And now he has.
Now I’ve got what I always dreamed of.
But at what price?
I take a breath, holding that moment where his words hang suspended in the air, enjoying that moment I’ve waited so long for, breathing them in, seeing what it feels like, trying them on for size.
Before I brush them away.
‘You’re not in love with me,’ I say quietly, shaking my head.
‘Yes I am!’ he protests indignantly.
I glance over at him sitting on the sofa, just as I once sat on his. Only now the roles are reversed. Yet if ever there was a moment I thought I might find some pleasure in the way the situation has turned around, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dating Seb again was never about trying to get some warped kind of revenge. I was just following my heart; it was impossible not to. But although Seb might have broken it when he finished with me, there would be no satisfaction in breaking his.
‘No, you’re not,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re not in love with the real me, you’re in love with the person I became, the person I changed into, the person I tried to be. Trust me, I’m not the girl you fell in love with. That’s not really who I am.’ A sob rises in my throat – saying the words out loud is making me face up to what I’ve become and the reality is hard to face. ‘You’re in love with a fake. I’m a fake.’
As I spit out the words, I think about Fergus. He was right all along and yet I refused to believe him.
‘I thought I wasn’t good enough. That there was something wrong with me. That I needed to change for you to love me, to be different, to be more . . .’
I can feel my eyes welling up as I remember those emotions. When we broke up the first time I blamed myself. It was all my fault. If only I’d tried harder, done things differently, been funnier, sexier, cleverer, more enthusiastic, sporty, successful . . . more everything, then Seb would have fallen in love with me.
Because somewhere, somehow, something got buried deep down inside of me, an insecurity, anxiety, self-doubt – call it what you want – that made me feel I didn’t deserve to be loved, that plain little old me could never be a success, that somehow I wasn’t worthy. And for all these years I’ve been carrying that feeling with me.
‘Only now I’ve finally realised I am good enough,’ I say determinedly and, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time in my life, I suddenly know it to be true. ‘I’m more than good enough, and I don’t need to change. I just need to accept and love myself for who I really am. Because how can I expect someone to love me if I don’t love myself?? For someone to think I’m good enough if I don’t think I’m good enough?’
But Seb’s not listening. He doesn’t want to. ‘Is there someone else? Is this what it’s all about?’
It’s like biting down on tinfoil: every cell in my body jumps. ‘No, of course not,’ I protest quickly, but my mind betrays me by throwing up an image of Fergus.
I still haven’t heard from him. He was so angry and upset I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me, especially now he knows I’ll have read that email he sent to ‘Sara’. My chest tightens. I still can’t believe he felt that way. I had no idea.
Except . . .
My mind flashes back to us both on the terrace, snowflakes whirling around our heads, my breath held tight inside of me. A feeling of magic, anticipation and something else . . . only I can’t put my finger on it. Not that it matters. Whatever it was has gone now. I made sure of that.
‘No, no there’s no one else,’ I say quietly.
Then for a few moments neither of us moves or speaks and there’s an awkward silence. I become aware of the loud humming of the fridge, the slow drip of the tap, the muffled drone of an overhead plane.
‘Are you sure it’s not about the snowboarding weekend,’ he says after a pause, ‘because Chris did mention something about the hot tub—’
‘Please, Seb,’ I gasp and he falls silent again. ‘Trust me, this isn’t about the weekend, or the hot tub, or you . . . it was never about you, it’s about me.’ My voice softening, I walk over and sit next to him on the sofa. ‘You’re a great guy, but I’m not the girl for you.’
‘You don’t mean that, you’re just saying it,’ he says huffily, his earlier hurt being replaced by indignation. Folding his arms, he angles his body away from me. ‘That’s what everyone says when they break up with someone.’
He has a point. If I remember rightly he said a similar thing to me.
‘No, Seb, you’re not listening, I really do mean it,’ I say firmly. ‘You like exercising and keeping fit, and I like slobbing on the sofa watching The X Factor.’
