Why, you ask? Because I thought he understood me? Because I thought I understood him? Because of my immature, impossibly hopeful disposition? Because all my previous relationships paled in comparison? Because each successive break-up had left my self-esteem in tatters? Or because all my previous disappointments made me determined to hang on to this one potentially perfect happiness if I could?
I don’t know. There are a thousand possible reasons. None are really good enough.
And you know what’s even worse? Even during those six torturous weeks of him acting like this, we’d meet up once a week or so—me, sick with nerves obviously—and it would be bliss again. He’d apologise, blame work for being too busy to see me, we’d have a bottle of wine and talk and laugh and sparkle and I’d adore him more than I ever had before, despite the days of confidence-eroding worry beforehand. I’d feel totally secure, blissfully happy, utterly content. And it was during one of those nights when I told him I loved him.
I know! Don’t look at me like that. Trust me, I know I shouldn’t have said it.
I hadn’t planned it, it just popped out. It’s not the kind of thing I’d ever, ever have said if I’d been in the least bit in control of myself. I’d never said it to anyone else. Maybe I felt so happy and relieved that the sparkly secure feeling was there after a particularly long week with almost no contact from him. Maybe—probably—I subconsciously thought I’d prompt him to say he loved me too, and we’d go back to being sparkly all of the time. Who knows? The female brain is an annoyingly mysterious thing. Even to us. At the time I thought I meant it, by the way, but I realised pretty soon it wasn’t love…it was more like addiction.
And no, of course he didn’t say it back. He just smiled, and kissed me. (We were in his kitchen cooking spaghetti bolognese, which I hate but every boyfriend I’ve ever had thinks he can cook better than anyone in the world.) In a split second I realised he wasn’t going to say it back, because he didn’t love me, and never had. I wanted to run away and cry, but instead I poured another glass of wine and kept smiling. It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine. Just hang in there and be positive and show him what a good girlfriend you are.
And the next night was the ‘Come As Your Childhood Ambition’ party.
For weeks—months—afterwards, I kept getting hammered and crying. I honestly felt like I should look like a human raisin, I cried so much. I turned 28 just two weeks after he dumped me. That birthday was a real low point. Bloomie organised a dinner for me and I had to keep a tissue folded in my palm to mop up the tears that just burst from my face, even when I didn’t think I was crying. I then got as drunk as I could, threw up, and had to be taken home by 10 pm. God, that was a pathetic period of my life. I hate that me. I fucking hate her. After every other break-up I’d bounced back pretty fast, with the help of the magic trifecta of friends, clothes and vodka, ready to head out and have some fun again. But not this time. Recovering from Rick was like recovering from a debilitating illness. I needed liquids (vodka), darkened rooms (bars) and rest (vodka-induced comas).
I don’t even know why Rick affected me like that. He just did. It was—oh God, it was a car crash.
In comparison, the Posh Mark break-up was like skinning my knee.
Rick never called me to apologise, by the way. In fact, we didn’t even have the excruciating/satisfying/sad ritual of giving each other’s things back. His flatmate gave Bloomie my eye make-up remover and various underthings I’d left at his house. (He had left nothing at mine. He’d refused to stay over after a few token efforts at the beginning. Another bastardo sign, by the way. The home game advantage is huge.)
I’m really not a victim, though you probably think I’m an absolute basket case after everything I’ve told you. You know, I secretly wonder—and sorry for using you as a shrink, but I can’t afford a real one—if, after six months of rampant partying post-Rick misery, I actually went out with Posh Mark not because he was nice and wouldn’t dump me, but because I expected it to fail. At least if I didn’t like him that much, it wouldn’t hurt. Hmm. Bloomie calls those kinds of relationships ‘emotional blotting paper’: they prop you up after a relationship Hiroshima until you get enough time and perspective to recover and start thinking about dating someone you actually like. And waking up wrapped up in nicely-muscled arms is better than waking up alone. Sort of.
Oh fuck me, I can’t imagine doing it again. Or rather, I can imagine it, but I just can’t face it. It’s so depressing to think about. So many mistakes. And I don’t want to go through it all again. Meeting someone, liking them, going out with them for dinner, waiting to see if they’ll call again…it’s exhausting, and it never works out for me. I’m obviously romantically-challenged. I just…I want out of this game, I really do.
At 5.30 pm, I leave work as quickly and quietly as I can—noting on the way out that today’s Urban Warrior sartorial theme clearly failed miserably and I should rechristen it Andy’s Urban Victim—to head down to meet Bloomie in a bar about ten minutes’ from South Kensington tube station. I’d like to get a black cab, but can’t quite justify it. (I spend an inordinate amount of time justifying the expense of black cabs to myself. My two go-to excuses are that it’s late so the tube could be dangerous—which it never really is within Zone Two—or that I’m wearing very high heels.)
On the number 14 bus on the way down the Fulham Road, I try to talk myself into being in a good mood. Despite the universe throwing every happy loved-up person in London in my path tonight (how can they all find love and not me? How can the drab little beige thing in front of me be calling her boyfriend to say she’ll put dinner on for when he gets home? Why, damn it, why am I unable to achieve that?), it’s not actually that hard. I’m cheery by nature, I love after-work drinks, I love Bloomie and I love the place where we’re meeting. It’s a restaurant called Sophie’s Steakhouse, but we only ever go to the bar part. It’s not quite a pick-up joint, but not all couples; not too rowdy, but not too quiet; not too cool and not too boring. In short, it’s the perfect place for the freshly single.
I push past the heavy curtain inside the front door, and see the usual young, rather good-looking West London crowd. There are some gorgeous men in here, as ever, though I know they’re probably a bit rah-and-Rugger-Robbie for me. A few floppy-haired Chelsea types in red corduroy trousers (where do they sell those things and how can we make them stop?), a couple of older business-type guys waiting alone in suits for wives or girlfriends, and I can sense, but not see, a group of five guys having an early dinner in the restaurant part, as they turn around to look at me as I come in. I know it’s only because, well, I’m female, but still. It’s gratifying. Especially today.
Bloomie is, as usual, about half an hour late, so I kill time reading the fun bits of the paper someone else has left behind (you know, the celebrity bits, and the movie and book reviews). As soon as she arrives we start as we always do: with a double cheek kiss and a double vodka.
Things move swiftly from there. I don’t want to get hammered tonight as it’s only Wednesday and payday isn’t for another ten days, but quite soon we start going outside for cigarettes (neither of us smokes, except in situations of extreme stress, like last night, or drinking, or, um, gossiping on a Saturday, or sometimes on the phone), which is a sure-fire sign we’re here for the long haul.
Before I know it, I’m slapping the table with one hand to emphasise my point (which point? Who can say? Any point! Pick a point, please) and making dramatic absolute statements that start with ‘I will NEVER’ and ‘There is no WAY’.
From drink one to two we talk about Posh Mark, from drink two to three we talk about Eugene (the extremely lovely guy she’s been