ABBY
Thirteen sleepless nights have passed since Callum walked out. Every time I dare to close my eyes, I relive his hurt, the look on his face. My body aches for the touch of his hands. I’m drowning in the empty overwhelming nothingness of my life, torn between the love I want to pursue and the pointlessness of pursuing it. For an educated, self-professed cynic, I’ve abandoned everything I previously believed in. I’m sorely tempted to drive the forty minutes to Wicklow and challenge Esmerelda on her predictions. She may have ruined my love life for no good reason. Yet, each of her prior predictions had materialised, not just for me, but for Karen, too. Which is why I battle, unsuccessfully, to park all thoughts of Callum to one side of my brain.
Alicia is in daily contact, but I can’t admit the truth of my situation to her. I’m falling back into old habits, texting instead of ringing for fear my secret shame will be discovered again. Poor old Abby still can’t keep a man. Am I destined to be alone forever? No. Seemingly, I’m destined to marry a Patrick, wherever he may be right now…
Thankfully the press haven’t got wind of it yet. Our break-up’s bound to make at least second, if not first page news.
Callum’s keeping a low profile. I stalked his social media pages relentlessly until the early hours of every morning, but there has been little or no activity.
Part of me wants to drive to his apartment and throw myself at him, to beg for his forgiveness. But the sensible part accepts that the situation is fruitless. If we’re destined not to have a future together, it’s better to face the pain now rather than later. The longer Callum spends in my life, the harder it would be to overcome the loss of him.
However sceptical I had been about going to a fortune teller, she had been eerily right about everything. There’s no denying it. And really and truly, Callum’s bound to break my heart at some point, or I’m bound to drive him away. Far safer to quit while we’re ahead.
‘Bet you wished you hadn’t given Sally No Soul those tickets to New York now.’ Aoife interrupts my thoughts. We wait sombrely for the current track to finish.
She’s the only person I’ve admitted the truth to. It’s impossible to hide anything while trapped together in our tiny studio. I trust her. She depicts a steadiness that I’ve come to rely upon.
‘I honestly couldn’t give a shit about the trip to New York.’ The thought of packing a bag and boarding a flight to a country that does not have Callum in it doesn’t appeal to me. Though we’re apart, I take a small modicum of comfort that he shares the same city as me. Most of the week at least.
‘Good Lord, you have got it bad, girl. Pull yourself together; go and see him. He’s bound to be as glum as you are. What will it take for you to see that you two are made for each other?’ To Aoife, it’s simple. Black and white. Yes or no. In or out.
‘It isn’t that easy. If it’s ultimately doomed from the start, I’ll only end up hurt all over again,’ I admit.
‘You’re already hurt. But you know what you really are, Abby?’ She’s going to tell me anyway. ‘You’re scared. For the first time in years, you actually care. You sit here dishing out advice to the nation, yet you don’t practice what you preach. Take a chance. What’s the worst that could happen?’
The worst that could happen is what remains of my fragile bleeding heart could be smashed to smithereens, irreparably and permanently, along with my job and any remaining self-worth and preservation.
The track finishes. I resume my position an inch away from the microphone. If ever I felt unworthy of this job, agony aunt to the country, it’s now.
‘Good morning, that was Niall Horan with “Nice To Meet Ya”. Thank you for joining us on this beautiful sunny day, it’s almost eleven thirty, and you’re listening to Ask Abby on Ireland Today 97.5 FM.’ I clear my throat before continuing with today’s topic.
‘Last week I received an email from a girl called Jane, who wrote to us from Wexford looking for advice. Jane’s boyfriend of six years recently proposed to her, and she is yet to give him an answer. Jane’s asking for the insight of the nation before she commits. Which prompted today’s show, How Do You Know? I’ll read the email to you, then we here in the studio would absolutely love to hear your opinions on the matter.’
I’m especially reliant on public opinion presently. If poor Jane’s relying on my romantic advice, she’s fecked. I inhale deeply and read from the computer in front of me.
‘Dear Abby,
‘I listen to your show most mornings while at work in my local shop. I’d appreciate your advice.
‘Last week, my boyfriend of six years proposed to me. Well, it was more of a suggestion than a proposal, as such. Is that enough to base the rest of our lives on? A suggestion?
‘He claims it makes perfect sense to get married and listed the following reasons supporting his ‘proposal’.
‘We practically live together anyway, there’s no point in paying two lots of rent.
‘We aren’t getting any younger.
‘We’ve been together six years and his family is starting to annoy him.
‘Is it silly of me to want a little romance? Or should I just be grateful to have a man that wants to marry me in an era of internet hookups?
‘Please advise,
‘Jane.’
I sigh deeply, forgetting I’m live on air. Aoife rescues me, as she’s done so many times lately.
‘That’s one heartfelt letter. One that so many of us can relate to, especially in this current era of Tinder and Instagram photos that boast images of happiness, love and excitement. It makes us question ourselves, our lives, and if what we have, or what we are doing is enough…’ She kicks me swiftly under the desk, a warning to concentrate.
