Page 1 of The Monday Night Heartbreak Club
1
I was well on my way to discovering that, unless the question was ‘what is the best way to screw up your life totally’, alcohol was, most definitely, not the answer. Alcoholdid,however, mean that I read the poster tacked to the wall of the wine bar through the kind of pink fug that only a three-daiquiri haze could inspire, which made all the letters blend together, as though it had been left out in the rain.
‘Wazzat say?’ I asked the equally blurry barman, who was polishing glasses in front of me with the dedication of a man trying to removeDNAevidence from a crime scene.
‘What does what say?’ He barely even looked up.
‘That. There.’ I stabbed a finger in the approximate direction of the poster. ‘The one with…’ I squinted and leaned closer. The poster swam and seemed to be made up of cut out letters, like a ransom note. ‘The big heart thing. With the knife in the middle.’
The barman looked across me and put down his polishing cloth. ‘It says, “Was your Valentine’s Day a big disappointment? Want to meet like-minded people and discuss where it all went wrong? Inaugural meeting of the Disappointed Valentines’ Clubhere, Monday 8.30p.m. Ask for Margot.”’ He picked up the cloth again and got started on some espresso cups. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Dunno.’ I had two attempts at getting up onto one of the high stools in front of the bar, failed at both and decided to go home. ‘Might be.’
‘Are you a disappointed Valentine?’ He wasn’t looking at me but was buffing the china with a lot more concentration than it needed, unless he wanted the pattern to come off.
‘Yes. No.’ I thought as deeply as the daiquiris would let me, skimming the surface of emotions. At least alcohol was good for something. ‘I’m just disappointed,’ I managed, finally. ‘Thass all. Disappointed. In. Life.’ I punctuated each word with a stabbed finger on the bar.
‘Life is what you make of it, you know,’ said the surprisingly philosophical barman, throwing me a bright glance.
‘Well, the only thing I’m making is a mess.’
‘And Valentine’s Day is a commercial construct,’ he said, polishing again as though the tiny cup had personally affronted him. ‘People should think about their romantic partner all the time, not make an effort on one day of the year. If they are really in love.’
Nice sentiment, if not applicable to me. ‘I think,’ I said with all the dignity I could muster, which, after three strawberry daiquiris drunkveryquickly on an empty stomach, wasn’t very much, ‘that being thought of at all is better than being ignored. Or… or used like a… y’know. Thing.’
Then, with that Wildean witticism, I cannoned off a table, hit my head on the glass door and finally managed to walk out of the bar, where I promptly fell off the edge of the pavement.
The barman had followed me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘’S’fine. ’S’all good.’ I clambered back to the pavement again. ‘’M’just a bit, you know. Drunk thing. Don’ need help.’ I realised Iwas talking to a lamppost and turned around. ‘’M’fine,’ I repeated.
‘Can you get home? You live across the road, don’t you? Would you like me to help you?’
I shook my head and the daiquiris spun the world. ‘When’s it Monday?’
‘Today is Saturday.’ He looked as though he was about to take my arm, but changed his mind.
‘’S’no help.’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ I staggered a few more steps forward. ‘Gonna join the club. Dis… disapp… thing club.’ I looked blearily into the barman’s face. He was younger than I’d assumed and wore round-framed glasses which, combined with the alcohol I’d drunk, made him look like a smeared owl. ‘Men,’ I said confidently to his name badge, which I couldn’t read, ‘are all bastards, you know.’
He smiled. ‘If you say so. My opinion may differ, of course.’
I tried to look stern but I’d lost the use of my eyebrows. ‘Yes. Bastards. All of ’em.’
Those round-framed eyes blinked down at me. ‘Sounds as though you need that club. Now, you get home and sleep it off. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘’Es,’ I stated, gravely. Then I walked into the wall, turned around and, with a certain amount of alcohol-driven dignity and legs that contained more rum than the average limbs, took myself home.
2
Monday morning crawled over me like a slug. I woke, late, to find it sitting on my face and had to rush to get ready for work with a banging headache and an inability to find one of my shoes. After my Saturday night exploration of the potential for cocktails to improve my life, I’d fallen back on the cheaper standby of wine. This had not made a notable difference to my situation but it had meant that I’d yet again failed in my weekly mission to tidy up the flat.
Life improved only slightly once I got to work and hid behind my desk to conceal the fact that I was wearing one trainer and one slip-on deck shoe. Demi was in. Demi was my only friend at this godforsaken outpost of slavery and she usually worked from home. Actually, Demi was my only friend, full stop.
‘Morning, sweetie,’ she said, pulling up at the desk opposite. ‘You look dreadful. Bad weekend? Has Dexter called yet?’
