Dumped, Actually(64)

I will go many places and do many things in the time I have left to me – and I will do them all with this moment carried in my heart throughout. It will sustain me in times of pain. It will make me smile in times of peace. It will be a moment I will never forget.

One of many moments, caught between a void.

Sam leans back again, smiles, but then looks startled as she thinks of something. ‘Please don’t put that in “Dumped Actually”.’

I smile. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. I think that moment stays between you and me – and nobody else.’

‘Good,’ she replies, grinning.

And then we’re hugging again.

This hug will go into the next chapter of ‘Dumped Actually’. In fact, it will be the way I’ll end it, I think.

Because what better way can there be for Samantha to depart this story than with the warm embrace of friendship and forgiveness?

And make no mistake, she does depart this story now – forever.

Because the story is not about her. As much as I would have loved it to have been. As much as I needed it to be – it’s not. Nor is it about Yukio, or Gretchen, or Lisa. Or anybody else.

This story is about me.

It’s about bloody time I accepted that.

I’m going to try my hardest to stop being so needy. I’m going to try my hardest to put myself first for a change. I’m going to try my hardest to please myself, for once.

I’m going to try my hardest to do all of these things – but I am scared out of my mind that I’m going to fail, unless I get to the bottom of what makes me tick. Unless I get a better understanding of why I’ve acted the way I have – not just with Samantha, but with all of the women I’ve been with – I’m never going to have a successful relationship. That much is clear to me now. What is making me so desperate to please? I have to find out. I just have to.

That all starts with climbing out of this Wendy house, saying a last farewell to Sam and leaving this bloody garden centre.

I might buy a pot plant for my parents on the way out, though. They like those.





CHAPTER NINE

A ONE-WAY TRIP INTO A WEIRD LITTLE MIND

‘That geranium you bought us last week is flourishing by the pond, Oliver. A really lovely addition to the garden. It’s very bushy!’

You see?

They did like it.

‘That’s great, Mum,’ I reply down the phone as I wander back to my desk with a fresh cup of tea in my hand.

These lunchtime phone calls with my mother are a combination of a pleasure and a pain. It’s nice to catch up with her, but my mum does like to talk, and I only get an hour for lunch.

‘I was quite surprised to see just how bushy it’s got, actually. I may have to trim it back.’

My mother would not know a double entendre if it ran up to her painted bright red, singing the national anthem.

I, however, chuckle to myself as I plonk my arse back down on my office chair.

‘What are you laughing about, Oliver?’ Mum asks me.

‘Oh nothing, Mum. I’m glad the geranium is doing so well.’

‘It’s nice to hear you laugh, actually,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling at the moment?’ Her voice is full of the kind of gentle hope that makes my stomach knot. I would like nothing more than to tell my mother that I am feeling hale and hearty. Enjoying life. Getting much better, thanks.

And if I could lie to my mother, I would tell her exactly that. But I have never been able to lie to my mother. She may not be able to spot a double entendre at a thousand paces, but she can sure as hell spot when I’m being economical with the truth from ten thousand.

‘Eh, I’m not too bad,’ I reply, deciding to stay as neutral as possible. ‘Still processing what happened with Sam, and have a deadline for “Dumped Actually”, but other than that . . . could be worse.’

This is more or less the truth. It’s been five days since my confrontation with my ex-girlfriend. In that time I’ve done a lot of soul searching. Sadly, it’s been conducted with a broken torch and no map, so I haven’t really got any further along with it. I still have no answers.

‘Oh, okay, sweetheart.’

Ouch. That sympathetic disappointment in her voice is unavoidable, isn’t it?

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, though, Mum. Honestly. Like you and Dad always say, these things take time.’

That’s another cliché they like to come out with when I get dumped, along with all of the nautical ones I’ve previously mentioned.

‘That’s right, Oliver. It will all come out in the wash, you just see.’

I roll my eyes. She means well . . . she really, really does. But how can a woman who has enjoyed decades of trouble-free marriage possibly have any real advice for a broken toy like me, eh?

‘I’m sure it will,’ I reply, forcing a smile on to my face, to try and sound positive.

‘Yes. It certainly will,’ she says, matter-of-factly. ‘The right girl is out there for you, Oliver. I just know it.’

‘Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.’

How many times have we had this little exchange in my life?

Too many times.

Way too many.

‘Anyway, Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to get back to work now,’ I tell her. I’d like this conversation to end. I feel horrible for thinking that way, but it’s the truth. Mum means well, but talking to her or Dad at times like this is frustrating and pointless.