Suddenly, the faces of every one of his exes flashed through my mind; women I’d met at parties or weddings or school reunions, each one of them a ‘crazy bitch’, according to him. He never spoke to any of them; he had cut them out immediately following their breakups. He confided this to me, joked with me about it, just as he was now joking with these other women about me. I got angry then, not at him but at myself. I had known he was capable of doing this. I was just too naive and too arrogant to believe he would do it to me. We all think we’ll be different, don’t we?
I opened his messages and the first conversation I found was with Darren. I scrolled back to the date of the breakup and found the usual supportive messages you’d expect from a friend; Darren saying it was the right thing to do, assuring him we’d both be okay, suggesting they go out for a pint to talk it over. Theo never seemed to take him up on this offer, though, and instead struck up a conversation with an old uni mate named Isaac.
Just four days into what Theo was then calling our ‘break’, Theo started telling Isaac about the women he’d been pursuing. He said he’d ‘gone back to that club last night and got another girl’s number’. He talked about a woman he’d met online who he was going on a date with (he took her out for breakfast on his birthday, as it transpires). And he seemed particularly keen on a girl named Natalie, who he’d been introduced to at a friend’s party.
Isaac and I had never really got along – his sole purpose in life was to get laid – so I was surprised to see him being jovial but firm with Theo. He suggested that Theo slow down a bit and process what he was going through. He also pointed out that Natalie had just gone through a breakup too and might need to be alone for a while, something Theo should maybe consider himself. It had been a long time since I’d seen Isaac and apparently he’d gone and done some growing up. But Theo was having none of it. He said that Natalie being unavailable only made her more appealing, and then he went on to describe in great detail the kinds of things he’d ‘like to do to her’.
Through a deluge of tears and with shaking hands I continued. I wasn’t proud of myself, nor did I feel one iota of guilt. Perhaps I should have – these were his private messages, after all – but I didn’t have the capacity to care.
What followed was a blurry montage of conversations with other male friends – some lewder than others – as well as messages to the women themselves. Each time, Theo opened with a similar comment about how he’d enjoyed meeting the girl in question, then followed up with a funny quip specific to their interaction (the tailored touch, nice) and ended with an invitation to grab a coffee or go for a drink, or a run, depending on her interests. It was all so measured, so strategic that it gave me chills. One conversation got pretty filthy pretty quickly, including pictures from both parties, and I couldn’t close it fast enough.
By 5 a.m. I was having a complete meltdown. I called Maya. She answered the phone and was met with the sound of my raspy breaths.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Are you choking?’
I managed to croak a ‘no’ at her.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need me to call an ambulance?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need me to call the police?’
‘No.’
‘Are you just having a mental breakdown relating to your recent breakup?’
‘Yes. That one.’
‘Well, I’m here. And I’ll stay on the line. And you can just talk when you’re ready.’
God bless this woman.
Once I’d regained something akin to normal breathing, I told her what I’d found. She listened quietly for a long time and then, finally, she spoke.
‘Right. Well. He’s a cunt.’
I agreed.
‘I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, because what you’ve just seen is both disgusting and heartbreaking. But I think we can all agree that you are better off without that sociopathic twat in your life. Also, for what it’s worth, he’s not okay. This is him acting out because he’s incapable of processing his emotions. You’ll deal with this. You’ll bounce back. He won’t.’
How does she always know exactly what to say?
‘Also he has stupid hair. It’s very generic.’
‘That’s fair,’ I said.
‘And he was a bit racist.’
‘Whoa! He’s not racist.’
‘Well, he was always weird with me,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but not because you’re black, for fuck’s sake! He’s weird with all my friends. This is part of the problem, Maya, he’s socially inept!’
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘but his grandmother was a racist old hag. Lord rest her soul.’
‘She was,’ I agreed.
‘And his mother’s not much better.’
‘Don’t get me started on his fucking mother, Maya.’
We laughed at this but the laughter didn’t feel right. There was a hollow sort of ache in my chest.
‘I failed,’ I said finally.
‘At what?’
‘The relationship.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Maya, ‘You can’t fail at a relationship. That’s like getting off a roller coaster and saying you failed because the ride is over. Things end. That doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t worth it.’
‘I’m not sure it was worth it, Maya. What did I get out of it?’
‘You got what you needed,’ she said. ‘And then one day it wasn’t what you needed any more.’
‘I don’t even know when that day was.’
‘I think it was a while ago, my love,’ said Maya, sadly.
‘Were we ever happy? I’m not being dramatic – I genuinely can’t remember.’
‘You were happy,’ Maya assured me. ‘You were fucking delirious. I saw it with my own two eyes. And things being shit now doesn’t erase all the good stuff. It still happened. Pain is just an inevitable part of life.’
‘It feels like I’m getting more than my fair share of it sometimes, that’s all.’
‘You’ve not exactly been lucky, no,’ said Maya, ‘but everyone has their shit. And I know there’ll be more shit for me down the line. Even if Darren and I don’t get divorced, one of us will get sick and die and I’ll feel my pain then. It’s just a matter of when.’
‘This isn’t your best pep talk ever.’
Maya laughed.
‘My point is, the only way not to feel pain is to never love anyone.’
‘That’s beginning to feel like a real option,’ I said.
By 6 a.m., Maya needed to get up and make breakfast for her baby, and I apologised profusely for making her day that bit harder. She of course told me it was fine, but as soon as I hung up, I ordered her a bunch of flowers anyway. Then I went to the shop to buy some boxes because I had decided during our phone call that today was the day I would pack Theo’s things.
I had a video call with my mam which lasted roughly eight hours; she went about her business in the background, tidying the house and making phone calls and cooking dinner, while I separated our record and DVD collections, stuffed his clothes into bags, packed boxes full of books, and stacked all of our framed pictures up against one wall. I sifted through our ‘memory box’, the general detritus of a four-year relationship, which I had collected from the start. There were hundreds of photographs and postcards and ticket stubs, but the birthday cards were the worst part; his handwriting, his promises of loyalty and love, even our silly little in-jokes. My mother told me to rip them up, but I couldn’t. I felt sorry for myself then. It wasn’t fair. Why should I have to do this alone? How come he got to just move out and move on? He would never have to look at this stuff again or sit, like I am now, sorting through it all. I was sinking, fast, when my delightfully dark mind offered me a solution.