‘Writing my to-do list?’
‘To do what?’
‘Stuff?’
‘Right.’
I looked at my friends once more then went back to my list. ‘It makes me feel better, OK?’
‘As long as it includes “get wasted” and “do a rebound guy”, I’m fine with it,’ Em said after a moment. ‘And put “give Emelie all of Simon’s Peep Show DVDs” on there as well.’
‘You can have the DVDs,’ I promised. ‘But these are actually things that need doing, not a fantasy break-up list.’
‘You’re already pretty far along the break-up list,’ Matthew commented through a mouthful of chips. ‘The actual deed is done, someone’s punched your ex in the face and you’ve even had the break-up sex. I usually take ages to embarrass myself with that one.’
‘Me too,’ Em nodded. ‘Break-up sex is the thing that usually drags this out. You’re doing very well. Everything ticked off already.’
‘Just need to crack on with the being single to-do list then.’ I scratched at the label on the wine bottle, trying not to pout. ‘Stop shaving your legs, get hammered, die alone with cats.’
‘Oh, Rachel,’ Em’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s it. We’ll write you a to-do list. A single girl’s to-do list.’
I tore off a big long strip of label.
‘What?’
Em’s face was lit up like Blackpool. ‘We’ll write you a list. Everything you need to do as a single girl. Everything you should have done by now but haven’t because you’ve been hanging around with that twat.’
‘It’s not a bad idea actually,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m assuming I’m allowed to contribute despite not actually being a single girl?’
‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘If I thought you were going to say sniff a bunch of poppers, go out dancing all night and then make out with a hot stranger in a public bathroom, I’d let you have more of a say in this, but you won’t because you’re a rubbish gay.’
‘We don’t make out, dear, we’re in England.’ Matthew topped up her wine while giving her the glaring of a lifetime. ‘And just because I’m not falling out of a sauna in Vauxhall at six a.m. every morning having blown three closeted Tory MPs doesn’t mean I don’t have valuable insight into how to be successfully single.’
‘If it’ll stop you two from squabbling like children, I’m in,’ I relented. ‘Come on, then, what’s going on this list? Besides cry myself to sleep on Valentine’s Day and shag a stranger in the toilets at Inferno’s?’
‘Oh, I think we can do a lot better than that,’ Em promised. ‘Much, much better.’
CHAPTER FIVE
After six bags of crisps, three bottles of wine and two hours of heated debate, we were both incredibly drunk and also getting somewhere with The List. And there wasn’t a trip to the post office to be seen.
‘’K, ’K, ’K, let’s go through it one last time.’ Matthew held up the last napkin on the table that wasn’t already covered in discarded drafts of my to-do list. The definitive top ten things I needed to achieve before I could fully declare myself single. I was still unclear as to why Emelie thought learning to juggle would make me a more successful singleton, but still, they were trying. Matthew cleared his throat and – with some ceremony – began. ‘Number one, makeover.’
‘Not a makeover,’ Emelie interrupted. ‘It’s like, a complete transformation. We’re changing your hair, your clothes, your make-up; we’re redecorating your flat. Everything.’
‘I do need a haircut,’ I admitted. And, more importantly, the living room totally needed painting. If I just kept my mouth shut, there was a good chance I was getting two free painter’s mates out of this list. Result. ‘What’s next?’
‘Exercise regime,’ declared Em to a chorus of groans, taking the pen from Matthew and writing it down. I’d been trying to get this one off the table since two bottles of wine ago. ‘No arguing. It’s important; you’re skinny and shit now but you do not get off your ass unless someone makes you and one day you’re going to wake up fat. Trust me, you’ll feel amazing.’
‘Sitting on the sofa after a long day at work or dragging my arse down to a horrible sweaty box filled with horrible sweaty people who judge me for not being able to do the treadmill for more than ten minutes without falling over and then charge me sixty quid a month for the pleasure?’ It was an excuse I’d used on myself for many years. Unfortunately, it looked as though I was much easier to convince than Emelie.
‘Then no gym but, dude, this is staying on the list.’ She threw her hands out in front of her. ‘No arguing. That’s the rule. You can’t argue with the list.’
