Page 12 of Still Falling for You

I only half-listen as Danielle happily alternates between backstabbing Becky and her – what she calls –patheticobsession with Alex and instructing me on how to write steps to success to match my learning objectives in the planning document. One has to admire her multifocal mind.

After she steers the conversation forcefully towards Alex for the fifth time, I get an uncomfortable feeling she knows something is amiss between him and me and is fishing. When I don’t show any interest in her gossipmongering, she gives up and goes for a direct hit.

‘I’ve got a bit of goss that I’ve been dying to share and thought you might be interested in.’ Despite her small frame, her ample bosom rises and falls as she inhales dramatically. I have no idea what she’s going to say, but I try not to clench my jaw, my nervous tell. ‘John overheard Mr Boss and Jane earlier.’ Dread constricts my chest, but I force myself to stay silent.

‘Apparently, John heard Jane and Alex talk about you. He made it sound like he knew you before yesterday.’ Her big red lips smack loudly against each other like she’s ready to eat a juicy chunk of meat.

I consider negating her statement, but then I decide that coming out with a half-truth and pretending it’s not a big deal is a better tactic. ‘We went to sixth form together. We weren’t in the same study group so I didn’t recognise him at first,’ I say as breezily as I can and physically make myself shut up before I say too much. Questions multiply in Danielle’s eyes like comments on Instagram Live.

Before she has a chance to ask, I dash her hopes. ‘I didn’t really know him that much.’ I shrug in what I hope looks like acarefree dismissal. Despite my outward composure, everything inside me tenses until Danielle nods, repeating my noncommittal gesture. I don’t think she bought it, but I guess I’ll only have to wait to hear the gossip to see whether she did.

‘Well, he seemed to remember you. When Jane asked him what he thought of you, he said you looked nothing like what you looked like back then.’

I force a laugh. Alex’s rude comment is a prompt reminder he’s never been what I painted him to be and that back then he’d deceived me into thinking he was a decent human being. I’m not going to make the same mistake now.

‘I guess that’s a good thing.’ I attempt a weak joke. ‘Nobody should stick with the fashion choices they made at seventeen. Even though I still stand by flared jeans and rainbow crop tops.’

‘He’s not very friendly towards you, is he, though?’ When I don’t say anything, she stops fishing. ‘But that’s Alex through and through.’

After that, our conversation dwindles, and the silence becomes oppressive once again. Eventually, we manage to complete planning for the whole week, but I stay long after she’s gone.

From my classroom window, I see all cars but two have left the car park by half five. Both are much fancier than mine. It’s good to know that I’m not the only person staying late. No matter how long I stay, I never feel I’m on top of things. I guess it comes with the territory of being a teacher.

Finally, I’m ready to leave at six. Last minute, I manage to reshuffle the desks to match my seating plan, check all stationery supplies are in place and all books are ready for Monday. My back is aching from hefting a cumbersome bookcase from one corner of the classroom to another to get some semblance of feng shui, but despite that, I feel something akin to happy.

I’m ready for my new life to start.

5

I wake up bright and early on Saturday. Despite a shattering headache caused by one glass of cheap Sauvignon, I’m surprisingly composed. I dress on autopilot, putting on a polka dot dress with a jabot collar until I remember that Aaron used to tell me he fancied me in it. I almost rip it off my body and instead put on a grey knitted dress that I bought post-Aaron. I appeal to my reasonable self and convince her that incinerating every item of clothing I ever wore around Aaron is not feasible unless I’m happy to resolve to walk around in underwear.

Before I overthink it, I grab the keys and head out. The day has turned mild, and for early September, the air is unseasonably warm and muggy. Despite that, my skin feels chilly. By the time I park on a street across from the familiar bungalow, I have full-on goosebumps.

I sit in the car for long minutes, despondently staring at the compact bungalow that once embodied everything I used to want. A distant future full of potential. A life with Aaron. A start to my teaching career. For the first time buying something with my own money without help from my parents. All destroyed by one spineless bastard.

I square my shoulders and step out of the car. Some of the tension leaves my body at the sight of only one car in the driveway. The familiar convertible Porsche sums up Aaron pretty well. It’s pretentious, over-polished, and there’s something littlish about it after a close perusal. Not to mention the occasional dodgy gear stick. Think what you will about that one.

An old habit has me reaching into my bag for a key that’s no longer there before I stop myself and instead knock on the door.I feel I’m trespassing, and it doesn’t sit well with me. I school my features just as the door creeps open, and Aaron steps out in all his five-foot-eight height. Perfectly groomed stubble and longish brown hair decorate his chiselled face in an achingly familiar way. Dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt with sweaty circles around his armpits, I guess he’s just returned from the gym. He couldn’t even be bothered to clean up for our meeting. I wonder how I could have ever found him anything butlacking.

He looks unfazed. ‘Hi, Hols.’ He steps out of my way to let me in. I hate that he calls me by my nickname. He robbed himself of the privilege by repeatedly drilling his acupuncturist while we were still together.

I nod because I refuse to be petty and because the fewer words I say, the less of a chance they come out as a shout. I step into a meticulous lounge-slash-diner-slash-kitchen open-plan space. It’s the complete opposite of my messy studio flat, and I try not to lose it again. Instead, I quickly scan the place, making a mental inventory of all the new items on display. There is a very distasteful, and frankly disturbing, painting of two swans, their glittering purple, pink and green necks bending towards each other and forming a heart-shaped gap. I itch to take a quick picture and send it to Lydia because she would appreciate the irony. There’s only a carved woodenhome is where the heart issign missing to complete the cooked-up idyll. I feel like vomiting. Maybe Lydia and Catherine were right; I shouldn’t have met him here.

There’s an ugly hand-knitted throw that smothers the beautiful grey sofa I got as a gift from my parents. But it’s the lack of my items that’s disturbing, not the additions made over what seems like five minutes. All my quaint touches and potted plants are gone. Aaron used to say he liked my quirkiness when it came to home decor. That was until a year or so back when he told me he would have preferred I had a more mature taste. I’m not sure what he meant by that because a cack animal printcanvas doesn’t precisely shout sophisticated or mature to me.

‘Tea?’ he asks, but sits down straight away, expecting me to say no. No change there. He was always a goldbrick when we lived together. When I think of it now, he’s the most selfish and laziest person I’ve ever met.

‘No, thanks,’ I answer sardonically.

I look around the place again. He follows my sweeping perusal, waving his hands around like he’s a traffic warden taming a particularly messy gridlock. ‘Eva wanted to make it cosier.’

‘I’ve brought the copies of my bank statements and the mortgage contract.’ I try not to dissect what he means by his comment, not deigning to lower myself by acknowledging the existence of that woman or the poorly disguised insult.

The next half hour is spent arguing. He thinks there’s no rush to be changing the situation while I’m renting. I, on the other hand, think it’s an urgent matter as I’m currently living in something akin to a large four-walled rubbish bin.

‘What is the point when you don’t have any intention of buying a place?’ he questions without any filter or consideration. What’s the most puzzling is that I can see he genuinely looks like he can’t fathom any possible reason why I’d want my money back. I can’t believe I ended up spending four years with this emotional troll.

‘What I do or don’t do is none of your business. As I no longer live here, either your acupuncturist pays me rent or you pay me back the money I’ve put into the bungalow. It’s up to you,’ I say with detachment that even impresses me. But I’ve always been able to keep my cool on the outside. That is unless I’m in a certain ginger-haired man’s vicinity, it seems.

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