The Single Girl's To-Do List (5 page)

The toothpaste.

There wasn’t a new tube of toothpaste in the cabinet beside the sink because I’d started a new tube of toothpaste the day before. But it wasn’t in its holder. And neither was Simon’s toothbrush. And his razor was gone. Still clutching my toothbrush, I padded back through to the hallway and stopped outside the bedroom door. Even though I already knew what I was going to find, I just couldn’t open it. I felt sick. And angry. And stupid. I pushed the door open with my big toe and peered inside. At the empty bed. I stepped backwards and felt something hard and cold under my foot, followed by something sharp, stinging and hot. The photo from Emelie’s birthday. Simon must have knocked it over on his way out. In his rush.

Toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other, I slid down the wall, knocking every other photo onto the floor on my way down, and watching my blood trickle out onto the laminate flooring Simon had so lovingly laid, the day after last year’s FA Cup final. Simon always said there was no DIY during football season.

I slid the lock off my phone and pressed the last call button.

‘Matthew?’ I said quietly, trying not to flex my toes. ‘He took my toothpaste.’

‘I’m going to kill him,’

I nodded.

‘I mean, I’m going to destroy him. Hold him down, punch him in the face and then rip off each limb before beating his face in with the soggy ends.’

‘’K,’ I agreed.

‘And then I’m going to—’

‘Emelie,’ Matthew interrupted, reaching down to scoop me up from the floor. ‘You’re not helping.’

I leaned into my friend and squeezed my toothbrush in one hand, my phone in the other.

‘Want to give me that now?’ he asked, holding out his hand. I gave him my phone.

‘And the toothbrush?’

I reluctantly passed it over.

Matthew and Emelie had crossed London in record time and made it to my door before I’d even moved. I had called Matthew, he had called Emelie and she had called Domino’s but they weren’t delivering yet. But the thought was there. I’d given them the abridged version of what had happened since I’d got in the cab, punctuated by sniffling, sobbing and general self-pity and, in turn, they’d filled me in on what had happened at their end which basically consisted of Paul knocking Simon on his arse, Matthew watching with admiration and Emelie landing a kick to the crotch while calling him something terrible in French that didn’t really translate. When the police were called, my three musketeers had scarpered to the nearest McDonald’s and Simon had crawled into a cab. Which was where my story took over.

‘It never occurred to me that he would come here,’ Matthew said, stroking my hair as I sat on the sofa. ‘We were going to come over but you didn’t answer the phone so I assumed you were asleep. You always reply if you’re not asleep.’

‘I did sleep,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘I know you will,’ he said. ‘Of course you will be. You’re well rid of that arsehole.’

Was I rid of him? Surely he was the one who had got rid of me? And I wasn’t an arsehole. I didn’t think.

‘You’re so going to be all right.’ Em was brewing enough tea to quench the thirst of Bristol. ‘How about a bath? A bath might feel good.’

‘I don’t know.’ How did someone not know whether or not they wanted a bath? Oh good, I’d gone mad.

‘Well, whatever you want to do, just tell us.’ Matthew kissed the top of my head and looked at me expectantly. ‘Or, you know, sit there in silence and we’ll just talk at you. Either way.’

The clock on the DVD player said it was 10.00 a.m. The
Mad Men
DVD has gone from the top of the DVD player. How could it only be 10.00 a.m.? Your life wasn’t allowed to go down the shitter before noon on a Saturday, surely. Simon must have taken the
Mad Men
DVD. I should get changed. I actually should have a bath. But a bath would make my foot hurt. I cut my foot. And what was I going to get changed into? Pyjamas would be too pathetic; clothes seemed too optimistic. Maybe I could go back to sleep. It was still early. If this was a normal Saturday and I hadn’t just been completely screwed over by the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with, I’d probably still be in bed.

‘Rachel, are you thinking things and not saying them out loud?’ Matthew asked.

Oh, I was.

‘He’s taken the
Mad Men
DVDs,’ I said eventually. My voice sounded thick and tragic.

‘Had you finished watching them?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘
Fils de pute
,’ Emelie breathed. ‘It’s one thing to take a girl’s toothpaste, it’s another to take her Don Draper—’

‘Right, bath first,’ he said, giving Emelie the nod. She immediately stopped refilling the kettle and hotfooted it into the bathroom. Taps turning, water running, Emelie swearing when she scalded herself on our hot tap just as she always did. ‘OK?’

