Dumped, Actually(57)

There will be a football match on that the man will be missing. His team will be three-nil up by the time they reach the petunias. If there is a hell for middle-aged, married men, this is it.

But none of that is the reason I am feeling such fear, as I stand in front of Griston’s Garden Centre on this particular warm Sunday afternoon. I cannot move, simply because I know that the assistant manager of the garden centre is a woman called Samantha Ealing, who I last saw running away from me in tears at a theme park.


I did not want to do this. I can’t believe I am doing this.

Of all the reader suggestions I have received for ‘Dumped Actually’, Dominic Carter’s was the one I was absolutely going to ignore with extreme prejudice, and never, ever even consider doing. Nothing good can come from confronting Samantha about our break-up, I thought. Nothing whatsoever. Who wants to live through that kind of trauma? Only a fool, that’s who.

But then came a conversation with my depressive new best friend Wimsy, and my perspective has been irrevocably shifted.

This conversation came about in the pub (as they often do when it comes to Wimsy and myself) a couple of days after my ill-fated trip around the golf course with Benedict Montifore.


Benedict’s memory didn’t come back, by the way. That’s one bullet dodged, at least.

The smile on Erica’s face came back though, when I told her all about it. I had to get her a small cup of water when her hysterics turned into a choking fit.

After that, I received very many I told you so’s from her, which was more than fair enough.

I was also ordered, in no uncertain terms, to go back to my desk and pick a different subscriber’s email to work with – just like Erica had told me to do in the first place.

I tried to do this. I really did. But it’s very hard to make sound judgements when you’re so bloody angry.

And trust me folks, I was extremely angry.

Angry at myself, angry at Benedict Montifore – but mostly angry at Samantha Ealing.

My boss’s boss managed to unlock a vast seam of rage in me that I have barely any control over.

Anger is better than self-pity – as I’m sure you’d agree. And I have spent the past few weeks and months in an almost constant state of self-pity about Samantha. Being angry at her makes a welcome change.

Or at least it did for a few hours.

But replacing one negative emotion with another is not helpful in the slightest, and within the space of twenty-four hours my newly unearthed rage at my ex-girlfriend had created a knot in my stomach that all the milk of magnesia in the world wouldn’t cure.

I figured a stress-relieving trip to the pub with Wimsy might calm me down a little.

It didn’t.

It just riled me up even more.

All thanks to Wimsy – and his annoying ability to talk perfect sense.


‘Why don’t you just go and have it out with her, then?’ he asks me as he sips on his second pint of Carling – which I paid for, needless to say. Wimsy is still bordering on the destitute.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply, rolling my eyes.

‘Why is it bloody ridiculous? She’s obviously still under your skin in a big way. Maybe the only way you get past her is to go thrash it out with her – like that bloke said you should in his email. What was his name again? Dave something?’

I have made the extremely silly mistake of speaking to Wimsy about my job at length, during these trips to the Old Queen’s Head. A mistake that is coming back to haunt me right at this moment.

‘Dominic Carter . . . and like I told you before, there’s no way I’m doing that. No way in hell.’

I take an enormous swig of my own pint of Carling and regard Wimsy through an expertly furrowed brow.

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes!’

Wimsy sits back and folds his thin arms over the old Fat Face jumper I gave him last week. ‘Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a chicken.’

‘I am not a chicken!’

Wimsy nods. ‘Yeah, you are.’ He points a finger at me. ‘Mr Chicken, that’s you. Oliver Chicken. You live at No. 1 Chicken Street, in Chicken Town, Chickensville.’

‘Stop saying chicken.’

Wimsy just stares at me for a moment with a grin on his face, before raising both elbows to his side. ‘Bwak buck buck buck,’ he intones as he waves his elbows up and down slowly.

I grit my teeth for a moment. ‘Why do I bother hanging out with you, again?’ I ask him as I grip my pint glass.

‘You enjoy my refreshing honesty and candour,’ he replies, still continuing to slowly wag his elbows up and down.

‘Stop doing that.’

‘Alright, but my point bleedin’ stands. You should go grow a pair and go see your bloody Samantha. You might get some answers – and it might stop you being such a grumpy bastard.’

‘I’m a grumpy bastard?’ I say to him in disbelief.

‘Yes. You are. I am thoroughly and comprehensively depressed. This is a very different thing. You are just a grumpy bastard. And you need to talk to Samantha!’

‘I can’t! It’s just too damn hard!’

Wimsy waves a dismissive bony hand. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. It won’t be that bad.’