Dumped, Actually(72)

‘No! No!’ I roar, thrashing around in the water. ‘Close it again! Put me back in!’

Mr Floaters looks a little shocked at my outburst. ‘Sorry, sir. But your thirty minutes have elapsed.’

‘What?!’ I cry, incredulous. ‘That was never thirty minutes!’

‘Yes, it was, I’m afraid.’

I slap one hand on to the water, splashing it everywhere. ‘But he was about to tell me about the geraniums!’

Mr Floaters now looks utterly confused. ‘About the what?’

‘The geraniums! The elephant was about to tell me what they mean!’

‘Elephant?’ Mr Floaters says, wisely beginning to back away from the pod a little as I sit up straight.

‘Yes! Troy the Australian elephant! He was going to talk, damn you! He was going to tell me what’s wrong with me!’

‘Umm. Are you having an episode?’ Mr Floaters asks.

‘What?’

‘Are you having an episode, sir? Only, I’ve not done the training for people having episodes, yet. That’s next month.’

‘Episodes? What, like on Netflix?’

‘No. I mean . . . you know . . . episodes.’

Wimsy’s head appears over his shoulder. ‘He means, have you gone completely barking mad, Ollie?’

I stare up at my friend for a moment, trying to think of a decent response. ‘I don’t think so. Though, at this stage in proceedings, I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, I’ll be honest with you.’

Wimsy holds out a hand. ‘That probably means you’re alright, then. It’s the ones who don’t think they’re at least a bit mad who you have to look out for.’

I take his hand and pull myself up to standing. I can’t help but feel bitterly disappointed to have my session in the tank interrupted at such a crucial juncture.

‘What was all that about elephants and geraniums?’ Wimsy asks as Mr Floaters goes to get me a towel.

‘Oh . . . I don’t know.’ I give him a speculative look. ‘Did you . . . Did you see anything while you were in there?’

Wimsy shakes his head slowly. ‘Nope. Just a whole lot of silence, and a wee bit of snoring, I have to confess. Quite relaxing, though.’ He returns the speculative look. ‘Why? Did you?’

I rub a hand over my face. ‘I don’t know, mate. Maybe? I could have been asleep as well, I suppose.’ I heave a sigh. ‘It all felt so real. And I was close to something. I’m sure I was . . .’

Wimsy gives me a sympathetic look.

I must seem quite pathetic, stood there in my swimming trunks, covered in salt, and looking like I’ve just had something very valuable stolen away from me.

He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, Ollie. You were probably just close to farting. I did that quite a lot in there too.’

I let out a chuckle and climb out of the pod. ‘So you enjoyed it, then?’ I ask him as I take the towel from Mr Floaters.

Wimsy grins. It’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him. ‘Yeah. It was fabulous. I kept thinking about Lizzy. And I didn’t think about Penny, Mr Sparkles or the long one in Phuket once.’ He says this like it’s some kind of miracle.

‘Good for you,’ I tell him.

Wimsy suddenly looks very shy. ‘I think . . . I think I’m going to ask her out. Lizzy, I mean.’

‘Okay,’ I say, smiling.

‘Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do. Definitely. I made my mind up while I was in that tank.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘It was peaceful, you know? It let me . . . let me see things for the way they could be, instead of worrying about the way things were . . . if that makes any sense.’

‘Yeah, I think it does,’ I tell him, with a wry grin.

Well, there you have it.

The flotation tank may have done nothing for me, other than show me how little I know about elephant taxonomy and the symbolic nature of geraniums, but at least Wimsy has come out of the experience well.

I’m no closer to a better understanding of how my mind works – thanks to Mr Floaters and his innate sense of bad timing – but it looks like Wimsy has taken a big step forward, and that makes the experience worth it for me as well, I guess.

I just wish . . . I just wish I could look forward, the way Wimsy spoke about.

I want to think about the way things could be, instead of worrying about the way they were, as well. But I just feel completely unable to do that – because I have this unanswered question hanging over me, about why I have such a pathological need to find love and be in a relationship.

It’s so incredibly frustrating.


There’s nothing else for it. I’m just going to have to go and eat my own bodyweight in chocolate sorbet. And God help Mr Floaters if he gets between me and that spoon. He’s already ruined one sweet revelation for me today, I’ll be damned if he’s going to ruin another!

And who knows . . . perhaps I’ll fall into a diabetic coma, and Troy can come back to finish his bloody sentence.





INTERLUDE

From: Carla Moreau ([email protected])

Dear Ollie,

Thanks very much. I’m sat here with my make-up running down my face.

That last meeting with you and Sam was heartbreaking – and wonderful at the same time.