But once inside, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I was experiencing a kind of prickly anxiety that was making me want to pace the room and scratch my arms. And so I did. I walked and scratched the psychosomatic itch that was emanating from the inside, that no amount of scratching could fix.
This wasnothow I’d seen this situation playing out. And, believe me, I’d seen it play out many times before. There had been many nights when I’d lain in bed playing the scenario out over and over in my head. Firstly, in my scenario there had been no audience. And secondly, Matt was meant to look at me adoringly, love emanating from his eyes, open his mouth and . . .
“Oh my God! Yes. Yes. I love you too, Val. I’ve always loved you. I’ve loved you since that day we kissed in the lift(in my version he remembers the kiss). I love you! I choose you!”
Or some such variation of the above. Anything other than what he’d said tonight.
“I’m so sorry, Val, I had no idea. I’ve never thought about you like that. You’re my best friend. You’re family.”
A stab of pain, mixed with embarrassment, kicked me in the gut again. Although, I’m not sure you can even call this embarrassment. This feeling transcended any normal understanding of embarrassment. This was nothing like the feeling I’d gotten when I’d had my legs up in stirrups at the gynaes, and a strange man had walked in thinking his wife was in that room. Or the feeling I’d gotten when my nephew had found the vibrator in my drawer, turned it on and run around the house with it thinking it was a toy while my parents were visiting.
No, this was nothing like that. This was something else entirely.
25 Feb.
Dear Diary,
He is not an asshole. He is not boring. He is, in fact, one of the funniest, coolest, nicest guys I’ve ever met. Just come back from Matt’s house-warming party. It was very interesting. Matt’s friends were all very “finance-y.” They all thought it was fascinating that I was a freelance features writer. They asked so many questions, as if I was some kind of exotic species that they had only just discovered living under a mossy fern in the Amazon.
But I did get to spend a lot of time with Matt. And I don’t think I’m imagining it, but we really bonded. We have the same sense of humor, the same dislike of French foods: frogs’ legs, foie gras, escargots. We both like beer, pizza with pineapple on and watching rugby (maybe me for different reasons to him, though. Truthfully, I only became a fan of the sport after seeing those calendar pictures of the rugby players wearing nothing but strategically positioned balls).
I also watched out for all the signs tonight too, and this is what I think:
1.He initiates conversation—Check! As soon as I walked in the door.
2.He listens and remembers what you say—Yes! At the beginning of the night I told him how I liked my martini, and at the end of the night, he still remembered.
3.He leans forward when you talk—Yes. But to be fair, the music was loud. So not 100% sure about this one.
4.He makes direct eye contact and smiles—Yes.
5.He compliments your appearance—Not sure. He complimented my fitbit—said he liked the color of it and asked if it was any good.
On a bad note, he still hasn’t said a thing about the kiss and I am starting to genuinely believe that he doesn’t remember it.
More later . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
The knock on the hotel room door happened at precisely 3:33 a.m. I know this, because I was still awake, staring at the clock, willing morning to come so I could get the hell out of there.
“Val, I know you’re in there. We need to talk.” It was Matt.
Maybe if I ignored him he’d go away?
“Val, pleeeease,” he implored me in that oh-so-familiar tone. The tone that was so bloody hard to resist. Like when he’d asked if I minded throwing his laundry in with mine and doing it for him because he was so busy at work. Or when he’d asked if he could borrow my car, because his was in for a service, and I’d said yes and cancelled a coffee with my friends.
But not this time. “No,” I finally managed feebly, sounding unsure of myself. Which I was. “NO!” I said it again, a little louder and firmer this time, but still not quite convincingly.
“Please,” he whined into the door, and I couldn’t help it, but I moved closer. I waddled all the way up to the door—it was hard to bend my bloody, scraped knees—and rested my head against it. I could see the shadows of his feet under the door and I could hear his breathing. He was so close . . . yet he was so,sovery far away.
“I can hear you,” he whispered against the door in that other familiar tone. It was that playful voice, with the lilting quality to it that always made it sound a little flirty. This was the tone that had perpetually fueled my hopes these three years, like petrol to a fire. It was the tone that had me riding a relentless emotional rollercoaster that I was now so dizzy and exhausted from.
“I can’t,” I whispered back. I heard him sigh. Something about his sigh pissed me off. Why wouldhebe sighing? Shouldn’t all the sighing and huffing and puffing be reserved for me?
“I need to talk to you,” he continued. And because, clearly, I wasn’t quite through embarrassing myself for one evening, I opened my mouth.
“Need? Ha! Well, I’ve needed a lot of things too and I haven’t gotten any of them. Now have I? We all need things, Matt. Everyone fucking needs things, don’t they?” As soon as I’d finished the sentence, I regretted saying it. There was no need to add any more drama to this already overly-dramatic situation.
