Rob Waters proposed to me three months after I slept with him. I thought it was one of those whirlwind romances you read about in magazines at the hairdresser’s. Five years and two postponed weddings later, I’ve accepted it’s more of a slow burner.
In two months’ time, however, we will finally, actually be saying, ‘I do.’ This time everything’s booked: the Blue Room at Burnby Castle near his parents’, the reportage photographer and the Rolls-Royce. Rob has been very hands-on, which is great; it was his decision to go with the strawberry brandy snap baskets.
We’re keeping it informal. He’ll be in a navy blue Hugo Boss suit and pale pink shirt, the same pink as the bouquet roses. My dress is very simply cut with just the right amount of Chantilly lace. I sold the last two meringues on eBay.
We still have to pick out our wedding bands. They’ll be platinum to match the engagement ring. It’s funny but since he gave me this rock I’ve never taken it off, not even when he wanted to postpone the wedding the first time (he’s scared of churches) or the second (he felt funny about being thirty-five). I suppose I just love Rob Waters. I love him and not for all the obvious reasons like the fact he’s incredibly easy on the eye and absolutely loaded. I love the neat way he’s put together, his pouty lips and blond curls. I love the way he walks and how he sleeps curled up. I love the way he wrinkles his nose and sniffs when he’s concentrating. I’ve grown to love how he calls me ‘Bunny’. I don’t even mind when he screams, ‘Who’s a filthy little bunny?’ when we make love. I just say, ‘I am.’
He’ll be back from the gym soon so I’m making salmon with wild rice and chicory salad for supper, his favourite. I move around the kitchen and find I’m humming to myself. I’m certainly a very lucky girl to live in this fabulous apartment right in the centre of London, the greatest city in the world. I’m young(ish), in love and about to be married. I have everything I ever wanted.
The door slams. He’s back early. I go to the top of the stairs. He looks up, ringing bells in my soul with his handsomeness.
‘Hi.’ I smile. ‘Supper’s nearly ready.’
‘Hey, Viv,’ he says, and I know by his voice something is wrong. I go into the living room and wait. He must have had a bad day at work. He steps into the room and just stands there and the look in his blue eyes chills my blood. It’s a look I’ve seen before, twice before. His eyes search my face as he slowly, sadly, shakes his head.
‘Oh no,’ I whisper, and sink onto the Graham and Green sofa.
‘I can’t do it, Viv,’ he says, and I feel my heart snap like stepped-on ice.
Nevergoogleheartbreak.com -
Self-help for Lovers
Rob Waters and I are ‘on a break’, taking time apart to discover what we want. Well, so he can discover he’s lost without me.
Moving out was my decision, a cruel-to-be-kind thing, like cutting back a lovely but straggly rosebush. You only do it to let something more beautiful bloom, and something beautiful will bloom for us when he realises what he’s lost and comes to get me back.
So yeah, no, just to be clear . . . We haven’t split up; we’re on a break - it’s different.
Obviously I was devastated when he cancelled our wedding . . . again (he doesn’t feel fully grown, spiritually speaking) and I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t stay, waiting like a spider with my wedding-dress web, could I?
I went upstairs that very evening and quietly started to pack. He asked me not to go, but this time something between us felt broken. I just left the dress and the veil hanging on the wardrobe door.
Now I have my own place, a little rented flat in north London. It’s fine. It’s what you’d call bijou. I was relieved when they finally got the sofa in (by taking the legs off and shoving for an hour). It’s funny, that sofa looked tiny at Rob’s.
Every day I wake up and remind myself he’ll be swinging by any minute, telling me he’s made a terrible mistake, he does want to marry me and it’s all back on.
