Page 78 of Seven Exes

She’s lying.

I move to the sink so I can see her face better. ‘Your agent? Why would your agent send them? Did you get a job?’

Her side profile to me, she shakes her head. ‘Nah, just a, er, yearly thing to make me feel special.’

‘You’d probably feel more special if she ever took your calls,’ I point out.

Her laugh is stilted.

Things have been super awkward in the flat since the other day, when I told her I was messaging Rich. I know she’s annoyed with me, but the truth is I’m annoyed withher! We’ve been best friends for nearly twenty years and her refusal to take my side over Bibi’s is bullshit. Never mind the fact that she knew what they were doing and kept it quiet.

But it’s not even that.

It’s this big secret she’s so obviously keeping. And has been for ages. She has the romantic, wonderful thing I want more than anything – a great partner who adores her – and it’s increasingly obvious she’s fucking it up. I haven’t wanted to admit it – and I’m still hoping I’m wrong – but I can’t see another answer. I glance over again at the flowers.

Itoldher how awful it was to be a cheater! I told her how you carry it around forever, how much I still think about this unconscionable thing I did to Idris. Howcouldshe?

She moves to grab the tea towel, noticing my outfit at last. ‘You look great!’ she says, surprise in her voice. I’m wearing my nicest dress, but her shock is likely more because I’ve mostly been in pyjamas since BibiAlexGate.

‘I’m going to see Rich,’ I tell her spitefully, wanting a reaction.

She turns round to the sink again but I catch her back stiffening. ‘OK,’ she says simply and it makes me angrier.

‘Yep.’ My voice is tight. ‘I really think he’s probably changed. He sounded super excited to hear from me.’

She doesn’t bite. ‘Right,’ she replies dispassionately.

The truth is Rich the Bastard’s reply to my vague hello text wasn’t particularly excited. It was enthused but neutral. He said he was happy to hear from me and that a drink would be great, but he gave nothing much else away. And the closer the hour gets until I see him, the more I’m getting this creeping, horrible feeling that Lou is right. I shouldn’t be giving him the time of day.

The trouble is, I don’t really know why I’m doing it. IknowI don’t want to go back there with him. Iknowhe’s a dick who would – did – make a terrible life partner. I know I should run a mile.

So why am I going? Why am I not cancelling? Do I actually enjoy self-flagellation?

I don’t think it’s that.

I think maybe this is about confronting him. Maybe that’s really what’s driving me to meet up with Rich. I need to finally tell him how much he hurt me, explain to his face how awful he was. To officially say into those sexy ears that he’s a malignant narcissist – an armchair diagnosis I have many-a-time labelled him as when drinking heavily with clinical psychologists Bibi and Louise. Sure, I told him offwhen we were together, but they were all words said in anger, from a place of desperate and dysfunctional love. Maybe it’ll get through now, if I tell him in calm tones, with the benefit of distance and much cooled feelings?

I mean, wouldn’t that be great? To tell him what a prick he is, to his face, and have him actuallyhearme! Maybe he’d even apologize! Imagine the satisfaction! And the girls would be so proud of me for doing it. Louise would eat her words, after begging me not to see him. She’d be delighted that I ignored her words! She would tell me how brilliant I am for getting the closure and she’d tell Bibi what a selfish bitch she’s being after all. Then she’d end whatever the hell she’s doing behind Sven’s back and tell me I was right all along.

Louise doesn’t move.

‘Bye then,’ I say and get out before she can clock how close I am to crying.

EX 7: RICH LOWEAKA The BastardPART TWO

The flat

Outside the front door, screaming into a phone

8.50pm

‘Rich!’ I hate the sound of my own voice, whiny and shrieky like it is now. ‘Just fucking call me back, OK? Just call me back so I at least know you’re not dead.’ I hang up, furious, and then hit his name again.

Voicemail. Again.

‘Look, you fucking bastard, you’re two hours late for our date, what’s going on? I won’t keep putting up with this, y’know? I’m sick of it. I deserve better than your bullshit.’ I hang up again but it’s not enough. I have so much more to say. The anger in me isn’t going away. It’s boiling over againand again, overflowing onto the street like the fucking magic porridge that never stopped bubbling over.

Voicemail again.

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