A Hopeless Romantic (10 page)

How would she feel about everything, how did she feel about it now? She probed her feelings delicately, like a child touching the cavity of a newly lost tooth to see how it hurts, where it hurts, how much. It was strange, foreign to her; she didn’t know how to deal with it, so she kept on walking, into the night, along the wide street, the branches of the trees that lined it gracefully dipping and framing her in the quiet breeze.

She had lost her job. She had lost her best friend. She had lost—she winced suddenly as she thought of it—nearly all the money she had in the world on a holiday she now wouldn’t be going on. For what? For a golden dream, a sweet, stupid boy with a beautiful smile. For that. For someone who had never even given her any definite idea of his commitment to her. He loved her, she knew that. He was going to leave his girlfriend, she knew that. But how and when and what would happen after that—she had never had any idea.

Laura had reached Regent Street. She looked about her, bewildered, at the purr of sudden, slow-moving traffic. Down to her left lay the lights of Oxford Circus, the permanent chaos and snaking crowds of people visible to her even now. To her right loomed the ascetic outline of All Souls Church and Broadcasting House behind it. Ahead lay the white-faced, formal squares behind Oxford Street. Where was she going? She didn’t know. She couldn’t face Yorky or being at home just yet. She just wanted to walk.

So she did. She crossed the road and carried on walking, through the impersonal grandness of Cavendish Square, past Coutts, past the Wigmore Hall, along the jumble of shops and converted mansions on Wigmore Street. She kept a steady pace, neither swerving nor stopping, just walking, looking ahead, pounding the streets, trying to walk herself back into sanity.

She walked until she could see the vast space of Portman Square and the back of Selfridges looming up ahead of her. She didn’t know what to do then—didn’t want to go toward the roaring hustle of a main road. She could go and see Mary, she thought suddenly, and then her heart sank; no, of course she couldn’t. This wasn’t the kind of situation her grandmother had ever found herself in. Better to keep on walking. So she ducked right, up Duke Street to gracious, leafy Manchester Square, past the Wallace Collection, its windows black and unblinking. She walked up Manchester Street and crossed the road.

Suddenly a car swerved around the corner and nearly smashed into her. It missed her by a hairbreadth, and the driver swore at her and sped on, not even pausing. Laura fell against a car, and ricocheted herself slowly off it so she was sitting on the edge of the curb in between two parked cars.

Then she cried at the shock, the loneliness, the feeling of terror that had flashed through her. She cried, silent heaving sobs, fat tears spilling out of her, dropping between her legs into the gutter. She felt totally alone, powerless; with nowhere to turn, she was bone-weary, flattened. And most of all, she felt stupid.

Amy was
pregnant.
She and Dan were going to have a baby, an actual live baby.
This
was reality, not the dreamworld she, Laura, had invented for herself about it all. How could she have been so naïve, so stupid? What was she doing?

Laura ran her hands through her hair, riding out the jerking sobs that racked her. As they subsided, she breathed out, and a juddering, blubbery sound escaped her that even she, in her darkest hour, found strangely funny. It made her smile to herself, a wobbly smile. She chewed her lip and sat motionless on the curb for a moment. When was the last time she’d actually had a relationship based on reality, instead of some completely invented fantasy she’d written in her head? In her stupid, silly, romantic head.

The calm after her crying was cathartic. Laura stood up slowly, her legs shaking. Suddenly she was tired, dog tired, and when a black cab swung into view a few seconds later, she hailed it gratefully and sat huddled in the back, staring blankly out the window, for the journey home.

chapter nine

L
aura couldn’t remember going to bed. She didn’t remember much, and when she woke up, it was early Saturday afternoon. Which meant that she had slept for around twelve hours. She had no job to go to on Monday, no friends, no money, no Dan…. She rolled over and closed her eyes again. Her pajamas were sweaty, and so was she. She tried to think about the previous night, reached for her phone to check for messages, and then swallowed and gripped her hands into fists. She wasn’t going to. She felt nothing, nothing at all, and she closed her eyes again and sank back into an exhausted, defeated sleep.

