Page 31 of The Love Hack

Mitch, Carlisle

Shit. It was Sunday, a week since Amelie’s wedding, and I felt just like a lost puppy myself. The previous week at work had gone okay – I’d been busy enough, typing up the responses to the queries that Amelie had helped me formulate, saving one of them for future reference so that Adam’s readers didn’t start to think he was some sort of penis specialist.

I’d stopped for coffee on the way to the office as usual, and got the lift up to the Max! Magazine floor, not having to worry about sharing it with Ross, because he was on holiday. I’d filed my copy with Greg and waited for him to roll his eyes in disgust at what I’d written, but he’d only responded, ‘Nice work.’ But when I’d tentatively asked him how the Ask Adam column was landing with readers, he’d pushed his glasses up his nose and said, ‘It’s early days yet,’ which did my self-confidence no good at all.

Now, alone in my flat with Astro sleeping behind me on the back of the sofa, I’d found myself less interested in the new release of Resident Evil 4, and more compelled to get out my phone or laptop and see what new problems had landed in Adam’s mailbox.

I’d come face to face (well, face to screen) Mitch, his globetrotting ex and his broken heart. And I had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

‘What do you reckon, Astro?’ I asked. 'What would Amelie have told him?’

But Astro only twitched a paw, deep in a dream about chasing squirrels.

‘Well, I know how to get your attention, anyway,’ I told him.

I was hungry, there were fish fingers in the freezer and a loaf of fresh white bread on the kitchen counter. Maybe some carbs and essential fatty acids would kick my brain into gear – and if not, they’d at least stop my stomach from grumbling.

While I waited for the grill to heat up, spreading butter and mayonnaise on the bread, adding just a squiggle of ketchup and thinly slicing a pickled cucumber (I’m no chef, but I do know how to make the perfect fish finger sandwich), I thought of my sister. Not just what advice she would have given to Mitch, but about her. What was she doing right now? What time was it in the Bahamas? Was she lying on a beach somewhere with Zack rubbing sunblock into her back? Was she having fun?

Was she missing me as much as I missed her?

An unexpected tear splatted down on to the kitchen counter and I blinked, grabbing a square of kitchen roll and blowing my nose furiously. This was no good whatsoever. Amelie wanted me to be happy, not moping because she was off being happy.

Snatching the grill pan out of the oven just in time, I assembled my dinner and returned to the sofa. Astro, smelling fish, immediately roused and planted his front feet on my lap, begging shamelessly for scraps as I ate.

When I’d finished, I put the plate on the floor for him to lick clean and opened my laptop again.

Oh Mitch, you poor boy, I imagined Amelie saying. But what would she say next? I knew she’d been disappointed in relationships, but as far as I knew she’d never had her heart properly broken – she’d been more in the business of breaking other people’s.

But my heart had. I hadn’t forgotten the pain, but I’d buried it deep inside me, determined that it would never happen to me again. Now, if I was going to be able to help Mitch – or at the very least do the job I’d been hired to do – I was going to have to delve into that hidden place, remember how it had felt, and tell Mitch what he needed to hear.

Dear Mitch, I typed, my fingers hesitant on the keyboard at first, then picking up pace.

Well, you’ve been through the wringer, haven’t you? When you believe that someone is your person and it turns out they don’t feel the same, it hurts. There’s no getting away from that.

But here’s the thing: if she decided you weren’t the man for her, that means she wasn’t the woman for you. No amount of compromising or begging or even writing to me is going to change that fact. You’re going to have to move on, and deep down I suspect you know that.

There are many positives to draw from your situation. The people closest to her approved of you – that means you’re a decent guy. You sustained a relationship for two years. You had sensible plans to take it to the next level. You’re young. You’ve got everything going for you, Mitch.

As for what to do next – channel that lost puppy and lick your wounds for a bit. It’s normal to feel self-pity in your position. But don’t torture yourself – if there’s another guy on the scene, you can’t change that. And delete her from your social media if you can – watching her live her best life will only be painful for you and sustain the hope that she might regret her decision. Because she’s already made it clear: you’re not the man for her.

So, when you’re ready, dust yourself off. Check that broken heart – you’ll likely feel the pieces coming together again. Have fun with your mates. Get out in the fresh air – I know I sound like your nan, but it helps.

I guarantee you, before long, someone else will come along. She might not be Ms Right; she might just be Ms Right for Now. But she’ll show you that there are other women out there who appreciate your many, excellent qualities. Eventually, you’ll look back on this and you’ll wish your ex well and maybe even admire her for having the courage to pursue her dreams.

Yours, Adam

Feeling like I’d been through a wringer myself, I snapped my laptop closed. As soon as I put it down on the floor, Astro jumped up onto my lap, and I flicked on the telly. But I didn’t return to Resident Evil; instead I scrolled through Netflix until I found The Last Letter from Your Lover and had a good old cry watching it until it was time for bed.

Over the next few days, I found myself looking at men a bit differently. On the bus in the morning, I sat next to a guy a few years younger than me, who spent the entire journey scrolling through Tinder. Surreptitiously, I watched over his shoulder and wondered why it was that he swiped right on the blurry photo of a girl with glasses and a halo of blonde curls, but left on the slender, tanned brunette with the trout pout. Did he think picking the brunette would be punching? Did he just like women with curly hair? Had his previous girlfriend been a slim brunette who’d cheated on him with his best friend?

In the queue for my morning coffee, I overheard a guy asking his colleague how his wife’s pregnancy was going, and listened, fascinated, as the colleague embarked on a soul-bearing description of how hard it was to see her being sick all the time and how much he longed for the baby’s arrival but feared that their relationship would never be the same again.

Actually, that was my interpretation. The actual conversation went more like this.

‘So how’s Lisa getting on, mate?’

’Still puking twenty-four/seven. They say it’s morning sickness but it lasts all bloody day, doesn’t it?’

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