‘Hi girls, so great to see you all,’ Jeremy said politely, and swooped down to kiss each of us on the cheek. He then wrapped his long arms around Bea and squeezed her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground. ‘Sad day?’
‘It really is,’ I sighed before Bea could reply, and flinched as he picked up one of Bea’s huge duffel bags with ease, swinging it over his shoulder.
‘Sorry to be a pooper, but we’d better get going, Bea, you know, to beat the traffic,’ he said.
‘Good point,’ Bea said, looking at us, glumly.
The three of us, the remaining ones, did a last lap of the house, saying goodbye to all the rooms. The kitchen, where we’d made countless disgusting drinks; we had followed that hideous trend of putting Skittles in vodka for a time. Then Bea’s downstairs bedroom, with a door leading onto the garden patio (covered in bird poo and old bin-bags ripped apart by foxes), which she’d proudly decorated with one of those giant dreamcatchers hanging above the bed and where we’d often watched back-to-back episodes of Friends. The living room, where once we’d staged a private karaoke party; we’d invited everyone we’d met in the night-club queue that evening and the neighbours had complained and almost called the police. Isla’s bedroom, on the floor of which we’d eaten many a Domino’s pizza, and Cec’s room, where she had once dressed up as a giant banana and, having got wedged in the door for hours, ended up wetting herself.
And finally, my room, the biggest, with an old fireplace and wooden flooring. My bed seemed to be the place we all gathered when we were sad. It was the room we’d get ready in before a night out because it had the most floor space. The room where we would sit on the floor and chat for hours. There were nail-varnish stains on the walls and burn stains on the rug from hair straighteners. I loved this room – our communal room.
The doorbell went again. Isla was collected by her second cousin Sarah, who also lived in London. Isla had lost her parents in a freak road accident at a young age, and depended on the kindness of her friends and extended family who had wrapped a web of love around her over the years. Cec was the last to leave, picked up by her mum and dad, Tiff and Todd, in their brand-new Land Rover. They would be going back to their large house in the countryside to warm themselves by the fire. I always felt a pang of jealousy thinking of Cec’s family and their luxurious lifestyle, but instantly shook it away. Cec hugged me closely, as she always knew to do when I was feeling vulnerable.
‘Are you going to be OK here until Zeta arrives?’ she asked me.
‘Yes of course,’ I said, knowing her question was rhetorical, as Tiff had her hand on Cec’s shoulder, and Todd was waiting in the car. They were ready to leave.
‘Sure?’ She lowered head and scanned my face with her eyes.
‘Yes, go on, I don’t want to hold you up,’ I said, and ushered her outside. I squeezed Cec, and shivered. She got inside the car in the back seat and waved with a sad, tight-lipped smile. Tiff and Todd were in the front, beaming, clearly happy to be reunited with their daughter. I went back inside and shut the green front door behind me, the one we had all opened and closed thousands of times, and it suddenly felt cold, with no people warming up the house.
I sat on the stairs, waiting for Zeta like a lost puppy. The minutes turned into hours, and I didn’t enjoy having that much thinking time, alone in a house full of memories, reflecting already on a period of time with friends that I would never experience again.
2
2019
It’s been six weeks now since Jacob and I broke up. It feels like a quick snap of the finger, and yet absolutely ages, all at the same time. It’s been horrible and everything feels uncomfortable and sticky. My brain keeps going around and round like a broken record: nine years down the drain. Nine whole years.
I close my windows and put my bedroom fan on to the strongest setting. A cheap one from Amazon that makes an irritating buzzing sound. It’s a muggy day, and my flat suddenly feels boiling.
I have heaps of washing-up that needs doing. Heading into the kitchen, I turn on the red digital radio that stands on the shelf above my sink, and it blasts out BBC Radio 4. I listen while I put on my Marigolds. The tap splashes some water on my face, and I realize I’m crying a bit too – at least I’ve held off longer than I did yesterday.
‘According to papers today, Millennial women are suffering from the paradox of choice. They have a multitude of options that can problematize decision-making! Too much choice! Tweet us – do you feel like having too many options is holding you back?’
I turn the radio off. What an annoyingly chirpy voice.
I have the Sunday blues, but I also feel glad that I have an office to go to tomorrow after a depressingly quiet weekend. I posted some old photos of me sitting in the park on Instagram so that people might think I was busy. In reality, I’m not quite ready for human contact. I’m also ninety-five per cent full of booze and chocolate orange and didn’t move all weekend except for occasionally putting a cold glass of gin to my lips. I am bigger since the break-up – I feel like a woman made of Play-Doh but it feels strangely comforting. I can grab hold of parts of myself I never could before. My body has changed and morphed, and now I’m my very own teddy bear. My skin is blotchier than usual too. I’m needing half a bottle of something to sleep each night. But I think I’ve gone through the worst of it. At first I spent many days festering in bed in my own juices, distracting myself by watching Netflix documentaries about climate change, serial killers, and how the world is totally fucked beyond repair, and surprise, surprise, it didn’t really help. Then I tried reaching for some positivity: old movies, reading my favourite erotica books, and watching old episodes of MTV Cribs on YouTube. I even forced myself to get a haircut, to try and make myself feel better, and the new hairdresser guy gave me a head massage at the sinks that felt so good I burst into tears. Because the only intimacy I can get at the moment is a hairdresser touching my scalp. I messaged the girls about inane things on WhatsApp – I haven’t told them about the break-up yet. Telling them would make it real, and I want to talk it through with them in person. But everyone seems a bit preoccupied; no one really replies on the WhatsApp group beyond a few quick emojis these days anyway.
Bea always says to ‘give yourself a wallowing deadline’ whenever you feel down, meaning that you should wallow intensely, feel it all properly and then decide when to stop. My deadline is up. It’s been long enough now. I have to face life again, whatever that means. I start with having a clear-out. My flat is not dirty, but it is certainly messy – there is stuff everywhere. I have ornaments and vases covering every surface, faux plants hanging off every shelf; there is a fruitless fruit bowl full of receipts, bills and paper clips. I have a pile of books gathering dust next to the TV and torn-out recipe clippings from old magazines stacked up on the end of my kitchen counter that I am not planning to read again. I grab two blue Ikea bags and start loading them up with books, old jumpers, pieces of painted crockery and vases that I no longer need. Giving away things to a charity shop every now and again always makes me feel better, like I’m in control of what I let in and out of my life. I call up the shop at the end of my road, owned by a lady called Mrs Farnham who does next-day charity collections. It rings a couple of times.