Which means… he’s not here because he was worried about me.
But he could still be here to retract the break-up! To get back together?
‘What are you doing here, Justin?’ I ask and he looks away. ‘Did you want to talk about us? About where we left things last night?’
‘Erm, no,’ he replies too quickly, looking at me all boggle-eyed. ‘Christ no. I think we said all we needed to say. It’sbetter off this way. Definitely.’ He pauses. ‘But I really need my washing back. I forgot you had all my underwear and these boxers I’m wearing are on day five.’ He smiles bashfully like this is adorable.
I frown. He’s not here because he’s worried I’m upset about millions of people on the internet watching and mocking my tantrum. He’s not here to plead forgiveness and ask me to be his girlfriend again. He’sdefinitelynot here to propose with a huge diamond ring like he was supposed to in the first place. He’s here because he needs his underpants.
I feel the rage bubbling up in my belly again. It froths and sloshes there, fermenting in its own livid juices. And suddenly I want to hide under a table with sugary foods all over again.
I take a long, deep breath. Letting my anger win has already ruined my life enough for one week. I push it way back down, deep down inside myself and inhale slowly.
‘It’s in the tumble dryer,’ I say after a moment. ‘I’ll go get it for you.’ I turn for the kitchen and then turn back, fresh annoyance flooding me. ‘Actually, no, I won’t get it for you.Yougo get it for you.’
He nods silently, looking around himself helplessly. I sigh. ‘The dryer is in the kitchen.’ I pause, as he still looks baffled. ‘Stacked on top of the washing machine?’ He still has the same look. ‘Fine!’ I snap. ‘Just follow me, I’ll show you.’
I lead the way, muttering about how often he’s stayed here over the last year. I point towards the machine and heapproaches it cautiously. He pulls hard at the door handle. It doesn’t open.
‘There’s a door release button,’ I explain as nicely as I can. ‘There is a clue in the form of the wordsdoor release?’
He nods, finding the clearly labelled button and gingerly pressing it. The door pops open and a waft of lovely floral softener fills the room. I bought those special dryer sheets just for his washing. Just so he could smell the extra effort and realise how much I care. Cared. No,care, present tense. I still want him to notice the smell.
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
He peers inside the drum with some trepidation. ‘So, I just… reach inside?’
Hecannotbe this incompetent.
When I first met Justin at my birthday party, I delighted in him being a whole ten years older than me. Of course, I thought, he must know sooo much about life. He must be so wise and experienced. Naturally, he’d be much more mature than men my own age, so much less shallow. He would understand women and know about the world.
But here he is; regarding the inside of my dryer like it contains a waiting Rolf Harris and Jimmy Savile.
I step forward, unable to cope with this level of uselessness. I pull out the pile of clean washing, dump it on the kitchen table and begin folding. He watches.
‘Should I help?’ he asks, sounding reluctant, and I shake my head.
From across the room, I hear Sam’s horrified gasp.
‘You’renot!’ she says, ‘Please, Liv, tell me you’renotfolding Justin’s washing for him? He’s an adult man with an adult job. Heknowshow to do his own washing.’
Justin attempts a weak protest. ‘It’s a different kind of machine than the one I’m used to…’
Sam ignores him. ‘And you’re helping him with his clothes twelve hours after hedumpedyou in the middle of a restaurant.’
‘I offered to do it!’ he cries. ‘She wanted to fold them!’ I tut at him.
‘He doesn’t knowhowto do it!’ I tell her, and I can hear the defensiveness in my voice. Sam was never Justin’s biggest fan. She’d constantly tell me off for doing his washing; for letting him manspread across our whole sofa; for letting him mansplain her own job to her; for – in Sam’s words – letting himmanall over the apartment.
‘He’s in hisforties, Liv!’ she almost shouts now, and he looks put out.
‘Only just,’ he says huffily. ‘I’m only just forty-two. My birthday was only a few months ago.’
‘I remember.’ Sam eyes him coolly. ‘Because you had Liv organise and host a party for you here. And then you turned up late, already drunk, and left us to talk to your boring old friends about how much they all hate their wives and kids.’
‘My friends are not old!’ he cries, missing so much of the point.
‘Liv, this’—Sam waves at the pile of laundry I’m folding—‘is weaponised incompetence and youknowit is! He’spretending not to have any clue so you’ll just get sick of watching him fail and do it for him.’
