way down to the corner of my mouth. I’d been trying to concentrate on the dancers on Strictly . A soap star was being whirled around in a waltz by a hunky pro. It was romance in motion.
It was the dance that made me cry, I told myself. I wasn’t going to fall into a slough of self-pity. But I had to put down the eggs and beans and go into the kitchen to find a tissue. After I’d blown my nose, I returned to the sofa. The eggs and beans tasted cold and nasty. I didn’t want to eat anymore. So I took the plate back into the kitchen, scraped off the remains and washed the crockery.
“Have one of those chocolate puddings you keep in the fridge for emergencies,” Russell suggested. He was behind me and I didn’t want to turn round. It was sound advice, though. I opened the fridge and took out the chocolate pudding.
Back on Strictly , an astrologer was being fired out of a canon, the main reason being to hide his lack of dancing talent. It was quite funny, but I just couldn’t laugh. It was going to be one of those evenings.
“Day or night, you only have to call,” said Russell. I stared at my phone lying on the coffee table. I could call him, I suppose. The evening couldn’t get much worse.
Could it?
Yes, it could. I knew that if I did call we’d have an awkward conversation and I wouldn’t say what I really wanted to say, which was to beg him to come back. And when the phone call ended, I’d be left with a feeling of emptiness so acute that it would feel like a real stomach bug.
There was another option. I could talk to Russell without calling him. I could have a conversation with the imaginary one. I could stop ignoring him and do what I’d done many times over the last few months — chat to him, my imagined version of him.
I didn’t know precisely why I did it. I’m sure a psychologist could come up with a reason, or several reasons. But it worked for me. I usually felt a little better afterwards. The only time it went wrong was when I imagined spending a romantic night with him. Bath night had been a disaster, had completely freaked me out.
I had to stop idealising him. A normal conversation would be fine. We could talk about things we normally talked about. I could ask him who he would be voting for in Strictly , not that he ever voted. He probably didn’t even watch it anymore. He’d probably pretended to enjoy it just to keep me quiet. He usually passed the time when it was on, and we were at home, on his iPad or reading a book about one of his sporting heroes.
“Why did you leave me, Russell?”
He didn’t reply. He just stared at the TV. Of course he did. He didn’t have an answer for that question. Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t have an answer.
Instead, Russell asked, “Why did you give your phone number to another man?”
“I was caught off guard.”
“Oh, come on. You wanted to give him your number the moment you saw him on the train.”
“If I thought there was the slightest chance that you would change your mind and we would get back together, I wouldn’t give my phone number to anybody.”
It had been six months since we broke up and five weeks since we’d met up for our fortnightly drink. The regular contact was Russell’s idea. But he hadn’t been in touch for those five weeks. A couple of text messages just before that, about nothing in particular, but he hadn’t mentioned meeting up for a drink again.
Conjuring up his image in my head was difficult. I was shocked at how difficult it was. It was only five weeks since I’d last seen him. But it was only a vague impression of him that I saw. I suppose that when you think of someone in your head they can’t be anything but vague.
“If you keep giving out your number to strange men,” he said, “then there’s no way we can get back together. You do want to get back together, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you should act like you do.”
“For how long?” I asked him.
“For as
It was the dance that made me cry, I told myself. I wasn’t going to fall into a slough of self-pity. But I had to put down the eggs and beans and go into the kitchen to find a tissue. After I’d blown my nose, I returned to the sofa. The eggs and beans tasted cold and nasty. I didn’t want to eat anymore. So I took the plate back into the kitchen, scraped off the remains and washed the crockery.
“Have one of those chocolate puddings you keep in the fridge for emergencies,” Russell suggested. He was behind me and I didn’t want to turn round. It was sound advice, though. I opened the fridge and took out the chocolate pudding.
Back on Strictly , an astrologer was being fired out of a canon, the main reason being to hide his lack of dancing talent. It was quite funny, but I just couldn’t laugh. It was going to be one of those evenings.
“Day or night, you only have to call,” said Russell. I stared at my phone lying on the coffee table. I could call him, I suppose. The evening couldn’t get much worse.
Could it?
Yes, it could. I knew that if I did call we’d have an awkward conversation and I wouldn’t say what I really wanted to say, which was to beg him to come back. And when the phone call ended, I’d be left with a feeling of emptiness so acute that it would feel like a real stomach bug.
There was another option. I could talk to Russell without calling him. I could have a conversation with the imaginary one. I could stop ignoring him and do what I’d done many times over the last few months — chat to him, my imagined version of him.
I didn’t know precisely why I did it. I’m sure a psychologist could come up with a reason, or several reasons. But it worked for me. I usually felt a little better afterwards. The only time it went wrong was when I imagined spending a romantic night with him. Bath night had been a disaster, had completely freaked me out.
I had to stop idealising him. A normal conversation would be fine. We could talk about things we normally talked about. I could ask him who he would be voting for in Strictly , not that he ever voted. He probably didn’t even watch it anymore. He’d probably pretended to enjoy it just to keep me quiet. He usually passed the time when it was on, and we were at home, on his iPad or reading a book about one of his sporting heroes.
“Why did you leave me, Russell?”
He didn’t reply. He just stared at the TV. Of course he did. He didn’t have an answer for that question. Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t have an answer.
Instead, Russell asked, “Why did you give your phone number to another man?”
“I was caught off guard.”
“Oh, come on. You wanted to give him your number the moment you saw him on the train.”
“If I thought there was the slightest chance that you would change your mind and we would get back together, I wouldn’t give my phone number to anybody.”
It had been six months since we broke up and five weeks since we’d met up for our fortnightly drink. The regular contact was Russell’s idea. But he hadn’t been in touch for those five weeks. A couple of text messages just before that, about nothing in particular, but he hadn’t mentioned meeting up for a drink again.
Conjuring up his image in my head was difficult. I was shocked at how difficult it was. It was only five weeks since I’d last seen him. But it was only a vague impression of him that I saw. I suppose that when you think of someone in your head they can’t be anything but vague.
“If you keep giving out your number to strange men,” he said, “then there’s no way we can get back together. You do want to get back together, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you should act like you do.”
“For how long?” I asked him.
“For as
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