When Laura woke up again, it was later in the afternoon, and she realized she was starving. Without really thinking, she pulled on her jeans and, zombielike, went downstairs to go to the shops round the corner. She was stumbling back, clutching in her arms a paper, some crisps, a soda, a bottle of wine, some chocolate, and a DVD, when she felt dizzy and thought she was going to collapse. When she reached home, she leaned against the wall of the building’s entryway, unsure how she was going to get up the stairs again, feeling so totally alone and sad she didn’t even know how to respond to her own feelings. Should she cry? Scream? Yell? Smile bravely? She didn’t know; she was simply sick of the treadmill in her head going round the same old thoughts over and over again. What was she going to do now? What
could
she do now?

What she really wanted to do was curl up under the mailboxes and go to sleep for a year. Would anyone notice, would they care? No. And she deserved it. More than anything, Laura realized helplessly, she wanted a shoulder to cry on, and the reason she had none was entirely her own fault.

Laura gritted her teeth. She would go upstairs. She would.

Back on the third floor at last, she fumbled for her keys, and the door behind her opened. It was Mr. Kenzo, who lived in the flat opposite Laura.

“Laura!” he cried at her back, as Laura gathered up her haul from the shops in one scooping motion and tried to turn the key in the lock. The paper and the can of Coke slid out of her hand, and the sections of newspaper feathered across the floor.

Laura stared at them and tried not to cry. She bent down as Mr. Kenzo also bent over, tut-tutting, and deftly folded them up.

“My dear, my dear,” he said, handing the newspaper and the can back to her. “Are you okay? You look not well, let me tell you.”

“Thanks,” said Laura blankly. “I’m going in now.” And she turned away and tried to unlock the door.

“Do you need some help?” said Mr. Kenzo, unfazed by her rudeness. He stepped forward and took the key from her. As he turned it in the lock, the door was pulled open from inside, and Mr. Kenzo nearly fell forward into Yorky’s arms. Yorky gazed at them both with bemusement, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

“Sorry, Mr. Kenzo!” he said. “How are you? Helping Laura out there, are you?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Kenzo, eyeing Yorky’s dressing gown curiously. He gave Yorky a packet of crisps. “She dropped these, take them please.”

A voice on the stairs said cautiously, “Er—James? Laura?”

Not really caring who it was, Laura turned toward the door again, but the expression on Yorky’s face stopped her. He was smiling in a dazed, stupid fashion and running his hands through his hair.

“Becky!” he said. “Hi! Hi-ya!”

Becky-from-Downstairs, who was still very much the object of Yorky’s affections, appeared on the landing. “Hello, Mr. Kenzo,” she said, not at all ruffled by the strangeness of the scene in front of her. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. “Hi. James—er, someone’s signed for this delivery, and they pushed it through my door, and I think it’s for you.” She held out an envelope bearing the legend “Ticketmaster” on it.

“Oh, yeah!” said Yorky, leaping forward and taking the tickets from Becky. Laura watched as he gave her a super-enthusiastic smile. “Thanks. Thanks, Becky! Yeah, that’s great. Just my…er…it’s my, er, Snow Patrol tickets. Yeah!”

“It’s your tickets for
We Will Rock You,
isn’t it?” said Laura with an interested expression.

“Queen?” said Mr. Kenzo. “Ah, fabulous.”

Yorky kicked her in the shin, and Laura took this as her cue to leave. “Thanks again, Mr. Kenzo. Bye, Becky.”

“Er, bye, Laura,” said Becky.

Laura pushed past Yorky into their flat, turned, and said again, “Sorry, Mr. Kenzo.”

Mr. Kenzo’s creased face smiled kindly at her. “Why you saying sorry? You are having bad day. Go in. And look after her,” he said confidentially to Yorky.

“Thanks again,” Yorky said to Becky. He swiveled from her to Laura, standing behind him in their hallway. “Er,” he said.

Becky smiled at him expectantly. Laura cleared her throat.

“I’ll—see you around, Becky,” said Yorky. “I’d better go in. That’s really kind of you. Great, thanks again.”

As the door slammed behind him, Yorky turned to his flatmate with an exasperated expression. “You’re awake. At last! I didn’t know where you’d gone. You’ve been asleep all day, you know?”

“Yes,” said Laura, walking toward her room. She stood in the doorway. “I’m going back to bed. I don’t know when I’m coming out again. Go after Becky, Yorks. Ask her out. And when you get back, if anyone calls, tell them I’m not here.”

“Laura—” Yorky was gazing at her with a plaintive expression.

“Sorry, Yorks,” she said.

