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Chapter Four
So far, there were three key things I’d personally learnt about breaking up with a long-term boyfriend:
1) That as confident and kick-ass as I might seem at work, when it came to matters of the heart, I wasn’t as strong as I appeared. The pain was real. Even when you were the one that made the decision to break up, somehow it was likeyou’dbeen dumped. You felt like total crap.
2) Throwing yourself into work really helped. I’d been so busy that when I was in the office, I didn’t have time to scratch my head, never mind think about my new single status. But when I went home, it was atotallydifferent story. My emotions were wobblier than a five-year-old trying to walk in their mum’s heels. I hated it.
3) That M&S, Lola’s, Hummingbird and all other purveyors of fine cakes should offer an emergency 2 a.m.cupcake delivery service for people going through a break-up, because sometimes a girl just needs to bury her face in frosted icing to feel better.
Rich had come round yesterday (thankfully whilst I was at work) to collect more of his stuff. It was so weird to see his wardrobe empty. It was the little things that were strange too, like not smelling the scent of his aftershave in the morning or seeing his crumpled boxer shorts and socks on the en suite floor because he’d forgotten to put them in the laundry basket.
One positive thing about the whole situation was that, despite being together for so long, we’d both kept our own places. I’d bought this house ten years ago after landing three major clients, which had really propelled us into the beauty PR major league. And although it was where we’d both called home, it was still very much considered mine.
Rich had already had a two-bed house in Dulwich, which I’d moved into when we had first got together, plus a loft-style apartment on Bermondsey Street, which he’d bought long before the Shard and all the cool restaurants had come to London Bridge and the area had become all trendy. Now it was worth a fortune. He wouldn’t be short of somewhere to stay. By a pure stroke of luck, the tenants had moved out a few weeks ago, and he’d put off renting it out straight away to give himself time to freshen up the décor, which would help bump up the rent even more.
Rich had his own car, his own savings, his own everything. He certainly didn’t need anything from me, which I hoped would make things a lot easier. Fingers crossed we could have a clean break. No hassle, no legal wranglings—just consciously uncouple like Gwynnie and Chris.Time will tell…
When she heard how shitty I sounded on Wednesday night, four days post-break-up, Roxy, my best friend of one year, had summoned an emergency FTA. That’s a ‘Food, Therapy and Alcohol’ session, aka a humble catch-up.
Roxy, or QOTA (Queen of The Acronym), as I’d started to affectionately call her, had an abbreviated phrase (often featuring expletives) for everything. From feeling TAF (tired as fuck) and HAH (horny as hell), no phrase was immune to being ‘Roxified’. Sometimes she used so many code names that she’d leave even James Bond feeling CDC (confused.com).
I’d met Roxy at a welcome drinks party for one of the big industry exhibitions in Manchester. She’d just become the sales and marketing manager of a health and beauty tools company, and the event organiser had introduced us as Roxy was looking for a PR agency to launch their new Sonic Pulse Technology electric toothbrushes.
We’d literally only spent the first five minutes chatting about business, and then, before I knew it, Roxy started telling me all about her private life and the fact that she’d just got back on her feet after ending a destructive marriage with her SEH (Shithead Ex-Husband), which had caused her to lose her friends, her job and confidence.
I don’t know if it was the tequila she’d been drinking or her no-holds-barred personality (probably a combination of both), but she really opened up to me and we chatted for hours.
I could barely put one foot in front of the other at the exhibition the following morning as I was so exhausted, but it was worth it. I instantly loved Roxy’s new-found spirit and the fact that after enduring such an oppressive relationship, she’d emerged a million times stronger and now gave zero fucks about speaking her mind. I knew I’d discovered a new friend. Winning the PR project was just a nice bonus.
Our FTA session was scheduled to take place at ‘base’, i.e., Hush, our favourite restaurant, which was tucked away in Lancashire Court, off New Bond Street. It was one of the few places that always had something on the menu that I would like (no small feat given how fussy an eater I can be), and critically, the glasses were also streak-free. Normally, when I didn’t cancel, of course, we would have one on the last Saturday afternoon of every month, but given my current situation, Roxy had suggested we bring it forward a few weeks. Which kind of balanced out, as with Albert’s funeral last month, it hadn’t been possible to meet in January.