‘What about military fitness?’ he demands, as if he’s caught me out.
‘I went once and pulled my hamstring.’
‘But you go running.’
‘No, you go running, I just pretended to go. The only thing I’ve ever run for is the bus.’ I pause as I catch his expression; I’m finally admitting who I am – to both of us.
‘I’m a girl whose favourite food is boring old beans on toast, and when I’m not setting about three alarm clocks and wearing two watches, I’m always late—’
He tries to protest, but I won’t let him. ‘No, really I am . . . and I love listening to Abba, not indie bands that all sound the same, and wearing my ratty old T-shirt bras and big comfy support knickers.’
He blanches.
‘I’m a girl who only got to page three of that Obama book you gave me before I realised it’s never going to change my life and I’d rather read OK! and look at celebrity cellulite in bikinis.’
‘Celebrity what?’
‘And my favourite film isn’t Star Wars, it’s Dirty Dancing. Or anything with Johnny Depp in it.’
Seb stares at me aghast. I might just as well have said I’m an alien from outer space.
‘But plenty of couples have different interests,’ he says, finally finding his voice. ‘Opposites attract, remember?’
I smile. ‘I know they do, and I’ve thought the same thing, but it’s more than that, Seb. We’re not just opposite, we’re totally different, we believe in different things . . .’ My mind flashes back to Gramps, standing with him this afternoon in the graveyard.
‘Like I do believe in marriage. I believe in falling in love with someone who makes you feel like the luckiest person alive, in making a commitment to that person in front of the whole world, and going on this mad, crazy journey called life together . . .’ I pause as I remember the look in Gramps’s eyes when he talked about Nan. ‘And I can’t think of anything I want more than to be married to someone for fifty years who loves me for who I am, warts and all, and for me to feel exactly the same about them.’
I break off, my heart thudding. I feel almost breathless. But I feel something else. Liberated, exposed, lighter. As if the pressure of trying to be someone else has been lifted from my shoulders, like a heavy overcoat that’s been weighing me down, stifling who I really am.
And then for a moment there’s silence. We both sit side by side, neither of us saying anything, both studying our feet. I realise I’m still holding the two mugs.
‘So you didn’t really like all those things,’ he says after a long pause. ‘You were just pretending?’
Finally he gets it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I nod.
‘Well, I guess I should go . . .’ He gets up from the sofa and I follow him down into the hallway. ‘Bye Tess.’
‘Bye Seb.’
We kiss each other awkwardly on the cheek but he’s only halfway out of the door when he pauses and clears his throat.
‘What about that night you had five orgasms? Was that fake too?’
His handsome face is suffused with uncertainty, and crossing my fingers behind my back I shake my head. ‘No, that was for real.’
His features relax. ‘I knew you couldn’t fake that,’ he says with a little nod of satisfaction and, turning, he walks out of the flat and closes the door behind him.
Dear D
iary,
Seb and I broke up.
Well, that’s not strictly true. He broke up with me. He said he loved me but wasn’t in love with me, that it would probably be better if we break up, how he hopes we’ll always remain friends . . .
But you know the worst thing of all? When he told me he couldn’t see a future with me. That pretty much broke my heart.
I’m not sure what to write now. Shall I write that I still feel numb? That it’s only been a few hours and I still can’t believe it’s over? That I know that soon the shock is going to wear off, like an anaesthetic at the dentist, and I’m terrified of the pain?
Or shall I write that I know it’s all my fault. That there are so many things I wish I’d done differently. So many regrets. So many ‘what ifs’. But now it’s too late. I’ve never loved anyone like I love Seb, and now I’ve lost him.
I miss him already.
Chapter 37
If someone had told me, when Seb was breaking up with me, that a few months later I’d be breaking up with him, I would never have believed them. I would have said it was impossible, inconceivable, ridiculous. I would have accused them of being crazy.
I would have—
Well, you get the picture.
