“I am in such a good mood,” I said on the phone to Best Mate, as I leant back in my chair and rested my newly-pedicured feet on the desk. “I have not felt this good in… Huh. I have no idea, actually.”
“Oh hell. What’s happened? Did you have sex with Speckled Lad again?”
“No, no, no: merely that I executed a successful lunch party yesterday; I’ve not seen California Girl to speak to in days and days and days.” I paused for effect. “And I’m SINGLE!”
One of the myriad reasons why I adore BM: I knew she would completely understand my thrill at having escaped from a relationship that was beginning to feel less like casual fun and more like a blister from a new pair of shoes that, in retrospect, weren’t as good an idea as they first seemed: initially, just a little niggle, but it had got more and more irritating until the only thing left to do was to relegate the offending items to the bottom of the wardrobe.
And it did feel truly fantastic. Never before have I come out of a relationship with such unadulterated glee. If I’d known that breaking up with The Voice would be so much more effective at releasing tension than one of his massages, I’d have told him to take his hands off me weeks ago.
“So, how did you do it? Did you…call?” Curable Romantic was audibly doing her best to suppress her faint fear that I might have taken a supremely cowardly way out of this situation and told TV that things were over via post-it note.
But no – in a moment of common decency, I had acquiesced to The Voice’s request to come over on his way back from a party in North Berwick, and after I’d bidden goodbye to the last remaining stragglers from lunch (at half past midnight. After lunch, evening drinks, films and supper). And there it was executed: a gentle conversation about how the weeks ahead held final exams; how I’d be permanently leaving the ‘Burgh in a short space of time; and... There I paused, not knowing quite sure how to start filling the gap that was to end with “someone else…”
“Your remaining time is going to be filled with celebrating with your friends, and packing up the flat?” The Voice ventured. “Of course, I understand. If you’re up in the summer for the festival, let me know – it’d be nice to see you.”
“Absolutely,” I breathed a vast sigh of relief, thanking every single luck star I have that karma hadn’t seen fit to bite me in the arse, and throw another ridiculous break-up fight my way.
TV threw on his jacket, and smiled at me. “You’ll stay in touch?” I nodded. He kissed me on the cheek. And that was that. Amicable. Easy. Adult. And not entirely honest. But then, we can’t have it all, can we?
Peter Andre Opa Opa Sauce
3 hours ago