Page 7 of The Moment I Met You
He does look a bit like Hugh Grant. That’s not a bad thing, but real life isn’t a romcom – even if it felt that way when I first met him, during freshers’ week at Liverpool University.
Harry was studying economics; I was doing English. It was my first time away from home, and with hindsight it shouldn’t have been. I needed to experience a bit more of life – to travel, to work, to try different things. But my domestic situation never really allowed me a lot of freedom when I was younger, and even going away to college in England felt as though I was shirking responsibility.
I think that’s one of the reasons I fell for him so fast and so hard. It wasn’t just that he was dishy, it was that he somehow brought out a deeply hidden sense of recklessness in me. He made me forget responsibility, and led me astray in the best ways possible.
He had a way of giving me confidence, of seeing the wild side I didn’t even know I possessed. He was always leading the charge into new nightclubs and persuading me to abseil down buildings, and convincing me it was absolutely a great idea to make love in shadowy urban graveyards as crowds of stags and hens staggered past on the other side of low walls.
It all seemed so exciting – like he knew me in a way that nobody else did.
But that was then, and this is now, and I feel like we are on different paths, trying to cling on to each other as life pulls us apart. I’m not even quite sure why we’re still clinging – is it out of habit, out of insecurity, fear? Or is it that we still have too much love for each other to be quite willing to give it up?
All I know is that now, I sometimes find his charm annoying. I find the way he styles his hair annoying. I find the amount of time he spends in front of the bathroom mirror annoying.
I lean back in my chair, and my hand goes to my own mouth in horror. I am shocked at how vitriolic all of that sounded in my own mind. Shocked, and a little bit ashamed. A little bit disgusted at the judgemental way that train of thought hurtled off the tracks.
It’s not even remotely fair to be irritated with Harry for just being Harry. He is who he is, and there is a lot to like about him. A lot to love. He isn’t perfect, and neither am I. Far from it.
For me, I think the turning point came at New Year. We were at a party thrown by his boss. I just remember watching him through the eyes of a stranger, seeing the way he worked the room, flirted with everyone, pretended to be tipsy even though I knew he’d been sipping the same drink for over an hour.
By the time he came over to grab me for the midnight countdown, I felt like part of me was detaching from him, from us as a couple. Watching, weighing, wondering – distant and apart.
He danced me around in his arms, kissed me amid a drunken ‘Auld Lang Syne’, whispered something about this ‘being our year’. For a split second I thought he was going to propose, and was shocked at how strongly I didn’t want that.
I tried to forget it afterwards, to write it off as a blip, but that feeling has just built since then. It’s as though a door was unlocked that I can’t quite slam shut again.
It’s also, I think, pouring some wine with shaking hands, nothing to do with him. Clichéd as it sounds, it’s also me, not him. Even if he offered to come with me and volunteer abroad, I’m not sure I’d want him to. I am yearning for adventure, to open my mind – not to spend another trip being asked if I’ve packed a jumbo box of anti-diarrhoea pills.
When I look back, I see so many simple things I’ve never done. I’ve never lived alone, or travelled alone, or even spent more than a few nights in our home alone. I’ve never been free of the expectations and needs of others, no matter how benign. First it was Mum, then Harry – and that was my choice. A choice I made willingly, because at the time it was what I wanted.
Now, though, I’m not totally sure what I want, but feeling more content when I’m on my own probably isn’t a good sign. It’s not fair to me, and not fair to him, to stay with someone out of habit, out of convenience, out of a sense of shared history.
We need to talk about it, but even the thought of making this real feels terrifying. What if I change my mind? What if I’m just going through a phase? What if I’m making a terrible mistake?
What if I’m not even capable of ending it? Telling Harry anything he doesn’t want to hear is almost impossible. He can be so persuasive. This time, though, I need to find more resolve. I need for us both to stop pretending that everything is fine, and have a grown-up conversation about what happens next.
Or, of course, be a total coward. Maybe I could just move out one day while he’s at work, and leave him a Post-it note on his hair gel. Or send an email. Or scrawl the wordsGoodbye forever!in the frost on the windscreen of the car one morning?
I love him, in my own way, and I am scared of leaving him. But I’m also scared of staying – scared of getting trapped in a land of company dinners and charity functions where nobody cares about the charity, and luxury holidays where you never leave the compound and a house in a gated community that keeps the poor people so far away they can’t even breathe the same air as you.
A life that would leave me feeling embalmed. Entombed. Pinned to a board like one of those butterflies in museum collections, their colour fading, all life gone. A faded remnant of what they could have been if they’d only escaped the net.
Perhaps I just need a break, I think. Perhaps I could roam free for a year and come back, and be delighted with Harry and our life together. Maybe it doesn’t have to end completely.
Maybe I just need to get drunk.
I finish my glass and let myself get distracted by the brightly decorated paper lanterns arranged along the rooftops. As the sun has set, they flicker into magical neon light, wavering rows of brightness against the dusk.
The tables in the courtyard are filling up now, as though the dangling lanterns glinting into life have acted as some kind of visual dinner bell.
I see the older couple strolling towards the square, holding hands as usual. I see Sofia laughing at some tale Jorge is weaving. I see the girl from the coach – the teenager with the angry red hair and the angry red face – sitting with her family.
She’s slumped with her head flat against her backpack on the table, using it as a pillow. She’s pretending to be asleep so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone, but from this angle I can see her eyes are open and alert. The sight makes me laugh inside, remembering that age – all spit and vinegar, furious with a world that can’t possibly understand.
I feel calmer as I do this, as I look around me. It’s far more interesting – and restful – looking into other people’s lives than contemplating my own right now. And this seat, here at the side of the square, is quiet and cool, like a private booth at the theatre where I can sit and watch the show from a distance.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see the man from the church approaching. The European man, who may or may not have a stash of abducted girls locked in his cellar back home.
He’s wearing black Levi’s and big boots, and a black T-shirt that looks as though it’s been washed many times over. He’s tall and lean, like someone who runs long distances. He’s been a mystery on this trip, pleasant but reserved, perfectly polite and casually chivalrous – one of those men who can open doors for you without it seeming forced or patronising.
