Greatest Love Story of All Time (25 page)

A cup of tea later, overwhelmed by my day and at a loss as to what to do, I got my phone out and reread Michael’s messages. They had become a little bit like his old smelly sock that I’d hugged so voraciously when our separation had started in December. They were a nice place to go in my head. An escape from reality. A cup of mental hot chocolate.

I just want you to know I am sorry. I miss you
,
his most recent message had said. Sunday, 1.37 p.m. I smiled mushily.
I miss you
too
, I thought.
More than you can possibly imagine.
Maybe it really had gone wrong with Nellie. Maybe it had just been a fling and she’d got too keen too quickly. I opened my diary and drew a smiley face on 23 March: day ninety. There were twenty-seven days to go. Twenty-seven days until I could see my boy. I’d forgive his indiscretion with The Daniels. I’d do anything. Learn to cook. Take up exotic massage. Take up erotic massage. Anything. I just needed some stability in my life again.

Frances Frances Frances … if you were a bogey I’d pick you:) Govinda

I was in the changing room at Richmond Park Sports Centre, limbering up for a ten-mile ‘warm-up’ run with the running club. This being the first run that I had undertaken in approximately ten years, I was a little anxious. But I’d already spotted Nellie out of the corner of my eye and was filled with an almost sexual excitement at the idea of an evening in her company. Fran the crack whore was BACK!

I thought guiltily about Mum, who had hugged me tearfully when I’d left her house that morning. ‘I’m proud of you, Frances,’ she said, her hand shaking as she held on grimly to her dressing-gown belt. ‘I really am.’

I’d decided there and then to abort tonight’s stalking mission. Mum, dumped less than a week ago, was going to get into her car and drive to some poky church hall to ask for help from a bunch of strangers tonight – and I, dumped nine weeks ago, was going
to try to run ten miles on unfit legs just in the hope of perving at my ex-boyfriend’s new love interest?

But here I was. Doing just that. This mission was stupid and dangerous but what could I do? I’d had three ‘I still love you’ messages from Michael in a week! And if I didn’t find out what was going on RIGHT NOW I would lose it altogether.

I’d narrowed down three possible explanations for Michael’s texts:

1. He was having a rough time with beautiful shiny confident Nellie and wanted minging, grubby, mental Fran back. (This one was my favourite.)
   
2. He was jealous about my dating and trying to fuck with my head.
   
3. He was clinically insane and needed electric-shock therapy.
   

It seemed abundantly clear that the only way to ascertain which of these it was, without directly consulting him, was to go underground and tap The Daniels.

‘Just one last time,’ I muttered to myself, as I shoved my clothes into a bag. Dave and Stefania would never know and Leonie … Well, I needed to talk to Leonie. And maybe Alex. But the idea of apologizing to either was a little beyond my mental capacity today.

I locked my clothes away, said a short prayer to any
God who might still be interested in me and marched out into the cold. ‘Hi,’ I said, to the human bouncy ball who appeared to be in charge. ‘Fran O’Callaghan. I emailed.’

‘Oh, Fran, hi!’ He beamed. ‘Welcome! Everyone, shut up a minute. Let’s say hello to our newest member: THIS IS FRAN!’

I smiled awkwardly, feeling my cheeks redden, as a shiny brown column – Nellie’s hair – emerged from the crowd cooing, ‘
Babe,
what a coincidence! Hi!’ She kissed me on the cheek.

This was ridiculous.
What was I doing
? ‘Oh, hi, Nellie! God, how weird. Of all the running clubs I could have joined! Bizarre!’

My voice was at least two octaves higher than normal. But Nellie seemed oblivious. She put her perfect hair into a thick elastic band, and said, ‘Well, hon, great to have you here. Let’s run together, yuh?’

‘I’d LOVE that!’ I cried enthusiastically.

Fool! She was running the marathon! I’d failed to qualify for the 800 metres at Sports Day and I ran like an animated vegetable!
But I had to know what was going on
. As we set off, I said, ‘You’d better do the talking, Nellie – I have asthma so I can’t talk and run at the same time.’

She looked at me doubtfully. ‘Me, too, babe. It’s just about fitness.’

Balls.

But it wasn’t hard to get her talking. ‘So,’ I said,
‘how’s it going with the new man? What’s his name again?’ Without even needing to look I could see the extent of her smile as she jogged along with exaggerated slowness next to me.

