Page 126 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
***** Widely accredited to St Jerome AD 400, but should be accredited to his lesser-known mother.
Guide Post™
Which moment of all these hurt the most?
Knowing I’m never going to be with Matthew.
The reason it hurts so much is because you want it so much. At the beginning of your journey we talked about writing as action; writing as change.
Write a letter to the thing you most want.
(UseGUIDED MANIFESTATION LETTERS™to guide you.)
Saturday, 24 June
Dear Matthew,
I remember the first time I ever saw you. It was on the green, on a Saturday, and you were playing football with other kids from the local school and I was riding my pony in Miss Brown’s pony club and I was so busy staring at you that I rode straight into the fence and tipped off the pony. And then the next Saturday you were there again, so I pretended there was a problem with the stirrup and paused to sort it so I could look at you. Usually, I hated that bit, riding past the footy boys who shouted ‘posh girl alert’ whilst pretending to cough; in fact, I used to hate riding full stop – you know how I feel about large animals, especially ones you can fall off – and Mum had finally agreed I could give up pony club. But after seeing you, I got Mum to sign me up for another term. Just so I had an excuse.
And then the next year you got the scholarship to St Hilda’s for sixth form and I was so excited that I’d get to see you every day that I drove Mum mad, singing all the time. It was like my prayers had been answered. I kept preparing these amazing, clever, funny things I was going to say (I even wrote some down in my diary) so you’d instantly fall in love with me. Then Astrid broughtyou home for the first time, and introduced us, and I was so overcome to see you up close that I couldn’t do anything but stare. I literally couldn’t speak. And you grinned at me and said, ‘Hey, Alice, you’re a lot more verbal when you’re falling off ponies.’ Astrid laughed and said, ‘That’s because she’s always eyeing up the footballers’, and I felt so stupid because I knew it was obvious how I felt about you and you were laughing at me, and why would you be interested in me when I had an older sister like Astrid. So I just said, ‘Yeah. But no. I prefer rugby players.’
Then I got to watch you hang out with Astrid and admire her and like her throughout sixth form; I hoped I’d grow as tall and model-like as her. Mum told me I never would because I took after Granny Carver. Sometimes it was hard to like Astrid. And Mum.
That first Christmas you came back from university, I’d planned it all to show you I was grown up enough for you and that whilst maybe I was no Astrid, I got plenty of attention; I left ‘sexy’ underwear that I’d bought from Tammy Girl lying about and made a couple of jaded comments about politicians. I even did my make-up differently. Honestly, it still makes my insides curl up now when I remember it. Then Astrid told us you were seeing one of your tutors and asked me why I’d done my make-up like Pat Butcher, and you laughed.
And yet I didn’t give up. I literally had no shame and there were no limits in my efforts. There was the Christmas I dated that single dad in a bid to show you I was mature. And then the summer I learnt Italianbecause you said you admired people who could speak different languages. I even volunteered at Young Farmers (and you know I hate farms) because I overheard you telling Astrid how you could never end up with someone who was selfish. And still you didn’t see me as anything other than Astrid’s little sister.
And then I remember that summer I came back from my gap travelling year (okay, gap-multiple-years, and less travelling and more lying on the beach), and we hadn’t seen each other for ages, and I was in that frayed denim mini, and I saw you looking at me, and, for the first time, I thought I was in with a chance. And my luck was in, because you were midway through your second master’s, in business administration, and we both ended up working in the Lamb together for the entire summer. And even though Astrid and Arrie were around too, because you and I worked together, we ended up spending almost all our time together. And it was like I’d stepped into Wonderland – you used to joke about it, how I’d taken so many recreational drugs on my travels that I was on a permanent high, but it was getting to be with you – you were my Wonderland. And, as that summer progressed, I thought maybe you liked me too. But you never made a move. So, that party on the paddock, I decidedIwould make a move.
And we both know how that went. Now.
Back then, I overheard what you said to Ollie. Or part of what you said to Ollie. But I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew that not only did you not like me back, but you didn’t think I was even good enoughfor your friend. The higher you’re flying, the further you fall, and honestly, Matthew, after the summer we’d had, that fall hurt. And after spending all that time with you, for it just to stop like that… it was brutal. That entire first year with Ollie, as awful as it sounds, I was with him hoping that I’d see you – you were best mates after all. But every time I came to visit in Cambridge, you somehow weren’t there. I guess I should have got the message, but I didn’t. I think I only really got it when you left for America without saying goodbye. Well, you said goodbye to Astrid and Mum and Dad. But not to me.
After that, it was only weddings, funerals and Christmases I saw you. Every time you’d turn up looking more gorgeous than the next – more confident, more charming, more you. And every year I hoped this would be the year I didn’t want you. And you’d smile that cocky smile and I’d think, ‘He knows. And I still can’t get over him.’ In fact, even though everyone thinks I’m lazy, I’ve actually worked extremely hard for many years convincing myself – and trying to convince everyone else – that you’re everything Idon’twant. Because what’s more pitiful than constantly wanting someone who doesn’t want you back? Someone who thinks you’re selfish and spoilt and frivolous?
It takes its toll. I think Astrid’s wedding was the worst one when you turned up with that German underwear model, Frieda, and not only was she nice, she was fun, and Mum kept saying how wonderful it was to see you that happy after all you’d been throughafter your dad. And I hated myself for not being happier that you were happy. I guess you’re right: I am selfish. That was the night I ended up with Monty. Poor old Monty. Never stood a chance.
I can tell you still think you have something to prove, but the truth is, you were always the best person I knew. The best thing in my life.
Every man I’ve dated I’ve chosen because they’re not you.
Problem is, they’re not you.
And all I’ve ever wanted is you.
I love you, Matthew Lloyd. I think I always have.
Alice Carver
Date: Sunday 25 JuneTime: 11.30pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I made it downstairs for painkillers sometime this morning but after nearly throwing up in the kitchen sink, was deemed more hindrance than help in terms of party preparation, and was sent back upstairs with instructions to stay there – along with admonitions about wasting such a stunning day, and unfavourable comparisons to Drunk Stephen who’d been up since the crack of dawn, like Arrie. (More like Drunk Stephen had come in at the crack of dawn after shagging Fit Barman all night.) Despite the incessant noise of everyone crashing about and party prepping, the sun aggressively poking through the curtains, and Mum shouting because someone had spilled Earl Grey all over the counter and left the back door wide open all night and the neighbour’s cat had come in and sprayed on the door mat, I slept again, fitfully, dreaming of the christening and the past and woke up late afternoon, dehydrated, overheated and miserable, with the kind of dull, persistent hangover that only a shag or more alcohol can cure. After showering on the coldest setting, dressing and going heavy on the make-up, I made it downstairs for the second time that day, and walked straight into Mum who said, ‘Alice, you look horrific. At your age you need concealer.’
‘I’m wearing concealer,’ I said flatly.
