Dumped, Actually(20)

I can’t. I just can’t.

Yes, you can. And you should. You need this job, remember?

I need to get on with my life.

Oh yeah. You’re really doing that, aren’t you? Nearly chucking yourself off a car park and crying into your breakfast cereal every morning.

Leave me alone.

I can’t. I’m your brain. And your brain is right.

No.

‘Dumped Actually’, Ollie. It’s called ‘Dumped Actually’. It’s a great title, isn’t it?

No.

Yes. A clever play on Love Actually. It’ll go down a storm. You should use it.

No.

Yes.

No!

Yes!

I don’t want to!

Yes, you bloody well DO!

I jump out of my chair, startling the others in the office out of their collective misery.

‘Sorry!’ I say to them, instantly feeling embarrassed.

To escape public scrutiny, I hurry back over to Erica’s office and throw the door open.

‘“Dumped Actually”,’ I say, almost breathlessly.

‘What?’ she replies in shock, lifting her head from her laptop screen.

‘“Dumped Actually”. That’s what I could call the feature about Samantha leaving me.’ I think for a second. ‘No. Not just about that. A feature about all the women who have dumped me over the years. It can’t just be about one person.’ For some reason, making that decision has made me feel better about writing the story. Writing about all of the relationships I’ve had somehow diffuses the impact of Samantha’s loss. Just a little, anyway.

‘I thought you couldn’t bring yourself to do it?’ Erica says.

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, well. I’m heartbroken and alone. But I’m a journalist who’s heartbroken and alone. And I know as well as you do that it’d make a great article.’

Erica beams. ‘It would.’

This is the main problem with being a journalist. You’re always on the lookout for the next great feature idea, no matter where it comes from. And for some reason, people seem to absolutely love it when you write about personal stuff. That’s why I was going to do the feature about marriage proposals . . . if mine had gone the way I wanted.

The window into another person’s life is often a must-read.

And, to be honest, that’s especially true when that window actually looks on to something traumatic. That’s just human nature, I guess – the desire to read about how other people’s lives are worse than yours is often greater than to read about other people’s successes.

And it’s the nature of a journalist like me to satiate that desire, no matter how painful it might be.

‘And I want to do something to keep that git Montifore off our backs,’ I add. ‘A story about how men are drinking mojitos with no rum in them is not going to do it.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I’ll need some time, though. It’s going to be . . . difficult.’

‘Take as much as you need.’

I nod my head. ‘Right, then. “Dumped Actually” it is.’

Erica nods too. ‘That’s a great title.’

I roll my eyes again. ‘Yes, I know it is. I hate myself.’

And with that, I close Erica’s door again, leaving her to return to her laptop, this time with a broad smile on her face.

I amble over to my desk and plonk myself down.

That blank page stares back at me, just daring me to bloody well get on with it.

Suddenly, I am overcome by the same sense of vertigo I had standing at the top of the multi-storey car park. I’m contemplating the idea of jumping again, but this time there’s no Wimsy around to stop me.

I write the title at the top of the page, right in the centre:

Dumped Actually

By Ollie Sweet

I feel a cold sensation settle into my stomach as I stare at these five words. The first of what could be many. The first of what will be many.

Time to jump.



I told Erica that it would take me a long time to write ‘Dumped Actually’. I figured it would be hard for me to do it, given how raw my emotions are.

However, by six o’clock that evening, I have already written three thousand words, and am still thundering onwards to a word count that will easily represent my longest ever feature for Actual Life.

I start quite slowly, talking about my life up to this point, by way of some background information, before leaping into the meat of the article.

I talk a little about how I grew up with parents who love each other without condition, and have the perfect long-term relationship. I mention how this gave me a very positive impression of what romance is like, even at a very early age.

Of course, their kindness towards one another extended to me as well, and I had what you would describe as an idyllic upbringing – surrounded by, and included in, all the love I could possibly wish for. Most of my childhood memories consist of me running around the incredibly beautiful sun-dappled garden they created together – laughing and giggling as I jumped over the geraniums, with them watching me from the patio with indulgent smiles on their faces.

Yes. It is enough to make you sick just thinking about it, isn’t it?

When you have parents who are as emotionally available as mine were, it tends to rub off on you. I’ve never had trouble expressing or understanding my feelings, thanks to them.