The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (2 page)

May you always dream of more, and reach for it.

IT’S MID-MORNING ON a beautiful Friday in August, my fifth day in London, and I feel . . . I don’t know what I feel.

It’s hard to imagine that I virtually abandoned my life back in Toronto, leaving my marriage, my job, my friends, my family—all on a whim of living my dream. An unfathomable desire for something
more.

Throughout my five-year marriage to Liam, hopping on a plane and escaping
had been a prominent daydream that regularly incapacitated my days. I would wake up in the morning, and dream of another life; get ready for work, and dream of another life; sit at my desk working on spreadsheets and budgets, and dream of another life; eat dinner with my husband, and dream of another life. I spent more time imagining a different life for myself then I did being comforted and happy with the one I had.

Why did I do that?
—The lingering question that has rattled my brain for years.

Clearly I was missing
something.
The old adage of ‘the grass is always greener’ can’t possibly be the sole basis for my drastic life altering changes.

Feigning a smile against the warm breeze, I exit my temporary residence at the Intercontinental. I savor the beautiful scenery of Green Park, interweaving along Piccadilly to make my way towards The Little Square; a quaint café I stumbled upon a few days ago. The location of my hotel—care of my best friend Stacey and the perks of her job—makes for a brief, pleasurable, seven minute walk to the infamous Shepherd Market.

This planned move to England was made so much easier because of Stacey. Travelling to London regularly with IHG, she hooked us up with a complimentary room at the Intercontinental—a hotel I surely couldn’t afford on my own. Shacking up with her this week has been wonderful, enjoying evenings together after she’s finished her daily meetings at the local hotel branches.

Unfortunately, it’s during the days when I’m alone, as I am now, I find myself constantly reflecting. I should be thoroughly enjoying the splendor that London has to offer me, yet in my solitary state, while I wait for Stacey, I’m left filled with trepidation.

Arriving at my destination, I’m greeted by a kind lady who seats me at my favorite table by the large, open windows. I’m thankful for the tranquility as I take in the almost empty café. I can’t help but admire the sense of individuality the setting exudes—a trait I secretly aspire to have and have made great strides in order to achieve . . . my
own
individuality.

The warm summer breeze caresses my face as I sit back and relax, awaiting my much-needed coffee. Staring out onto Shepherd Market, filled with passersby, my endless questioning of whether I’ve made the right decisions lingers. I’ve spent the past five days dissecting and reflecting on my life-altering changes—including my marriage, and its subsequent demise eight months ago.

I married young, falling in love with the first real boyfriend I’d had at eighteen years old. After dating for about two years, I remember thinking I have so many years ahead of me—
I’m only twenty years old, not even an adult yet . . . surely this relationship won’t last forever . . . I’ll still have plenty of time to accomplish everything I’ve dreamed of.

Boy, was I a fool. Two years become eleven, with a beautiful wedding thrown in midway. Then all of a sudden you realize . . . o
h my God! This is my life?

It happens all the time, I suppose. I imagine that, like myself, there are many women in the world vying for something bigger, something better than what life has handed them. I take some solace in that.

Not to say there was anything really wrong with my life. I had a good job, a nice house, good group of friends. Even love. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that I loved . . . love Liam in return. But I can’t say that in all of our years together, I ever felt that
spark
—more akin to friends living together, rather than lovers; completely unable to evoke the feelings that sex or intimacy should inspire. No matter how many ways I’d spin it, or how many times I’d rhyme off all of the wonderful things I had, it just seemed like it wasn’t enough.

Perhaps that makes me selfish.

Or a dreamer,
I admit, squinting in resentment at my inner dreamer’s contributions to the evasive changes.

Or maybe I’m one of those people who are never happy?

Liam is everything any girl would hope to have in a life partner. He’s kind, hardworking, attractive, comes from a great family . . . the list goes on and on. But regardless of his many wonderful attributes, or how great my life with him appeared, there was always something lacking. My inner-dreamer’s constant notion that he wasn’t the man I’d imagined would be mine.

The scariest thought,
does the man of my dreams truly exist?

Of course he exists!—
my inner-dreamer screams in defiance.

Breaking Liam’s heart with the news that I wanted a divorce was the worst form of torture. How can you look at someone you care deeply about, someone that wholeheartedly loves you, and tell him you need something more? Particularly after building a life together for so long?

Perhaps this was the reason I’d stayed as long as I did—convincing myself for years that all was great, simply as a meager attempt to avoid hurting him. I became a master of telling myself that what I was feeling was simply
my
problem. A problem
I
needed to get past and be happy with my lot. As a result, I’d successfully honed my inner-actress like a fine oiled machine. I pushed and pushed to stay positive and happy, until eventually my desperate attempts at scripting a happy life crumbled around me. My script had run out, and there was simply no more pretending.

My seemingly relative pre-mid-life crisis was comparative to a lightning bolt hitting me dead square in the head. I realized in an instant that my inner-dreamer was near death. Death by murder.
I
was murdering her by maintaining this fake existence of happiness. I was living someone else’s life. It occurred to me that if I didn’t get out now, I’d be forever stuck to this fate.

So after almost twelve years together, and a lot of inner pep talks, I made the change. And that was the start of the end for Liam and I.

Naturally, our friends were blindsided by our split—my parents included, considering their reaction to my leaving Liam, the perfect son-in-law. Outwardly, we appeared to be the perfect couple. Clearly I’m a good actress for having fooled so many people for so many years.

