bother trying to defriend him. After all, what’s the point? I think resignedly, logging out. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter so much any more.
My mind jumps back to this lunchtime and Kate’s comment about wishing she and Jeff would be tied together for ever. Reminded, I feel a clutch of anxiety and take a sip of wine, trying to shake off the sense of foreboding that’s threatening to envelop me like a heavy overcoat. Jeff’s going to be OK, I tell myself firmly. Kate said it was the best cancer to have, and she trained to be a doctor, so she should know. Kate knows everyt±e kelop d, ryt±e khing. She never gets it wrong. Why should now be any different?
I wake up on Sunday morning with one question and one question only: why, oh, why did I have that fourth glass of wine? Yet along with a thumping headache comes a new sense of determination. That’s it. No more drowning my sorrows. I’m going to forget about men and relationships. I’m going to stop wasting time on all that stupid love stuff. Instead I’m going to focus on what’s really important. Like family and friends, health, raising money for charity . . .
And a stonking great big cup of coffee.
Padding bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I find Robyn making herbal tea. Robyn is the queen of herbal teas, and we’re not just talking bog-standard chamomile or peppermint that come as pre-packaged teabags from Ralph’s Supermarket. She makes a whole science of herbal tea, brewing up spoonfuls of dried herbs with exotic-sounding names in her little teapot, stewing, sieving and straining through various filters and fiddly bits of gauze. All so she can produce the most foul-tasting liquid known to man.
Flicking on the kettle, I pull three cups from the cupboard.
‘One for me, one for you and one for Daniel,’ I say pointedly, giving her a knowing smile.
‘Thanks –’ she nods, ladling out dried herbs into a small ceramic teapot – ‘but I’ll only be needing one cup.’
‘Sensible man. He hates that stuff too, does he?’ I grin. I start unscrewing my little silver espresso pot. ‘Maybe he’d like a coffee instead.’
‘He’s not here.’
Dumping the old coffee grains in the bin, I give it a quick rinse under the tap. ‘Oh, has he gone to get croissants?’
Robyn and I live on the next street to this great little bakery that does the most delicious croissants. Every time I walk by I think of Nate’s comment and tell myself, ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’ And every time I can’t resist popping in for an almond one. It’s a stupid rhyme anyway. I much prefer ‘A moment on the hips, a lifetime on the lips.’
‘No, he’s gone,’ she says flatly. The kettle boils and clicks off and she starts pouring water over her herbs.
‘Gone?’ The way she says it, it’s as if he’s gone missing. I’m almost tempted to look under the kitchen table to see if that’s where he’s hiding. Then it suddenly strikes me that she means he’s gone as in ‘He won’t be coming back.’
‘But how? Why?’ In confusion I watch her stirring her teapot, a Q€her teap³€, a Q€he strange sort of dazed look on her face. ‘Last night you two seemed so . . .’ I search for the right word. About to have sex? No, that’s three. ‘ . . . cosy,’ I finish.
She stops stirring and looks up. ‘It’s over.’
‘Over?’ I feel like the time I missed an episode of X-Factor and didn’t realise that one of my favourites had been knocked out and spent the first ten minutes completely bewildered and trying to work out what had happened.
‘Not that we were dating each other or anything,’ she adds hurriedly.
‘No, of course not.’ I nod, playing along.
‘We were just friends.’
‘Good friends,’ I suggest.
‘Yes, totally,’ she agrees, averting her eyes.
‘So what happened?’
There’s a pause and then she sighs. ‘Harold. That’s what happened. You told me you’d met him in Martha’s Vineyard.’
Guilt thuds. This is all my fault. ‘I didn’t mean for you to break up with Daniel,’ I protest quickly. ‘I mean, not that you were ever together—’ I try to backtrack, but she cuts me off.
‘I didn’t finish it. Daniel did. He doesn’t think we should see each other any more.’
I stare at her incredulously. ‘But I thought . . .’ I hesitate, my mind whirring. ‘I thought you two were having lots of fun together . . . the