Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover... (15 page)

Losing the ability to form words, I open and close my mouth repeatedly like a hungry angel fish.

‘Clara? Are you there?’ Oliver’s husky voice comes down the line and I immediately feel a strange mix of emotions.

‘Yes?’ Choking back the tears, I manage to speak, so relieved to hear his voice again.

‘I was just returning your call?’ He sounds flat and his words are empty.

‘OK.’ I whisper back, still not knowing what I had called for. There is a silence, where no one says a word. Just knowing that he is on the other end of line is enough.

‘Look, I better go. I’m kind of in the middle of something here.’ The words hit me and I am suddenly aware that is probably my only chance to put this right.

‘No, wait. Oliver, I want you to know that I am really, truly, very sorry.’ My voice starts to crack and I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

‘Well, I’m sorry too.’

‘What? You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?’ Now I feel even worse.

‘I’m just sorry that it had to end like this. Goodbye, Clara.’

I could have been sat there five minutes, I could have been sat there an hour. I really didn’t know. Watching the headlights speeding by, I let the tears roll down my cheeks. How could I be this upset about a man that I had only been in my life for the past couple of months? I’ve had blow dries that last longer. Having never had a real relationship, I had never had my heartbroken before. It’s just my luck that a chance meeting, in all my hungover glory, has led me to knowing what it is to be completely emotionally crushed. I debate driving over to Lianna’s, Marc’s even, but deep down there’s only one place I want to go, home.

Taking a giant mouthful of cookie dough ice-cream, I press delete on my mobile phone. For the past half an hour, I have erased photo after photo from my picture album.  Feeling like a dejected adolescent, I have wiped out any trace of Oliver from my phone. I started on pictures from our meal at La Fleur and finish up with loved up selfies on the train back from Manchester. Surely I am now too old for to be downtrodden and feel forlorn over a man. Reminding myself of just how broken Lianna gets, each and every time she has a failed relationship, I decide the best course of action is to crawl into bed and sleep it off.

Sleeping sounded the best idea in principle, putting it into action however, was another matter. After two hours of flipping from the foetus position to lying flat on my face, I finally give up and head into the kitchen. Rooting around at the back of the crisp cupboard, I dig out the bottle of Jim Beam Marc had given me when I got promoted. Still unopened with a slight layer of dust, it had been waiting around for a special occasion. A special occasion or an emergency situation. One or the other.

I let the strong, golden fluid burn the back of my throat and warm me from the inside. Wandering over to the window, I listen to the wind battering the walls of the house. Winter really is drawing in. Dropping onto the sofa and taking the bottle with me, I pour out another glassful and rest my head on the arm. Within half an hour, I feel better. Not perfect, but definitely a little better. I have never been a believer of the answer being at the bottom of a glass, but right now, it’s my only hope.

The following morning, I awake on the sofa, scotch glass still in hand. My first hope is that the nauseating sadness has gone. Only it hasn’t, it is still well and truly here, along with a thudding headache and overwhelming urge to curl up and die. 

Dragging my sorry backside to the bathroom, I turn on the shower and let the hot water droplets soothe my sore head. Not being one to mope around, I decide that I have had my time to shed tears. I had a life before Oliver, so I am going to have to pull myself together and get that life back. It took me five years of hard slog to get this promotion and I am not going to let all that work go to waste for a man.

I dry myself off and pull my trusty black skater dress off its hanger. Tugging on a pair of woolly tights, I dig around in my make up bag for the brightest lipstick I can find. My insides may be downtrodden and unhappy, but my outsides are going to portray an image of confidence and tranquillity if it kills me.

The many hours I have spent watching Bridget Jones has taught me that if there is one trick to getting over a breakup, it is to keep busy. Once I have unloaded the dishwasher, I take out my phone and arrange lunch with Lianna. I also manage to schedule a couple of drinks after work with Marc. I am determined not to turn into one of those pathetic women who sit at home in tracksuit bottoms crying over a breakup.

Sipping a hazelnut coffee, I scroll through my Twitter notifications and feel my heart tighten when my eyes land on Oliver’s name. Before I know what I am doing, my finger’s tap on his photo. Staring at his picture, I feel all of my will power evaporate in an instant. Even on a four inch screen and being three thousand miles away, he still has the same effect on me. The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear that he has gone and he isn’t coming back. Chucking my coffee down the sink, I button up my coat and remind myself that there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. And by spilt milk, I mean failed relationships.

By the time my stomach starts to grumble at lunch time, my can do attitude has worn paper thin. Fiddling with my keys outside the office, I edge away from the coughing smokers and check my watch. Lianna should have been here ten minutes ago. I am about to give up and head over to the pub on my own, when I spot a cloud of faux fur wearing an aviator hat bustle through the revolving door.

