Page 14 of Still Falling for You

I ignore Vicky’s message from earlier today, asking how’s the new job and whether it’s as boring as the old one. I don’t feel like talking to her or telling her about Alex. At least not yet. For now, I leave her messages unread.

My mind keeps snagging on Aaron’s words, and no matter how much ice cream I shovel in my mouth and how many Jane Austen adaptations I binge-watch, they keep playing in my head until it’s unbearable. After some deliberation and retyping the message three times, I send Lydia and Catherine the undiluted view of my current state of mind.

Am I an emotionally unavailable ice queen?

They both start typing, but before I get any responses, I type another message to give them some context.

I can’t even cry at the fact that Aaron’s having a baby with his acupuncturist.

WTF?!Lydia replies within seconds. Three dots follow like she’s typing an essay.

Unable to let it rest, I add,

I wonder how long he’d been sleeping with her before we broke up. Surely, people don’t buy a crib if they are less than halfway into their pregnancy.

The notion unsettles me. I shove a mental stop sign in frontof my mind to prevent it from heading in that direction, but it ignores all warnings and zebra crossings and sets straight for the busy road of destructive thoughts, ready to be bulldozered. I do the worst thing possible in this situation and open the photo gallery on my phone, flicking through pictures that I took six months ago. I land on photos of Aaron and me in Vienna. I send a particularly happy-looking selfie of the both of us at the top of the GiantFerris Wheel to the WhatsApp group.

Lydia’s message lights up my phone mere seconds later.

OK, Hols. Enough moping over someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m calling an emergency cocktail pyjama party. Get some sexy pyjamas ready for me. No Snoopy or Me to You shit this time.

Lydia calls, but I don’t pick up. Instead, I reply.

I’m fine. Honestly. You’re at work. I know you have an important meeting.

The meeting’s done. Sod them all. They’ll survive the last hour without me. I’m stopping by Tesco to stock up. Do I need to buy Hobnobs or have you restrained yourself this time?

Because she knows me so well, laughter forces itself out of my mouth as I confirm that I need a packet of Hobnobs. I’ve always admired Lydia’s brusqueness and no-bullshit attitude. Catherine messages a moment later.

Oh, Holly. I’m so sorry. He’s not worth it. I’m stuck with the sprite at home, but I’ll call Richard. He’s at a golf course pretending to play while what he’s really doing is catching up on office gossip. I’ll see what I can do. Hold on in there. Sending love.

Forty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door, and when I open it, Lydia drops two massively overpacked Tesco bags on the threadbare doormat and sweeps me into an embrace that almost cracks my ribs. I lean into it and squeeze back. At the familiar smell of Lydia’s Chanel perfume and coffee beans, my throat thickens. I love this woman.

Ten minutes later, she’s wearing my classiest nightwear, a pair of men’s soft, stripy pyjamas in green and blue, and we’re mixing Bloody Marys. Not long after, we’re joined by Catherine swathed in an overlarge nightdress that saysMy people skills are just fine. It’s my tolerancetoidiots that needs work, which is not only fitting but also brings much-needed comic relief to this gathering. For somebody so sweet, Catherine is a mama bear, and thankfully for me, I’m one of her cubs.

‘I still can’t believe he said all the shit he said.’ Lydia spits the words. All she needs is a spark to hurl fire. ‘You know none of it is true?’

I stop hacking the thick sticks of celery with a knife that should have been sharpened at least a decade ago. ‘What if it is? Who doesn’t cry when they lose a job, a boyfriend and a house in a single week?’

‘You’re strong. Isn’t she, Cat?’ Lydia raises her fist when she says this and Catherine nods. I vaguely wonder whether she wants me to fist-bump her, but she carries on before I make a decision. ‘I’ve never seen you crumble, and you’ve had some god-awful luck in the last ten years.’

‘Everybody processes grief and pain differently. Just because you’re not a crier, doesn’t mean that you don’t feel anything. He shouldn’t have judged you just because you’re not like him,’ Catherine chimes in. ‘And thank god for that,’ she adds a very un-Catherine-like comment that almost makes me smile.

‘He’s a selfish bastard. I can’t believe he asked you to waitfor him to get his shit together to pay you backyour money.’ Lydia picks up where Catherine has dropped off. Their double act is really boosting my confidence.

‘He must have been really desperate to have invited me to the bungalow and to witness all the incriminating stuff. But I guess it worked because I did leave without really resolving the money situation.’ I think out loud, unable to say the wordbaby.

Catherine steals a celery stick and chews it pensively. ‘Or insensitive.’

‘Either he’s desperate for money or a reaction from you. After all, he does sound like he needs mollycoddling.’ Lydia’s lip curls in disgust. ‘I’ve had enough of men who are looking for mothers instead of girlfriends.’

I nod as she passes me and Catherine a glass of the red concoction. I put a slightly anaemic-looking celery stick in mine and pretend this is one of my five a day. I take a deep gulp and make a face at the amount of vodka in my drink. ‘He said I could always ask my parents for money.’

Catherine stops drinking and Lydia grabs the counter, the piece of plywood groaning under her grip.

‘What a fuckwit,’ Lydia swears and splashes half a bottle of Tabasco in her drink. ‘Sorry, babe, but I’m going to say something I never dared to say before.’ She scrunches up her face like her drink is unbearably hot, and then her lips shape in satisfaction. ‘I’ll never understand what you saw in that cock. The fact he needed somebody to make him feel important is so fucked up. The fact that he had to stickhis needleinto his acupuncturist to feel special is so pathetic.’

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not emotionally unavailable; I just bottle up my feelings in order to keep going. When I really think about it, I used to cry. Then, the day Alex and I broke up, everything changed. I didn’t let myself go even though I felt like howling. I promised myself I would never ever be weak or be played for a fool. How ironic consideringmy status quo.

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