‘Can’t argue with the list,’ Matthew concurred. ‘Which brings us to point number three. Do something extreme.’
‘I think I’d just be happier …’ Pause to hiccup. ‘… if all the points of the list were more specific. That one’s open to a lot of interpretation. And what I consider too extreme might be totally normal to him.’ I pointed at Matthew with my glass. Why did my arm seem so heavy all of a sudden?
‘Let’s not go there,’ he shook his head. ‘Let’s be honest, I have done some truly terrible things with some truly terrible people.’
‘It means bungee jump or skydive or something.’ Em tried to pull the subject back. ‘Not move to Australia or shave your head.’
Bungee jumping. Really? I was beginning to doubt the legitimacy of the list.
‘I’m supposed to get over a lifelong fear of heights and do a bungee jump within two weeks?’ I dropped my head onto the table. Ew. Sticky. ‘This is hard.’
‘It’s not meant to be easy.’ Matthew pulled my head up by my ponytail. ‘It’s meant to teach you what you’re capable of.’
‘I thought it was meant to be fun?’
‘It will be fun,’ they chorused.
Me plus heights did not equal fun. It equalled the need for adult nappies and therapy. I couldn’t even go on the rides at Alton Towers without being drunk first. Which, incidentally, it turns out they frown upon. Nothing like throwing up on Oblivion to find out you’re not allowed to bring alcohol into an amusement park.
‘And you’ll be a billion times stronger for it afterwards,’ Em said. ‘Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted to get it all done by your dad’s wedding, not us.’
My dad’s fourth wedding was coming up in two weeks and I needed a date. There was no way I was going on my own so that my evil Aunt Beverley could ask me where my boyfriend was then go on to tell me all about my cousin’s three fabulous children. I was certain she was the one who had told my grandmother on her deathbed that I was a lesbian. But I’d applied that timeframe on the second draft of the list when it still included ‘wear high heels every day for a month’ and ‘learn to cook’, not when it involved me risking my life for my friends’ amusement. Maybe it would be easier just to rent a male prostitute for the wedding. Maybe we’d fall in love. Maybe it would be a wonderful story to tell our children. Maybe I’d catch something dreadful from him and I’d never be able to actually have children. Hmm. Might just stick with the list.
‘Whatever, number four?’
‘That’s a perfect one actually,’ Emelie said. ‘Find a date for your dad’s wedding. Let’s get you right back out there.’
I had sort of been planning on asking Photographer Dan to do the deed but I let her add it to the list. It had taken an entire packet of Kettle Chips to bargain her down from anonymous sex with a stranger to a date with no required physical contact, so I was just going to shut up. It would still count if it was Dan, wouldn’t it? It would still technically be a date to the wedding.
‘Number five. Do something he wouldn’t approve of,’ Em declared. ‘And you can’t double up on activities so the bungee jump can’t count as something he wouldn’t approve of. It has to be something totally different.’
‘I’m doubling the bungee jump up with number five, scare myself to death.’ I pouted for a moment. Simon wasn’t a big rules and restrictions
kind of a boyfriend. If anything, he was too lazy to try to stop me doing anything, and there wasn’t anything I’d ever wanted to do so badly that I’d have tested that. Except …
‘I want to get a tattoo,’ I took the napkin and added it to the list. ‘Simon hated tattoos. I worked with this model once and she had this gorgeous cherry blossom thing up her back and ever since then I’d always wanted one but I never got one in case he didn’t like it.’
‘See? This is such a good idea.’ Matthew raised his glass with more success than Emelie before writing ‘tattoo’ on the napkin. ‘Congratulations, you’re getting a tattoo.
‘Six,’ he shouted. We were so embarrassingly drunk for the middle of the afternoon. Sod it: I’d had a very bad day. ‘Buy yourself something obscenely expensive and selfish.’
‘Like a Vespa scooter you drive once?’ I asked as innocently as possible. My hair felt heavy. I needed to stop drinking.
