Page 52 of Always the Bridesmaid

I assume one of the chefs in the room has warmed them up, but as I reach for a cinnamon swirl, I see a handwritten note lying next to the tray.

Sorry I had to make an early exit but the coffee is on and I’ve cooked the frozen pastries as an apology. Awesome week and a pleasure to meet you all. Until next time, Charlie :-)

He’s gone.

21

CHARLIE

I know myself. I know that I like plain pasta with peas and can’t stand any fancy types that have creamy sauce. I know I prefer beer over cocktails. That the weather affects my mood – the sun shining makes me happy, the rain bums me out.

I know that spending time on stage and in big groups of people is fun, or at least tolerable, but that I need to spend some time alone afterward. I don’t have a huge group of friends because I prefer to have a small group of people whom I know are invested. I have their back and they have mine.

Families leave, but friends choose to stick around, if they are true friends, in good times and in bad.

Sitting in my apartment, on my futon, alone, I look around at the cardboard boxes that surround me. I know that the reason these are still packed isn’t just because I have recently moved in (is six months even recent?), it’s because I know nothing lasts. Homes are temporary, so why bother furnishing them and unpacking things that will need to be repacked when the next move comes along?

I’m not a dog bred from pedigree and I suppose that doesn’t make me marriage material, but I’m also not the worst person in the world. Surely I wouldn’t have such great friends if I was.

I’m good with my life. Good with all of this. My life these days is comfortable, stable, dependable. That’s all I hoped to have for a very long time.

What I absolutely don’t understand is why I am sitting on my futon feeling low and rubbish about myself, more so than usual. Why I actually want to be back with my friends and surrounded by people rather than enjoying my usual decompression period.

And I really can’t understand why I want one of those people around me to be Sarah. After all, she’s the primary reason I’m feeling shitty. She dragged up my past, she made clear she considers me to be undatable.

That isn’t anything I didn’t already know, but she confirmed it. It’s been a while since anyone has been so overt in giving their damning opinion of me. It’s been even longer since I’ve put myself in a position to garner that opinion.

So why on earth am I craving her presence right now? Am I completely sadistic? Do I want to change her opinion of me? To prove myself as… what? Someone who hasn’t grown up in foster care, who didn’t drop out of education, who has a stable job and a structured ladder to climb? Well, I can’t do any of that.

Fresh air. What I need is fresh air and distraction. I have a gig tonight, that will distract me later. For now…

I pick up my house keys, pull on my tatty old trainers and head out for a walk.

I make my way to Clapham Common. The sunshine of the last week is hidden behind wispy white clouds. When it makes an escape from cover, I walk under the shade of the trees around the lush green grass of the park, shielding my fair skin.

Kids ride past me on bikes, nearly wiping out runners and dog walkers on the track. They laugh, sing and babble away without a care in the world, not realizing that, if they’re not careful, they’re about to put old Joan from down the road in hospital.

I envy them. Their innocence, their ignorance, their typical lives.

A dark-brown sausage dog comes sniffing at my trainers. I can’t blame the thing; my trainers probably smell feral and would be delicious to a dog. I crouch down to pet the little pooch, a sparkly collar around its neck a complete contrast to its fetish for smelly feet.

The owners – a young couple – smile politely but don’t make conversation. I understand. It’s Sunday, a family day, a respite from work, not a day to chat to strangers.

Ironically, most of my Tinder dates have taken place on Sundays, by my making. Sundays are good for two reasons. First, if they go badly, the fact it is traditionally a school night gives both parties, in monopoly terms, a get out of jail free card. Secondly, this day has, for single people and family-less people, the potential to be the loneliest day of the week.

In recent times, I’ve had gigs on Sunday nights but if I don’t, it’s a day I know my friends, mostly coupled, will be spending time with their partners and families. I don’t want to bother them and I certainly don’t want them to feel obliged to see me, their lonely mate.

Hence, I’m currently wandering around a park aimlessly, alone.

I stop at one of the sports fields, where one of the local clubs is apparently playing a cup game. I watch them for ten minutes or so, until a goal is scored and I, quite apparently, cheer the wrong team.

Under the glares of sideline supporters, I continue my pootle.

I come upon a pond, where anglers are fishing and ducks are swimming gracefully. Sitting down on the grass, I get lost in watching the fisherman casting in. Observing the ripples that span out across the vast expanse of water, despite the meeting of an infinitesimal hook with the surface.

It’s funny how one small moment in life can have an infinite ripple effect, just like fly fishing in a pond.

Something has happened to me this last week. I’m not sure of the how, what and why, I just know that I am feeling different. Hating on myself and my past, where I thought I was comfortable and accepting of it. Lonely, despite being a self-confessed loner.

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