‘It’s not!’ we chorus.
‘And then I have days where I think, he is so kind and so smart, and I could do worse, and every other man in the world would just break my heart the way all those arseholes did before. And so what if I don’t fancy him and he doesn’t like to talk and doesn’t enjoy the things I enjoy? I need to grow up and start realising that life isn’t all excitement and fun.’
It’s not? I think to myself.
‘He doesn’t like to talk?’ says Bloomie.
‘Oh, no, he does…I mean he just doesn’t like, um, talking as much as I do. He likes to come home from work and…not talk. And I know he’s stressed about his job and all that, but God! He doesn’t TALK. At ALL. All NIGHT. And his idea of a good holiday is hiking and he never fucking laughs.’
It’s very unlike Kate to swear, and she’s almost only talking to herself now. ‘But like, that’s OK! I’m such a bitch for judging him!’
‘Oh, darling, you are not a bitch,’ says Bloomie. ‘Of course you want to be with a guy who is, you know, a real partner. And someone to laugh with, someone who likes at least some of the things that you like, someone who just accepts you and adores you.’
Kate nods and sighs. I look at Bloomie incredulously. Acceptance and adoration? That sounds amazing. I’ve never had that. Ever. I can’t imagine having it. I wonder if Bloomie has that with Eugene. I wonder if I’m even capable of it. I shake myself quickly. This is not the time to think about my stupid dating inadequacies. Kate needs us.
‘Katie…’ I say. ‘Have you spoken to Tray about any of this?’
‘Are you kidding?’ she says. ‘I’d break his heart. And when it comes down to it, I know there’s only one answer. I have to leave him…I don’t want to marry him. And I don’t think he really wants to marry me, as he never mentions it either. Fucking hell, even the idea of it makes me feel like I’m drowning…so what were we thinking moving in together?’
Bloomie and I are nodding in unison.
‘And, oh, guys, this is such bad timing. My company is imploding and everyone is walking around scared stiff of being made redundant. It’s so awful. If I cared more, I’d hate it, but I don’t. I feel completely detached from everything. Completely. I feel like I got this life by accident…’
Oh dear, she’s spiralling. I know that feeling. When you can’t find anything nice to think about, so you just think about everything that’s shit in your life and get more and more depressed.
‘Katiepoo, don’t spiral,’ I say.
‘Huh?’ says Kate.
‘I thought you said you were like a prostitute? Never out of work?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell myself that, too…’ She shakes her head in despair.
‘Wow, you guys have weird conversations…Katie, you can deal with work later,’ says Bloomie decisively.‘Deal with Tray now.’
‘Yeah, well, I mean, obviously, I need to end it and move out before I waste any more time…’ She starts crying again. ‘I feel fucking trapped, guys. I can’t stay with him, but I can’t bear the idea of hurting him either. And…where will I live?’
‘You don’t have to decide today,’ I say.
‘You can live with me!’ exclaims Bloomie. ‘Sara is moving out!’
‘Really? When does she move out? I could stay with my sis for a few weeks…’ says Kate, then checks herself. ‘No, no, wait. I can’t discuss this now. I can’t make a plan for what to do after I—if I—leave him. It feels so callous.’ She blows her nose about four times. ‘I’m not going to think about it again today. Until I decide what to do there is no point. Right. What are we doing now?’
God, she’s controlled.
‘Are you sure? Are you sure you’re OK?’ I say.
‘I’m fine!’ she says, checking her reflection in the mirror next to the table.
‘Really? Do you want to talk about this some more?’ adds Bloomie.
‘No!’ Kate says briskly. ‘That’s enough. I’m sorry for burdening you with my shit. Let’s go shopping.’
She really does seem fine now. No trace of the tears from 30 seconds ago. Bloomie gives a barely perceptible shrug. She’ll talk more when she’s ready, I guess.
The restorative power of a good shop can never be underestimated. I know that sounds shallow, but it’s true. The next few hours pass in a lovely daze of walking, shopping, coffees, cigarettes, chocolate (for energy) and the trying on of lots and lots of clothes. By about 2 pm I’ve bought a short black dress (yes, I have four of them at home, what’s your point?), a weird but lovely boiled wool blazer, a white wifebeater vest with the perfect neckline (you know how hard they are to find) and a new pair of jeans. They’re super-super-skinny, which I thought I was over. It turns out I’m not. High-fives to me, and high-fives to awesome cheap fashion. I didn’t even spend all of my budget. All the more for black cabs and vodka, I think happily, moving the money around in the spreadsheet—OK, let’s be honest, it’s an abacus—in my head.
At 2.30 pm I get another text from Rugger Robbie:
Playing hard too get?
Ugh. Delete. How can he not know the difference between ‘to’ and ‘too’?
Kate seems fine, though kind of distracted. I’d bet she wishes she hadn’t talked to us at all; I think sharing emotions makes her embarrassed. How retro.
‘You alright, darling?’ I say, as we leave H&M in Knightsbridge.
‘Fine! Fine. Honestly. Fine.’
‘Your stiff upper lip is quivering,’ I say.
Kate laughs despite herself. ‘Well, thanks for, uh, talking.’
‘Anytime, you know that.’
Bloomie clears her throat. ‘And Sara moves out in three weeks…’ Kate nods and looks away. Bloomie changes the subject. ‘Well, I’m utterly shattered, darlings. I have to work for a few hours, then have a wee powernap before tonight. One of The Dork’s French cousins is having au revoir drinks in somewhere in Notting Hill. Want to join?’
‘I’m meeting Eddie and his sisters for dinner around there. I’ll text you afterwards…Katiepoo?’
‘I might drive up and see my parents, actually,’ says Kate. ‘I need to think. Come on, let’s get the tube.’
I decide to walk home. It’s one of those breezy strange March days in London, when the sun has decided to pretend it’s in the Côte d’Azur in mid-summer. I love unexpectedly sunshiney Saturdays in London. Everyone laughs more and talks louder and smiles at strangers more than usual.
Serene contentment, consumer’s euphoria and sunshine intoxication? Hot damn, this is the best I’ve felt in months.
In the past five days, I reflect, I’ve recovered from a break-up, had a great day at work, enjoyed a party where I didn’t pull (or find my boyfriend cheating on me, for that matter) and made some outstanding wardrobe additions. Jake floats into my head, and floats out again just as easily. He’s a bit handsome. But I’m not dating. So it just doesn’t matter.
And it’s all thanks to the Sabbatical.
Maybe my flatmate Anna really should do the Sabbatical. Maybe Kate should, after breaking up with Tray, obviously. In fact, maybe everyone