The Perfect Girlfriend(16)

‘You coming back?’ he said.

‘Yeah. In a bit.’ It sounded cooler than Please, don’t go.

‘OK. See you.’

I stood up and tried to hug him. He gave me a quick squeeze and a peck on the lips. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I sensed it would be too soon. So, I let him go. I heard his footsteps negotiating the slope. Away from me. I felt around for his drink, but the glass had tipped over and was empty. I tried to make sense of everything, wondering whether I was an adult now, even though I was still fifteen, every now and then gently placing my fingers on my lips where he’d planted his final kiss. I focused on the thud of the music, finally able to make out a track – Will Smith’s ‘Switch’.

When cold and discomfort had taken hold, I slunk back to the dorm area and cleaned myself up. Blood, semen, mud. I forced myself to rejoin the party. He was back in there too, and I naively assumed he’d approach me, that he’d announce we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and that I’d instantly be elevated in social popularity, even if only temporarily. But he appeared to be sharing a joke with Bella. She laughed in response to something he’d said. Shortly after, he had his arm around Stephanie.

For the short remainder of the evening I watched from the side, forced to half-listen to Claire, taking pretend trips to the toilet, hoping that he would come over. I hated myself for not having the guts to go over and join in, just like I had every right to. I blamed Bella for my lack of confidence. I still blame Bella for that. Had she been a nicer person, a friend, I’d have naturally fitted into their social gathering. But I was scared of her. Scared that she’d make me look stupid in front of him.

Twice, I thought he looked over. But each time it was too fleeting for me to catch his eye. I looked at my watch, again and again; torturing myself, because at 11.45, the coaches were due to leave. By 11, I was starting to feel desperate. I downgraded my hopes to a brief promise that he’d call or email. By 11.15, I’d persuaded myself that he was embarrassed. But there were no furtive glances, no sense that anything had happened at all. His eyes never caught mine. I began to suspect that I’d imagined it – but I couldn’t have – and anger and hatred lodged inside me, along with bitter determination.

I vowed to myself that no one would ever treat me like that again. Never again would I allow myself to be discarded.

Yet I wasn’t quite ready to give up all hope. For the remaining few weeks of that term, I’d check my mails each time I went to the library. Or wait in view of the black door for a romantic card or small gift – something, anything – during every break. Each time the phone near the common room rang in the evening, I’d wish that it was for me. Because, intermingled with all the longing and hope, it would also have made a difference; made another horrible result of the evening more bearable. Even nowadays, I flinch when I’m caught off guard and hear certain words, the ones I was called when my mistake became common knowledge.

I stand up, feeling a renewed sense of optimism and belief in myself. It was good to come back here, to remind myself of my decade-long promise, which is that I deserve to be treated with respect by others.

Especially men.

Back on the train I naturally have plenty of time to think things through:

Nate had no right to dump me in Reading as though I was worthless.

He definitely led me to believe that we had a future, that he loved me as much as I loved him.

I should’ve got pregnant. I allowed myself the luxury of a honeymoon period, and it has cost me dear, but I’m not giving up.

I’ll win him back and go to great, careful lengths to ensure that our lives are soon interlocked by unbreakable bonds.

I’ve read in so many self-help books that nothing in the past can be undone, that only the future holds hope for change. So, in between my forthcoming trips to Bahrain, Washington, Lusaka and Barbados, I need to fill my time with purely positive steps, such as squeezing in hours of driving lessons at any opportunity. And flat-hunting. I generally feel much better when I have a proper focus.

I flick through the magazines I bought in the village shop. One of the models looks similar to Bella. I will cut her picture out at home and add it to my pinboard collection, which is a work of art, a maze of hundreds of pictures of Bella and Nate: faces, arms, legs, outfits, bodies.

For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.

Instead of my mantras, I repeat these words over in my head, fantasizing about my future with Nate to keep me occupied on the journey back to my temporary life.





6


My flight to Barbados is delayed after boarding. Two hours, so far. Initially I’m patient with the complaints, but before long I struggle to contain my frustration. There’s a problem with one of the cargo doors. Engineers are trying to fix it. End of. I – politely – explain that there’d be no point in taking off regardless, allowing passengers’ precious bags to fall out mid-air and rain down on to London. Dealing with hotel guests was easier. They weren’t trapped in their rooms, stuck in the hotel with nothing to do but demand my endless attention.

‘Excuse me?’

I swing round, ready to bat away a request, but realize that the voice belongs to a girl, no older than nine or ten. The adjacent seat is empty.

I crouch down to her level. ‘Yes?’

‘Is the plane going to be OK? I’m travelling by myself.’