Anyway, since I left, he hasn’t really been in touch (except to text me to ask if I knew where his hockey pads were) and I’ve developed a strange fascination. I’m finding myself researching heartbroken people. I’m obsessed with them. I’ve been collecting the details of other people’s break-ups and Googling words like ‘heartbreak’, ‘spinster’ and ‘dumped’, to see what’s out there. I haven’t been dumped, obviously, but I’m just interested. I can tell you there’s a whole lot of misery online. I’ve also begun to collect self-help books. I spend whole evenings in bookshops browsing through the personal growth section. There are many strategies you can use to help yourself. If only those broken-hearted people online knew!
Then I started thinking about putting all this together on a website. I’m thinking it’ll be something hopeful and upbeat, funny even, like an online magazine about relationships. The kind of place where self-help meets heartache, if that makes any sense. I’m thinking there’ll be case studies, top tips, an agony aunt forum - even a dating page. I know someone at work who might build it for me.
Yes, so that’s what I’ve mostly been thinking about these past few weeks since I left Rob. It’s kind of a project to throw myself into so I don’t spend every spare moment pining for him.
I do spend every spare moment pining for him, though. I wonder what he’s doing all the time, every second. But I’m not broken-hearted - as I said, we’re just on a break. And that’s what I think to myself every night as I take his T-shirt from under my pillow, hold it to my face and breathe in the last musky traces of his smell.
‘That morning I remember he was very keen to have sex. Afterwards I went to work as normal. At about half nine he sent a text: “I’m moving out” That’s all it said. When I got home, he’d gone. It was the secrecy that really got me, how he’d arranged everything behind my back.
He took all the cutlery. After two years of living together, he left me without so much as a spoon to stir my tea.’
Debbie, 28, Glamorgan
It’s Monday evening at Posh Lucy’s, Battersea. We’ve been scouring the internet for more break-up stories for the website.
‘There was a girl I used to work with,’ I say.
‘Hmm?’ replies Lucy, without looking up.
‘And she caught her fiancé in bed with their eighteen-year-old neighbour.’
‘Nasty.’
‘She used to go round to his place after that and hang about outside. Like, every night.’
‘Why?’
‘So she could see him.’
‘Isn’t that stalking?’
‘And she left little anonymous notes . . . loads of them, Sellotaped to his door.’
‘Poor, sad woman.’
‘That must take dedication. Imagine that - every night.’ I consider going to Rob’s and doing something similar, but he lives on a very busy street and I know all the neighbours because I lived there myself for five years.
I pick up the phone just to check a text hasn’t come in.
‘Ring him,’ says Lucy.
‘I can’t ring him. As I’ve already explained to you, I’m waiting for him to ring me.’
‘So you were about to marry him and now you can’t even talk to him?’
‘I can’t ring him after I moved out, can I? What would I say? “Hi there. Have you missed me yet? Shall I come back? Want to get married?”’
‘What if he doesn’t ring you?’
‘He will. It’s about time now. He’s had the first week for it to sink in, the second week to enjoy his freedom, go to the gym, watch the rugby and all that, and another week to realise he’s lost without me. He’ll be calling anytime now. It’s textbook stuff.’ I glare at her. Making her accept this theory is extremely important.
‘Okay.’ Lucy shrugs and drains her glass. I finished mine ten minutes ago. I suddenly wish I had a cigarette; it’s been quite an intense evening with all these dumped stories. It makes me so glad I haven’t been dumped.
Lucy collects up the glasses. ‘Want another?’ She walks with perfect posture to the kitchen. I consider the gleaming surfaces and unblemished white carpet of Lucy’s flat. I read somewhere that the state of a woman’s house is linked to her state of mind. If that’s true, then Lucy must be mentally extremely healthy. Lucy’s always been sorted, though. At university she interior-designed her dorm room. She had a colour scheme, a new colour television, taffeta curtains and scented candles. In my room next door I had a new washbag and thought myself swish. I nearly died when she knocked and introduced herself, with her perfect accent and her ‘Fancy a G and T?’ I was amazed at how nothing ever fazed her. I called her ‘Posh Lucy’ and she started introducing herself like that at the Freshers’ Ball, as though it were some sort of title: ‘Hi, I’m Posh Lucy and this is my little friend Vivienne.’
