Moving On

Moving On

         It takes a lot of dedication, careful planning and meticulous callousness to appear aloof, detached, and indifferent. This is the painful truth I have learned in the past three weeks since Scott walked out on me.
         Scott, once the love of my life, but in reality a two-timing, cheating rat. Of the very worst calibre; he slept with my best friend. Correction, he not only slept with her but ran off with her. In one cruel foul swoop I lost them both, the proverbial rug was pulled from under my feet and my whole world just came tumbling down.
         I should have seen it coming of course, should have recognised the signs, should’ve known that a leopard never changes his spots. Nor the leopardess for that matter. Scott was married when we first met, I was working part time in a bar to fund my studies, he was, or rather became a regular. He befriended some of my student mates; soon he was in our circle.
         It wasn’t love at first sight, more like a slow burning fuse. Before I knew it, he’d left his wife and we moved in together. Bitch, you may think, but actually I never asked him to do so. And it all happened very quickly. He told me he’d left Joanna almost in the same sentence in which he revealed the fact he was married. We’d barely been seeing each other for a few of weeks when the bombshell was delivered. In a way I felt less guilty for the break-up of their marriage, told myself it was nothing to do with me, that he clearly was ready to leave anyway if he up sticks and left so soon after we started seeing each other.
         Melissa, my former bosom buddy, drinking pal, man-eater extraordinaire has, in hindsight never been capable of having a meaningful relationship, or one that lasted more than a few hangovers. She liked Scott, she told me, said she was pleased for me. That she wouldn’t mind a piece of him herself. Well, now she’s got the whole cake, and I hope she gags on it.

         Anyway, back to the point I am making with just how taxing it is to pretend I don’t care. For one, I now refute my love for Scott and my friendship with Melissa. Tart, trollop, cow, filthy little whore, I swear into a pint of Snakebite, followed by a similar, increasingly tearful diatribe aimed at the painfully absent Scott. Not that I think my friends truly believe me, understanding my indignation they let me rant and rave, then they carry my drunken body home to bed.
         Every day I wake up with the sinking realisation that I am alone. On my own. And I miss them both – I hate to admit it, but I do. I miss the fun Melissa and I had together, and I miss how she always managed to pull me out from the most sinking of bogs, when I was in my lowest of lows; she was always there for me. Except now, when I need her the most. For she is the villain, the culprit of my downfall, gorging herself on my man. He, my ex, a word that is true venom to a loving heart, could not keep any more true to his word than he could keep his pants on. Yet still, for the time being at least, my heart still pounds for him, I keep thinking this is just a terrible dream and I will wake up next to Scott. Smell him, feel him, wrap my legs around him and soak him up, like a kitten basking in the sun. Reality is very different. Without them I feel forlorn, cut adrift, circumcised from my very being. Not that I am prone to over-dramatisation, you understand.
         It takes more, however, than simple denial and incarcerating to the very farthest corners of my brain my feelings for the Bonnie and Clyde of my emotional demise. My fingers are constantly drawn to the keys on my mobile phone, desperate to dial or text one or both of them. The declarations I am tempted to make swing from one extreme of ‘You bastard, I never loved you anyway’ to ‘I don’t care what you did, I just don’t want to lose you as a friend’. Fool, I tell myself. They deserve no such avowals.
          My routine, as it were, has become one of carefully planning my social life to avoid the Pair, or when this has failed, putting on an air of painful yet necessary superiority mixed with indifference. It leaves me exhausted, emotionally clobbered and almost without a will to live, returning to the creepy silence and loneliness of the flat I once shared with Scott. I am astonished that they have the audacity to frequent my haunts, rubbing shoulders with my friends until, one day, they disappear into thin air.

         For the next few weeks I pick up snippets of conversation, news of the Pair and thus learn they have rented a cottage, a love shack on the outskirts of Bournemouth. In doing so they have removed themselves from my reach and my thoughts of revenge all fall to the ground with a flat thump. How can I slash the tyres on his car when he’s over a hundred miles away? A nice, freshly laid dog poo, carefully boxed and delivered to their doorstep, the content of their wheelie bin emptied, strewn across the front lawn and other such acts of retaliation seem impossible now. And, as I stare gloomily down another almost empty bottle of wine, ridiculous.