I really couldn’t do much more than nod. It was like I was asleep with my eyes open. Somewhere between two and twenty minutes passed before Emelie called that the bath was ready. Matthew helped me up and gave me a gentle push towards the bathroom.

‘You’ll feel better, really.’ He shut the door before I could start stripping off. Amazing best friend though he was, Matthew was wildly uncomfortable around female nudity. He had been very clear from the outset that he had no interest in seeing so much as a boob from either of us. Emelie had, of course, flashed him within three weeks of living together, but I’d managed to retain my modesty. ‘Amazing what a bath can do.’

‘It’s ready.’ Em manoeuvred her way behind me in my tiny bathroom and pulled as much as my hair as she could into a ponytail on the top of my head. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘I’m good.’ I peeled off my vest and dropped it on the bathroom floor. Five more minutes and it probably would have crawled off my back itself. The skinny jeans were more committed to sticking with me. It took me a good couple of attempts to wrestle my way out of them before Em stepped in with one good hard tug and yanked them down over my knees. Hanging onto the sink, I watched her scoop them up, flash me a grin and then shut the bathroom door behind her. Standing in front of the mirror in my bra and pants, hair piled in a giant pineapple on top of my head, crying, with a bottom lip so low you could hang coat hangers off it, didn’t make me feel pathetic at all. Have a bath, Rachel. You’ll feel better, Rachel.

Tearing my eyes away from the sex bomb in the mirror, the actual bath itself looked amazing. It was full and overloaded with bubbles, and the steam scented the room with a relaxing, clean smell – lavender and something. All I had to do was get in. One foot, then the other and, soon, I’d smell clean and fresh too. My skin would be pink and soft, the bubbles would tickle the back of my neck and, whether I liked it or not, my muscles would relax and I probably would feel a bit better. Only, I didn’t want to feel better. I wanted to wallow and mope and run the events of the last twelve hours over and over in my mind. I didn’t want tea; I didn’t want baths; I didn’t want sympathetic friends. I wanted my boyfriend back. But if I didn’t get in the bath, a) Matthew and Emelie would know and b) I would smell. Couldn’t hurt to show willing. That was, of course, unless the bath was scorching red hot and took the skin off my foot.

Outside the bathroom, I could hear my friends’ emergency summit. The joys of cheap Nineties renovations: the walls in this place were paper thin.

‘Right, I’ll strip the bed and you take the photos of him down,’ I heard Matthew directing. ‘I’ll bloody boil-wash the bedding. I want every trace of that shit out of this flat before she gets out the bath.’

‘Done and done,’ Em replied. ‘I can’t believe he’s done this.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I really thought this one was going all the way.’

Me and you both, I thought. Me and you both.

‘Then thank god he’s done it now. Imagine if they’d actually got married.’

‘I know, I mean, how do you pretend you’re happy for someone marrying a knob-head?’

I sank back into the bath. My friends thought Simon was a knob-head? But we’d been together for five years and they’d never said anything. I knew I was never at risk of either of them trying it on with him – aside from the fact he had a penis, he really wasn’t either of their types, but still. They hated him so much they were pleased we’d broken up?

I held a bright pink foot out of the water and checked my toenail polish. It needed changing. Theme of the day. Turning on the cold tap with my toes, I tried to come up with reasons as to why Em and Matthew would dislike Simon so much. Admittedly, they didn’t have that much in common. Simon was pretty much a full-time bloke. He watched football, played video games, enjoyed the work of Will Ferrell, the body of Megan Fox and the music of Coldplay. That didn’t make him a bad person, just a straight 29-year-old man. Maybe he hadn’t always been completely comfortable around Matthew in the early days, but that was just because he didn’t have that many gay friends. And maybe he’d been a little too comfortable around Emelie on occasion, but she could hardly pretend she wasn’t flattered by his clumsy flirting. And he was a good boyfriend. He cooked, mostly because I couldn’t. He did all the man jobs, brought me flowers when he’d worked late, always remembered my birthday, never cancelled on plans, came to every last wedding, birthday and christening I dragged him to without complaint. He wasn’t selfish or greedy, he didn’t cheat or lie; he was a good man. We were happy. We had a routine. And apparently I wasn’t alone in thinking this was going to end in a ring and a white dress and a rousing rendition of ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ on the floor of a nice hotel somewhere in Surrey.

But no. No ring. No white dress. No group dance number. No explanation. Maybe if I spoke to him. Maybe if I got a real explanation, we could still talk this through. I could still get him back.

