‘Seriously,’ Paul scoffs, shaking his head.
The waiter comes over and places our meals down. In spite of everything, my margherita looks pretty good. It’s piping hot, the cheese bubbling, and yet, I don’t feel like eating anymore. The waiter offers us parmesan and we accept, half-heartedly. After grating it on our pizzas as we sit in tense silence, the waiter retreats.
Paul stares at his pizza but doesn’t touch it. He shifts in his seat.
‘I… I… I need a change,’ he says, wrenching his eyes up at me, his expression desperate, almost imploring.
‘Okay… What kind of change? What kind of job do you want?’ I ask, lifting a slice of my pizza and tentatively taking a bite.
It’s nothing like the delicious smoky woodfire pizza we had last time we were here, but it’s tasty nonetheless. It’s a decent margherita, and I need something tasty and familiar amid all this confusion.
‘I don’t… I…’ Paul fingers the crust of his pizza, peeling back a slice.
He looks at it, as though contemplating taking a bite, but drops the slice, sighing. He pushes his plate aside and buries his head in his hands instead.
‘I’m not getting another job,’ he tells me, eyeing me warily, before nervously looking away again.
‘Umm… Okay…’ I reply.
I’m trying to keep my composure, aware that other diners are still casting the odd glance in our direction, but this conversation is testing my patience.
‘Paul, what are you talking about? If you’re not getting another job, what are you going to do? Am I going to support you, because if that’s the case, don’t you think we should have spoken about this? We should have worked out a budget, decided how it’s going to work. You shouldn’t just spring stuff on me like this!’
I might have got a bit shrill at the end, but I think I mostly kept my cool.
‘A budget,’ Paul tuts. ‘That’s so you.’
I scoff, my reserve of sympathy and understanding running dry.
‘Okay. So you’re offended that I would have liked to have thought about a budget to support you with this major life decision? Fine,’ I sneer, rolling my eyes.
‘I don’t need your support,’ Paul states, regarding me coldly.
‘Okay, so how are you going to live then?’
‘I won’t need much,’ Paul insists, finally picking up his slice of pizza and taking a bite.
‘Right… I mean, we do live in London, Paul. It’s not exactly cheap,’ I point out.
Swallowing, Paul places his pizza slice back down. He takes a long deep breath.
‘I’m not going to be in London anymore,’ he says, meeting my gaze.
His expression is cold and tough, but a flush appears on his neck that he always gets when he’s anxious.
Now I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
‘So where are you going to live?’ I ask imploringly, my voice tremulous with frustration.
‘Sorry…’ Paul sighs, a note of empathy appearing in his frosty eyes.
He sits up straighter, almost formally, and fixes me with a steady gaze.
‘I’m sorry Rachel, but I need a break. I need to get away. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to India,’ Paul blurts out, with a sad, apologetic smile.
‘India?’ I echo.
‘Yes. I need to get away,’ Paul reiterates.
‘So, you’re going to India?’ I laugh.
Surely this is a wind-up? As if he’s actually going to India!
‘Yes,’ Paul confirms flatly, without a trace of humor.
‘What?’ I utter, a shiver of dread flowing through me, as it dawns on me that he might be serious. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I need to get away, like I said. And I’m going to go to India, where it’s cheap and I can support myself. I want to clear my head, take some time out,’ Paul tells me.
‘But India? It’s so far…’ I stammer, unable to take it in. ‘What are you going to do there? Travel around like a hippy? You’re having a mid-life crisis,’ I conclude.
Paul shrugs. ‘Maybe I am, but it is what it is.’
‘Oh right, okay. It is what it is, is it?’ I parrot back at him.
I’m aware that I probably sound a bit erratic now, but I don’t care anymore. My boyfriend of six years has randomly decided to jet off to the opposite side of the world. How am I meant to feel if not a bit erratic?
‘I can’t believe this,’ I balk. ‘What are you going to do? Find yourself?!’
‘Stop taking the piss, Rachel,’ Paul snaps. ‘Maybe I am going to find myself. What’s wrong with that?’
‘You’re thirty years old!’ I snap. ‘You’re not an 18-year-old on a gap year. Haven’t you found yourself already? I mean, who have you been for the past thirty years if you haven’t?’
‘I don’t know…’ Paul admits in an ominously quiet voice, his eyes strained, pricking with tears.
My anger dissipates slightly as I glimpse the sadness in his eyes. Paul rarely gets emotional. Maybe that’s why I haven’t noticed how unhappy he is. He has this stoic northern mentality that means he’s rarely moved by much, seeing emotional outpourings as self-indulgent or weak. Maybe he has been unhappy and felt the need to just carry on like nothing was happening, locking down how he really felt. Perhaps I should have checked in with him more. We probably should have discussed our priorities around DIY and holidays. I shouldn’t have automatically assumed we were on the same page. Maybe I have pushed him too hard.
‘Okay fine, we’ll go to India, have a proper break. We’ll sort this out,’ I insist, smiling encouragingly.
So tonight hasn’t gone exactly as I wanted it to and I’m definitely no closer to getting engaged, but love is about sticking by someone during the good times and the bad. It’s about doubling down when things get tough. Going to India isn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list, but if that’s what it takes for Paul to feel better again, then so be it.
‘No, Rachel. This is a holiday for us, it’s a holiday from us. This is something I want to do alone. I don’t want to “sort this out”,’ Paul insists exasperatedly, doing air quotes. ‘I want to leave.’
‘Leave?’ I croak, my head spinning.
‘Yes, I’m leaving the country, and I’m leaving you,’ Paul states, sadly but firmly, his expression chillingly serious.
He’s leaving me. I blink, unable to quite take it in.
‘But… but… what about the ring?’ I ask, picturing him lingering by the jewelers near my work, checking out engagement rings.
‘The ring?’ Paul frowns. ‘What ring?’
‘I thought…’ I feel my cheeks start to flush. ‘I thought you were buying an engagement ring?’ I ask.
‘Oh God.’ Paul groans, lowering his head into his hands, looking as mortified as I feel.
‘What is it?’ I utter.
‘I wasn’t buying a ring,’ Paul tells me, looking sheepish. ‘I was selling one.’
‘What?’
‘I sold my mum’s engagement ring to fund my trip,’ he tells me.