‘So sorry I’m late. I was waiting on a call back from HR. How are you?’ Lianna pulls down the bobbles on her hat and digs the world’s longest scarf out of her handbag.

‘It’s not that bloody cold.’ I grumble, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears.

‘You’re not still moping after Oliver are you? He will come around. You know I am always right about these things. Trust me, I can feel it.’ She rubs my back encouragingly.

‘Well, I think you had better get those feelings checked out, because he’s gone.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pressing the button to cross the road, she looks at me quizzically.

‘I mean, he’s gone. As in, gone back to America.’ The words are much harder to say out loud than in my head.

‘What the hell are you talking about? He can’t have gone. He’s contracted to Suave.’

‘I don’t know how, I don’t know when. All I know, is that he isn’t working for Suave anymore and that he has flown back home.’ I feel a growing lump in my throat and try my hardest to breathe through it.

Lianna stops walking and stares at me like I have grown another head. She makes numerous attempts at saying something, before grabbing my arm and frog marching me over to the pub.

Neither of us says anything else until we are seated and handed menus.

‘Right, start from the beginning. When did you find out he had gone?’ Lianna sucks on her straw and pushes her polka dot rimmed glasses further up her nose.

‘Yesterday.’ I murmur, not daring to look her in the eye in case tears start streaming down my face.

‘Yesterday? Why is this the first I am hearing of it?’ She slams down her glass and I wipe splashes of lemonade off my arm.

‘I didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Maybe it will make you feel better to talk about it. It’s not good to keep negative emotions bottled up.’

The last thing I want to do is go over the whole thing again, but keeping it to myself hasn’t helped one iota.

‘Come on. Tell me everything.’

And so I did. I start with the unfortunate first meeting in the Bistro and my mortification when he turned out to be our new designer. I smile fondly as I recall our first brunch, Oliver hitting his head on the ridiculously low beams and the most romantic meal I have ever had in La Fleur. My mouth begins to water as I remember all the cute, flirty lunches spent holed up the studio together. By the time I get to the surprise champagne train ride and our sunrise heart to heart, tears are spilling down my cheeks. And that’s when my heart almost stops. Why hadn’t I realised it before now? It has been staring me in the face all this time. I love him.

‘I love him.’ My announcement comes out ten decibels louder than I intended.

‘What?’ Lianna’s jaw hits the table and she gawks at me like I have finally gone insane.

Shooting out of my chair, I chuck some notes on the table. Lianna makes an attempt to catch a twenty pound note before it lands in a jug of iced table water.

‘Clara! Where are you going? Sit down!’ She blushes furiously as people start to turn around in their seats at the commotion.

‘I’ve got to go, Lianna. I’m sorry.’ Running past the waiters and queuing customers, I push my way out onto the street.

Emptying the contents of my handbag out onto the street, I snatch my phone from the pile of hair slides and empty chewing gum wrappers. I ignore the derogatory comments from the angry pedestrians walking over me and dial Oliver’s number. I am not having the only man I have ever loved walk away from me without a fight. The line stays dead for a moment too long before clicking onto voicemail. Desperately trying again, I hit redial and pray that he answers. Hearing the cold pre-recorded message, I feel a shattering devastation rising in my throat like bile. Before I get chance to do anything irrational and stupid, a hand reaches down and gently takes the phone from my grasp.  

‘Clara? Come on, let’s get you home.’

I look up at Lianna and feel mortified by her sympathetic smile. She kneels down on the pavement and begins collecting up my things. The sight of my best friend coming to my rescue makes me burst into a big blubbering mess. I allow her to pull me to my feet and flag down a taxi. Bundling me into the back of the cab, she slips in next to me and gives the driver my address.

I don’t stop crying the entire way home. Even when Lianna runs me a hot, lavender bath and orders me to get in, I still have tears escaping my sore eyes. It is only once I am neck high in bubbles that I realise we haven’t gone back to work. Too upset to care, I tilt my head back and let the water fills my ears, blocking out the rest of the world. My mum used to tell me that there isn’t anything a long soak in the bath couldn’t fix, but that was when my biggest problem was period cramps. If problems are fixed by water, I’m going to need an entire ocean.

Pushing fried rice round my plate, I pretend not to hear Lianna and Marc whispering in the kitchen. I am rather humiliated following my public meltdown and don’t really know what to say to move on from it. From what I can gather from the hushed conversation behind me, they are both rather concerned about leaving me alone. Not wanting to be a seen as a suicidal psychiatric patient, I squeeze my miserable face muscles into a smile and take a mouthful of seaweed.

‘How are you feeling?’ Lianna curls up next to me and steals a chunky chip from my plate.

‘I’m alright, I promise. Look, I am so sorry about before. I don’t know what came over me.’ My skin flushes crimson at the embarrassment of my friends seeing me like that. I am not exactly G.I. Jane, but I am not one for crying in front of people, especially on the pavement of a crowded street. God, I hate myself sometimes.