‘Exactly like a Vespa scooter you drive once. I don’t feel guilty. Think about all the money you’re saving in birthday and Christmas presents. And trips to see his shitty family. Wedding presents for his shitty friends. You’re completely entitled to buy something that benefits no one but you in the aftermath of a break-up.’
‘Can I buy myself something too?’ Em asked.
‘No,’ Matthew replied. ‘You’re already utterly selfish.’
‘Moving on,’ I said quickly. ‘What else?’
‘I still think you need to write the letter.’ Em was too drunk to care about Matthew’s insults at this point. Thank god. ‘I know we took it off the last draft but I think it’s a good idea. It’s closure.’
‘Fine,’ I waved my hands in defeat. ‘I’ll write the bloody letter.’ I really didn’t want to do this one. Why spend a perfectly good evening stirring up exactly what the rest of the list was trying to suppress? I was supposed to be getting over Simon, not sobbing into a piece of Basildon Bond over how he didn’t love me any more. But if it was on the list, it was happening. ‘But I get to pick the next one. I want to travel.’
‘You can have that.’ Em stood up suddenly and not at all steadily. ‘I need a wee.’
‘That’s nice,’ Matthew took back the pen as she climbed out from her spot at the back of the table with all the grace of a drunken giraffe and wandered off across to the bar. ‘You can have travel but you have to go somewhere you’ve never been before. Where do you want to go?’
‘Can we have this as one of the slightly vague ones?’ Names upon names of places tumbled through my mind. There were so many places. ‘I only have two weeks after all. And I’m guessing Milton Keynes won’t count.’
‘You’ve got to use your passport,’ he replied. ‘That’s the only stipulation. Got to get the stamp in your passport.’
Throwing myself out of a plane to my inevitable squishy death was one thing but travelling somewhere that required a passport inside two weeks? That was ridiculous. And sort of exciting …’ How am I supposed to manage that?’ I challenged, hoping he had a viable suggestion that didn’t involve us waking up drunk on a ferry to Norway.
‘I don’t know, can’t you get a job abroad or something?’ he shrugged. ‘Travelling isn’t hard.’
The truth was, I’d been passing up international jobs for so long that my long-suffering and foul-mouthed agent, Veronica, had stopped putting me forward for them. It wasn’t as if there was a lack of work or lack of demand for my talents (no point being modest, I was drunk), but I hated to be away from home when Simon was alone. Which seemed really quite stupid now. Maybe I could put in a call. Couldn’t hurt.
‘I thought of one while I was in the lav,’ Em yelled with delight, and threw herself across Matthew to get to her seat. ‘You need to buy a vibrator.’
Despite how red my cheeks already were from All The Booze, I felt myself colour up from head to toe. How did she know I didn’t have one already?
‘How do you know she doesn’t have one already?’ Matthew asked. Part of me was delighted that he’d read my mind, but part of me was just sort of shocked he hadn’t passed out with shame. He must be more drunk than I could tell.
‘Trust me,’ Em shook her head. ‘She doesn’t. You don’t, right?’
‘It’s not going on the list,’ I said. ‘It’s not. Going. On. The list.’
‘Then you pick one,’ she slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m out of ideas. Or drunk. Or drunk and out of ideas.’
I knew she was still sulking about not getting rebound shag on there, but there was no way I was writing that down. I wanted to show willing but I didn’t want to have to drop my knickers for some random. In fact, I was fairly certain that there was going to be no knicker-dropping for some time. God, this was getting depressing. Maybe I should reassess my need for a vibrator.
‘How about contact my first crush?’ I suggested. ‘That might be a fun one. There was this boy I was totally in love with when I was fifteen and then he moved away. That would be a learning experience, wouldn’t it?’
Em was still pouting but Matthew looked interested. ‘I like it,’ he declared after a couple of sips of wine. ‘Sort of like coming full circle. Show that there was life before knob-face and that there will be life after.’
‘I think it’s lame,’ Emelie said, but it was too late. It was on the list.
‘So,’ Matthew was counting on his fingers. ‘We have makeover, exercise, bungee jump – or similar, tattoo, date for the wedding, buy something obscene that isn’t a vibrator, write a letter to knob-face—’
‘Do we have to keep calling him that?’
