imagination
EMILY INVITED ME to stay at her place for the remainder of the weekend. I thanked her but said I needed to go back and do the laundry, as I was running out of clothes.
That was partially true. But it was also true that I needed some time alone. Emily’s the best friend a girl can have. But I was still exhausted after my embarrassing, and debilitating, binge drinking of a couple of nights ago, followed by our marathon shopping, model spotting expedition.
I just wanted to spend Sunday at home — do the chores, go for a jog. So on Saturday evening I said goodbye to Emily and went back to Surbiton. It was only when I’d collapsed onto the sofa, switched on the TV and saw a trailer for that evening’s Strictly Come Dancing that I fully realised it was Saturday night.
I found Saturday nights the most difficult ones to get through. There’s something about Saturday night. You’d think it would be Sunday that would be trickier, because everything’s quieter, giving you more time to think. But it’s the pressure to have fun on a Saturday night that hits home. It doesn’t matter if you go out and party, or if you stay in to watch TV, Saturday night is supposed to be about fun.
I hadn’t had fun on a Saturday night for at least six months. Before then, I’d enjoyed going out. At the agency we’d often get invitations to soirées from photographers or people at advertising agencies. And I’d gone along to a fair few, even though some of them felt a little too much like work.
Russell had usually come along, too. But we were both just as happy snuggling up in front of the TV. I thought that when you found somebody who was as happy staying in with you as they were going out, you were set for life.
After Russell left, I felt less inclined to go to parties. But I was unhappy, too, sitting down in front of the television. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to watch. Romantic comedies made me cry. Cops shows made me impatient to find out the villain. Soaps made me rage.
It was the easy intimacy we’d had that I missed the most. Russell was the one person I didn’t have to try hard to impress, which was nice.
“You could always call me. You don’t have to wait for me to call you.”
It was Russell again. The one in my head. I was imagining him sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. I didn’t want to imagine him, I wasn’t in the mood, so I stood up and walked into the kitchen.
What should I have for dinner? I asked myself. Even the smallest decisions were proving difficult. I didn’t want anything too heavy. I’d had crab fishcakes for lunch. It wasn’t a lot, but I still didn’t feel like eating several hours later. There was a box of eggs on the shelf. I could scramble them and pour baked beans poured over the top. It was what I cooked when I needed something warm and comforting.
“Well, you could.” He was in the kitchen now, standing by the washing machine. I didn’t want to start up a conversation. Not now. So I pretended he wasn’t there, which he wasn’t.
Oh, how I missed him.
Scrambled eggs and beans on toast watching Strictly would do nicely I finally decided. So I set about cooking them. The simple things in life are so reliable. They are if you don’t overcook the eggs. I don’t like runny scrambled eggs, but this time I’d gone the other way — the eggs were dry. I hate scrambled eggs that are too dry. The sauce from the baked beans helped, but still they didn’t look good.
“I do miss your scrambled eggs. You make fantastic scrambled eggs.” Russell gave me a wry smile. “Most of the time.” He was back in the armchair. I couldn’t get rid of him. “Although those look a little crispy.”
I still didn’t reply to him: not in my mind, and not out loud. They were just scrambled eggs, I told myself. It didn’t matter. But these eggs seemed like the most important thing in the world.
I didn’t realise I was crying until a single tear made its
EMILY INVITED ME to stay at her place for the remainder of the weekend. I thanked her but said I needed to go back and do the laundry, as I was running out of clothes.
That was partially true. But it was also true that I needed some time alone. Emily’s the best friend a girl can have. But I was still exhausted after my embarrassing, and debilitating, binge drinking of a couple of nights ago, followed by our marathon shopping, model spotting expedition.
I just wanted to spend Sunday at home — do the chores, go for a jog. So on Saturday evening I said goodbye to Emily and went back to Surbiton. It was only when I’d collapsed onto the sofa, switched on the TV and saw a trailer for that evening’s Strictly Come Dancing that I fully realised it was Saturday night.
I found Saturday nights the most difficult ones to get through. There’s something about Saturday night. You’d think it would be Sunday that would be trickier, because everything’s quieter, giving you more time to think. But it’s the pressure to have fun on a Saturday night that hits home. It doesn’t matter if you go out and party, or if you stay in to watch TV, Saturday night is supposed to be about fun.
I hadn’t had fun on a Saturday night for at least six months. Before then, I’d enjoyed going out. At the agency we’d often get invitations to soirées from photographers or people at advertising agencies. And I’d gone along to a fair few, even though some of them felt a little too much like work.
Russell had usually come along, too. But we were both just as happy snuggling up in front of the TV. I thought that when you found somebody who was as happy staying in with you as they were going out, you were set for life.
After Russell left, I felt less inclined to go to parties. But I was unhappy, too, sitting down in front of the television. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to watch. Romantic comedies made me cry. Cops shows made me impatient to find out the villain. Soaps made me rage.
It was the easy intimacy we’d had that I missed the most. Russell was the one person I didn’t have to try hard to impress, which was nice.
“You could always call me. You don’t have to wait for me to call you.”
It was Russell again. The one in my head. I was imagining him sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. I didn’t want to imagine him, I wasn’t in the mood, so I stood up and walked into the kitchen.
What should I have for dinner? I asked myself. Even the smallest decisions were proving difficult. I didn’t want anything too heavy. I’d had crab fishcakes for lunch. It wasn’t a lot, but I still didn’t feel like eating several hours later. There was a box of eggs on the shelf. I could scramble them and pour baked beans poured over the top. It was what I cooked when I needed something warm and comforting.
“Well, you could.” He was in the kitchen now, standing by the washing machine. I didn’t want to start up a conversation. Not now. So I pretended he wasn’t there, which he wasn’t.
Oh, how I missed him.
Scrambled eggs and beans on toast watching Strictly would do nicely I finally decided. So I set about cooking them. The simple things in life are so reliable. They are if you don’t overcook the eggs. I don’t like runny scrambled eggs, but this time I’d gone the other way — the eggs were dry. I hate scrambled eggs that are too dry. The sauce from the baked beans helped, but still they didn’t look good.
“I do miss your scrambled eggs. You make fantastic scrambled eggs.” Russell gave me a wry smile. “Most of the time.” He was back in the armchair. I couldn’t get rid of him. “Although those look a little crispy.”
I still didn’t reply to him: not in my mind, and not out loud. They were just scrambled eggs, I told myself. It didn’t matter. But these eggs seemed like the most important thing in the world.
I didn’t realise I was crying until a single tear made its
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