because hearing his name led either to an irrational outburst (from me), featuring lots of swear words, and descriptions about what I’d like to do to various parts of his anatomy, or, and this was so much worse, horrible, snot-inducing tears. Don’t you hate it when that happens, when you end up inside out and can’t stop?
‘Er, yes, him.’ She says it hesitantly, and there is a pause. I know she’s holding her breath hoping nothing horrible is about to happen.
‘Oh, Rach, please stop worrying. I told you, I’m fine. Totally fine. It was ages ago, I am so over him.’ The git. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was, but I’ve taken this one day at a time. I’ve stopped dating, because to be honest now I know my judgement is so far off it’s too scary. I’ve buried myself in work (not hard with my job) and talked a lot to the two people who mean most to me in the world: Freddie my flatmate, and Rachel.
There are many things I love about my best mate, Rachel: 1. She’s patient; 2. She’s caring; and 3. She’s honest, top the list.
She’s always been there for me, no questions asked. Good friends just know, don’t they? When to skirt round an issue because they know the wrong word could lead to a major incident, and when only a hug will do.
She’s obviously decided that kittens are significant in some weird and wonderful way though, which is slightly disturbing.
I just wish she didn’t worry quite so much. I’d always been the one looking out for both of us – as she’s so damned nice and easy to take advantage of. But lately we’d had a role reversal.
This time I’d been the one taken advantage of, and I guess I’d crumbled before her eyes (not a pretty sight). I’ve always liked to be in control. And I’d been in total control of planning my bloody wedding. Until Andy had pulled the plug, and suddenly I felt like I hadn’t got a clue what I should be doing. Everything I thought I stood for had been tossed into the air. I’d floundered. Well, more like come to a complete halt. Scared of doing right for doing wrong.
Then I’d woken up to the realisation that although I might not have had control over him and my love life, I did have control over the rest my life. So, with a few snivels along the way I’d pulled my socks up and prepared to kick ass. Of the work kind.
‘I can’t stop worrying, Jane! I love you, you know that. But this is brill, you’re committing. I’m proud!’
‘Proud? Committing? Stop right there Rachel.’ I hold my hands up in a stop position, even though she can’t see. Committing is not a word I want to hear. Commitment is a pathway that leads to disappointment and humiliation.
The kitten tilts its head on one side then makes a leap for me, misses and drops to the floor. ‘It’s just a kitten, oh, shit, it’s fallen off the table! Hell, hang on, hang on while I …’ I’m down on my hands and knees. ‘Do they break easily? I’m going to be drowning in the brown stuff if I send any back damaged. Lora will kill me.’ A second one follows it, lemming style and just misses my head.
‘Damaged? Send it back? Who is Lora?’
‘The girl up the road, you know at Number 20, the one with bright red hair and a nose ring? She fosters animals for that rescue place. She lent the kittens to me and I need some bloody good pics of them, or Coral will sack me. Christ, I can’t even catch the bloody thing now, it must be okay.’
At this point, I need to establish something, I am not an animal batterer. I love them. I especially love cats with all their haughty indifference, independence, and demands to be fed and petted when they feel like it. On their terms. They are ace. I’d quite like to be reincarnated as one.
You may pet me now, you may feed me tuna (well, not tuna; chocolate brownies, maybe), you may tickle me just here. Here! You may go away and leave me, or I will turn nasty.
See, cats have got life sussed.
Cats are totally within their rights to show their displeasure by yelling or swiping. There are times when swiping would work for me.
I realise I am about to growl, as an unbidden image of Dickhead Andy sneaks into my brain. Maybe I’m not completely fine. Anyway, I definitely haven’t forgiven him. I would so like to swipe him, claws at full stretch until he is shredded into something resembling pulled pork.
I know I need to rise above his fuckwittery and take the moral high ground. Karma will come and bite him on the arse one day, not a cat.
Okay, so you’re wondering what Andy did? Did he take me out for a romantic meal, then break the news that it was over? Did he walk out, and leave a ‘Dear John’ on a sticky note stuck to the fridge? Did he get cold feet when we booked a wedding date, a venue?
Oh, no. Andy did this properly.
I mean, what kind of fiancé tells you IT IS OVER in the middle of your flaming hen party? There I was with my leg wound round a Chippendale look-alike (as in semi-naked man, not item of furniture) when I felt a funny sensation in my lower regions. It wasn’t the over exuberant entertainment, it was my phone buzzing in my new super-tight leopard-skin trousers (yes, it had seemed a good idea at the time, they were on-trend and freebies from a photoshoot I was doing for my fashion-diva boss Coral).
I know I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. I thought he’d be sending me a funny text message. Not the cryptic ‘this isn’t working’.
‘It is for me! Ha-ha.’ texted back jovially, as the Chippendale gyrated, and cast off another layer of clothing.
‘We need to talk.’
This is not something Andy ever said in real life. It’s on the scale of him declaring he’d given up beer or football.
‘What’s up?’ I’d typed with the thumb that was holding my phone, because my other hand was otherwise engaged catching cast off clothing. I was expecting him to tell me his stag night had been cancelled or he was missing me.
I wasn’t expecting a ‘Dear John’.
A very long one. It definitely wouldn’t have fit on a sticky note. Not even a whole pad of them.
That should have set alarm bells off. I mean, who sends a text that is so long it doesn’t fit on the screen? This was saga length in shorthand. But I was on a high, having fun, excited that soon I would be walking down the aisle with my One.
Or not.
Apparently, my darling fiancé had realised we were totally incompatible. That I didn’t need him because I was far too busy with my job. That he knew I was building my career and wouldn’t want to be a stay at home mum, which, according to Andy, was the only way to bring up kids (I didn’t even know kids were on the table, let alone a clause in the mental pre-nup – or had he been planning an actual pre-nup?). That I had to be grown up and realise it wasn’t going to work (that bit made me want to be totally un-grown-up and yell like a toddler). That he also thought I needed to spend more time cooking (like his mum did) and ironing (like his mum did) and entertaining his bloody boss (you got it). I am paraphrasing a bit here, but all this came completely out of the blue. Domestic goddess I am not, but I didn’t think I needed to be. I am the ‘licking fingers and inviting people round’ side of Nigella, not the ‘slaving over a hot stove’ side.
I slithered down my Chippendale onto the floor, all melting and pathetic, and had to be scooped up by Rachel and helped to a chair. My bones had become all