         I realise with a jolt that my doorbell is buzzing incessantly yet I have been so wrapped up in disconsolate thoughts that I didn’t notice it. I leap up, grab the intercom receiver and for a flicker of a second wonder if it might be Scott.
          "Hello?" I say, shifting nervously, full of anticipation.
          "Emma? It’s Matthew."
         I buzz the button on the intercom, dart despairing looks around the flat, realising it’s a tip. I can’t remember the last time I whipped the Hoover over the carpets, or held a duster in my hand. Yet I used to take such pride in my home, the home that now resembles a picture perfect image of how I always vowed not to live. Geesh, have I really allowed Scott to get to me this much? I wonder. As I hear Matthew’s footsteps nearing, I check my reflection in the mirror. Damn, I’ve not even showered today. I rush to the bathroom (almost tripping over a carelessly discarded pair of shoes) and splash water on my face, rinse my mouth with mouthwash to freshen up my breath. As I am drying my face and hands, there is a quiet knock at the door.
          "Just a second!" I shout, running the brush through my hair, tie it up in a scruffy ponytail and glance once more at my own reflection. I have improved my looks by all of two percent. A quick spray of perfume and I rush to the door.
          "Hello, come in." He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek which feels cold against my skin.
          "I brought this" he says, holding up a bottle of wine as though it were some kind of a trophy.
          "Brilliant, go to the lounge, I’ll grab an extra glass."
          "How have you been?" he asks, sitting on a cushion on the floor. If he notices the state of me, he doesn’t show it.
          "Oh you know…" I let my voice trail off as I plant my bottom on the floor across from him, a small glass coffee table between us.
          "No, I don’t", he returns, challengingly.
          "What do you mean?"
          "Well, one minute we are best friends" he looks at me earnestly, then looks away. "Well, best friends apart from Melissa", he corrects himself, then coughs and takes a sip of the wine I have poured. "And the next, it’s like I don’t exist."
          "Well, I am sorry, Matty, but I’ve been rather…"
          "Busy, yes, I know", he interrupts. "When’s it going to stop, Emma?"
          "When’s what going to stop?"
          "This! You moping around. It's been eight weeks since he left.."
          "Seven", I protest, indignantly, "and a half."
          "Emma, I just hate seeing you like this. I mean, look at you." I look down at my washed out t-shirt and jeans, and the odd pair of woollen socks on my feet. Not exactly glamorous. But Matthew is right, of course, however much I protest: I am merely a shell of my former self.
          "This is what I look like when I relax, in case you’ve forgotten." I'll be damned if I let him win that easily.
          "No, I hadn’t", he says quietly, then sips some more wine.
          "I just think it’s been long enough now, Emma. It’s time you got out there, returned to the fold of the living, of your friends."
          "Forgive me if I’ve had enough of friends for the time being. Forgive me if I have to spend just a little time licking my wounds, somehow finding strength to face the world." My voice falters at the intensity of my words.
          "Forgiven. So, fancy going to the cinema tonight?"
          "Nifty piece of manoeuvring there, Matthew. But it’s not as easy as that this time," I smile and wipe away the tears from my face.
          "I really loved him, Matthew…" I sob, burying my face in my hands. I hear a soft clunk as he places his glass on the coffee table and then the sound of him shuffling along the floor. In next to no time, he’s beside me, his arm wrapped around me.
          "I know", he strokes my arm gently and I bury my face in his neck. "He didn’t deserve you in the first place. You’re far too good for him."
          "I thought you liked him?" I ask, looking up at him now, wiping away a large tear, which is dangling from the tip of my nose.
          "Well… you’re my friend. You seemed happy and that was all that mattered to me." He smiles and brushes away a strand of hair from my face.
          "I guess", I say, returning to the comfort of his embrace, "it’s the double-whammy of Melissa’s betrayal which makes it so much worse."
          "They’ve both shown their true colours, Emma. Clearly, Melissa wasn’t such a good friend if she could do this sort of thing to you." His voice is soft and gentle, and I close my eyes as he continues to stroke my hair. We sit like this for what appears to be an eternity, sipping our wine in an enjoyable, relaxed silence.
         Perhaps Matthew is right. It’s time to move on. I look around me and see what I have become, in such a short space of time.
          "Thanks, Matthew", I say finally. I pull away slightly, my hand still placed on his knee. I contemplate him for a while, then break into a huge grin.
          "What’s up?" he asks.
          "Us. You. Me."
          "What about us?"
          I look at him, intently, thoughtfully. A good-looking chap in his mid-twenties with a semi-successful career in the property market. For the first time I realise what a catch he is yet I never saw it before. "Well, not so much us but me. I mean, look at me! I am a mess!"
          "I don’t care", he says, taking my hand and the most inexplicable, extraordinary yet wonderful of things happens as we hold each other’s gazes. My head is spinning like a Ferris wheel and my heart beating like a bush drum as finally, our lips meet in the most gentle of kisses. Kissing someone you’ve been friends with since the age of six is a most peculiar thing. Particularly if you’ve lived through each other’s sexual conquests and heartaches, the way that Matthew and I have. Only a few moments ago he called himself my best friend and with a pang of guilt I realise that he is. Guilt, because I’ve wrongly been bestowing that honour on Melissa.
          "Wait" I protest half-heartedly.
          "What’s the matter?" he says, looking at me with a mixture of concern and desire.
          "It’s just that… Well, I haven’t even had a shower yet!"
          "Like I said, I don’t care", he smiles and pulls me back into his arms, starts kissing my neck. I am on the verge of fainting with dizzy desire.
          "Maybe you don’t, but I do", and with that I get up, rush to the bathroom, Matthew hot on my heels. "Get me a clean towel from my wardrobe, would you?" I say to him as I start undressing. He returns, placing the towel on the radiator and asks if I need anything else.
          "No, thanks darling. Just go and enjoy the wine, I’ll be two ticks." I plant a kiss on his forehead and nudge him out of the bathroom.
          As I am drying myself off, I hear Matthew moving around in my lounge, probably looking at the pictures lining the far wall opposite the windows. I smile, wrap the towel around me and tiptoe to my bedroom. I put on my best underwear, a black roll neck jumper and a clean pair of jeans. As I am applying a small amount of makeup, Matthew appears behind me, his body leaning against the frame of the door.
          "You look… fantastic", he says, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
I turn and smile at him, "well, thank you", then start blow-drying my hair, all the while feeling Matthew watching me, which lends the whole procedure an air of intense sensual thrill. I start arranging my hair in a ponytail when he says he prefers my hair down.
          "Really? You never told me that!"
          "No, but I’ve thought it often enough", he approaches me, playfully touches my long brown hair and kisses the tip of my nose. "I think it’s too late for the cinema tonight" he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. I feel sorely tempted to pounce on him, to succumb to this burning desire that has swept across me since our first kiss.
          "Then how about we go for a drink?" I ask, pulling on my boots.
          "OK, sounds great, I’ll get my coat."

