Getting Over Mr. Right (18 page)

“Did you have a good time?” Becky hiccuped as we put the last of the yummies into a cab and started looking for one of our own.

“They all hated me,” I complained.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m serious. Nobody had anything to say to me,” I said.

Subconsciously, I was offering Becky the chance to jump in and say that Henry’s friends’ wives had nothing to say to
anyone
, that they were dull and she hated them, too. Instead, she said, “You weren’t going on about Michael, were you?”

“No, I was not!” I exclaimed.

“Are you sure?”

“Becky, you’re supposed to be my friend. I was not going on about Michael. In fact, I only mentioned him once. To Isabelle.”

“Oh, Isabelle!” Becky’s face practically lit up as she breathed the other woman’s name. “She’s really lovely. You know, she is setting up her own business selling nearly new children’s clothes. It’s called the Angel Exchange.”

“Great,” I said.

“She used to be a fund manager.”

“Fabulous.”

“Until she married Tim, who is one of the few remaining bankers who can afford to take a house in the South of France for the
whole
summer.”

“Of course … Well, I still thought she was a cow.”

Becky looked as though I had personally insulted her. “Perhaps you didn’t give her a proper chance.”

“Perhaps she didn’t give me one.”

Becky just shook her head. “I thought when we turned up at the restaurant tonight that you seemed really chirpy,” she said somewhat accusingly.

“I was, until they all refused to get into the swing of things.”

“They’re not the kind of women who get a kick out of wearing
silly headgear. I’m sorry, but I enjoyed myself and I’m really grateful that you put the evening together. You have to admit that until you came up against the teetotal Mummy Mafia, you were doing fine. I was really glad to see it. I’m happy that you’re starting to get back to your old self again.”

I knew what she was doing. She was trying to talk me out of my funk, trying to convince me that I felt better than I did. It probably worked on her year elevens.

“Actually,” I told her, “I’ve been feeling worse than ever. If it hadn’t been for your hen night, I could have spent the entire week in bed, just staring at the ceiling and wondering whether I had enough aspirin in the cupboard to kill myself, assuming I could bring myself to get out of bed to swallow them.”

Becky frowned. “You don’t really mean that,” she said.

“I do. I don’t think you believe quite how badly my heart was broken.”

“It was quite a while ago now,” Becky tried.

I didn’t take the hint. “Just a couple of months! And the way people talk, you would think that I’m just supposed to get up and carry on like I never even met the man. Nobody wants to listen to me anymore. Not even you.”

“I’ve listened to you quite a bit,” Becky pointed out.

“You’re supposed to. You’re supposed to be my best friend. I can’t get hold of you half the time. Truth is, I don’t think you really care.”

It was a red rag to a bull. Becky’s expression changed from sympathetic to a bit pissed off.

“Come on, Ashleigh,” said Becky. “You have to see why it’s difficult for me to keep sympathizing with you so long after Michael actually dumped you. It’s not as though we’re talking about the end of a marriage. You weren’t married. You weren’t engaged. You weren’t even living together. The way I see it, you and Michael weren’t even having a proper relationship. You were just dating.”

“For two and a half years?”

“Yes. Did you ever spend Christmas together? No. Did he ever introduce you to his parents? No. Did he ever talk about the future? Not beyond the next weekend. You were dating. Just dating.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Was that really what Becky thought? Was that what everybody really thought?

“It wasn’t that important,” she continued.

“It was two and a half years of my life! Two and a half years! We both know plenty of people who got together, got married, and got divorced in the space of two and a half years. Are you saying they have more reason to be upset?”

“It’s not the length of time you were with someone that counts,” said Becky. “It’s the depth of the commitment. Getting married is commitment. Living together is commitment. Anything else … For goodness’ sake. Look at it realistically. It’s ridiculous, grieving like this over a couple of years of going to the cinema on Saturdays and having the odd mini-break. When Michael’s schedule allowed it, I hasten to add. You got foolishly attached to a man who thought of nothing but his own happiness and squeezed you in when it suited him. He never took your needs into consideration. It’s time for you to put it behind you. I need you to put it behind you because it is bloody well driving me mad!”

I could only open and close my mouth in soundless agony.

“Since the day you met Michael he has dominated your life. When you were with him, it was bad enough. I don’t think you have any idea how much time you spent analyzing every date, every night you spent together, every phone call. It was obvious to me from very early on that you were on to a loser, but I did my best to support you and I have to admit that when you called to tell me he’d dumped you, I was glad. No more bloody Michael, I thought. How wrong could I have been? How on earth can you still have so much to say about a man
who walked out of your life over two months ago? There is no new information here. He’s gone. It’s over. It’s done. Now I’m sure you’d rather talk about something more cheerful. I know I would. When are we going to get together and get in some practice for opening the dancing at the reception? Henry isn’t too bad, but Julian is awful and since he’s the best man …”

“I don’t feel much like dancing,” I said.

Becky frowned. “Ashleigh, I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m just telling you the truth as I see it. And sometimes the truth sets us free. I want you to be happy and I think the first step to being happy is for you to let go of this ridiculous fiction that you’ve lost the love of your life. Michael certainly didn’t see it that way.”

“But …”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Michael was a shit for dumping you like he did,” she said, “but the fact that you’re still so miserable so long after he’s gone is entirely your fault. Your recovery is up to you. You have got to move on. Do it for me. As my wedding present.”

Her face took on the approximate expression of one who was concerned for my welfare, but all I could focus on was a peculiar little upward twist at the corner of her mouth that suggested what she really wanted to do was laugh in my face. Was this my best friend? If she thought so little of my heartache, then why would anyone else think any more of it?