After Seb leaves I make myself a cup of tea with two sugars. Actually, make that three. Well that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve had a bit of a shock, isn’t it? Except, in this case, I’ve shocked myself. I had no idea I was going to break up with Seb. When I woke up this morning I had no intention of ending our relationship. I didn’t scribble a reminder on a Post-it note and stick it to my computer (though after yesterday I’m going to totally rethink that method).
In fact, if breaking up with someone was a crime, I’d plead ‘not guilty, your honour’, as it wasn’t premeditated. It’s just the moment I stopped focusing on Seb and what he wanted, and focused on myself and what I wanted, I realised it wasn’t Seb. I want someone who loves me for who I really am – and he doesn’t.
And in that moment, everything changed. Like pulling a thread, our whole relationship began to unravel, like the stitching on a hem, and fell apart.
Then suddenly there we were, breaking up. Again.
Only this time it’s different. I’m different. Sitting on the sofa, nursing my cup of tea, I re-read my diary, only it’s almost as if it’s been written by somebody else. I’m not that heartbroken girl who blamed herself for everything any more.
‘He told me he couldn’t see a future with me.’
I read the words again and this time I can’t miss the irony. By some weird, inexplicable twist of fate I might have erased our past, but Seb was the one who couldn’t see our future.
And now, this time, for the first time, neither can I.
After the major upheavals of the past couple of days, the rest of the week passes in relative calm. Which is not a bad thing. To be honest, I don’t think I could take any more shocks to the system. I feel like when I was six years old and used to play that game where they blindfold you and spin you around, then whip off the blindfold and you stagger about, trying not to fall over.
But it’s fine, I just need to get my bearings again, I tell myself firmly. I just need to sit still and regain my balance; in fact what I need is a bit of boringness.
To tell the truth, I think boring is very underrated. Sometimes in life you need a bit of boring, a bit of trundling along without anything jumping out and blindsiding you and turning your world upside down. Everyone tells you change is good, but right now I could do with a little bit of dull, thanks very much.
So, keeping with the theme of dull and boring, I decide to spend the weekend tidying up my room and having a total clear-out. Since New Year’s Eve I’ve let things slide: there’s tons of washing that needs doing, a pile of ironing; my wardrobe is bulging with clothes that I don’t even wear . . .
I open the door and glance in it with dismay. Is it just me, or does no one wear at least seventy-five per cent of their clothes?
It’s 8 a.m. on Saturday morning and I’m already up, caffeinated, and rifling through the hangers, spying things I haven’t worn for ages, if ever. That’s it, I’m never going to buy anything ever again, I tell myself sternly, grabbing handfuls of clothes and shoving them in a bag for the charity shop. Look! There’s still something that has its price tag on! Wincing, I avert my eyes quickly. OK, so what else needs to go? I cast my eye around the room and it falls on the Obama book sitting on my bedside cabinet, still unread. Correction: never to be read.
Well, maybe it can change someone else’s life, I decide, adding it to the pile of clothes with a sense of relief and satisfaction. Oh look, and there’s the lingerie Seb just bought me. I look inside the bag and unwrap the tissue paper – it’s a diamanté G-string. I hold it between thumb and forefinger, like a catapult. It almost makes my eyes water imagining where the diamanté bit goes – thank god I’m never going to have to wear it.
The bag is full now so, grabbing an old cardboard box, I drop it inside, along with the Obama book which is threatening to break the already stretched-to-bursting bin liner, and I start looking around for more things to give away. Like, for example, here’s that piece of driftwood I got from when we went to the beach; maybe someone would like that. I stick it in the box, then suddenly pause . . .
Hang on a minute . . .
Still holding the box, I rummage around the room for a few moments, collecting different bits and pieces. On my dressing table I spot the cork from the bottle of red wine lying next to the plastic wristband from the concert; next to the fire is the box of matches from Mala; one of Seb’s plectrums has found its way into my holdall, along with the stub for my snowboarding lessons . . . and what’s this in my jeans pocket?
