rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_8f5bb066-7999-5478-bdb4-6829bc46c68a">Chapter 6
‘It’s blue.’ Callum is propped up on one elbow staring at me. Well, when I say me, I mean my hair. He seems to be mentally circling me, like a sheepdog.
‘Callum, are you listening?’ It’s taken me ages to work out the best way to break the news, and now he’s not even listening.
‘It’s blue!’
‘Yes, I know. I—’
‘It was blonde, shoulder-length and had pink bits last time I saw you.’ He’s frowning now and looking a bit miffed. ‘And that was only two days ago.’
‘Pink hair is so old hat.’
His text yesterday morning had made me uneasy, and then my chat with Auntie Lynn had decided it for me, even though in my heart I’d known for a while that we were running out of time.
After I’d left Lynn I’d called my friend Liz, who also happens to be my hairdresser. It was time for a change and I always find it easier to deal with moving on if I’ve done something different. It’s an outward sign of the inner feeling. Or at least, that’s what the shrink said after the teenage me had screamed ‘you’re not my mother’ once too often, and Aunt Lynn had declared we needed professional help.
‘But it’s black and blue, and . . .’ Callum leans around to see better, ‘short.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ To be honest, it doesn’t really make much difference if he does or not, because the deed has been done now and there is no going back. And I like it. But it would still be nice if he did, too.
‘Is that a green streak?’ He’s now pulling at it as though we’re monkeys having a grooming session.
‘It might be. So, you don’t like it?’ He’s obviously not going to listen to what I really need to say to him until we’re got the hair thing over with.
‘I didn’t say that. It’s er, just a shock. Hang on. I need to check if the carpet matches the drapes, don’t I?’
I put a hand out to stop him, because there is a sensible discussion we need to have, but he’s already lifting the sheet with a grin on his face, shaking his head.
Callum is my toyboy, the cocktail shaker I picked up in a bar, the guy who I love to shock and who likes to be shocked.
I grin back as he dives under the covers and wait for the yell – or shocked silence. I never quite know how he’ll react. Which is half the fun.
In a way, we’re perfect for each other. Or we were. Until that text.
Until he asked me over to his parent’s house for Christmas Day.
This means he has mentally crossed a line that I never intended going anywhere near – he’s strayed into ‘meet the family’ territory.
Meet the family is scary shit. They will see the things he’s hasn’t: that I will never be the perfect girlfriend, that I am a million miles from daughter-in-law material. I have blue hair (which was pink) and wear unsuitable clothes. I carelessly lost my parents and haven’t a clue where they went. I get over-excited. I am older than he is. I do not have a five-year (or even a five-minute) plan.
See? It’s not going to go well, is it?
Callum and I are a good fit now because he’s young and a post-grad student with a sparkling career ahead in astrophysics. One day, when he’s a bit more grown up, he will want the family I can’t give him. He will realise this and then dump me.
And if he doesn’t realise, his parents will. And they’ll tell him to dump me.
It is much better to realise that we are approaching the end of the road before we get there. While it’s still fun.
I’ve been practising in my head what to say to him, and I’m still struggling. No bloody wonder, really, when I hadn’t planned on doing this in bed. How was I to know that he’d greet me at the door stark-bollock naked with a battered gladiolus clenched between his buttocks (he said it had been a healthy specimen at the start but had been harder to hold than he’d thought and had taken several tries)?
Anyway, that was then, and this is post-then.
It’s not you, it’s me.
No, no, no. I can’t say that. Totally not. It’s so wrong on so many levels. I mean it is me, but just as it takes two to make a relationship, it takes two to break it, doesn’t it? The other person might not realise it at the time, they might not realise they’re not the perfectly fitting jigsaw piece. But when they’re told, they’ll feel like the damaged bit, the piece that the dog chewed. And Callum is not damaged, he’s just not the fit I thought he was.
Which brings me back to me.
It always starts out so well, so full of promise, and then I find I can’t live with it. Whatever it is.
Although it, in this case, is definitely linked to commitment. I mean, Christmas Day? That’s the start of the end. The start of getting serious, which always wrecks things.
We really hardly know each other. We share fun, pizza, movies, our bodies. We don’t do ‘meet the family’, and Christmas. Even thinking about it now is making me hyperventilate.
Christmas is for sharing with loved ones. And my loved one is Aunt Lynn, not some cute guy who makes me laugh and orgasm.
I could just say I have to spend the day with Aunt Lynn and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t be fair. And it would be a lie. He asked a question that is far more complicated and loaded than it appears, and now there is no un-asking.
Getting serious spoils things, doesn’t it? Everything becomes about settling down. If you’re not serious, then you can’t be horrifically dumped. I’m not ready for serious; in fact, I’m not sure I ever will be.
‘Holy Moley!’ Don’t ask where he gets language like that from, but I like it. I have a rather weird turn of phrase myself, apparently. He resurfaces, and his eyes are wide. ‘That looks more like a no entry sign than a landing strip.’
Freud would have a field day with me. And so would a masseur – I didn’t half get a crick in my neck (and a bit bog-eyed) giving ‘down there’ a makeover. ‘Callum, we need to talk.’
Callum sighs, drops the bed sheet and edges back up so that his head is at pillow level. His gaze drifts to my hair, then back to my eyes. ‘Is the whole hair change thing symbolic, then?’
Callum isn’t daft; he is a star astrophysics student. I will be insulting both our intelligences if I do the glib get-out.
I can at least try and keep it light and jokey though.
He picks the bedsheet up again, for another look, and gives a low whistle, which helps. ‘Is this because I asked you over for Christmas? You’re moving on, aren’t you?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye, he’s studying our naked bodies under the sheets, but not in a lustful way.
‘I’m going to Canada.’ I blurt it out.