Anyway, she’s done well for herself and she deserves it. She works very hard, so she says. I think of my own place. I haven’t actually finished unpacking yet, but I know, even when I have, it’s going to be depressing. You know why? Because it’s a single girl’s flat. Nothing against single girls, mind; it’s just that I’m not one of them. I might have moved out, but I’m still a fiancée. I’m ‘in a relationship’. I rub the skin of my wedding ring finger. It feels naked without the engagement ring.
God, I feel miserable.
A whole month without Rob. I mean, I know we’re on a break, but I didn’t realise it would be like this. This is a complete cut-off . . . like death.
I put my feet up on the coffee table next to a neatly stacked pile of glossy magazines. My eye falls on the cover girl with her hair blowing back and her caramel lips. ‘Women who have it all,’ it says across her chest. I flick through to the article. The woman with it all has high heels and an expensive-looking hairdo; there she is in her office, holding up a pen with authority. Next she’s lounging with a tray of croissants in satin pyjamas, and she probably hasn’t eaten a croissant since the early eighties. There she is crouching on her private beach cuddling three gorgeous kids (although, hold on, is one of them cross-eyed?).
She really actually has it all. Beautiful home, CEO of a blue-chip company, happily married and she still finds time to bake. She’s not the kind who sits around waiting for ex-fiancés to call. I start to fill in the little quiz at the bottom.
Are You a ‘Have It All’ Girl?
Age: Thirty-two - and, as we know, age, like dress size, is just a number.
Relationship: On a break.
How would you describe your relationship on a scale of one to five, five being totally perfect? N/A.
How would you describe your career on a scale of one to five, five being completely fulfilling? Also N/A - what I do for a living isn’t really my ‘career’.
How would you rate your friendships with the key people in your life? Hmm, key people . . . Lucy and Max, I suppose. My oldest friends. I tick ‘good’, then change it to ‘excellent’ in case Lucy sees it.
What you have to do is add up your scores and find the description to fit yourself. The upshot of mine is that I should work out my priorities and set ‘life goals’. Of course! Life goals are what I need.
Well, obviously I don’t define myself according to whether I’m in a relationship or not, but I have to be honest here and say it’s Rob: getting married to Rob, having Rob’s children . . . but I suppose I should have ‘Get a career’ as a life goal too. I’m not a total loser and I’ve always thought it would be good to become a buyer for Barnes and Worth, the department store chain where I work, before going off on maternity leave.
I’m a product manager in ladies’ gifting, and as such I spend my daylight hours putting together ‘gift options’ so people can buy conveniently for their maiden aunts and mother-in-laws.
Summer rain bubble bath with body lotion set (you get a free toiletries bag covered with raindrops), pop-up brollies, nailcare sets, massage mitts, soft leather gloves, quilted make-up bags, animal-shaped key rings with built-in torches, seasonal headgear, grow-your-own herb kits, mini luxury jam-taster collections. You know the sort of thing.
I glance at the silent phone. It’s Rob’s birthday this month. Should I call and wish him happy birthday? When do you stop remembering your boyfriend’s birthday? I must research this; it’s exactly the kind of thing the website should tell you.
Last year I organised a surprise trip to Rome for his birthday. It was very romantic, except he said to not do a surprise trip again because he felt ‘hoodwinked’. But I mustn’t reminisce about the good times - gritty reality is what I need. Get things into perspective. I pick up one of Lucy’s broadsheets.
‘Leading doctor says women putting off motherhood are risking infertility.’
I examine the picture of a woman in a suit sadly holding some knitted booties up to her face, with the caption ‘Fertility falls off a cliff in mid-thirties.’ Oh, now I feel very bad. I stare at the booties woman who’s left it too late. She looks like me. Why do they print stuff like this? Why, when women aged thirty-something might be reading? What are we meant to do - run out into the street, find any man who can stand up unaided and get up the duff before the pretty fertility balloon floats away, pulling up its ladder for ever? I throw the newspaper on the floor.