‘Michael. And it’s amazing! God, babe, I am just out of my mind on this one! He came to my office at lunchtime today and took me out to Gordon Ramsay!I mean, can you
believe
it?’

‘Wow,’ I said sadly, thinking about the ham bap I’d eaten at my desk. ‘Go on …’ I wheezed. Nellie actually jumped properly off the ground and let out a little whoop. My heart sank. If this perfectly poised, sleek posh girl was at the whooping stage she must be in love.

‘It’s moved really fast, y’know, he’s just so into me! I honestly think he might be about to
propose
!’

I tried not to be sick. ‘Wow!’ I gasped again.

‘I
know
!’ Nellie gushed. ‘I feel like the luckiest girl on earth. And do you know what, babe? He even runs me a bath every morning!’

Enough. ‘Need to stop and take some Ventolin,’ I gasped. ‘So excited for you. See you back at the club.’ I peeled away from the group and started to walk back along the river to the centre of town, trying not to lose it entirely.
If you can’t take the heat then stay away from the fire
, I told myself furiously. Why was I doing this to myself?

But it didn’t matter. The point was that Nellie and Michael were in love. He ran her baths and I was
toast. The texts must have just been an ego-massage: a little bit of bait to keep me keen. After all, why have one girl in love with you when you can have two?

He had run
me
a bath on the day he’d dumped me. Had he already met her then? ‘Please, Michael, don’t propose to her,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t bear it.’

I stomped into the White Cross and pulled my purse out of my bra. ‘Gin and tonic,’ I said miserably to the barman. He looked at me with disgust. I was red and mad and sweaty. ‘Don’t worry,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll sit outside.’ I wouldn’t want me in my pub either.

As I sat on an already frosty bench outside, my breath still coming out in fast, steamy clouds around my face, I wondered how I was going to get out of this crack habit. Perhaps there was a branch of Stalkers Anonymous in London. I felt an overwhelming wave of self-hatred. Mum was at Alcoholics Anonymous right now and I was
here
?
Please, God, make it work for her
.

I heard steps crunching towards me and then husky laughter. It was Nellie, holding a gin and tonic.

Of course.

‘Oh. Er … I was so far behind after taking my inhaler …’ I trailed off, smiling ruefully. It was very clear that I was lying and, besides, I was past caring. I’d lost the battle. She chuckled again. ‘I stopped to check you were OK, babe, and saw you duck into the pub. It made me laugh. Sod running! I’ve been training every day – I’m allowed one drink, aren’t I?’

She sat down next to me, without so much as a
drop of sweat on her, her face smooth and clean and her expensive Lycra clinging to her toned legs. I shrank into my old jogging bottoms and pulled my hood up, wishing I could just expire on the spot, as she opened, ‘
God
, so Michael’s ex is apparently MAD – she keeps calling him and crying down the phone begging him to get back together with her and –’

The Nokia tune cut in and saved me. Never before had I been so grateful to hear it and never before had I been so happy to see Dave’s name. He was calling from a very noisy-sounding pub. ‘Where are you, Fannybaws?’ he yelled.

‘I’m in Richmond,’ I whispered, moving swiftly down the pub’s river terrace. The Thames looked hard and black and I was beginning to shiver.

‘WHAT?’ Dave roared.

‘I said, I’m in Richmond.’

Dave moved outside his pub and asked what the bloody hell I was doing down there. I glanced at Nellie: she was watching me intently, no doubt presuming I was on the phone to my boyfriend (cat) Duke. ‘Er, I’m running,’ I said, as quietly as I could.

Dave burst out laughing. ‘You? Running? Fran, you run like a scarecrow! What’s going on?’ As I cast around for a reply, though, he got it. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Fran. You’re not following Nellie, are you?’

‘No,’ I said obstinately. Then: ‘Well, yes.’

Dave sighed. ‘Stop it, Franny. Come up to Clerkenwell. Get in a taxi. You shouldn’t be anywhere near
that girl. God knows what’s going on with her and Michael, but you’re only torturing yourself, love. Come to the Three Kings.’

Hang on. ‘Dave … are you at Gin Thursday?’

I could hear him puffing on a roll-up. ‘Aye. Get your scraggy arse out of Richmond and come and join us.’

‘You mean Leonie’s having Gin Thursday
without
me?’

Dave chuckled. ‘Well she couldn’t very well have it with you. You’ve been cancelling her calls. Stop being a big gay and come and make up with her.’

‘Is she there with Alex?’

