tumbling out onto the slab? Bring it on!
Half-way through the third day, though, niggles start creeping in.
I need to look for a job. Otherwise I’ll be penniless by about March.
And if I carry on eating all the carbs in the world, partly to spite Nathan but mainly because it’s so wonderfully numbing, I truly will have the ginormous arse I’m famed for.
Speaking of which, I’ve developed this weird pain in my right buttock. I keep having to wriggle around, trying different positions to ease it. It was on and off to start with. But it’s growing more persistent.
I know my ex is a massive pain in the backside but it can’t have manifested into a physical ailment, can it?
Tonight, when Barb wants to catch up with all the brooding, Danish drama, I’ve got to pretend it’s all new to me.
It’s all going well until a really gruesome bit comes up in episode nine (which I watched the day before yesterday) when I know for sure someone’s about to get a vital part of their body forcibly removed.
‘Ugh, can’t watch this bit.’ I leap up and head for the kitchen, rubbing my buttock. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
When I come back in, Barb narrows her eyes at me. ‘Have you watched it all, then?’
‘No!’ Indignantly, I plonk down a mug and a chocolate biscuit on her side table.
Barb grins. ‘Which episode are you up to?’
‘Um … eighteen,’ I tell her, a touch defiantly. ‘But from tomorrow, it stops. Apart from anything else, I’ve developed this really weird pain in my right buttock.’
She studies me as I wriggle about in my chair to find a comfy position. Then she says, ‘You know what that is, of course?’
‘No. What?’
‘It’s a very serious medical condition.’
‘Oh yes?’
She snorts. ‘It’s called Box-Set Bum!’
‘Oh, ha-flippin’-ha,’ I say grumpily.
‘Or, to use the layman’s term for it: Killer Arse!’
She goes off into hysterics, spilling her tea and wiping her eyes, while I stare at her mutinously. It’s really not very funny.
‘I’ll buy you one of those blow-up rings people sit on when they’ve got painful haemorrhoids,’ she gasps, between snorts. ‘What colour would you like?’
‘Black to match my mood,’ I growl. ‘But I’d rather have a vodka and cranberry to numb the pain.’
Barb obliges and the alcohol definitely helps. Pretty soon, even I’m seeing the funny side of my killer arse.
Next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed even before Barb leaves for work.
‘I’m going to re-do my CV today,’ I announce. ‘Absolutely no lounging in front of the TV. Those days are over.’
Barb smiles. ‘Good for you. A lot of folk would go to pieces if they’d gone through what you have. It takes determination to get out there again.’
‘Well, you watch, I’ll have landed a job by tea-time,’ I say, sounding a great deal more jovial than I feel inside.
I’d say the main thing that got me out of bed this morning wasn’t determination, as Barb seems to think, but fear.
Stark, stomach-churning terror at the thought of ending up penniless. It’s been rising steadily inside me – like water in a punctured life raft – ever since my world came crashing down. I’ve been doggedly ignoring it. But you can’t bury your head in the sand forever. Eventually, the nasty stuff must be faced.
‘I’m asking around,’ says Barb, on her way out of the door. ‘Seeing if anyone knows of any vacancies.’
After she’s gone, I make myself another coffee and settle down at the kitchen table with my laptop.
A second later, there’s a mammoth crash right outside the flat that makes my heart leap into my mouth. Followed five minutes later by a series of loud scrapes coming from the building’s communal hall.
This is grim.
Someone is clearly trying to drag a dead body wrapped in a blanket up the stairs. (Watching blood-thirsty Scandinavian drama 24/7 will do that to your brain.)
I peer out of the window. There’s a large white van parked right outside with its back doors open. There’s no one about but, clearly, whatever was in the van is currently being manoeuvred up the stairs.
Right on cue there’s another loud grating noise, as if something heavy or awkward is scraping along a wall then being set down on the concrete stairs.
I put my head round the door.
Just in time to see a pair of long male legs in skinny jeans mounting the stairs. The owner of the legs is labouring slightly under the weight of a large black box.
He glances back at the sound of the door opening, gives me a fleeting grin and says, ‘Hi there. Apologies for the commotion. But I think we’re done now.’
I raise my hand, embarrassed at being caught nosing. ‘Hey, don’t worry. Didn’t hear a thing.’
I watch his legs disappear, all prepared to make a hasty retreat if he comes back down.
As I linger, curious, there’s a thud and a foreboding crashing sound followed by a series of passionate expletives. I screw up my face. Whatever was in that box – crockery? – is clearly no longer in one piece.
‘Has someone moved into the flat above?’ I ask Barb on her return that evening.
She disappears into her room. ‘You mean Jasper?’ she calls. ‘Yes, he moved in last month.’
‘Oh? What’s he like?’
‘Bit of a div but harmless enough, I suppose. He’s locked himself out of his car twice since he got here. And he’s always in a tearing hurry, like he’s constantly late for something.’
She pops her head round the door. ‘I did tell you someone had moved in but you must have forgotten. But of course you haven’t been here much recently, what with spending so much time at …’ She tails off, embarrassed at having referred to He-Who-Mustn’t-Be-Mentioned, and retreats back into her room.
My stomach plummets.
Every time I think I’m over Nathan, yet another pesky reminder parachutes in and knocks the breath right out of me.
Mostly, though, I’m doing okay.
It helps to know that the relationship would never have worked.
Nathan needs Iron Woman in his life and I could never be that, however