Anyway, I’m not mid-thirties yet. I have years before the cliff thing happens and by then I’ll be back with Rob.
Lucy returns with champagne - real champagne, mind, not sparkling wine. She can afford it: she has some big swanky job in a big swanky office in Berkeley Square. It’s funny, really - I know the details of her sex life but not so much about how she earns a living. She once sat me down to explain. It was, ‘Stocks, shares, market, bull, bear, risk-assessment trading, blah.’ She’s quite important, I think. I slurp up the winking bubbles.
‘I was thinking,’ I say, ‘we could have a kind of dating page on the site where people are reviewed by their exes - you know, like on Amazon where books get reviewed? You can see what other people think before you buy. It might be fun.’
‘Except all your exes think you’re devil spawn.’
‘Not all . . . do they?’
‘You turned Ginger Rog gay, remember?’
‘You can’t turn someone gay, Lucy. It’s not like a cult.’
‘That guy from the RAC, then. The one you slept with after he fixed your Mini. He said you ruined his life.’
I stare at her. ‘You know, you should be an agony aunt with that knack for straight talking.’
‘Hmm, yeah . . . “Ask Lucy”. I like it,’ she says dreamily.
I pick up the phone and turn it off and on again in case there’s a fault.
‘Why don’t you just call Rob? I don’t know what you’re scared of.’
‘I’m not scared of anything.’
‘Just do it, then. Put yourself, and me, out of your misery.’
‘Okay, I will.’ What I really do not want to do is call Rob. I haven’t spoken to him since I moved out. I’m sure the rules of ‘on a break’ state that I’m the one who left and so he should be the one to ring. I mean, you can’t leave someone and then be ringing them up morning, noon and night. Lucy is glaring. Maybe I could just pretend to call him . . .
‘And don’t do that pretend phone conversation thing where you just say, “Uh-huh,” a lot,’ she says.
I scroll down to his number and press ‘call’. I show her the terrifying display - ‘Dialling Rob’ - and put the phone to my ear, staring her straight in the eye. Scared indeed - ha! It rings. My heart’s jumping like a gerbil in a box.
‘Rob Waters speaking.’
I hang up and throw the phone like it’s hot.
‘Nice one,’ says Lucy.
The phone rings. We both look over to where it landed. I scrabble to get it.
‘It’s him,’ I say.
‘No shit,’ she says, making her eyes unattractively wide.
I jab the button.
‘Vivienne Summers speaking.’
‘Hi, it’s Rob . . . Did you just call?’ The sound of his lovely voice makes me ache.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say airily.
‘Your number came up.’
‘All right, all right . . . I did call, but it was a mistake.’
‘Oh. So. How are you, Viv? Are you okay?’
‘Fine. Very, um, healthy and busy, you know . . . How are you?’
‘Great.’ There’s a pause and I hear plates being cleared.
‘Are you eating?’ I say.
‘Are you going on Saturday?’ he says at the same time.
‘Saturday? Saturday, er . . .’ Yes, good! Pretend not to know it’s Jane and Hugo’s wedding. Pretend not to care that this Saturday was one of the dates we’d considered for our big day.
‘Hugo’s wedding?’ he says.
‘Oh yeah. I’ll be there.’
‘Me too. Should be a good do.’ He’s pretending not to care either, but I can tell by his voice he’s looking forward to seeing me. We’ll be in the same room. I’ll make sure I look completely gorgeous. I think seeing me is what he’s needed; he’ll beg me to take him back. A month apart will have been nothing. We’ll sit by a crackling fire and laugh about it one day.
‘Actually, I was going to call you about Saturday,’ he says.
‘Really?’ He’s going to ask me to go with him. I’ll say no, of course; I don’t want to seem keen.
‘Yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be with someone . . . erm, a guest.’
I feel something snag in my throat. ‘A guest? Oh. Who?’ I say in a strangely high voice.
‘A friend of mine.’
‘A girl . . . friend?’
