can’t make head nor tail of it. Typical Craig, to write something incomprehensible.
OK. Let’s start from first principles. The song is about a French girl. And “she had better hair than the one before.”
Wait. I frown as the horrible truth hits me. As in…the girl he dated before? Is that me? I’m “the one before”? With inferior hair?
I gasp in outrage. Is he saying I had bad hair? I did not have bad hair. Everyone wore their hair like that at uni. And he can talk. And who was this French girl anyway? Who says her hair was so great? I bet it was a boring old bob.
I glance out of the supermarket, half-tempted to go after him and demand furiously, “What d’you mean, bad hair?” but he’s gone. Hmph. I’m never dating a rock musician again.
I mean, obviously I’m not, I hastily add in my head.
That goes without saying.
For about the millionth time since I met Luke, I hope he can’t somehow read my mind. Because, to be frank, that would be a disaster.
Still bristling all over, I push my trolley into the next aisle. What I’m really hoping to see is a sign saying, GET YOUR VEGAN TURKEYS HERE! But it’s all reduced mince pies and Advent calendars. Hmph again.
Then I hear a familiar, annoying laugh. I can’t place it at first, but, feeling curious, I follow the sound around a pile of tins. And, oh God, of course. Paunch: tick. Faded jeans: tick. Graying beard: tick. It’s Steph’s husband, Damian, talking to someone in the baked-goods section.
Great. Another super-annoying man. Is this Super-Annoying Man Day?
He moves, and to my shock I see that the person he’s with is Steph. Does this mean…are they back together?
As I glimpse Steph’s face, I decide it’s unlikely. She’s hissing words at him miserably and gesticulating, while he eye-rolls and checks his watch and even gives her a patronizing pat on the shoulder. I’m fuming on her behalf—and I can’t even hear what he’s saying.
At last he lifts up both hands as if to say, “Enough,” and walks away while Steph slowly slumps. I hesitate at the corner of the aisle, feeling torn. Every impulse is telling me to go hug Steph—but what if it’s intruding on her privacy? What if she didn’t want anyone seeing that scene?
As I watch anxiously, she heads to the café and sits down at a table. That decides me. I’ll give her five minutes before I approach her. And, meanwhile, I can’t resist it—I’m going to follow Damian.
I casually walk in the direction he went, and I turn a corner just in time to see him join a woman pushing a trolley and plant a kiss full on her lips. Argh. It’s her! It has to be. The one who works in events. The one he got together with in the Malmaison, Manchester.
I stare at them, gripped. She’s got to be in her twenties. Expensive highlights, but a pinched face. She’s going to be so mean to him, I predict with inward satisfaction. Once the luster’s worn off. She’s going to be horrible, you can just tell. And he totally deserves it. He had Steph and he went for this pinchy-faced woman instead?
His hand keeps fondling her bum, I notice with revulsion. Is that appropriate in the frozen-pizza section? I’d quite like to make a complaint to customer services. I’d like to see a person in a suit approach him and tell him not to be so gross.
I should get on with my shopping, I know I should—but somehow I can’t tear myself away from the awful pair. When they head to the dairy section, I follow at a distance, fixated by the sight of her showing him low-fat yogurts and him fondling her bum again. Their entire relationship appears to be based on him fondling her bum. Well, I hope he gets carpal tunnel syndrome.
My whole body is throbbing with indignation. (To be absolutely honest, this is also partly a lingering outrage toward Craig.) I want to punish Damian for being so vile, even though it’s nothing to do with me, and I’m supposed to be finding a vegan turkey, and how would I punish him anyway?
I should let this go, I tell myself several times. I should stop trying to be the Christmas Fairy of Vengeance. But somehow I can’t stop following the pair of them at a distance, wondering what on earth I could do.