I assume he’ll ring off, but instead, he stands and starts walking down the hall. “So, Emma? Do you have an interest in a television career?”
27
The Stages of Surviving a Breakup…
Arabella
The show endsand I turn off my telly, then glance down at my white duvet, only to see it’s covered in crisp crumbs and used tissues. I should not have watched that. That was the worst idea I’ve ever had, possibly even more so than the time I decided to sneak away with a handsome adventurer/nature documentarian. Well, obviously notmorethan that, because if I’d never done that, I wouldn’t have this gaping wound where my heart used to be.
The last twenty-four hours, I’ve been like one of those perpetual motion machines that just keeps going back and forth, slightly faster each time.I should call him and tell him I made a huge mistake. No,thatwould be the huge mistake. I did the right thing.
What’s done is done and I did it for the right reasons, so no matter what, I am not going to rush across town and beg him to take me back. And I’ll tell you what else I’m not going to do: a) mope around for weeks like a love-sick duck whose mate got hit by a car (Have you seen that video? Tragic); b) go on and on to anyone who’ll listen about how I thought I had the perfect love and now I’ve lost it; c) run to Will and beg him to take me back. Oh, I said that one already, didn’t I?
Anyway, I’m not going to cry about it. Much worse things have happened in the history of love and much worse will happen in the future.
So, here’s a quick list of what Iamgoing to do: a) sleep well (no staring at the ceiling or moaning into the silent darkness of the night); b) exercise every day (except today because I needed time to recover, but starting first thing tomorrow, I’ll be hitting the gym); c) eat well (again starting tomorrow, since this evening has been the world’s most pathetic festival of carbs and salt); and d) get on with it, just like any strong woman would.
Yes, in a couple of days, I’ll be on top of the world. In a couple of months, I’ll barely remember Will’s eye colour (brown like perfectly-brewed coffee), or the smell of him (sandalwood, leather, and fresh cocoa), or his smile, or the way he gets that dimple only on his right side when he finds something amusing. Anyway, obviously I know these things now, but very soon, poof! They’ll disappear.
So, yes, I’m doing very well, thank you.
My phone buzzes and Will’s face appears on the screen. Pain! I took that shot just off the coast of Rarotonga. His hair is all wet and sexy because he just climbed back on the yacht after going for a swim.
Oh God! What do I do? Do I answer? What if he wants to yell at me for breaking his heart? No, I’m not going to pick up. Not after all those crisps. I’ll wind up begging him to get back together. I’ll ignore it.
Stop ringing, phone! That’s enough. Go away.
Oh, now it actually did stop ringing and his face disappeared. Good. But also bad, because he’s gone again, never to return.
Hmm, except now, via text.
Arabella, pick up the phone. I’m not calling to fight with you or to beg you to get back together. I need to talk business.
The phone starts to buzz again, and I’m faced with two options: answer or decline.
I hit answer, my heart bubbling up to my throat. Trying to sound casual, I say, “Hello.”
“I just…wanted to let you know they didn’t include anything I told them not to,” he says, slurring his words slightly. “In case you didn’t watch. I was watching to make sure, but they didn’t do it.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Very—boozy smoothies.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“It can be, but if you have enough of them, you won’t care anymore,” he says. “You want the recipe?”
“Uh, no thank you.”
There’s a long pause, then he says, “Listen, there’s something else but I can’t remember what it is…”
You love me? You realize how wrong you were and want to start over?
“Oh, now I remember. It’s about the World’s Surviving Best Greenland Challenge. I’m willing to pair up for that—strictly professional, that is. I’m pretty much over you already so we’d be fine by November fifteenth when fliming starts. Milfing. F-ilm-ing,” he says slowly, annunciating each syllable.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Will,” I say, my heart breaking to hear him like this. “And even if it were, we’re hosting the annual Order of Avonia gala that night.”
“Righto,” he says, putting on a posh accent. “You have an important gala, so you’ll be all dressed up in a beautiful gown. You don’t want to go to Greenland, not with the likes of me anyway.”