After what I hoped was a decent amount of time, I heaved myself out of the still-hot water and towelled down. Matthew wouldn’t appreciate the show of skin but, as my dressing gown was in the bedroom, this was the best I could do. I just wanted to put on some clothes, pick up the phone and get this sorted. Matthew and Emelie were standing in the living room, my bedding dumped on the floor between them.

‘What now?’ I asked, feeling all my newly acquired get-up-and-go get up and go. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Emelie looked up, panicked. ‘Wow, you look better. Why don’t you go and get dressed?’

‘I look like shit,’ I said, tightening my towel around me. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen? Did Simon call?’

‘No,’ she said. Matthew slipped something into his back pocket and stepped behind Em. ‘Get dressed then we’ll go and get something to eat. You must be starving.’

They were the worst liars ever.

‘What did you just put in your pocket?’ I asked Matthew.

‘Nothing.’ His voice was higher than mine.

‘OK, give it here.’ I held out my hand. ‘Whatever it is, give it.’

Matthew and Emelie looked at each other. Giving him her best Care Bear stare, Em shook her head but he just nodded and pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and bit his lip.

‘Matthew,’ Em put her hand on my shoulder, holding me back, ‘don’t.’

‘Why don’t you get dressed first …’ he started, but I was too fast. Pushing Emelie onto the sofa, I narrowed my eyes, tightened my ponytail and checked the towel. Before jumping onto the sofa and leaping onto Matthew’s back. With one arm around his neck, I grabbed at the piece of paper in his hand while he ran around in circles, squealing like a woman.

‘Get her off!’ he shrieked, lapping the room like a headless chicken.

Emelie rolled back on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her, hands pressed against her face. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying and I really didn’t care. All I knew was that I was getting that bloody piece of paper. Matthew was on his fourth lap of the living room when I finally managed to snatch it out of his hand. At the exact same time as I lost my towel. Ignoring the fact that at least three of my neighbours were watching me take a naked piggyback ride around my living room on a six foot four gay man, I slid to the floor and quickly scanned the note.

Matthew came to a standstill, panting far too heavily for a man who worked out as often as he did. ‘Jesus H Christ,’ he wheezed, eyes wide and a look of complete horror on his face. Em composed herself quickly and wrapped my towel around me. But I wasn’t too worried about being naked at that moment. I was far more concerned with the contents of the note.

It was pale and blue and lined with raw, torn edges down one side where it had been ripped from a notebook. My notebook. Someone had been in my bag, ripped a page out of my notebook and left me a very brief message.

I read it three more times before looking up at my friends. Matthew’s expression was somewhere between traumatized and apologetic. Emelie just looked so incredibly sad. I opened my mouth to say something, anything to break the tension, but all I could manage was a sharp intake of breath. This was it? This was all I got? The note scrunched up too easily, until it was just a few sharp corners in my palm, and when I opened up my fist, it sat there like a tiny ball of nothing. When I opened my eyes, it was still there. A tiny, innocuous piece of paper that had just completely broken my heart.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Half eleven?’ Matthew guessed.

‘Is the pub open?’

‘It’s London,’ Em picked up her handbag. ‘There’s always a pub open somewhere.’

I nodded and clutched my towel closed around me. ‘I’ll get dressed then.’

Happily, we didn’t have to search for long. Within the hour we were safely stashed away in a dark corner of a dark pub up the road from my flat. With a bottle of white wine on the table and three orders of posh fish fingers on their way, we were set up for the afternoon.

‘So your options are, we can get drunk, slag him off and stagger home with a kebab.’ Matthew ticked off the options on his fingers. ‘Or we can get drunk, you can cry and embarrass yourself horribly, then we stagger home with a kebab.’

‘Tell me there’s an option three.’ I tried to stop myself from poking my finger through the hole in my leggings. I’d blame my shoddy ensemble on the speed with which I’d got dressed, but really, most of my clothes were either entirely too much or just a bit shit. No one cared what the make-up artist was wearing on set and I’d developed something of a black leggings, white T-shirt uniform over the last couple of years. Didn’t take too much thinking about when you were rummaging in the drawers at five a.m.

‘Option three, we get drunk and plan your fabulous new life and then stagger home with a kebab,’ Matthew finished.

‘Do I get a vote?’ Emelie waved her hand in the air. ‘I want option three. And I’d also like to suggest pizza instead of kebabs.’

‘No, it’s got to be kebabs,’ Matthew declared. ‘This is the only time I can eat one without hating myself afterwards. All calories consumed within forty-eight hours of a break-up are null and void.’