Page 4 of Five Gold Rings

I laugh then scan over to the gift on my bed. Not this Christmas, Eve.

TWO

Eve

The only guide I have about how to react when you’ve caught your boyfriend cheating on you comes from television, films, soap operas. In this moment, I am sure I am expected to sob uncontrollably without any consequence to my eye make-up, call an army of friends to come round, wrap me in a blanket and tell me I’ll find love again and that he’s not worth it, set to a montage of diva power pop.

This does not happen.

The forty-five minutes that follow are pure chaos, driven by full on mania, that starts with me marching to the bedroom, staring at my robe on the floor. Do you know how hard it is to find the perfect robe? One that provides warmth, coverage, that has pockets and an inbuilt sash. I can never wear this robe again. And I can’t sleep on those sheets again, so I strip the bed. But then I notice something tied to the bedpost. Oh. I can’t sleep in this actual bed ever again, so I obtain a power drill from under the sink and start to take the bed apart, bit by bit.

Standing there looking at piles of wooden posts and molehills of dirty sheets and clothes, I then tear at pictures, toss relationship memorabilia and all of Chris’ belongings onto the floor. His clothes end up in a massive scrapheap. Everything from the socks with the holes to pants to work shirts to old hoodies that I occasionally wear because they’re comfortable. Do I inhale a hoodie like some heartbroken saddo? I do. But then I feel anger. I feel the need to rip it up. Except I’m not a wolf with superhuman powers so instead I throw it out of the window which seems to be my big power move today. I throw it all out of the window, hoping for scenes on the streets where people steal the clothes and Chris is left naked, exposed forever.

As I scoop everything up, I then see a condom wrapper. But where is the condom? Shit.

I run to the bathroom to throw up. Squatting next to the loo, I look at the shower where I caught them doing the do. I spray bathroom cleaner everywhere, as if it can exorcise the memory of what I saw them doing in here. Do I spray too much so it’s all I can smell and then throw up again? Yes, I do.

I head to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I down it and realise I need to eat. There is no food in the house. I orchestrated that much because I knew we were going to be out a lot over Christmas. I don’t have the sanity or patience to cook something from frozen, so I head to the gifts below the tree again. A tree that sparkles, almost mocking me with its twinkle, looking all hopeful. Don’t do that or I’ll throw you out of the window, too. I rip open a wine and panettone gift set that was destined for Chris’s aunt with the big hair and the doll obsession, and I claw at that Italian sweetbread with my hands and just eat it, downing stodgy clumps of it with Rioja at 9 a.m.

As heartbreak has no good sense or reason, I also do the very healthy thing of going on social media to track down any patterns of things going wrong. In the summer, they went for that team building exercise in York. Is that when it started? A few drinks at dinner, an invite to a hotel room, a habit they couldn’t break? A month later she posted a meme about love on her Insta with winky faces. A dinner table laid out on a Saturday in October where she was waiting for company. I check my phone calendar. That was the weekend he told me he was on a lads’ break playing golf in Essex. Balls and holes. I can see why he could have maybe got the two confused. After that weekend, he bought me flowers. He never buys me flowers. But then it gets too easy to replay every moment, doubt everything he ever said, wonder why and how I was such a fool.

I’m not sure what to do next. Next to me is a tin of shortbread that was destined for Chris’s great aunt that I start to eat with wild abandon. I may need to get in more food before this wine kills me off. I dig through gifts thinking about what other treats I wrapped up. I bought his aunt a selection of jams. Can I just eat those with a spoon? My phone ringing switches my attention. I have to answer this.

‘Noel,’ I whisper.

‘Evie, Eve, whatcha doing? It’s Chrrrriiiiiistttmas!’ my brother wails down the phone.

‘Are you drunk?’ I ask him, hoping he’s not as drunk as me.

‘I’m just excited. How was Bristol? How are you and Chris getting there tomorrow? You want to share a cab?’

I take a deep breath, trying to ensure my words don’t shudder down the phone to hear his name. We were supposed to be going to Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow with my brother. ‘Yeah, about that… I don’t think I can?’

‘WHAT? C’mon, sis, you’re actually flaking on me, at Christmas?’ he says, his tone changing.

‘I think I have flu. It’s pretty bad.’

He pauses for a moment. I should have gone with another excuse. Like I don’t have a heart anymore, it’s in tiny pieces on my floor. That or diarrhoea.

‘Then pop some pills, I won’t see you all Christmas otherwise…’

‘A little sympathy would be nice.’

‘I’m sorry for wanting to spend some time with my actual sister this Christmas.’

I pause for a moment. It’s nice to hear I’m important to someone. But I can’t tell him. Noel would rage for a start. He would not react well. He would choose violence. As much as I adore my brother, I don’t know if I have the mental capacity. I also can’t show up to a restaurant in trackies, my hair swept back from my face, sobbing about the state of my love life. I don’t want to ruin Christmas. But if I see him, I can’t not tell him. I will break to have to sit there in a French restaurant staring into my onion soup and the whirling abyss of my emotions. This is not a good idea.

‘I just can’t. I’m so sorry. I’m really not well.’

‘Evie, seriously? You’ve got time to sleep it off. See how you feel tomorrow? At least just come for a drink? It doesn’t have to be a late one.’

‘I don’t know how to tell you this. I… I…’

‘You’re a flake?’

‘Noel, don’t be a dick.’

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. He’s angry. I can hear his eyes rolling from the other side of London.

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