Articulating actual feelings out loud was not what I did. Which made it quite extraordinary that my job as a journalist was to interview other people; to get under their skin, to pull stories – and yes, emotions – out of them and write them down in a way that made the people reading my articles feel something too. Funny that when it came to my own issues, I struggled to share them with anyone at all.
‘I’m fine, Zo,’ I reassured her. ‘It was a bit of a shock at first, but I honestly think it was for the best.’
‘Best how?’ asked Zoe.
Shit. Good point. I must be able to come up with something.
‘Because I wouldn’t want to waste another four years with someone who was having doubts about our relationship, would I? At least I’m still young enough to find someone else.’
There, that had sounded convincing. And there was at least some truth to it – imagine if it had happened years down the linewhen we had two kids and a massive mortgage to consider, which was kind of what I’d always imagined for us if I were to have been pressed for a five-year plan.
‘Break-ups are savage,’ said Zoe gently. ‘And you’re bound to miss Charlie. It’s okay if you’re struggling, Ava.’
‘Define “struggling”?’
I knew it wasn’t exactly looking good, what with the whole not-working-and-not-getting-dressed thing – in fact, I was full-on wallowing when nobody could see me, but fundamentally I was totally surviving. I’d managed to send two work emails yesterday and had actually made myself something other than plain pasta with cheese for dinner the night before last.
‘Okay. Well, for example, have you been turning down jobs?’ asked Zoe.
‘No! Of course not. I just haven’t exactly been looking for any, either.’
I was usually extremely proactive – as a self-employed writer, you had to be if you wanted to eat – but I didn’t have it in me to put myself out there at the moment and the idea of encountering yet more rejection was simply too much to bear. I had a few regular gigs and I was managing to get them done, even if it did feel like climbing Mount Everest every time I opened my laptop and attempted to string nice-sounding words together.
‘How are you going to pay your rent?’ asked Zoe.
This must be what they called ‘an intervention’.
‘I’ve got savings,’ I assured her calmly, because I had. Savings for the flat in some nice, leafy part of London that Charlie and I were planning on buying once we’d cobbled together a big enough deposit. No point in keeping hold of that now, was there? I’d never be able to afford a property in London on my own.
‘What are they, then?’ asked Zoe, staring pointedly at the pile of brown envelopes on the coffee table. One of them ratherunhelpfully had the wordsOverdue Paymentplastered across the front of it in bright-red ink.
‘Oh, those ...’ I said casually. For fuck’s sake. Why hadn’t I thrown them out with the crisp wrappers? ‘I need to change them from Charlie’s name into mine, that’s all. The whole admin thing’s a logistical nightmare.’
Taking his name off of every single household accountwasproving to be a mind-numbingly tedious task I could never be bothered to start, let alone finish. Because not only had Charlie moved out overnight, he’d left me to disentangle myself from him in every possible way without so much as an offer of help. The only nice thing he’d done was agree to pay half the rent until our contract was up in September, but I assumed he wasn’t planning to contribute to other bills and I hadn’t really had the headspace to consider whether any of this was sustainable. It was only a tiny, one-bedroomed place, so it wasn’t even like I could sublet a room and get a flatmate, unless I did a Beth O’Leary’sThe Flatshare-type arrangement, although what’s the betting my lodger would benothinglike Leon?
‘Has Charlie given you any money towards all of this?’ asked Zoe, waving her hand in the direction of the incriminating envelopes.
‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.
‘Dickhead,’ she said.
Fair enough. I’d called him worse myself in my head.
‘Actually, I suppose your lack of financial security does bring me neatly on to the reason for my visit ...’ said Zoe, ominously.
‘And there was me thinking you’d come to indulge my daytime TV addiction and assist me in polishing off a packet of Taste the Difference quadruple-chocolate cookies,’ I said, swiftly realising I’d eaten the entire packet for breakfast a couple of days ago.
‘You need more work now that your outgoings are bigger. Correct?’ said Zoe, going for the jugular. ‘And maybe writing your way through the pain will help. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘Who’s “they”?’ I asked, genuinely wanting to know.
Zoe’s situation was far more stable than mine – she’d been freelance once, too, but six months ago she’d taken a permanent role onLuxe, a glossy monthly magazine that was one of the only print publications still selling shedloads and as a result attracted the crème de la crème of contributing editors, photographers, models and celebrity cover stars. And I supposed that if I was contracted to turn up somewhere to do my job, I would have had to by now and perhaps I’d feel better for it. I also wouldn’t need to worry so much about money, because although I’d started to build a solid portfolio of work, I was still having to scramble around for jobs and persuade people I was good enough.
‘I’m planning to get everything back on track,’ I said, sounding far more convincing than I felt.
‘When?’ asked Zoe.
‘Soon.’
