Miss Labelled under…

This is the hardest thing ever. You have to appreciate to post this on the internet is only possible because my anonymity is intact here. I haven’t even shared this with my mother. I really should call her…

My hand was shaking. It was Claire on the other end of the phone call. Her deep voice sounded slow and considered. I haven’t heard from her since we had coffee. I wasn’t entirely sure why she was calling. As one of my oldest friends however, and the woman who introduced me to the man I am supposedly meant to love, I had to answer her call. Though the disappointment that she was not the aforementioned Mr Right was apparent.

I was unashamedly blunt, I tried to make my voice sound chirpy. She was the LAST person I wanted to know about my relationship troubles.

“Hi. I’m at work.” I said hoping that this will lead to an, ‘I’ll call you back later,’ or an ‘Oh sorry. It’s not important.’ It was neither.

“We need to talk.” She said, with an equal amount of bluntness and control. There’s a hole in my stomach somewhere out of which all the fluid seemed to spontaneously leak.

“Erm.” I look at the Damned smokers in my eyeline, smiling and trying to make a face like I’m sorry I have to speak, isn’t it a drag, while also looking through my purse for more cigarettes (Brian my pursemonster informs me I’m all out). “Is it important only…” I hope, trying to fob her off again.

“It’s about you and MR.” She enlightened me. And then paused. I HATE that pause. That pause is laced with something I didn’t like the smell of. Even then. I travelled all the way up major motorways from Soho to the NORF. And it stank of scank.

“or…” And another pause. This one smelled even worse, like vomit mixed with cool superiority. “More specifically Me and MR.”

Suddenly all the things she said last time I saw her come tumbling out the sky like hailstones. Big bastard hailstones with the word ‘bitch’ carved in their icy hides.

I paniced. My breath became tight. My voice went up a whole octave. And yes, I started crying. In the middle of the smoking crowd. The Damned sheltered me from the wind in a haze of nicotine and I wanted to hang up.

“What do you mean?” I ask. What else could I say? It took me a few moments to come up with that witticism. This woman was implying…I couldn’t even face what she was implying. CDL is one of my oldest friends. We’re such good friends we hate each other. We’re jealous of each other in every way, but we’re alike in so many ways that it doesn’t matter. This is the woman who introduced me to MR. I can remember the moment right now. It wanted to make me smile but it didn’t succeed. And she’s …

“It happened before you guys fought.” She enlightened me. Oh I’m so grateful. “I kind of love him.”

“KINDOF!”

“More than you do I think.”

“NO! You’re lying.” I yelled. Obviously not keeping it very low key.

How could he! I mean I wouldn’t put it past Claire, of course I’m not stupid enough to not think she wouldn’t if she could get the chance. But MR! And she’s so very not right for him.

“We thought it better I tell you. He’s kind of hurting right now.”

Hell I’m welling up now thinking of it. I need to be clinical writing this otherwise I’ll never get to what happened next. But it’s taken me four days to come up with the words to express this moment. I need to come back to the pain of it later. Because it didn’t hit, not until dinner on Friday (I’ll get to that when I can. But this seems more important right now). At that very moment, juiced up on caffeine, hormones, guilt and nicotine the only feeling I could appropriately express was rage.

I hung up the phone locked myself in the disabled bathroom on the first floor (I didn’t really care about the people with diagnosed disabilities needing the facilities, relationships are disabilites as far as I am concerned now, so they could go pee in the bushes) and didn’t come out until I had stopped bawling my eyes out adn reapplied my make up. I tried to keep quiet but I’m sure everyone knew. It was that kind of bawling that makes you worried for yourself. The kind that makes you feel sick. I don’t get emotional. There was a lot of stuff coming out in that cry. I don’t think I’ll ever cry like that again, I think people have only one cry like that in them. That was mine.

I had to switch off my cell. Claire kept calling. I didn’t want to hear any more from her. I didn’t want details. I didn’t want to call MR and hear it from him. I didn’t want to hear anyone or see anyone or be around anyone. I wanted to go missing. Just for a bit. I wanted to go and run off into some fields Ophelia style and not have to smile and wave and be nice to people.

MR and I kept our relationship a secret. Or more specifically, I have, from work. I’ve said before I need to seem attainable in whatido, or at least that was my excuse. As I sat in the corner of the washroom I wished someone at work knew. I wished that out of all the mass of acquaintances I have, and colleagues, and crowds of attention seekers like me that there was one person I could confide in. But there wasn’t. It was me at my most lonely.

I took Thursday and Friday off sick. I drove back down to London and wished I had windscreen wipers for my peepers. i huddled up in my duvet and ate haribo and left over rice krispie cakes (that didn’t help matters). My phone didn’t get turned back on until lunch on Friday, when it told me I had 3 missed calls from D&G about Friday night.

I double confirmed. I needed someone.

I’m wondering if that makes me a bad person?