‘Yes,’ they said simultaneously.
‘Buy something, travel somewhere you’ve never been before, hunt down your first crush—’
‘And give him one.’
I spat a mouthful of wine across the table.
‘Emelie, you’re not helping.’ Matthew looked appalled. ‘And that’s nine.’
‘It has to be ten,’ I said. ‘Can’t have nine.’
‘You are a mental OCD cow,’ he replied. ‘Fine. One more.’
We sat staring at each other around the table while my mind ticked over. Learn to play the guitar. Appear on a reality show. Swim with dolphins. Run the marathon. Date someone from each of the armed forces. Shag a boy in a band. Get a pet. Volunteer for a charity. Wow, I really was getting desperate. Before either Matthew or I could venture a suggestion, Emelie broke the silence.
‘Break the law,’ her eyes glittered. ‘You have to break the law.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I didn’t even look up from my lovely, lovely wine. ‘I’m not going to break the bloody law.’
‘Actually …’ Matthew said quietly.
‘Oh shut up,’ I gave him the look. ‘I’m not breaking the law. I have never broken the law. I don’t even go over the speed limit. You know this.’
‘Which is exactly why you’re going to do it,’ he said, adding it to the bottom of the napkin. ‘Amazing.’
‘I can’t believe you’re going along with this.’ I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. And to try and make them focus more clearly. ‘Seriously? Matthew?’
‘We’re on the verge of an all-new Rachel Summers,’ he replied, dramatically shaking the list to dry the not-even-slightly-wet ink. ‘Devil-may-care law breaker and international playgirl, Rachel Summers.’
‘Don’t forget the tattoos,’ I reminded him. ‘If I’m going to be crossing over to a life of crime, I’m going to need the prison tats.’
‘This is going to be so much fun.’ Emelie poked at the last surviving bag of crisps. ‘So. Much. Fun.’
I took the napkin from Matthew and studied it carefully before slipping it inside my bag. What was I signing up for?
‘For me or you?’
He looked at Em, who, with a little difficulty focusing, looked back.
‘Definitely us,’ he said, both of them nodding. ‘Definitely us.’
Once Emelie had finished drinking the last drops of wine directly out of the bottle, we agre
ed that was a sign it was time to leave. Helping each other out of our seats, I tried to stand as steadily as possible, walking in something akin to a straight line out of the pub, blinking into the late afternoon sunshine. I looked up at the sky, not quite understanding why it wasn’t dark. I’d been up for ages. It had been some time since I’d been this drunk in the day, but I had a horrible feeling that this was the beginning of something, rather than a one-off. I also had a horrible feeling that I was going to puke.
Against all odds, the three of us managed to stagger home in one piece and collapsed on the sofa. Within five minutes, Em and Matthew had passed out. I sat back in the middle of the sofa – Emelie snoring her head off on my shoulder, Matthew curled up against the arm, his feet in my lap – and stared into the mirror in front of me. Nothing had changed. The sofa was still red, my grandmother’s mirror still hung over the fireplace and the patch of damp in the corner of the room still needed taking care of. Nothing had changed but everything was different.
Easing myself out of the drunken BFF sandwich, I tiptoed into the kitchen to get some water. Glasses still in the cupboard, cold tap still not really cold enough. I drank one glass straight down, filled another and leaned against the kitchen counter. Everything had seemed OK in the pub. We had my list to think about, fish fingers to eat and, most importantly, wine to drink. But now I was home … now it was real. For some reason, I’d half expected Simon just to be lying on the sofa watching Final Score and eating Doritos like it was any other Saturday. But he wasn’t. The flat was empty. Just like it would be from now on. Almost as soon as the thought settled in my mind and the water had hit my stomach, I felt it coming right back up.
Thank god the flat was small enough for me to make it into the bathroom in time. There were very few things in life I disliked as much as throwing up, which was one of the reasons I really didn’t drink that much. Bracing myself against the sink, I washed my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to convince myself that the hot tears streaming down my face could be easily explained by the fact I’d just puked.