‘Yeah.’ The apology in his voice stabs me through the heart. It takes a second for me to breathe again.
‘What kind of girlfriend?’
‘What do you mean, what kind?’
‘Is she a friend who’s a girl, or is she your girlfriend, like, you know . . . a girl who’s sleeping with you?’ Lucy is making cutting movements at her throat with her hand. I turn away. ‘Uh . . . what does it matter?’
‘Well, I don’t know, does she matter? Where did you meet her? When did you meet her? Jesus, Rob, I’ve only been gone a month!’
‘Look, Viv, don’t get upset—’
‘Upset? Who’s upset? Not me!’
‘I can’t really talk now. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be there with someone.’
‘Me too. I’m bringing someone - not a girlfriend, obviously. No, no. So . . . I’m glad you mentioned it. I was just about to say, you know, to be prepared. Don’t know how you’ll feel, seeing me with someone else . . .’
‘Good. Well, that’s great, then - see you Saturday.’
‘See you then!’ I must hang up before he does. I jab ‘end call’.
‘Bye, Viv,’ I hear him say as I collapse.
2 July, 08:03
From: C. Heslop
To: Vivienne Summers
Subject: Re: Rate Your Ex
Vivienne was great. I would definitely recommend her for a date. She’s attractive too - eight out of ten, probably more if she’s made an effort. She’s quite a determined person - some might say stubborn, which did become an issue for me. She’s impulsive, which can be fun but also wearing, and I found on occasion she was a little clingy.
Charlie Heslop, 36, London
I would like to point out that this guy, Charlie Heslop, once slept on my doorstep because he wanted to see what time I came home - and now suddenly I’m clingy? Ugh. Delete. Delete. We won’t have ‘Rate Your Ex’ on the site: Lucy was right.
But I can’t think about the website now, or anything at all, because . . .
Rob is seeing someone.
I’ve said it aloud, I’ve written it down and underlined it, but I can’t take it in.
My thoughts repeat on a loop. Who is she? Do I know her? Where did he meet her? Was he seeing her before I left? What size are her thighs? And around again . . . and whole hours pass and now I’m surprised to find it’s Wednesday morning.
You can’t just ring up your ex-fiancée, tell her, ‘I’m bringing someone on Saturday,’ and expect that to be okay. It’s as if he knifed me. I’m stuck in some hellish whirlpool of despair. I can’t function. I can’t sleep. I’ve been a zombie at work.
Work! I glance at the wall clock. It’s seven fifteen.
Oh no. I can’t face going in today. I think I’m coming down with something. My throat feels a bit scratchy, actually, and my stomach’s dodgy. I really feel the best thing would be to stay in my pyjamas and walk round and round the flat. I circle the plastic coffee table for a bit, crossing warm patches of sun on the cheap laminate. I rest on the arm of the sofa and gaze out of the window over the rooftops, imagining Rob and this . . . this she-devil. I see them working through the Kama Sutra, laughing at my failings and filling bin bags with leftover traces of me . . . my shower gel, half-empty packets of hair dye, soufflé dishes with burnt-on bits. Down on the street the first commuters are beginning the morning march towards the station.
Oh God, I have to get to work; there’s this big meeting today. I have to be there.
In the bedroom I pull clothes from my wardrobe to the floor. My Rob is with someone. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’ll be with someone.’ Those were his exact words, the words that sent me to hell. I step into a black dress and struggle to zip up the back. It can’t be real. Here was I waiting for him to ring and all the time he’s out there meeting someone. I mean, it’s only been a month. Didn’t he even miss me a bit? Couldn’t he have rung, just once? I pull on the buzzing bathroom light and start cleaning my teeth.
He’s probably waking up with her right now . . . waking up in our bed with her. Thinking this brings on a kind of madness and I quickly spit, rinse and start the pacing again.