‘Yes,’ Dave said, drawing on his cigarette. ‘They’re properly together, Fran love,’ he added gently.

‘That girl has the loyalty of a stray cat in the mating season,’ I fumed. ‘Michael has ruined my life and she responds by shacking up with his buttfuck of a best friend? Who has hated my guts from day one? He tried to get me
sacked
yesterday! What the fuck, Dave? Is Leonie going to start getting her muff waxed with Nellie fucking Daniels next?’

‘I thought you were with Nellie “fucking” Daniels right now?’

Oops. I
was
with Nellie fucking Daniels. I looked round briefly but she was yacking away on her own phone, presumably to Michael, who was updating her on the latest fictitious outburst from his ex.

‘You can’t help who you fall for,’ Dave said mildly.

‘Fine, enjoy yourselves,’ I said resignedly, ending the call. Fucking Dave with his smug little life in Wimbledon.

I began to walk back up the terrace towards the pub again. Maybe I should make friends with The Daniels. I was fast running out of other options.

Fran,

Sounds like you’ve had a shit time of it. Whatever’s going on, I’m sorry. Make sure you look after yourself. Remember to eat breakfast. Take a bath. Oh, and change your socks, you munter.

Joking. Hope you’re OK. Say yes to a date. Two weeks tomorrow? Sunday, 14 March?

I’m eating a massive pastrami sandwich. It’s so beautiful I might cry. Just so you know.

Freddy X

Date four: Toni

To my delight, the Backstreet Boys started playing as I walked in. I suddenly felt a lot more confident about tonight’s date. It was the following Saturday and, since I’d discovered that Michael had taken to lunching Nellie at Gordon Ramsay, I’d been doing my best to accept that I’d lost him and divert my attention elsewhere. It wasn’t going that well but as Stefania
hissed ‘encouragingly’, as I left my flat earlier, I was at least trying.

Toni seemed 90 per cent homosexual but I didn’t really care. My evenings were currently spent staring at my phone and fighting with Duke Ellington; anything else marked a vast improvement. And, of course, there was always Freddy in two weeks. Although I’d got to the stage where I’d gladly go on a date with a badger, I did feel a little bit excited about meeting Freddy. He made me smile.

Toni and I were meeting in the Islington Diner for a burger and milkshake and, if we got on, a bit of a rave-up in the Old Queen’s Head across the road. I was ten minutes early, purposely so: I wanted sufficient time to scoff an extra milkshake before Toni arrived. I loved milkshakes with an unhealthy passion. Dirty, fatty, sweet and wrong. I
loved
them. I smiled at the waiter as he made up my chocolate and banana fix. He was beautiful and dressed in a skin-tight stripy top, like Jean Paul Gaultier; he wiggled his bottom as he sang along to Backstreet Boys. I resisted the urge to join in with my best karaoke voice.

Just as I started imbibing the satanic pleasures of the Diner’s banana and Nutella shake, a very feminine northern voice behind me said, ‘Frances?’

I turned round guiltily, straw in mouth, mid-slurp. Yup. Toni was gay.

He looked at my milkshake and sniggered
excitedly. ‘Hi, babe! I got here early so I could neck an extra milkshake in private but you’ve beaten me to it, you milkshake whore!’ Toni was all giggles and raised eyebrows; he was as camp as tits. He kissed me on the cheek, smelling absolutely delicious. ‘Mmm, you smell nice, Toni,’ I told him, patting the stool next to me.

‘Oh,
thanks
, babe! It’s Jean Paul Gaultier!’ he twinkled, crossing his legs and opening the menu. I chuckled. Perhaps he and the waiter would bond over their common Gaultier theme. The waiter evidently hoped so too: he came breezing over to our end of the bar, rolling up his sleeves to reveal two gigantic biceps. ‘Hi, there,’ he growled, completely ignoring me now. ‘What’s it to be?’

Toni pondered, without looking up. I clocked the waiter flexing his arms quickly and giggled to myself. It was going to be a funny afternoon.

‘So, Toni, you’re a celebrity booker then?’ I asked, as we slurped hard and loud. I already wanted Toni to become my GBF. We could bond over our love of dirty milkshakes and maybe become gym buddies, staring at hot men’s bottoms and making tits of ourselves in the free weights area.

‘Yah,’ he replied, turning towards me with an enormous smile. ‘And I just LOVE it!!!’ Toni, I could already tell, was someone whose speech would involve a lot of exclamation marks if it was written down.