Love, and Other Things to Live For Read online

  In order to move on, sometimes you need to get moving. Having lived in a busy city, it may be time to escape to a leafy suburb complete with riverside walks and the need for waterproof clothing. The main importance of this activity is getting away from what I’ve been used to, playing opposites enabling my mind to wander into another energy setting. There is nothing more reassuring to me than seeing the sun set above a skyline I’m not used to, knowing that when the sun rises, hopefully, new possibilities will arise too. Parks also offer enough escapism to imagine, just for a second, that I am in the countryside: another world where trees, fresh air and open space collide. Looking around, I can see the beneficiaries firsthand, couples strolling hand in hand, joggers, readers and dog walkers. There is no better feeling than when the warm sun beams down on your face as you walk down a rickety path through the giant trees.

  But it’s always a comfort to know that an immeasurable sea of people inhabit the earth at precisely the same time as me. The people of my zeitgeist, comrades and fellow friends at arms. I mentioned the need to move forward, but of course this is not truly possible without the honest reverberation of human connection: or my friends. Those rare friends who sacrifice their precious time to sit and listen to the repeat realisation over and over again as if it’s their first time of hearing it; all seeking a common destination of happiness as we pass the ball of encouragement back and forth between us. Under such honest tuition, there is no need to self-monitor. Advice comes in waves, and we may listen. This familiar buffer against the self-harm we often do to ourselves is the only outside eye we have. I take pleasure in carefully observing the fellow wildlife of others, comparing myself to what we deem is the norm. And when I feel the void, I know that I can always rely on the guidance of others in the bourgeoisie of our social climate. They wouldn’t dare let me date if I’m not ready to move on, or let me befriend a new person who isn’t exactly a support. They love me. They care. I should listen.

  And so on to the next day: if only I could see that day that I’m imagining. Something I can see beyond how many miles, across how many oceans, aboard how many planes. Revisiting that landmark of the day that tipped the balance. The day that forced all toleration to crumble, the day a choice for something new took hold and the rewards of change had come to fruition. No longer do you have to test the boundaries of what your heart can take but instead you can be happy. Emerging from the flood, a slightly better, more water-resistant version of a person, to have the ability to travel through life again this time, returning slightly less scathed. I listened to the beat, to the sound of my heart, a drum-like pounding saying: use this, use today.

  Chapter Four – Virtual Insanity

  Checklist for Modern Romance:

  •An electronic device for downloading free text messaging services. Cultivating digital friendships often involves a lot of backwards and forwards so free messaging is somewhat vital.

  •As important as the ability to download digital dating platforms is the step of deleting them when the time comes for monogamous romance.

  •A squidgy heart for the optimism of a swipe right.

  •A tin heart for the rejection of a swipe left.

  •A nice photograph of yourself: nothing too fancy and nothing too casual. You need to look your best but not like you’re trying.

  •Healthy food you will pretend you are eating.

  •Photographs of sunsets you will pretend you are watching.

  •Covers of books you will pretend to be reading.

  Sean was going on a date and I had turned up for moral support, barefaced apart from a facial nose strip, and ruining the ambience of his pristine bed linen with my dark green joggers. I watched as he casually laid a crisp, white shirt, navy blue leather watch and aftershave next to my feet which were adorned in a pair of woollen bed socks, and surrounded by enough junk food to feed a family with five teenagers.

  ‘You’re not seriously going to eat all that, are you?’ he said, glancing over at my stockpile as I reached for the Oreos.

  ‘Sure am,’ I replied, biting the packet open with my teeth. As I watched him towel-dry his legs on the edge of the bed it was clear I had nowhere else to be on this first Friday night in June.

  ‘Who is he anyway? I don’t think I’ve heard you mention his name before.’

  ‘I met him online. I’ve not really spoken to him that much or at all. But judging by his online profile he’s got the body of a Greek god.’

  ‘Sounds terrific,’ I mused, licking the cream from the centre of my biscuit.

  ‘And it’s just a bit of fun, anyway,’ he said, as he disappeared into a row of hanging trousers, rooting for his shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe. ‘He’s more popular than frickin’ Helen of Troy by the looks of things.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s a bit of a slag?’

  ‘Not everyone who enjoys sex is a slag, Jess.’

  I screwed up my face. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I’d offended him.

  ‘And it wouldn’t hurt you to get online and see what’s out there. You’ve been staying in for weeks, it’s a one-way road to…’

  ‘Depression?’ I said, finishing his sentence and reaching for another biscuit.

  ‘I was going to say obesity.’

  I returned the biscuit to the packet.

  ‘So you don’t mind that they’re seeing other people?’ I said, propping myself up against his pillows. It was something completely new to me and I needed to know more.

  ‘No, why would I care?’

  ‘My God, I’d care. I don’t think I could date more than one man properly.’

  ‘No offence, sweetie, but you couldn’t date one man properly.’

