P.S. We are putting Philadelphia Cream Cheese
on a 2-for-1 promotion this month. Just thought you might like to know.
Jan 13th
Dear James,
I can’t stop crying. When I wake up at three in the morning, I turn over and I expect to see you next to me, sleeping, gently snoring. Sometimes it feels like you actually are there, in my sleep, but the bed’s half empty. It hurts. I miss you.
Jan 14th
Dear James,
Last night Laura came round with a take-away from Curry Paradise. It reminded me so much of our second date – that blue shirt you wore, the waiter so desperate to go home because we wouldn’t stop nattering – that I couldn’t eat a mouthful. I remember kissing in the street. I remember the hope in my heart as I climbed into my bed alone that night. I want this to work. Can this work?
Jan 15th
Dear James,
Do you think about me as much as I think about you? You are the first thing I think about
every morning, and the last thing I think about at night, and most of the time in between.
I could lose weight, if that’s what this really is about. But I don’t think it is. I think you are scared and confused, but we can do this together, James, we can.
Jan 16th
Dear James,
I have been running loads and I can’t believe the difference it has made to my body. People keep telling me they don’t recognise me!
Jan 17th
Dear James,
I wonder what you’re doing. It is so strange to me that you go to bed less than three miles from my flat, under the same moon, and yet it’s like we never even met. It does my head in.
Are you not even curious what I am up to? I wish I could just get on with things the way you seem to be able to, but I can’t wake up one morning and not have the feelings I have for you.
Jan 18th
Dear James,
I was speaking to Laura about you last night, and
she thinks you are irredeemable. She says that once a man is past forty, he’s not going to change – or if he is, he has to really want to do it. Admit his worldview is screwed up, seek help, work at it. I think anyone can change. I know you are a good person. I just think you’re scared of committing. Maybe you feel a bit guilty too, but you don’t need to. We all make mistakes.
Jan 19th
Dear James,
Thank you for helping me see things about myself that I need to change. I am too defensive; I need to believe in myself more. I forgive you for behaviour that was unkind and weak – I don’t think you realised how much it would hurt me.
Jan 20th
Dear James,
I miss you more than I missed you yesterday. I’m going in the wrong direction. I know couples break up every day. I know that’s just life. But I’m thinking about it and thinking about it and thinking about it, and it still doesn’t add up. I need some closure. I have questions. I need answers. I need to speak to you.
I have not spoken to him for nearly a month, since Christmas Day. No texts, no calls, no nothing.
Every day feels like I’m trying to wean myself off a grim Class A drug. Not calling him has become an action I force myself to ‘do’ each morning when I wake up, each night before I sleep, and all the glorious bits in between.
Most of my self-restraint is actually Laura’s. She has listened to me witter in a loop daily since I’ve been back from LA. I feel like the shittest toy in the glass cage fairground game. Against all odds, Laura’s metal arms have picked me up, stabbed into my sides, clutched me tight and rescued me. I don’t like it at all, it hurts, but this is apparently what ‘winning’ in this situation feels like.
I smoke so much that I run out of Duty Free after twelve days. In the seven years since I last bought a packet of fags, the price of fags has become an unfunny joke.
I feel consumed. I feel physically wretched. But I have done it. I never thought I could, but I have. I am very proud of myself.
He must realise that I don’t really miss him at all.
I’ve shown him how strong I am, how I don’t ‘need’ him.
So, I decide it’s now okay to call.
To be fair, I do try calling the three ‘interceptors’ first – friends who’ve said ‘if you ever feel like calling him, day or night, call me instead.’ Laura is in a voice-over. Maggie goes straight to voicemail. Pete doesn’t pick up. I leave
messages with all three, and four minutes later, when no one has called me back, I dial James.
Like Pete, James doesn’t pick up either. But while with Pete I assume it’s because he’s in a meeting or on the loo or away from his phone, with James I know it’s because he’s avoiding me.
