Iwoulddeclutter the cupboards but they’ve all already been decluttered, following all my terrible dates over the past year.
Obviously you could say it’s a good thing that when I’m stressed I clean to avoid thinking, but it doesn’t really work in a flat where you definitely couldn’t swing even a kitten, because there just isn’t enough cleaning todo.
I’m almost tempted to offer to clean my neighbours’ flats.
Or my friends’.
I put my cloth back in the (currently stunningly clean and tidy) cupboard under the sink.
I’m going to have to allow myself to think about Tom at some point. It should probably just be now.
Okay.
I go over to my sofa and sit down. Then I stand up and plump the cushions. Maybe I should give them all another vacuum.
No. Maybe I should just actually woman up and address in my mind what happened.
I sit back down.
So.
The sex. The amazing, out-of-this-world, fantastic sex. Well, it was at the time. Now it should probably be re-categorised as huge-mistake sex.
It just cemented the realisation that had been dawning on me but which I hadn’t really been allowing to filter through properly that I am – obviously – deeply, probably irrevocably, in love with Tom.
And this morning, the way he slid out of my room as soon as he could, just cemented the knowledge that I already had that he is not, and never will be, in love with me.
It’s ironic, because it’s like him and Lola. He’s interested in her but she is blatantly not interested in him now and might never really have been. (The woman is clearly mad.)
The whole time I’ve known Tom I’ve thought that he should actually just move on from Lola. Obviously that’s easier said than done. Hope is the killer of recovery from unrequited love. So I think you have to kill the hope. I think Tom should have killed his hope that Lola would come back to him. He should have told her that he was moving on and didn’t want to be in contact again. And then he would have found it easier to stop thinking about her.
I stand up to go and put the (lovely, shiny, vinegar-and-bicarb-of-soda-descaled) kettle on.
And while I’m filling it I realise that I should take my own advice.
It’s not like I can be any more humiliated by this situation. I just need to help myself recover from this.
I’m going to do with Tom what he should have done with Lola.
I’m going to send him a message.
I know this is the right thing to do, so before I can change my mind (because let’s face it I probablycanbe even more humiliated by this), I pick up my phone and type.
Hi Tom. I’m going to get straight to the point. I love you. I am in love with you. Clearly you do not feel the same way and there’s no reason that you should. So I need to get over you, basically. And so I can’t see you again. I’ll explain to Carole, Bea and Ruth if they want the five of us to meet again. Perhaps you and I can meet them separately if you’d like to stay in touch with them. (I would.) Anyway. I wish you all the very best. Nadia
And then, without rereading it or questioning whether or not Ishouldsend it, Idosend it.
Tom is not Lola. He reads the message almost immediately, and he replies almost immediately.
I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry for having hurt you. I would never want to do that. You’re a wonderful person. I wish you the very best too. Tom
I read it through dry eyes, and then through tears, and then I can’t read at all because I’m crying so hard.
It was the right thing to do.
I’m not going to see Tom again. He’s out of my life. End of.
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