  I toasted my can of Diet Coke to his cocky remark as he took a step back to look at himself in the floor-length mirror, spraying five strong bursts of cologne. I closed my eyes as the smell fell over me like a blanket. I lay back down onto his pillow and could feel myself plummeting into a sugar low, the aftermath from all the snacks I had consumed. As I re-opened them I caught sight of Sean as he held up his phone and snapped a picture of his reflection.

  ‘Who are you sending that to?’ I asked, with one eye open.

  ‘No one.’

  I threw him a look mixed with curiosity and a touch of envy.

  ‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?’ he said, carefully choosing a filter for the picture before pressing send.

  It was a philosophy I was still trying to understand. He turned to me as I played with the toggle on my joggers. I smiled, a deliberate film of chocolate covering my teeth.

  ‘Oh, that’s really pretty,’ he remarked, climbing over to lie down on the bed next to me. I made room as he flopped on his side so that our faces were almost touching.

  ‘If I can’t be with him then why can’t I just be with you?’ I whispered, carefully moving an errant hair from his forehead.

  ‘Because we’re both pricks and you deserve better.’

  I placed a hand on Sean’s chest, fighting the urge to close my eyes again.

  ‘So you think tonight’s going to be fun?’ he said, lying back to face the ceiling.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s going to be good,’ I said, supportively.

  He shot me a sarcastic glare.

  ‘Great, then!’ I continued. ‘I think it’s going to be amazing. But I wouldn’t take my word for it – I haven’t even showered today.’

  We lay there next to each other as I felt his big arm wrap round me.

  ‘Okay, Jess, I love you but you have to leave now, he’ll be here in ten minutes…’

  I dutifully packed away my biscuits and half-eaten bag of crisps, carefully dusting the crumbs off his bed as I moved. I put on my coat, tightly gripping the twisted top of the open packet of biscuits, and made my way home.

  I threw my carrier bag of half-eaten food on the table in the hallway, turned on the lamp and shut the door behind me. Amber was out so I had the flat to myself. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap
s, the water thundering out in large gulps as it filled our small bathroom with steam. I sat down on the toilet seat and waited for the bath to fill.

  Sean’s honesty lingered in my mind but I knew I had to do things my own way. I felt the coldness of the floor tiles beneath my bare feet. I pulled out my phone and for some indescribable reason opened a string of text messages from Charlie. I’m not sure what I was hoping to achieve but the sight of our relationship history, laid out in vertical block texts, took my breath away: the war rooms. I scrolled through the old messages that marked the end of a ceasefire: anger, spelling mistakes, accusations. I began to type a white flag but stopped myself.

  After all, how do you say in a text message: I’m just not over you yet.

  After my bath, I created a profile using an almost bearable picture of myself taken two years ago at Amber’s birthday party and kept all other personal information to a minimum. As I tapped my fingers on the edge of my desk, debating whether or not to use a fake name, I came to the conclusion that this would inevitably get me off on the wrong foot.

  I scrolled down the selection of men’s faces and skimmed over a couple of profiles. How could I go from a man like Charlie to someone who lists ‘adventure’ as a hobby? In an act akin to pulling off a plaster, I set my profile to active and took a big gulp of the gin and tonic I’d prepared as liquid courage. I leaned back in my chair to assess the damage to my soul. At that moment a ‘ping’ sounded, nearly knocking me off my chair as a private message popped up in the bottom right-hand side of my computer screen.

  It was from a man called Harry. It just read, ‘Hi.’ I hesitated. I could feel the dryness in the back of my mouth as I took another well-earned sip of gin. I typed back ‘Hi’ and clicked on his profile. He was good-looking but not intimidatingly attractive. He owned a surfboard. He played rugby at the weekend. As I delved deeper into his collection of photographs, another ping ensued. I opened up the private message that read:

  Just looking at your picture in Sydney Harbour. Great view. Always wanted to go there.

  The picture was taken on a holiday with my dad. A summer break designed as a father–daughter bonding exercise but resulted in him being called back to work, leaving me alone in an unknown city with nothing but my passport, my rucksack and his credit card. I ran my fingers along the computer keys and swiftly began to type a reply.

  Yes, it was beautiful. A really unique experience!

  I didn’t know whether the exclamation mark was a little too much to end with. That maybe I appeared a little too fresh – too excited about all of this. But then I saw him typing a reply. My blood ran cold as I wanted for the ping.

  I know this seems forward but I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner or drinks tomorrow night? Nothing major. Just casual.

  How long did I have until I had to reply? I thought. I wasn’t ready for this. Not an actual date where I would have to physically see another human being. I clicked back on his picture and could feel the weight of the past restraining me from replying. An image of Charlie flashed into my mind as it suddenly dawned on me that I probably wouldn’t see him again… or kiss him. I won’t have him as a wingman when I wanted a drink after work or to see a bad movie with when no one else would. And then I remembered that last night in his apartment: the very last night, the arguing, the shouting and then, tears. I pressed send. And how was I supposed to feel?