Jesus, why didn’t I block my number when I called. I don’t want to leave a message, but he’ll know I’ve called now so I should … aargh, the beep has gone and I pause for three seconds, panic and hang up. Worst of all worlds.
He leaves it twenty-four hours before calling me back.
‘Why haven’t you called me?’ he says.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘You didn’t reply to my text. I figured you’d be in touch when you were ready to talk. I thought you’d have called by now. I was worried.’
‘Then you should’ve called me,’ I say.
‘But I just explained, I thought you didn’t want me to …’
When have you ever put what I want before what you want?
‘I need to see you,’ I say. ‘I just want to talk things through, it’d be really helpful for me.’
‘Of course, Soph. Whatever happens with us, I’ll always be there for you, even if you only want me as a friend.’
Have I missed something here? How has this become my
decision to finish our relationship? He’s the one who said he didn’t love me enough. And now he’s pinning it on me.
When I tell Laura that I’ve called him and that we are meeting, she practically cries. ‘Do not do this. It will do you no good. And if you insist on doing this, do not make the situation any worse by doing something stupid. Remember I am your friend and I will always be here for you, whatever you do. But I don’t want you to do this.’ Seeing that she’s more or less okayed it, I can start planning my outfit.
I wear my tightest jeans, which are now loose, high ankle boots, a purple top he likes. For twenty-four hours, I am almost doubled over with stomach cramps, I can’t remember being this anxious in my whole life.
I won’t let him pick me up. I need to be on neutral territory – can’t have him putting a curse on another one of my favourite places – so I suggest a pub in Queen’s Park which is very average but where I know we’ll be able to get a seat.
When I see his car parked outside my heart starts racing. Laura was right, this was a bad idea. I’m not going to be able to keep my cool. I’m either going to get very angry with him, or fancy him – and neither of these is what I want. I want to be aloof, calm, mature and gracious, but hard as nails.
Look away now.
‘You look well,’ he says, trying to kiss me as I turn a cheek towards him.
I look like I’ve had a virus, more like. I take off my coat and scarf and head straight for the loo – partly because I need to check my face isn’t too red with nerves, and partly so he can see my new, thinner self in motion.
I start out alright. I ask him about the Cayman Islands. I tell him scant details about LA, other than that I hung out with some good people, and that I had fun. I know I’m meant to keep it brief, be in and out within half an hour, but I just want to chat to him, be near him, kiss him, stroke his hair.
I have to be rock hard. I have four specific questions I want answers to.
‘Why did you ask me to marry you?’
‘I thought it was what you wanted. I didn’t want to lose you.’
But you do now.
‘If it was up to you, James, and at this stage believe me, it is not up to you, would you carry on with this relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I think it could still go either way.’
‘But you say you don’t want me enough and then you say you do want me. It’s all in your head James, it’s not even about me.’
‘I’m confused …’
I am not willing to be a cause of confusion.
‘You know that thing Winston Churchill said?’ I say.
‘We shall fight them on the beaches …?’
‘No! That woman called him drunk, and he said “In the morning I’ll be sober but you’ll still be ugly”,’ I say.
‘I don’t think you’re ugly.’
Thank you.
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he says.
‘I could become a slave to the Stairmaster, but you’ll still wake up a shallow, shallow man …’
‘I am not shallow.’
‘You do realise that weight is mutable don’t you, James?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I mean, it’s like one of your fucking investment funds. It can go down as well as up. I could get thinner, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility. And if I have kids, I’ll get fatter. Everyone does James, even fucking leg models.’
‘Sophie.’
‘But you know what can’t go down as well as up, James?
‘Don’t tell me … a broken umbrella …’
‘Your age.’
‘Soph, I know you’re pissed off, but there’s no need for that.’
Pissed off? I’m pissed off if I forget my Oyster card.
‘I’m more than pissed off,’ I say.