Everything in this place is wrong and strange and frightening. I want Rob. I want our - well, his - beautiful, expensive apartment, our morning routine. He’ll be out running now, having eaten his fruit platter and rice cereal. I know the old blue T-shirt he’ll wear, how it clings to his chest. Then he’ll shower - I know exactly how, hair first, blond curls turning dark under the water. I love to watch him while I get ready. We always leave for work together . . . We always used to leave for work together. That little peck on the cheek he gave me when he got off the train. Who’s he pecking now? Her, that’s who.
I walk from the bathroom to the bedroom in about five paces and sit on the bed to buckle the straps of my black sandals. I bought this bed only one month ago. I remember thinking how it wouldn’t be a waste of money because Rob and I actually needed one in the spare room anyway. Lucy came over to my flat and bounced on it.
‘Think of all the shagging adventures you’ll have in here,’ she said.
‘When Rob comes round, you mean?’
‘Er, no, I said adventures.’
‘We have adventurous sex.’ I was all indignant.
‘What, that time you left the lights on?’ she laughed, and I pushed her backwards.
Bloody Lucy. I sigh as I brush my hair. What a fool I’ve been. A total and utter idiot, sitting here thinking he’d be missing me. I imagine him bringing a girl home, turning the key, opening the door. She’s admiring the space that I decorated, lying down on the sheets that I picked out. The pain of it burns. He’s mine, my fiancé, my safe future. With him is the only life I know. Our destinies were entwined - he actually said that. I haven’t even tried to unravel myself, but he’s out, he’s free, running to the next adventure, pausing only to toss a grenade into my life.
Oh God, I feel a panic attack starting. I try to breathe slowly as I scrabble in my make-up bag for tinted moisturiser. I draw on eyeliner and lipstick, but to be honest my face is so puffy from crying there’s only so much I can do.
What about Bob and Marie? His parents love me. Marie knits me a new winter hat and mitt set every Christmas. Does this mean I’ll never get to sit in their conservatory sipping sweet white wine from their best crystal ever again? What about the golf lessons Bob promised? What if Marie’s already started on the knitting? I walk back into the living room. Oh, when will I see Bob and Marie again? I’d imagined them as the grandparents of my children - kind and patient, grey and bespectacled like in a storybook. They were the only normal, stable thing in my life. Now they’re gone. I can’t stand it. I throw myself down onto the scatter cushions and sob for the loss of them.
After a while my left leg goes numb. I get up and check the clock. It’s half seven. I look at the huge French mirror I thought was cool when I moved in here. Now it seems silly. Rob wouldn’t like it. It’s too heavy to hang. I thought it looked arty leaning against the wall, but it gives a funny reflection - my thighs are not really wider than my shoulders; I’ve checked. I stand in front of it now and take a long look: a puffy-eyed, brown-haired girl in a plain dress. I suck in my tummy, open my eyes wide and fluff up my fringe a bit. I wipe away smudged liner. I stand up straight, then collapse into my normal posture. There’s no getting away from it, I look like I feel: shit. I need help. Luckily I have Lucy on speed dial.
‘Lucy speaking.’
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Viv, this isn’t a good time.’ She sounds like she’s holding her breath.
‘Yeah, it won’t take a minute. I just want to know - how would you describe me? Am I pretty?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what way? Sexy pretty? Girly pretty? Sophisticated pretty?’
‘Sexy pretty,’ she gasps.
‘Hmm. Vamp sexy pretty, or understated sexy pretty?’
‘What would you like to be?’ She seems to be panting now.
‘Well, I think ideally I’d be . . . not-trying-too-hard sexy pretty.’
‘You’re that.’
‘I’m not, though - I do try hard.’
‘I don’t care, Viv! There’s a man under my covers and I don’t want to hear your voice any more.’ She hangs up.
I can’t believe it. How selfish. Actually, Lucy can sometimes be selfish . . . and hard. I mean, she knows I’m heartbroken. And who’s the man under the covers, anyway? She isn’t even seeing anyone. I can’t believe she’s seeing someone and hasn’t told me. She’s secretive as well as hard and selfish.
I go int. . .
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