But not good enough to fool myself.

I realize that most people would say I’m crazy. I question my own sanity. Was I crazy for giving up Liam? A man many women envied me for, who loved me faithfully? Was I crazy for giving up my so-called perfect life? All in hopes of a dream one?
Perhaps I’ve read too many romantic novels.

I need to stop dwelling. I’ve made a choice. A conscious decision between my ‘realistic’ life and my ‘dream’ life, so to speak—forgoing an unrealistic Oscar nomination for my seemingly worthy role-play.

I like to imagine that many would commend me for finally stepping up and making adjustments in light of living the life that I want. So here I sit, thirty years old, carefree and single—a world away from my hometown in Canada—having left my previous life in the dust. No responsibility to speak of, no one to answer to—my own conscience notwithstanding.

Pulled from my wayward thoughts, I notice a young couple sitting at a nearby table, all smiles and laughter, the occasional shared heated look. With that, my inner ‘have-I-made-an-exorbitant-mistake’ diatribe instantly vanishes.

I smile inwardly, realizing
that’s
exactly why I’m here. To find that one person who gives me tingles with just one look. The man I’ve always dreamed I’d end up with. The man with whom I can finally be
me.
The real me. No
more pretending.

I pick up my double-double coffee and give myself a private salute.

A salute to freedom.

A salute to finally doing what I’ve always wanted to do.

A salute to romance and love and inspiration and excitement.

It’s time to put my past, my mistakes, and my self-loathing behind me and start living this new life to the fullest. I gave up a lot in order to have it. It’d be a shame to waste it on regrets.

With that my cell phone chimes, signaling a text from Stacey.

Subject: TGIF!

I’m all done doll face! Where am I meeting you?

With a smile at her perfect timing, I reply with the café’s address and await the arrival of my best friend.

Ahhh, what a life.

“DAMN, AM I ever glad to be sitting here with you,” Stacey plops herself down in a whoosh of air, leaning back dramatically in the chair, arms flopping aimlessly on the armrests. “I hate it when I sit down and my legs flatten out to the size of Russia,” she ogles her lap with a laugh. “How was your morning, sweet cheeks?”

“Good,” I smile at my best friend’s consistently quirky quips and terms of endearment, “Uneventful. I’m glad you’re done early.”

“Ugh, me too. I deserve a medal for making it through this week without stabbing someone with a fork. It was brutal. Meeting after boring meeting. Now it’s just you and me, babe. I’m feeling a little overworked and under intoxicated, so we’re going out and partying hard! There’s no way I’m going back to Canada in less than two days without indulging in at least one night of flagrancy with my BFF.”

Never one to shy away from what she wants and saying what she’s thinking, I’m grateful for Stacey’s take-charge attitude. I thank God for her every day. Despite being complete polar opposites—Stacey never afraid to take chances and breaking all the rules, and me always doing what’s right, what’s expected—she’s been my closest friend since high school. She’s always been my constant, lending her undying support throughout my marriage to Liam. She also understood my yearning for something
more,
playing an integral part in my path to achieve my dream life. I’m lucky to have her as my best friend—the light in my somewhat dreary existence.

“Sounds like a fantastic plan,” I reply with a smile.

“I knew you’d have no qualms about a bit of fun tonight, my little tulip,” she adds cheekily. “We can get ourselves all dolled up for a night out trolling. Let’s go shopping!” she squeals with delight. “There’s an awesome boutique around the corner, we should hit that one first. Buy ourselves some new slutty dresses.”

I’m unable to contain my laughter at my insatiably lusty friend’s much-needed bout of humor as I wait for her to place her order for coffee-to-go. Her witty laughter and added spice-on-life is a welcome distraction.

“Thomas is hooking us up tonight, my dear,” she continues. “He’s getting us into the members only Wellington Club. Never been myself, but I’ve heard it’s quite a scene. Certainly pays to have a fuck-buddy in this city.”

I laugh. I’m not one to be shocked by Stacey’s often crude mouth, although I feel sorry for the old lady sitting at the table next to us, her mouth agape. “Members only?”

“Yeah. Who knew my regular London-
Lay
-Man had connections? Well, from what I hear, there’ll be plenty of single, eligible gentlemen there. It’s about time you got laid.”

Ugh.
I roll my eyes, noticing the already shocked old lady gasp in disgust.

“It’s been so long since you’ve put your vagina to good use, I’m wondering if it’s still fully functional. A shame to waste a perfectly good vajayjay, I always say,” she winks.

“Stace, you crack me up,” I laugh.

I know she’s absolutely ecstatic that I’ve taken the bull by the horns and am forging my dreams full steam ahead. Her loving devotion towards whatever makes me happy is sweet, however her concern for my vajayjay is a bit much.

“The club sounds great, but I’m not sure I’m ready to meet any eligible bachelors. Let alone have sex with one. I’ve made the mistake before, jumping in feet first with Liam. I don’t plan on repeating it.”

“You realize I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and shit a better argument than that.”

Glaring daggers, I sit back, folding my arms.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. You’ve got a ‘p-1 -a-n,’” she mutters dryly. “But sweetie, I’m not talking about marrying one of these guys, I’m talking about selfishly enjoying a much needed orgasm. I know you’ve mastered Meg Ryan’s famous scene—poor Liam, God bless his unsatisfying heart—but life is too short to fake butter, cheese, or orgasms, honey. And don’t even try to tell me that
BOB
keeps you satisfied or I may have to kill you.”