Getting Over Mr. Right (35 page)

“Right, I’ve got to get some sleep,” he said. “Early start tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep, of course. My mind was racing. There was so much that needed to be said to the little toad who snuggled against my side and was apparently intent on sleeping
the sleep of the innocent, having bedded me and then assured his girlfriend that he would still make it to the airport to meet her flight. Perhaps I should have shaken him awake and told him there and then that I knew what was going on and he was a bigger shit than I had ever imagined if he thought that was an appropriate way to behave. Perhaps I should have just left, but instead I lay there, with his arm across my stomach, berating myself for being such an idiot. How could I have been so naïve to think that Michael Parker wanted me back?

After a while, with Michael deep in his dreams, his arm started to feel very heavy on me. I lifted it off my stomach and out of the way, carefully but not that carefully. Part of me wanted to wake him. But Michael was not disturbed at all. He remained asleep on his front. The only sign that he was alive was the occasional snore. Michael was one of very few people who snored while sleeping on his front as well as his back.

I hated him in that moment. Sure, I had said that I hated him a thousand times since he dumped me for Miss Well-Sprung, but I had never truly felt the proper weight of the emotion before. Whatever anger I felt for him prior to that night would always have dissolved at the sight of his smile. Now I knew I was experiencing something much stronger. Something that demanded revenge.

I had to take action. But what could I do?

I pulled my iPhone out of my handbag and logged on to Facebook. I could send Miss Well-Sprung a message to let her know who was sharing her boyfriend’s bed, but that seemed a little tacky. Likewise, simply posting a photo of Michael’s naked buttocks was too easy, and it would have the added disadvantage of alerting my friends to the fact that I had gone against all advice and ended up in bed with the worthless swine. The last thing I wanted was a lecture from Becky to add to the intense feelings of anger I already had for myself. I had been
taken in by Michael Parker. Again. No one could have been angrier with me than I was.

It was then that my eyes drifted to Michael’s buttocks, exposed to the world as he threw off the sheets. (He always got too hot.) If only I could tattoo
ARSEHOLE
right above his. Well, I couldn’t. But I could do the next best thing.

“Please let me have it with me,” I muttered to myself as I rooted through my handbag. Triumph! I had not one but two indelible marker pens, pinched from the Maximal Media office. I knew that they really were indelible because Ellie had written
IDIOT
on her assistant Jamie’s forehead after he forwarded a confidential and deeply unflattering email to a client. The word had not come off with simple soap and water and Jamie had threatened to sue. Until he got a pay raise.

So, with that kind of permanence in mind, I uncapped the black pen and got to work on Michael’s bottom. I didn’t have to press hard, though I doubted that Michael would have stirred if I had been using a tattoo gun. He was sleeping so soundly that after I had written my little message once, I went back over it a second and third time to make sure the letters were nice and thick. It looked great.

I was here
was what it said. Simple but effective.

The following morning I excelled myself. Despite having lain awake all night, I jumped out of bed looking eager to greet the day. It was clear that Michael still had no clue whatsoever that I had heard his late-night conversation with Miss Well-Sprung. When he stood up, I saw that my message to her was still perfectly intact and unsmudged on his buttocks. Magnificent. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

“I’d have breakfast with you,” he said, “but I’ve got that meeting at seven thirty.”

“I remember. Where is it?” I asked. “Maybe you could give me a lift home on your way.”

I had a feeling he wouldn’t want to.

“Actually,” he said, “a client from Hamburg is flying into Heathrow and I said I would meet him there. We’re going to have a quick cup of coffee before he catches a flight on to the States. I would drop you off, but I’m cutting it fine as it is and obviously he won’t have a lot of time before he needs to check in again.”

I nodded understandingly. “Do you have time for a shower?” I asked, all coy.

Michael was already putting on a shirt and spraying his unwashed body with aftershave.

“No time at all,” he said.

“Pity.” As I watched him pull on a pair of boxer shorts, which covered up my well-placed words, it was hard to keep
the smile off my face. Michael had no idea, and by the time he did realize it would be much too late. I imagined Michael scooping Miss Well-Sprung into his arms and rushing back to his place for a quick one. I imagined her ripping off his trousers and finding my welcome-home message. If only I could have been a fly on the wall. Though I could already imagine Michael’s excuses. Perhaps he would tell her that he had spent the previous night out with the lads. An impromptu stag do. Or that one of the wags in the office had done it while he was dozing facedown on his desk after a busy day. At the same time, though, I knew that even if Miss Well-Sprung said she believed his lies, the seeds of doubt would have been sown. That was good enough for me.

“So, when will I see you again?” I asked. “Are you around later this week?”

“Actually,” said Michael, “I’ve got a busy few days coming up. I think it’s best if we leave things a bit … er … fluid for now.” It was exactly the sort of thing I had expected him to say.

“That’s fine by me,” I replied, knowing that even if we had arranged a date, by lunchtime that day he would definitely want to break it. “In that case, I suppose I had better get dressed, too. You’ll want me to leave when you do, I’m sure.”

“That would be easiest.” Michael nodded, but he looked a little disconcerted, I thought. Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to be quite so easy to get rid of. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he worried that I was only so chilled out because I had something up my sleeve. Well, it was too late for him to find out that actually I had something down the back of his boxers.

“I’ll shower at home,” I said, pulling on my dress. Suddenly I just wanted to be out of there.

Michael didn’t argue. He kissed me good-bye at the door. I walked out of the complex by myself, an entirely different woman from the one who had skulked around outside River Heights in the middle of the night, before dropping an old sock
full of voodoo rubbish into the sewage system. If the doorman recognized me as that weirdo, he didn’t show it. He put his fingers to his cap in a mock salute as he opened the door for me.

“Nice boots,” he said.

Those boots were turning out to be a great investment.

I strode off in the direction of the Embankment and enjoyed a short walk in the freezing January sunshine to clear my head before I jumped on a bus and headed home.

It’s said that the aftermath of the average breakup has five stages. Denial comes first. I certainly went through that one, turning up at Michael’s office with flowers and an offer of marriage. Then there’s bargaining. Some people promise God they’ll reform their lives for a second chance with a loved one. I paid a thousand pounds for a ridiculous voodoo curse. After that comes anger. It’s a shame I turned the power of that particular stage on Becky. Then there’s depression. Who wouldn’t be depressed about having to move back in with their parents at the age of thirty-two? Now I had come to the final stage: acceptance.

Michael Parker was not my Mr. Right. That was all there was to it. It wasn’t my fault. And even if he had cheated on me, the fact that we weren’t actually destined to be with each other wasn’t really his fault, either. It was just the way things had worked out. I’d been sad, I’d been angry, I’d been mad as a box of frogs, and now I was ready to be happy again.

Later that day I received a text message. It was from Jack.

“Hope u don’t mind. Yr brother gave me yr number. I really would like to take u out.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Jack was persistent. You had to say that for him. And maybe his luck was about to change.

I texted back, “Okay. Why not? Give me a call and let’s sort something out.”

Jack phoned back at once, full of ideas for my entertainment. I told him I’d see him that evening. I’d wear my boots. Perhaps my luck was beginning to change as well.

C
HRISSIE
M
ANBY
is the author of several romantic comedy novels. She lives in London with her Mr. Right.

www.chrismanby.co.uk