Roxy, myself, and Bella, my long-standing best friend of twenty-two years and counting, who I’d met at college, would sit on the comfy brown banquette seating in the special cove in the corner and discuss everything that was going on in our lives. Whether that was venting about our careers, man trouble, or trying to fathom why it took us a week to recover from staying up post 1 a.m., whereas in our twenties we could party until 6 a.m., sleep for two hours and go straight to work. It was like a therapy session, but with alcohol and no payment required. And boy was I in need of both therapy and a stiff drink right now.
Unsurprisingly, I was the first to arrive. I’d been up since 8 a.m. replying to client emails. Yes, I knew it was a Saturday, and I was supposed to be cutting back on work… but by 10 a.m., it was so eerily quiet without Rich there that I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Normally he’d have the TV blaring from the living room whilst he caught up with watching Formula 1. I showered, headed to my dressing room, put my face on, smoothed out my hair, pulled on my favourite black tailored flared Gucci trousers, a Stella McCartney asymmetric wool cranberry jumper and black four-inch Jimmy Choo pumps, then jumped in a taxi.
I’d already ordered myself a G&T (not wise for a lightweight like me to drink on an empty stomach, or to start at 11.50 a.m., but I was sure they’d be bringing the bread soon, so that’d soak it up) and started scrolling through Instagram whilst I waited for the girls to arrive…
Mia, the twenty-five-year-old lead singer of that reality show girl band, had just announced she was expecting a baby with boy band guitarist Callum, and beauty writer Lydia’s boyfriend had proposed to her in Paris over the weekend. All very happy news, but now was probably not the best time for me to be looking at this. Time to log off.
I heard Roxy coming before I saw her. I could recognise the click-clacking sound of her knee-high skyscraper-heeled boots from a mile off. She strode through the restaurant confidently, flicking her long fiery red hair, wearing her signature black leather short skirt (just above the knee to strike the perfect sexy, yet tasteful balance), off-the-shoulder red top and matching bold pillar box lipstick, looking every bit the glamour puss. When she saw me, her brown eyes grew bright and she smiled, revealing her gleaming white teeth. As I got up to greet her, she threw her arms around me.
‘Hi, honey,’ she said, pulling back to scrutinise my eyes for signs of dark circles and tears like a concerned mother. ‘How are you doing, my love?’
‘Ah, you know, Roxy,’ I said, trying to stay strong. ‘I’m okay. It’s been tougher than I thought, but I’ll survive,’ I added as she sat down next me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she replied. ‘By the end of this FTA, we’ll have you feeling right as rain. Trust me. Now!’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What are we drinking? G&T? Let’s get a bottle of prosecco too. Toast your fresh start.’
As she caught the attention of the waiter to order some more drinks for the three of us, Bella came bounding through the restaurant, looking flustered.
‘Guys, I am sooo sorry!’ she said as she plonked herself down on the banquette like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘Paul decided to throw the mother of all tantrums just as I was leaving, and not even Mike could stop him screaming, so I had to calm him down before the neighbours called social services!’ Her eyes weren’t as bright as normal, probably down to lack of sleep. Taking care of her almost-two-year-old son whilst juggling lesson planning and teaching English to foreign professionals working in the city part-time was clearly no walk in the park.
‘No worries honey,’ said Roxy reassuringly. ‘I just literally arrived two minutes ago. You’re fine.’
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Bella as she stood up again to take off her green parker coat. At five foot eleven, she towered over Roxy, who was five foot two. Bella was dressed in a simple pair of skinny blue jeans and a comfortable orange cardigan, with her brown curly hair tied back in a practical bun. If Roxy was the poster girl for glamour, Bella was the doyenne of natural beauty. She didn’t tend to wear much make-up. Just a flick of black eyeliner, a teeny bit of mascara and slick of clear lip gloss was all she ever needed to look stunning.
We ordered our starters and mains so that the waiter wouldn’t interrupt us mid-conversation, then Bella reached over to give me a long hug.
‘So sorry about you and Rich,’ she said as she undid her scarf and stuffed it in the sleeve of her coat. As she’d had her hands full looking after Paul, I had only given her a quick summary over WhatsApp on Saturday evening, when I’d eventually peeled myself off the sofa.