         We end up in our usual haunt, The Kings Arms, and bump into a few of our friends. Somehow, it feels awkward, me and Matthew, now that we are in the real world. Perhaps this is all a huge mistake. One that I could rectify this instance by telling him we should go back to just being friends. What if it doesn’t work out between us and then I really will lose my best friend? I watch him getting the next round of drinks in the bar, talking to Tom and Jack, who we’ve both known since school and I am suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of pride and love and, damn it, yearning for him. I blush, staring wistfully at my empty glass, as I think of all the things we might get up to later.
         Matthew places the two pints on the table, then tells me he’s got to go to the ‘little boy’s room’. I watch him disappearing round the corner, smiling dreamily.
          "I always knew you two were meant to be", a voice says behind me.
          "Hello Nikki", I say, followed by a sharp "what do you mean by that?"
          Nikki has remained bubbly, outgoing and slightly outrageous since she changed schools and became part of our gang many moons ago. If you could see her now, dressed in what my Gran would have described as ‘rags’ (in fact a torn tank top worn over a bright pink t-shirt with a final, third layer which looks rather like an old net curtain but is in all probability the height of fashion), fishnet tights, a short skirt and cherry red Dr Marten’s, you’d know what I mean. I watch her winding a strand of her short hair of indefinable colour around her index finger, transfixed and eager for her to expand on her initial outburst.
          "It’s obvious" (she says this word with a defiant throwing up of both hands and a roll of the eyes), "by the way you look at each other! You may not know it yet, you may not want to admit it and it may never come up for debate, but you guys are like soul mates! You are so right for one another!" She helps herself to several large sips of Matthew’s drink, stubs out her cigarette and takes my hand from across the table. "Some things are meant to be, dictated by destiny, written in the stars. Believe me", she says with a smile, "I know about such things!"
         Before I can protest, telling her in no uncertain terms that Matthew and I are not an item, she flashes me a smile and a knowing wink and heads to the bar. I find myself smiling as I watch her talking animatedly to Jack. Talk about black pots and kettles.
          "It’s so nice to see you smile" says another voice behind me, and I freeze, not daring to look up. Instead, Scott places himself on Matthew’s chair so recently vacated by Nikki.
          "I thought you were in Bournemouth", I say, coldly. I had imagined so many times what I would say to him the first time I saw him and never thought it would be something as trivial as that. And, interestingly, any thoughts, schemes or plans of revenge have disappeared, as if wiped clear from my memory board. Nor am I tempted to beg for his return, or for that matter, to spew venomous insults at him. I place both hands in my lap so that he cannot reach me; physical contact of any kind with Scott is the last thing I want right now.
          "I was, but now I am back… Emma, would you give me the chance to explain? Please?"
         I really loved him, I can still hear myself saying those words to Matthew only a couple of hours ago and suddenly realise it’s the first time I’ve ever used the past tense when referring to my feelings for Scott.
         "There’s nothing to explain, Scott. Now, if you don’t mind?" I look up at Matthew who has, at last, returned from his visit to the Men’s.
          "Scott", he says, remaining standing, then pointing at the chair. "Do you mind?"
          "No…" Scott says, somewhat confused, looking from me to Matthew and back. "No, of course not. Sorry." He gets up and says, "we’re not together anymore, me and Melissa. I just thought you should know. Can I call you?"
          "I’d prefer if you don’t. You see, I’ve moved on and there is no more room for you in my life. So please, leave me alone. Bye, Scott."
          "I thought you handled that really well", Matthew says with a grin, taking my hand.
         "So did you!" I smile, lean across the table and kiss him. At that moment it dawns on me that perhaps Nikki is right. Some things were meant to be, others were not. Me and Matthew, it just feels right, and in truth, being the best of friends is not such a bad foundation for a relationship, is it? So in a way, Scott did me a favour, I think, as I take another quick sip of my drink.
          "I don’t know about you", I say, still leaning across the table, with a wicked grin on my face, eyes glinting, "but I am starving!"
         "Me too!" he says and we depart, leaving our only partially finished drinks behind.