I moved my arm so that her hand slipped away.

“Ashleigh, don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Hurt? Get someone else to be your bloody chief bridesmaid,” I spat. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Your sodding wedding. As if I didn’t know that before your nasty little speech. Well, thank you very much for showing me what a true friend is like. You can forget about me being at your wedding at all.”

I didn’t wait for a taxi. I stomped off in the opposite direction, leaving Becky to go home alone.

When I got home, my answering machine was flashing angrily. Becky had left six messages to go with the three she had left on my mobile. I knew that I had scared her with my threat that I wouldn’t be at the wedding. It wasn’t just that I was her chief bridesmaid; I was also making the cake. I imagined her panicking that there would be nothing for the guests to watch her cut with her new husband. Her perfect day would be ruined. But I wasn’t about to call her and put her out of her misery. Not when I was so miserable myself.

I knew that I should just go to bed. On the other hand, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I knew I would just lie there staring at the ceiling, ruminating on all the things that were wrong with my life. Especially in comparison with Mrs. Isabelle Extremely Loaded and Mrs. Amanda Perfect and the rest of Becky’s new snotty yummy friends. I was in the kind of mood where it seems like a good idea to open another bottle of wine and drink the lot. All on your own.

As I drank, I replayed Becky’s accusations. One thing in particular had struck me as cruel. “Michael was a shit for dumping you like he did,” she’d said, “but the fact that you’re still so miserable so long after he’s gone is entirely your fault. Your recovery is up to you.”

But I was trying, I told myself. I was doing everything humanly possible to get myself back on track. I had tried everything, from knitting to voodoo. That day at work I had even created a PowerPoint presentation on Michael’s bad points, as per the advice of another breakup website. The idea was that I should watch the presentation every day until those points sank in and started to feel real, until I started to believe that I was well shot of him.

I needed to see that presentation now. I poured myself another glass of wine and opened my laptop. Then I spent a jolly three hours adding to the page titled “Michael’s Physical Shortcomings” in GettingOverMichael.doc. It almost made me smile. Especially when, following the advice that the more clearly you can visualize something, the more effective your visualizations will be, I decided to search the Internet for amusing illustrations for “odd-shaped toes,” “cold sores,” and, my favorite of them all, “short dick.”

Oh, yes, I got quite creative in the wee small hours. Really, it is astonishing what you can find on the Internet. I quickly learned that Michael fell well inside the parameters deemed “average” for penis size, but where’s the fun in that? To illustrate my opinion that his penis was not all that it should have been, I chose a picture of a willy so small that I think it would hardly have qualified as a clitoris.

That night, I very much enjoyed running my Getting Over Michael presentation. I decided that it was beginning to work. I even managed to laugh when the slide titled “He Has an Unusually Small Cock” popped up. I watched it eleven times before I fell asleep at my kitchen table.

The following morning I woke with qwerty imprinted on my forehead and a mouth that tasted like a camel’s backside, a whole hour after I should have been at work and just half an hour before I was due to give a presentation to the people from Effortless Bathing. You cannot imagine the speed with which I left the house. Fortunately, having fallen asleep in my clothes, I didn’t have to bother dressing.

“Fuck’s sake, Ashleigh,” said Ellie when I arrived in the office, “they’ve been here for half an hour. What happened to you?”

“Tube,” I said. “Northern Line.”

“I came in on the Northern Line,” said Ellie. “It was fine for me.”

“Then it must have gone wrong right after you got off,” I told her.

“And what are you wearing?” She screwed up her nose at my jeans.

“We’re an advertising agency. Can’t I look creative?”

“It would help if you looked clean,” she said. “Weren’t you wearing that exact outfit last night?”

“Of course not,” I told her.

Really, it was too much, the way my assistant kept questioning me. We would have to have a conversation about her impertinence after the meeting. Right then I didn’t have time to argue. I asked Ellie to get me a coffee.

“You’ll probably need something stronger,” she said.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“The big boss is sitting in on this one.”

“What?”

Ellie nodded.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“None of us knew. But Clare thinks it’s because he has a crush on the Effortless Bathing marketing guy.”

“Who? Jeffrey?”

He wasn’t what I would have called a hunk.

Ellie nodded again.

“Christ,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

“You’ll have to hope that the lovely Jeff takes Barry’s mind off your terrible presentation.”

“My presentation is not going to be terrible. Honestly, Ellie, anyone would think I hadn’t given you your first job. I’m your mentor. You’re supposed to look up to me.”

“Remind me why,” said Ellie. “Exactly.”

If I hadn’t had a meeting room full of people waiting for me, I would have torn a strip off her. But I didn’t have the luxury of time to fight. Also, part of me was certain that I was going to ace the presentation I had worked so hard to finish. In fact, by the time Ellie stepped out to get cappuccinos for everyone (except Jeffrey, who had lived in France for six months and thought it was the most disgusting thing imaginable to have milk in your coffee after ten), she would have to admit that I rocked.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” I said to everyone as I stepped into the boardroom. “Northern Line.”

“Terrible,” everyone agreed without question.

I ignored Ellie’s eye roll.

“I hope you haven’t been too bored while you’ve been waiting, and I hope I’m going to make it up to you now with my presentation.” I gave them my winning smile and was gratified to receive winning smiles all around in return. Even from Barry.
I guessed that he was merely trying to make himself seem like a cheerful sort of chap while in the presence of Jeffrey, but who cared? If biofeedback meant that fake smile made Barry feel even half a percent warmer toward me, too, then I was happy to see it.