if Matt breaks up with me, it won’t only be my relationship that ends. My future career goes too. I can’t give readers a break-up story. It’s too depressing. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but we made a commitment,’ I tell Matt. ‘You agreed, remember? While you’re working on your tan, I’m trying to hold everything together here.’ Then I get a terrible thought. ‘Did you tell anyone? That you’re backing out?’
‘I’m not definitely backing out. Can’t you give me some space?’
‘Matt. Space is not seeing each other for a few nights so we can go home to do our laundry. Why can’t you just admit that you’re backing out? Did you tell anyone?’ I know he didn’t put anything on Facebook, because he’s not on there. I guess I should be grateful for that, though it does make it impossible to see what he’s doing every second of the day like I want to.
‘Only my parents,’ he says. ‘I had to when I went away.’
That explains why I haven’t heard from his mother. She usually checks in. Now she’s avoiding me. ‘Matt, help me understand what’s wrong. Please.’
I can hear him take a sip of something. I bet it’s alcoholic and frosty in the sunshine. It’s overcast here. ‘I keep thinking back to when we were first together,’ he says. ‘We were perfect for each other.’
I’m so tempted to answer him, to tell him I feel the exact same way. But I have to let him talk. I’ve asked the question. Now I need to hear the answer.
‘And you know I wasn’t looking for a relationship. It just sort of went that way. With everything being so nice and fun between us, it was easy. I’m just not sure it’s really what I want.’
‘But you asked me to marry you,’ I point out. He definitely did. I might be fuzzy on more recent details, but I remember every second of that morning: the overcooked scrambled eggs in bed, just ‘because’, he’d claimed. The way he’d kept watching me while we ate, until I asked him what was wrong. How awkwardly he’d held my hand over the breakfast tray, dragging my sleeve through the buttered toast. And then his question, without preamble: will you marry me?
‘I know,’ he says now. ‘That’s because I do love you. I do. You’ve got to believe that. Even if I’m not sure about being married, I do love you. This really isn’t about you. I hope you can believe me. I might not be ready for such a commitment. Not yet. But you’ve got everything planned already, and with the magazine coming … it makes it so official.’
Finally, an answer! I’ve been wracking my brains for weeks trying to figure out how to fix this, and finally I know. ‘What if I cancelled the magazine? Would that help?’ It won’t help me, but sod it. My relationship is more important. I’ll figure out how to pay Martha the advance back later. Maybe I can get a second job. The important thing is that I can fix this now.
‘It might,’ Matt says.
That doesn’t sound completely fixed. ‘Might? Or would?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he says.
‘That’s not enough for me.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. That’s why I didn’t ask you to do it.’
What am I supposed to do now? Give up the magazine and my chance to change my career along with it, in the hope that he’ll eventually come around?
‘This is why I need the time, Nelly,’ he goes on. ‘I’ve got to figure things out before we can go forward. I’m sorry. I know it’s not ideal.’
‘I can’t wait around forever for you to decide what you want, Matt. I’ve got a week before I need to know. It’s the twenty-seventh when the magazine gets here. At least give me the courtesy of telling me by then.’
This is just great. He’s off at the beach and I’m stuck holding the wedding goodie bag. Or not, as the case may be.
It turns out Matt doesn’t need the whole week to decide our future because two days after our call, he emails me.
Email! The flippin’ coward.
He understands, he says, if I want to go on with my life. What’s that supposed to look like anyway?! Telling everyone I know that I’ve been jilted? Going to debtor’s prison for not being able to pay back the magazine advance? Wallowing until I’ve cried so much that I actually die from dehydration? He says that since he can’t make a decision in the time I’ve given him, he’ll need to say no for now. Like I’ve offered him a second helping of peas, not my heart.
So that’s it. I am officially a dumped woman. I’d love to say it’s not as bad as I feared, but it’s actually worse. My double-crossing mind keeps replaying our greatest hits to maximise my misery. Thanks, brain, for reminding me of all the times he turned up after work with a picnic so we could sit in the park on warm summer evenings or the way his face looked extra gorgeous when he was sleeping. And I’m ever so grateful to have his proposal on loop, like some sick-making ride I can’t get off.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m going to have to face my family next week at my dad’s birthday party. They’ll definitely ask where Matt is. What am I supposed to say, that he’s got food poisoning again? They’ll think I’m marrying someone with serious digestive issues … when, actually, I’m not marrying anyone at all, am I? #dumped.
Meanwhile, I’ve had to keep posting on my Instagram account every day as if nothing has happened. Believe me, that’s not easy with all this crying. I’ve resorted to taking selfies with dark sunglasses on. It’s only a matter of time before people start thinking I’ve had glaucoma surgery.
‘How are you doing?’ my co-worker Jenny asks as she stops by my desk. She’s making a remarkably ugly sad face. Her eyes practically close as she scrunches up her expression, and I can see the remnants of a cold sore when she juts out her bottom lip. Normally she’s the prettiest one here, so I’m touched that she puts herself out like this for me.
I’ve only told my office about me and Matt because they’re a safe audience. Other than fearing that I’m going to blub all over them in the corridor, most of them have no skin in this game. I’ve been practising on all the non-essential people I can find – colleagues, one of my neighbours, the guy at the café around the corner who makes my tea just the way I like it. I’ll work my way up to actual friends and, oh, God, my family.
‘How long till I can go home?’ We both look at the wall clock.
‘I’m sneaking off early to meet a friend,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come? It’ll be fun.’
With the way I’m feeling, she could have asked me to join her for a two-for-one smear test and it would’ve been infinitely preferable to sitting at my desk right now with thoughts of Matt running around my head. Besides, I don’t want to be at work this week even more than I usually don’t want to be at work.
I don’t hate my job, per se. Like almost everyone who has to get up for the Monday morning commute, I just wish I didn’t have to do it. But those insurance claim forms won’t process themselves, will they? You can only aspire to imagine the glamour of my work week.
‘Let’s go,’ I tell her, shoving my phone into my handbag.
I don’t know who I expect Jenny’s friend to be, but it isn’t a six-foot-something Colombian who looks like he’s on the national volleyball team. Once he’s kissed Jenny’s cheeks, Rafael flashes me the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Please, let me get the next round in.’
‘Wow, he’s …’ I say after he goes to the bar.
Jenny nods. ‘I know. His accent makes me think of piña coladas.’
‘Was that penis coladas? Did you and he ever