‘Disappointed …’
Again: no. Topshop don’t have that cool black vest in a size 8? Disappointed.
‘I am angry, James.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re so angry, I haven’t done anything wrong. I wish it could be different too, but it is what it is.’
‘That’s exactly it – nothing
is what it is
with you! You and your emotional sleight of hand, ooh, yes, Soph, Las Vegas is very mild Soph – and all the while your fingers are crossed behind your back.’
‘Why are you so bitter?’
Bitter? I AM NOT BITTER. I am full of rage and pain and fury. That’s not the same thing.
Enough. I’m not going to ask question four.
‘I’d like to go home now,’ I say, standing up. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and this drink has gone straight to my head. I feel hot and emotional and worst of all, in spite of what he has said, I want him as much as I’ve ever wanted anyone.
I go to the toilet and check my make-up. I still have a tan from California, and my cheekbones are the most prominent they’ve ever been in my life. It is his loss, I think. And mine.
We drive home in silence and he parks outside my block and turns the engine off.
‘Soph.’
‘What?’
He stares at me and I can tell, 100%, that he realises he
has made a mistake in breaking up. I see it clearly, though we are almost in darkness.
He leans over to kiss me and I don’t move an inch.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘I’ve never felt so close to anyone, ever,’ he says.
‘Do you love me, James?’ Question four.
He nods. I really should know by now that a nod in James-world in no way signifies a yes.
He moves an inch closer and kisses me very, very gently. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I do nothing for ten whole seconds. And then I kiss him back.
Within moments we are having ardent sex. Well, one of us is. He pauses briefly at the start to open the passenger door in order that he can fully recline my seat. The car’s inside light goes on and in the eight seconds before it turns itself off I look up and right, to the back seat, and notice a tiny clothes hook that must come in handy when you need to hang an infant’s tuxedo.
And now James is behind me, my jeans are round my ankles, and the central console is crushing my rib cage, and the handbrake is too far to the left, nudging my stomach. My left knee is pressed so hard against the glove compartment I can feel the 3200GT logo angrily imprinting itself on my skin. I push my palm up against the roof to try and get more comfortable and feel the soft finishing, and wonder if it is suede or just suedette.
It is over within minutes and I realise with shock that
James has come inside me, and then I remember that my new pill packet starts tomorrow, and even though a pregnancy would perhaps force a reunion, there’s no chance I’ll be pregnant from this, and the realisation saddens me.
James has collapsed on top of me, breathing heavily. ‘That was amazing,’ he says. ‘We should do that every day.’
And it’s so funny because I was thinking the exact opposite.
Unsnap.
‘So what do we do now?’ I say.
‘About what?’ he says.
The Reform of the American Electoral System, you nob-end. ‘Us,’ I say.
‘Well, I think I need some time to reflect …’
Oh no, no, no. No.
‘How do you actually feel, right now, James?’
‘It’s a relief,’ he says, unguardedly. ‘To be talking about it.’
Wow. A relief to tell the truth, finally. As if I was the one stopping you doing that.
‘Those times in the last few months when you picked up on it, I knew you’d noticed something was up …’ he says, like he’s now in a rush to get this weight off his chest; he has his window.
I take a minute to process this. ‘The times I said something isn’t right, like that time after the launch party in the car …?’
He nods against my shoulder.
‘Don’t you think,’ I push him off and move myself over to the driver’s seat to face him, ‘that maybe
those
were the
times when you might have said something? I
gave
you all those chances …’
‘I didn’t want to say anything. I knew you felt like you were on death row,’ he says, reaching out for my hand.
‘Because you put me on death row!’ I say, snatching it away. And I let you …
‘I tried, Soph …’
‘You tried what?’
‘To make this work.’
‘
You tried!
’ I laugh with as much scorn as my heightened state of nausea will allow. ‘
You tried!
I’m so sorry it was such an effort to get past my looks, James Stephens. Thank you for trying. Here’s a fucking gold medal.’