“But—”

“Leave me alone,” said Laura, a sob rising in her throat, batting her hand at Yorky. “I’m so tired.” She said it almost to herself. “I just want to sleep. Just leave me alone.”

Laura went back to bed. She ate the food she could eat without leaving the bed. The wine she left—it wasn’t a screw-top and she couldn’t face getting the corkscrew from the kitchen. She ate a Crunchie bar in two mouthfuls. She was too tired to read the paper. She picked it up and scanned it, but the story about a school of orphans in Zimbabwe made her cry again, so she threw the paper on the floor and turned over, facing the wall, tears rolling across her face.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

“Laura?” came a voice tentatively. Laura opened her eyes, but said nothing.

“It’s me,” said Yorky. “Look. Are you okay?”

Laura chewed her lip, praying he wouldn’t come in, banking on a bloke’s natural aversion to crying women. This was particularly strong in Yorky, sweet though he was in other ways.

“What’s wrong, Laura? I’m…I’m worried about you!”

Laura pulled the duvet over her head as tears filled her eyes again.

“Look,” he said, “I’m going out now. I don’t want to bother you. I’m not going to come in. Will you just say ‘Yes’ to let me know you’re alive and you haven’t been attacked or anything?”

It was a good tactic. Laura patted the duvet away feebly with her hands, and said quietly, “Yes.”

“Right,” came Yorky’s voice, sounding relieved. “Look, darling. I’m sorry about whatever’s happened. Is it Dan?”

“Yes,” Laura said. “Don’t. Don’t worry.”

She didn’t know why she said it, except she really didn’t want Yorky thinking she was actually dying or something. It was her problem, not his, poor man.

Yorky said cheerily, “Oh. Well, you’ll sort it out, I’m sure. I know you, Laura! You know what you want, don’t you?”

Getting no answer, he said, “Well, bye, then,” and seconds later Laura heard the front door slam. She lay there quietly for a moment, then put a pillow over her head and screamed, as hoarsely and loudly as she could, till the urge to shout had gone out of her and she was crying quietly again, until she fell asleep.

All through Sunday, Laura slept or lay in bed, feeling sorry for herself, not moving. She didn’t have anything to do, and she had absolutely no one to answer to, and all she wanted to do was hate herself a little bit more, and the solution to that seemed to be to lie festering in a hot, sweaty bed, with greasy hair and greasy fingernails and skin, feeling achy and uncomfortable. She just wanted to be alone, to feel as totally rotten as it is possible to feel, to push herself far away from the hopeful, deluded girl who ran out to see Dan every week with smooth, silky, tanned legs and clean, shiny hair.

She slept fitfully, and she kept dreaming. She dreamed she was running to tell Dan something, but she couldn’t get to him; though her legs were long and she was running as fast as she could, she never seemed to make it any farther. She dreamed Dan was lying next to her, his arms wrapped around her, and that he was kissing her neck, her shoulders. She dreamed he had texted her to tell her it was all a mistake, but each time she woke up and checked her phone, there was nothing.

Early on Monday morning, she was awake, gazing around the room, looking at the detritus of her self-incarceration through the gray haze cast by the curtains. By this time Laura had been in her room for more than two days, and she was starting to freak herself out. But the thing about self-loathing is it stops you from taking the smallest of steps to make yourself feel better—even tying your hair back in a ponytail, or opening the window for some fresh air. She desperately wanted to get up, get out of bed, have a shower, but she couldn’t. It was easier to lie here and not do anything. She couldn’t go in and talk to Yorky. He’d told her all along she was stupid for carrying on with Dan! She couldn’t tell her parents; the shock of the whole sorry mess would kill them. She couldn’t call Jo, though she desperately wanted her wise, sanguine best friend’s advice. Of course she couldn’t call her—imagine what she’d say!

She thought about what she had to do now, and the enormity of it overwhelmed her. Fix things, fix things left, right, and center. And then, in the middle of it all, get over this man.

When she looked down the months to come, long Dan-less months of not sharing things with him, not telling him things, not being with him, her stomach clenched in sharp pain and her heart beat so loudly in her chest she felt it might burst. It was over. And so was that part of herself. When she thought about how she’d misjudged the situation, how she’d run ahead and fallen in love with him without stopping to look at whether he was the person she thought he was—well, she wanted to kick herself. Except this wasn’t the first time, and she knew enough to recognize that she’d done it before. One thing was for sure, though: It was the last time.