  ‘Morning,’ I said chirpily the next day. Marlowe had invited us round for one of her famous home-cooked brunches, a chance to pull open the glass doors and let in a bit of sunshine. I’d been let into the house by Amber, who didn’t look at me but immediately returned to the kitchen wearing an oversized grey hoodie – a familiar indication that she had a hangover.

  ‘Please don’t talk so loud, I feel like shit,’ Amber said, motioning me into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, this is great,’ Marlowe said, as she pulled the filter coffee from the stand. ‘Everyone’s hungover and I’m in the bad books with George because I didn’t tape the sports channel last night.’

  ‘I stayed in last night. I’m not hungover,’ I said, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.

  ‘Tell him to tape his own shit,’ Sean said, downing his coffee.

  Amber pulled off her hood. It was clear it had been a late night.

  ‘So how was the date?’ I asked, unleashing the tiger that is Marlowe and her questions regarding other people’s love lives.

  ‘Who was it last night!?’ she shouted.

  ‘It wasn’t a date,’ Sean said, rolling his eyes. ‘And seriously, Jess, if I have to watch you eat one more packet of Oreos on a Friday night I am going to fuck you myself.’

  ‘How rude,’ I whispered. ‘But grateful for the offer all the same.’

  ‘A whole packet?’ Marlowe mouthed.

  I nodded.

  ‘So who is he, anyway?’ Amber asked.

  ‘I met him online.’

  ‘Kinky?’

  ‘Nah – straight up,’ he said, pouring himself another coffee.

  Amber looked at him and laughed.

  Their sex jokes were always shared only with each other and both myself and Marlowe were more than happy to remain in the dark.

  ‘Amber, I forgot to tell you,’ Marlowe said, searching the kitchen worktop for some papers, ‘George was working in Berlin last week and met a fashion buyer. I asked him for his business card for you. They’re an e-commerce start-up, supposed to be pretty cool. Thought you might be interested?’ She handed over the card. ‘Take it, it’s yours.’

  ‘Cheers, Mars,’ Amber said, studying the design. ‘It looks great I just… begrudge taking it into the office.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it will get passed on and handed over for someone else to take all the credit.’

  ‘Happens all the time at my work too,’ Sean said with a mouthful of croissant.

  ‘Amber, you’re the first in and last out every day,’ I said, outraged. ‘I barely even see you these days. How can they not notice everything you’re doing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, sliding the card into her jeans pocket.

  ‘Why don’t you start your own company?’ Marlowe said. ‘Then you might actually benefit from all those extra hours.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really an option for me. Besides, it’s not really the best economic climate to start a business.’ She stood up to pour herself some orange juice. ‘Fucking government.’

  ‘Where is George, by the way?’ I asked.

  ‘Shanghai – ’til Tuesday. That reminds me, I’ve got to pick up his suits from the dry cleaners.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mar…’ Amber said.

  ‘Leave it, Amber,’ I whispered, under my breath.

  ‘So, what are we going to do about Jess’s lady parts?’ Sean said, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘My what?!’ I shouted, half spitting out my cereal.

  ‘We need to get it eaten before it passes its sell by date. Which for women these days is around what… thirty-five?’

  I shook my head in despair. Seven years of friendship and he still rendered me speechless.

  ‘I’m kidding, obviously,’ he said. ‘But seriously, think about it. Take the standards down a notch and open your mind to what’s out there.’

  ‘Lower the standards. Great advice,’ I said sarcastically.

  At that point Elsa called for Marlowe from upstairs. ‘Coming,’ Marlowe shouted, taking one last sip of coffee.

  We all watched her leave the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, but am I the only one who can’t believe what I’m hearing?’ Amber said, in a hushed voice. ‘What a total prick. Pisses off to Shanghai for a week and kicks off about the sports match he’s missed. Not interested in his wife – or child!!’

  ‘Look, he’s basically a Prince William lookalike who keeps her in designer furniture,’ Sean said.

  Amber raised her eyebrow at him.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ he
continued, ‘there’s give and take.’

  ‘You’re right, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side,’ I said as Amber looked at me. ‘And it isn’t necessarily worse either. It’s just… not our business.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Sean said. ‘It’s their marriage. And it’s not our business.’

  The next night, after a two-hour debate with myself about whether or not to cancel, I put my hair in heated rollers and pulled myself together. It was drinks, maybe dinner and, as he said so himself, totally casual. I cast my eyes over my open wardrobe. If I wore my black designer dress on a first date, he would probably think I was high maintenance even though it was a sample sale purchase and cost no more than a bottle of supermarket wine. I slowly put it back on the rack and dabbed a tissue across the small hairline cuts on my legs (a regrettably bad idea to have shaved my legs standing up in the shower).

  On my way out the door I stopped in front of the mirror in the hallway and planted dark red lipstick across my lips that provided a hint of class and would also act as a deterrent in case he tried to kiss me: a Hadrian’s Wall of red, sealing off my mouth from Harry, in case he turned out to be a sexual predator or worse. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Good luck, I said out loud, quietly knowing that should probably be whispered to Harry more than me.