I pull out the ticket stubs from when we went to see Star Wars, and chuck them in the box. What else is missing? Oh right, yes, the photo from the wedding. Going to the wardrobe I feel inside my jacket and pull out some old confetti, and with it a Polaroid of Seb and me. I drop it in the box. That’s it. That’s everything.
I stare at the contents. How funny. It’s just like before. Like the first time we dated. Except it’s not – because this time when I look through all the mementos, I don’t feel sad, or regretful, or sentimental. Instead I just remember how bored I was watching Star Wars, not to mention that entire boxed set afterwards; having to stuff my earplugs in so hard at that concert that they were still jammed in on the way home and not having a clue what Seb was going on about; the Polaroid from the wedding where we look so damn miserable is because we were so damn miserable.
I have a flashback to throwing back the bouquet and the look on the bride’s face . . .
And suddenly, out of nowhere, a giggle escapes, then another, and another, until tears of laughter are streaming down my face as my mind flicks through all the different memories attached to each item.
You had to be there. And I was. Twice.
Only when I’ve finally dried my eyes do I rescue the book and the G-string. Those can go to charity. And the rest? I unceremoniously throw the whole box in the bin. Like I said, it’s just junk after all.
Three large bin bags, two cardboard boxes and several hours later, I’m finally done and I drag it all to the charity shop. I do it in a sort of relay system until, by the time I’ve dropped off the final bag, I’m exhausted.
On the other hand, the woman who manages the shop is elated.
‘Thank you sooo much, this is all sooo wonderful,’ she coos, swooping down upon my piles of clothes and immediately starting to sort them into colours. ‘Ooh, and I love this cardigan.’
I glance across to see her holding up a lovely little mohair three-quarter-sleeve number with pearl buttons and feel a pang of regret. I always do that when I give things away. As soon as an item of clothing is in the charity bag, something weird happens. I suddenly love it again and can’t live without it.
It’s a shame there isn’t the equivalent of a charity bag for people. It would sav
e so many relationships that are in trouble: just pop your partner in a charity bag and, hey presto, you’ve fallen in love with them all over again.
‘Um, can you wait till I’m gone . . . before you go through it all,’ I plead, somewhat awkwardly.
She stops holding up the cardigan and clutches it to her chest. ‘Of course, I totally understand,’ she confides, then lowering her voice says solemnly, ‘One can get very attached, can’t one?’
‘Yes, one can,’ I nod, trying not to smile.
The doorbell goes, interrupting us, and a petite, grey-haired woman enters. She can’t be more than five feet tall but she’s pulling a shopping trolley almost as big as herself. ‘Oh, please, let me,’ cries the manager, dashing over and holding the door for her. ‘I’ll take that . . .’
‘Non, non,’ replies the woman in a strong French accent, ‘I am perfectly fine.’ She looks across at me and winks. ‘Very old, but perfectly fine. Like a vintage claret.’
She lets out a little peal of laughter, showing off two rows of tiny, perfectly straight teeth which I notice are all her own. For someone her age that’s pretty amazing, but then she’s not your typical old lady. Dressed all in black, with lashings of red lipstick and her hair swept elegantly into a chignon, she’s the epitome of chic.
‘I’ve brought some things.’ She opens her shopping trolley. Unlike me she has no second thoughts, and starts piling everything onto the counter. Which is when I spot a flour sack.
‘They’re yours!’ So this is the mystery French lady I’ve heard all about.
‘Oui,’ she nods, ‘and I have many more.’ She digs in her shopping trolley and brings out a whole stack of them.
‘Wow!’ I gasp with delight. ‘Where did these all come from?’
‘From when I was a little girl, we lived on a farm . . .’ She trails off, smiling at the memory. ‘I keep too many things, but now I’m moving out of my house as it got too big, my children grew up and left, my husband died . . .’