years of potential happiness – blocking anyone who’s so much as sniffed around me wanting more than I was willing to give and immersed myself in trying to make my friends think I was some sort of power woman who could forgive and forget unequivocally.
But I’m lonely.
I wish I had someone.
Not to validate my existence in some anti-feminist way, but just someone to call when I want to talk about nothing, someone to stay inside and snuggle with when it’s raining outside.
Someone to make me feel special.
Like I’m the girl they’ve been dreaming of – instead of the one they were putting up with until real perfection came along.
5
‘If you could have one superpower, what would it be?’ he asks, leaning in to me – the feeling of his warm arm against mine causing a tingling sensation to run across my limb, while simultaneously making my breath catch in my throat.
It’s night time and dark outside.
We’re sat top front of a double-decker bus, surrounded by a bunch of grannies knitting miniature dog outfits, whilst listening to Michael Bublé singing ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls. It’s an obscure version of the 90s pop classic, but somehow Michael makes it work as he sits next to each old dear, feeding them cookies while they bash their needles in time to the music.
I’ve no idea where we’re going or where we’ve been. Although, judging from the state of my outfit (a pink tight-fitting mini dress that echoes something I’d have worn in my teens – when I didn’t have to worry about cellulite) and the fact that I have my shoes perched on my lap (they’re the Manolo Blahniks I begged my mum and dad for three years ago but have hardly worn because I can’t actually walk in them – I’m pretty chuffed with myself that they’re getting some wear) I’d say we’ve possibly been out dancing. The atmosphere is one that comes with the end of a night – chilled, sleepy and comfortable.
‘Hmmm …’ I ponder, playing with the buckle of my useless suede footwear. ‘The ability to scan people’s hearts to see whether they’re good or not.’
‘Wow,’ he nods, laughing the air out of his lungs as he looks straight ahead. ‘I don’t think that’s in any of the comics I’ve read. Usually people just go for the flying thing or being able to see through clothes. They’re clearly perverts.’
‘What would you choose?’
‘Seeing through clothes.’
‘Pervert.’
We laugh in unison and his arm rests against mine once more.
‘I prefer your superpower … although what would you do with all the bad-hearted folk?’ he asks seriously, his hazelnut eyes turning to look at me.
I flounder for a moment at the empathetic look in his eyes.
‘I’d lock them all up together and let them all break each others’ hearts as much as they liked.’
‘Leave us good-hearted lot to fall in love with no fear of being mistreated?’
‘Something like that,’ I mumble, clutching on to my shoes, realizing I’ve said too much – that I probably sound like some bunny-boiler who’s too wounded to move on from her ex.
‘I don’t know how anyone could ever break your heart.’
I screw up my face and look at him, ‘It seems pretty easy for some.’
‘Really?’ he asks, his hand taking mine. ‘Well, I know I never would. I’d want to keep it as safe and treasured as my own …’
And with that, Brett disappears along with the bus, grannies and Michael Bublé.
I’m on a beach, on my own, with the warmth of the sun on my back and the sound of waves crashing against each other in the distance.
I see nothing but my feet in the white sand and the shallow foamy water washing over them, repeatedly.
Nothing else exists outside this constant movement.
I’m transfixed.
I’m calm.
I’m happy.
I wake before my alarm and lie there in my crimson-coloured sheets, taking in the new day that’s invading my room. I didn’t even bother to draw my curtains last night. Instead I chose to sit at my window and howl at the moon like I was in some sort of film – actually, it wasn’t as beautifully held together as some romcom featuring Reese Witherspoon. It was more like the ugly-girl-crying horror that comes at the end of EastEnders when someone is wailing open-mouthed in the rain before the drums come bashing in – daa-daa-daa-daa-da-da-da-da.
What a loser.
My face feels delicate, puffy and raw from the emotional meltdown. Yet, instead of the lost, vulnerable feeling I’ve felt in the past after such a depressing outburst – I feel peaceful.