‘Don’t be silly. Being upset isn’t something to be ashamed of. Remember what I was like with Dan?’ She shakes her head at the memory and looks at Marc for encouragement.

‘I never liked him anyway. American asshole.’ Marc winks at me over the top of his beer bottle and I know that is the most I will get from him.

‘I just want you to know that this won’t happen again. Meltdown over.’ Acting brave when you are falling apart inside is mentally draining.

‘Let’s watch a film.’ Lianna demands, flicking through my impressive DVD collection. I pretend not to notice as she hides anything American or romantic under the coffee table.

‘How about, 28 Days Later?’ Not waiting for a response, she hops over to the TV and fiddles with the remote.

Watching Marc melt over yet more scan pictures, I slip away into the bathroom. Leaning against the warm radiator, I pull back the voile curtain and watch the heavy rain turn into slushy icicles as it hits the ground. I hear an ear piercing bang and watch the sky fill with purple and red sparkles. Bonfire Night has always been one of my favourite holidays. Truth be told, I actual prefer it to Christmas. Letting the curtain fall back down, I splash water on my face, not caring about the inevitable panda eyes. To be honest, they match my pathetic pyjamas and messy top knot.

Tip toeing back into the living room, I peek at Lianna and Marc, top and tailing on the sofa, Lianna with a pillow covering her eyes. I might be in a mess in the romantic apartment, but I do have some fantastic friends. I also have a cute house, granted it’s not Buckingham Palace but at least it’s mine. I guess two out of three isn’t so bad.

It is gone midnight when I finally manage to convince Lianna and Marc to go home. The problem is, the second I close the door, I want to scream at them to come straight back. Fighting the urge to chase them down the street, I slowly walk into the living room and pick up the half drunken glass of amaretto I left earlier. Why do I suddenly feel all alone? I have lived in this house on my own for four years and not once felt lonely. Maybe I’ll end up like the crazy cat lady at the end of the street after all. People go through break ups all the time and come out of the other end alive. I just need to pull myself together.

Deciding to call it a night, I flick off the living room light and pad into my bedroom, opening the window so I can watch the fireworks. A large curry stain on my pyjamas grabs my attention and I flick through my wardrobe for another pair. My hand lands on the red cocktail dress I bought in Manchester. Before I can stop it, a single tear slips down my face and I quickly wipe it away. Feeling my bottom lip begin to wobble, I slam the wardrobe shut and throw myself into bed, curried PJ’S and all.

As the tears soak my pillow, I make a promise that this is the last time I cry myself to sleep at night. Life is far too short and precious to waste it crying over things that you cannot change. Turning over, I listen to the heavy rain battering against the walls of the house.

Just as I am slipping into unconsciousness, a gentle knocking makes me stir. Who is setting fireworks off at this time of the night? Pulling the cover up over my head, I try to fall back to sleep, not wanting to lose my concentration. There it is again! Annoyed, I stomp to the window and yank it open. I can’t see any fireworks through the thick sheets of rain. In fact, I can’t see anything at all.

As I am about to slam the window shut, a black shadow catches my eye. Leaning out of the window, I can vaguely make out a silhouette of a man at my front door. Marc, no doubt.

I can’t help but feel a little touched. I told him I would be fine, but I had a feeling he would be back. Running down the stairs, I dry my damp face and fumble around in the hallway for the house keys. The rain is making so much noise I can barely hear myself think. Fighting against the wind, it takes all my strength to pull open the door.

‘Clara?’

Oliver??

Oh my God! Am I dreaming? Have I died? Am I hallucinating?

‘Clara? Can I come in?’

I attempt to speak but nothing comes out. Dripping wet, he pushes past me into the hall.

‘What are you doing here?’ My legs tremble and my knees start to feel weak.

‘I love you.’

I hear the words come out of his mouth but they take a moment to register.

‘But what about George?’ Still not believing that he is stood in front of me, I suddenly become lightheaded.

‘George called me. He told me everything.’

‘He did?’ The words come out so quiet, I am surprised he hears me.

‘To be honest, I couldn’t care less. I love you, Clara.’ He holds my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye.

Realising that I have panda eyes and curry down my ten year old pyjamas, I feel incredibly self conscious. As if reading my mind, he pulls me down so we are both sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Clara, I have loved you since the day I first laid eyes on you. You had Pepto Bismol down your dress and vomit in your hair, but you were the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’

‘Do you really mean that? My heart pounds faster than I ever knew possible. He brushes a stray hair from my cheek and cups my face with both hands. 

‘I really, really do.’

And that’s it. That’s when he kissed me. The ending of my very own, not so traditional love story. My American Dream. Looking behind him at the night sky, I take in all the stars and for a split second, I truly believe that sometimes dreams really do come true.