Page 29 of Ex in the City
I dash off, before he can say anything, retreating to the sanctuary of the ladies’.
I don’t know for sure that Rowan was going to propose and, even if he was, I wouldn’t know if he was doing it for show, or because he really wanted to. I guess, with someone like Rowan, you can never really know what they’re doing for show, and what is genuine.
Either way, though, best not to risk it. And it’s not like I’m going to be coming back here, is it? Not now that my days in Little Harehill are numbered.
15
There’s a reason I didn’t want to join PATS. Actually, there are several, but Rebecca bloody Rollins and her gaggle of mum minions – mumnions? – are right up there at the top.
Rebecca lives on our street, just a couple of doors away, and everything is a competition to her. Like, I never knew I was signed up for some sort of front door contest, or when she got their side hedges trimmed, and she spent two weeks berating our hedges – as though I gave a shit?
Honestly, I hate that I am forced to compete in such stupid things, whether I want to or not. It’s easier to care less these days, knowing that my days here are numbered, but when I thought that this was it, for the rest of my life, wow. Sometimes I would literally count down the days until the boys would finish school, so that we could move away.
Today I am at the boys’ school, surrounded by a mix of parents and teachers for the Parents and Teachers Society meeting, all gathered to discuss the musical that was teetering on the brink of cancellation until Dylan stepped in.
Around the table, we have the ever-present Rebecca, her loyal sidekicks, Jo, the head teacher, John, another teacher, anda couple of other parents I recognise but don’t really know. They all sip tea from cups with saucers and nibble on minuscule cakes – the kind where you need to eat about five to feel like you’ve had one. I can’t believe I’m at a PATS meeting, after all this time.
Dylan is in the next room, the drama studio, with the kids, having a chat with them about their progress so far, and what they think they can do moving forward. He’s actually way into this, I’m really surprised.
‘So, you and Dylan are old friends?’ Jo asks curiously.
‘Yes, since we were kids, really,’ I reply.
Well, notreallyreally. I was technically a teenager when I met Dylan, but bending the truth like this sounds so much more wholesome, doesn’t it?
Rebecca, ever the sceptic, raises an eyebrow.
‘So, he just, what, visits and helps you with the school run now and then?’ she probes further.
‘He isn’t here to help with the school run,’ I insist, laughing her comment off.
‘And yet I’ve seen him here at the school with you three times in three days,’ Rebecca points out. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you and Rowan together three times this year.’
Well, yes, that’s true, I suppose, but that’s obviously because Rowan and I are like strangers now, and it’s intentional on my part. I do everything I can to avoid being around him. Thankfully, showing my face in his photos is enough to convince people that we’re still together. It’s amazing, really, what people will believe, just because they see it on the internet.
‘That’s probably because I murdered him,’ I say deadpan, but with a flicker of mischief in my eyes. ‘That’s why Dylan is here, to help me bury him under the patio.’
For a brief moment, everyone just stares at me.
‘Or he’s an old friend, and he’s visiting, with no mysterious reason, no ulterior motive, and nothing that warrants any kind of conversation,’ I add.
Jo holds her silence for a few more seconds before laughing wildly, encouraging most of the others to join in.
Sassiness isn’t rewarded in this village, in fact it’s usually punished. But, come on, Rebecca is being a bit much today.
‘While we’re waiting for Dylan, why don’t we talk about the fundfair for the production?’ Jo suggests.
It’s baffling that this school, which costs a small fortune per term, still heavily relies on fundraisers and donations. They call it a ‘fundfair’, but it’s just another tactic to bleed more money from the parents. Extracurricular activities are quite clearly extra on top of the big bill for attending the school.
‘We’re doing a three-course dinner dance, black-tie attire, of course,’ Rebecca informs the group.
Rebecca always plans these things and they are always the same – and they’re always boring.
I sign heavily, maybe a bit too heavily, because Rebecca notices.
‘What’s wrong, Nicole?’ she asks, her irritation clear.
‘No, nothing, sorry,’ I babble, desperately trying to deflect attention from my wandering mind.
