And the message is here.
Hi Tom. I’m really sorry but I can’t see you. Hope you’re well. Nadia
I stare at two squirrels playing in front of me. I wouldn’t mind having a life as simple as that. I can’t just tell Nadia I love her in a message. But also, apparently, I’m not going to be able to see her in person, because she understandably doesn’t want to see me.
Not a good situation, and I’ve brought it entirely on myself.
21
NADIA
Spreadsheets really don’t take your mind off heartbreak. And not to be too dramatic, I do think that is what I have about Tom. I genuinely feel actual physical stomach-clenching misery when I think about him.
So I’ve been keeping myself very busy and I’ve been doing okay really. I mean, at least ten people a day this week have asked me if I’m feeling ill, and I’m really not finding many jokes at all funny, which is quite scary, because life is kind of rubbish without finding the humour in things, and I’m even not loving my food any more. But I’ve been going out with friends a lot, I’m thinking seriously about joining a gym, I’ve been to the hairdresser’s, I’ve bought myself some new clothes; I’ve basically lived the trying-to-put-a-brave-face-on-it-after-a-tricky-break-up thing, even though I have not in fact just had a break-up, I just had a one-night-stand with someone who I am in love with who is not in love with me, which I knewbeforeI slept with him, so I shouldn’t have let it get to me so much.
It doesn’t feel good to have told him that I can’t see him.
When I got his message Iwantedto say yes, yes, yes, tell me when and where and I’ll jump through hoops to be there (having first touched up my make-up and my hair and maybe changed into a nice new top). But I summoned up some self-respect and said a very polite not-on-your-nellie.
And now I’m feelingreallymiserable.
Not so much because I said I can’t meet him, but because when I saw that I had a message from him my hopes rose – soared – and for one second I fantasised that he’d be telling me that he loved me and he just hadn’t had the words before and could we be together.
I am so ridiculous.
And so I must focus as hard as I can on this extremely dry spreadsheet (there’s a problem somewhere with the numbers adding up – they don’t, butwhy?) and then write a quick email to one of my clients (also about a spreadsheet, yay, exciting) and then I must focus very hard on enjoying myself hugely at the cinema with Gina this evening.
* * *
Just over a week later, it’s Saturday evening and I’m at Waterloo station, heading towards the clock, to meet Carole, Bea and Ruth. I told them a potted version of the truth (I spent ages trying to word it less embarrassingly and then just gave up – I didn’t want to make Tom sound bad in any way – and just said that I’d fallen in love with him and he didn’t feel the same way so for my own sanity I can’t see him for the time being), so they’re going to see him and me separately for now.
Carole wanted to meet Bea, Ruth and me last Saturday but I had a wedding singer job on (I nearly burst into tears during a couple of the songs thinking about Tom because I’m a complete idiot, but did just about hold it together, thank goodness), so we switched it to this Saturday.
I really, really get that Carole needs to keep extremely busy socially to distract herself from her divorce. I feel exactly the same way about Tom and I didn’t even know him for that long. It’s just that being around the three of them does, obviously, make me think of him, and that’s uncomfortable.
I need to get over it, though, because Bea, Ruth and Carole are amazing women, who I care about a lot, and who I’m lucky to have met, and I would like to know them forever.
‘Nadia.’ Carole walks towards me with arms outstretched and we share a hug.
I’m a little bit surprised by the way she’s dressed; she said she’d booked a fancy restaurant with a fancy dress code for us, so I’m in a nice dress, but she’s in jeans, brogues and a jumper, looking great but not fancy-dress-code great.
‘I have a really big favour to ask,’ she says, which reminds me of how Tom and I broached our plus-one requests (what a stupid idea; I can’t believe we actually did it).
‘Of course,’ I tell her.
‘Okay. Please don’t hate me for this.’
‘Carole, I could never hate you.’ Although I won’t be thrilled if she’s organised something I really don’t want to do like going to naked-only steam rooms, for example. No. You don’t wear a nice dress for that.
‘Okay. Well.’ Carole is looking very unlike herself. She’s practically wringing her hands and standing on one foot and then the other and kind of looking over her shoulder. If I didn’t know her better and know that it’s basically impossible for her to be nervous, I’d say that shewasnervous. ‘I would only ever want the best for you.’
I nod.
‘And you’re lovely and I hope that we stay friends forever.’ She’s still hand-wringing. Very odd and extremely suspicious.Whatam I suspiciousof, though?
‘I loveallour Waterloo Five,’ she continues.
I narrow my eyes. What does she mean by that?
