That was it. There was no way I was getting away without kissing this fool. So I let him kiss me. I even kind of kissed him back – nobody wants to be remembered as a bad kisser – and then it was over and he looked at me all fucking doe-eyed for a moment before finally pissing off into the night, never to be seen again.
I looked him up when I got home and found photos of him in Calvin Klein underwear. I imagined waking up next to him, shafts of sunlight pouring across a body that shouldn’t rightly exist in nature, carved specifically with moments like this in mind. Then I imagined him smiling up at me, and I shuddered.
I texted him a few days later to tell him the truth: that I thought I was ready to date again but it turns out I wasn’t. I said I had a great time. And that he was wonderful. But I left out the part about him being a beautiful, empty vessel of a man, even though he probably would have taken it as a compliment. Incidentally, he didn’t offer me any money for the cab.
Theo looks at the high heels, then at me, then immediately averts his gaze. I can’t tell what he is or isn’t thinking, but his face seems to be locked in a permanent state of semi-anguish. He looks terrible. His longish, almond hair, which he always styles into a messy quiff, now lies limp and frizzy on his forehead. His whole body, usually poised in an athletic stance, seems sort of sunken somehow, and his skin is paler than usual, with dark puffy circles under his eyes.
I wonder if he’s been crying. If he regrets leaving. Part of me hopes he does. Part of me hopes that being back here reminds him how good he had it, that seeing me looking intentionally, effortlessly good will make him realise he made a mistake. Part of me wants him to drop to his knees and beg to be allowed back into my life. I don’t actually want him back – I’m through the worst of it now and I know that taking him back would be an insult to all I’ve been through – but I want to know that he knows he won’t survive without me. I think that would make me feel better.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asks. I make a mental note that we’ve arrived at chit-chat.
‘Great.’
‘Yeah?’
‘No, Theo. She’s upset, obviously.’
‘Oh.’
The kettle begins to boil, its steady crescendo adding some much-needed tension to the situation.
‘So, are we going to talk about all the women you’ve been seeing?’ I ask.
‘Fucking hell!’
That’s not a denial.
‘Because one of the main reasons you cited for ending our relationship,’ I go on, ‘was a desperate need to “focus on yourself” and “spend some time alone”, and now I hear you’re making every effort to avoid being alone.’
‘How did you find out?’ he asks. His nonchalance actually hurts a little; he really doesn’t care any more what I feel or what I think of him.
‘Oh please. You’ve spent weeks coming on to every woman in every bar this side of the Thames,’ I say. ‘We have a lot of mutual friends. Word gets around.’
That’s not entirely true; I read his text messages using an old phone he left behind.
‘Well, I’ve been grieving. I’m a fucking mess. It doesn’t mean anything, I just needed an outlet.’
‘I hope you opened with that,’ I say.
‘Piss off.’
‘No really, did you tell them they meant nothing up front or as they were collecting their knickers off your floor?’ I ask.
‘I haven’t had sex with anyone … How could I when I’m sleeping on a blow-up fucking mattress?!’
‘Wow.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he says.
‘It’s exactly what you meant.’
‘Look, can we not do this please? I’m not feeling great.’
Ha!
‘Not do what, Theo? Argue or break up or move your things out? Because the first is optional but the latter two are definitely happening.’
‘Well, I’m not the one who’s been lording it about all over the internet!’ he shouts.
Two things strike me about this sentence. Firstly, yes, I have dramatically increased both the quality and quantity of my Instagram posts. They have followed the exact same pattern as that of every other recently dumped woman: beginning with inspirational quotes and pictures of sunsets, shortly followed by photos of the family pet, and then graduating to nights out with friends and overly filtered, uncharacteristically hot selfies. I’ve been taking a lot of gratuitous selfies lately, as it happens, because I’ve dropped over a stone since the breakup and I look fucking great. That said, I’ve been unable to eat because I’m so upset and I’d give anything to have my appetite back. But silver linings, eh?
Secondly, did he just say, ‘lording it about’? I should really be focusing on the matter at hand but my brain can’t seem to get past this hilarious choice of phrasing.
‘Lording it about?’
Saying the words out loud makes me laugh. He looks on, incredulous. I’m not doing well to dispel the notion that I’ve lost it. I compose myself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I should have been more considerate. I should have thought about how my actions might affect you. I should have had more respect for you.’
His eyes narrow at me.
‘You’re not talking about Instagram, are you?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘You’re talking about me getting with other women.’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Great!’ he says. ‘When am I gonna hear the end of this?’
I sometimes wish I could record these gems to play back for him.
‘I brought it up twenty seconds ago, so …’
‘Well, what do you want to know?’ he asks indignantly, like he hasn’t been behaving like an utter prick. I pull back my shoulders and raise my chin almost imperceptibly and without a hint of emotion I ask the question I’ve wanted to ask for months.
‘Did you cheat on me?’
‘No,’ he says, almost too quickly.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘You might have said yes,’ I say. ‘Or not answered at all, which counts as a yes.’
‘I didn’t cheat on you.’
‘But you did start hitting on women a few days after you walked out on me,’ I say.
He doesn’t answer.
The kettle reaches its climax and switches itself off. Theo turns and walks back down the hallway towards the bedroom.
Interestingly, I didn’t look through Theo’s messages to find out if he’d cheated on me; I just wanted to know who’d written the last email I received from him, because I could tell that he hadn’t.
Three weeks into our ‘break’ we met for dinner, as planned, to discuss the future of our relationship. I was aware, far back in some shadowy corner of my mind, that said future did not exist, but I wanted to see him. He hadn’t spoken to me since he walked out; I had only received emails from him, all purely logistical. One asked if he could swing by the apartment to ‘pick up a few things’, so in an effort to be accommodating, I told him I was in Ireland with my mother but he could of course let himself in to get them. When I returned to London, I asked my friend Maya to meet me at my apartment because I knew, without knowing, what I would find.