Thankful, even.
Thankful for the ability of my dreams to pick me up from moments of utter shite and propel me somewhere else – somewhere that grannies get serenaded by Michael Bublé and a ridiculously hot, caring and kind man declares that he’ll take good care of my heart and never let it get trampled over again. I liked the utopia I dreamt up. And then there’s the beach, the waves, the calm – washing away the trauma from the previous night. Erasing the pain.
In my calmer, more accepting state (although God knows how much longer it’ll stick with me), part of me feels relieved.
I’ve always known that Dan and Perfect Lexie were destined for their ‘happily ever after’, so on some level it’s nice to have that over with. I was only ever his girlfriend, but Perfect Lexie? Well, she’s his future wife. What we had clearly pales into insignificance and should never be thought or spoken of ever again. Although everyone else has been making a flipping good job of that (with my help), anyway. So it shouldn’t make too much of a difference to how we all live our lives from here on in.
I close my eyes and let out a sigh – expelling the leftover tension that’s loitering above my serene state and threatening a wobble of emotion. I said I wasn’t sure how long it would last, although the breathing helps almost instantly.
I really should take up yoga, I think to myself, I’d be great at the whole breathing out negativity whilst in funny positions thing – I’ve got a lot of negativity to expel. Maybe I’ll book myself into one of those retreats and get away. Oh to get away … wouldn’t that be lovely!
‘Sar?’ Carly calls, knocking on my door and interrupting my plans for a whole new me.
‘Mmm … ?’ I answer with another sigh.
‘Can I come in?’ she asks, already opening the door.
She staggers in sleepily, still in her baggy PJs, and climbs into the empty side of my bed. Funny that. Even though I’ve been single for longer than I care to remember the left side of my bed is always un-slept-in and crease free … what a waste of my gorgeous bed’s dream-inducing capabilities and springy mattress – I’m surprised it doesn’t dip on one side like a well-used chair you’d find in an old person’s home. Although, on the plus side, sleeping in this way does make it easier to
remake the bed each morning when all I have to do is shake and straighten the sheets on one side.
Yet another silver lining to single life.
Carly pulls the pillow down and cuddles it, snuggling into it sleepily.
‘You all right?’ she asks simply. Not asking much but asking everything in those two words. Subtly giving me the choice to share if I want to.
I close my eyes and nod back. I even manage a smile. Yet, unlike the ones I might’ve given before – this one I mean. It’s not forced or put on for her benefit. It’s a natural smile – one that grows simply from having someone care about you. I’m lucky to have such amazingly kind and thoughtful friends – who still look out for me, even though I’ve told them a million times before that I’m fine. They’re not as fooled as I had hoped. But I like that.
‘Do you remember Brett Last?’ I ask, turning and switching off the alarm on my phone now that we’re awake.
‘Who?’
It usually takes Carly’s brain a whole hour to warm up before she’s of any use to anyone so it’s silly of me to ask when she’s still half asleep.
‘He was someone’s friend at uni, maybe someone from our halls? Came out with us a few times.’
‘Was he the dude that got thrown out of The Basement for throwing up over some girl?’ she recalls with a disgusted look on her face.
‘No … I’m pretty sure that was in the third year and Josh’s friend James.’
‘Oh. Oh yeah. He was gross.’
‘This guy had blond messy hair, brown eyes … probably around six foot five? Maybe taller?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘You must remember,’ I say, shaking my hands at the ceiling and asking the universe what my friend took on her travelling hiatus that’s dented her memory so badly. ‘Brett. Last.’
Carly giggles and shakes her head. ‘Honestly, I haven’t a clue. I can’t even remember what I had for dinner last night, so how could I possibly remember that?’
‘I made us shepherd’s pie,’ I moan, pulling the pillow from under her and bashing her over the head with it. ‘I slaved away making that – nice to know you enjoyed it.’