into a nearby bin.
And turning to Robyn, who’s staring at me in disbelief, I say, ‘Now do you believe me?’
With endings come new beginnings, and later that day, back at the apartment, I decide to have a clear-out. Fresh start and all that. I’ve got junk everywhere and so I spend the rest of Sunday sorting stuff out and throwing lots away. Including my ‘Nate file’, which is full of old photographs, letters and mementoes that I’ve kept all these years and carted around with me wherever I’ve gone.
Now it’s time to let go, I tell myself firmly, chucking the whole lot in the bin. Time to move on.
Before I go to sleep that night, I put my phone on charge. I haven’t heard from Nate, but then I didn’t expect to. For a brief moment I think about sending him a sort of goodbye-but-no-hard-feelings text, then decide against it. Things are still a bit too raw. Best leave it until the dust settles, then send an email saying something mature and philosophical about love and relationships.
Maybe even one day we’ll become friends like Bruce and Demi, and go on holidays together with our new partners. Whenever anyone asks us, we’ll talk fondly about each other and laugh and reminisce. I’ll even laugh about those pineapple boxer shorts and how he’s always on the phone. It will be endearing, as will my lateness and messiness and purple hair.
I’d still want to kill him about his comment about my thighs, though.
I wake up on Monday morning feeling positive. It’s a new day, the first day of the rest of my life. After yesterday’s cathartic throwing-away of the old, it’s time to welcome the new. Just consider, I’m never going to have to think about Nate again. He’s never going to pop wistfully into my head when a song comes on the radio, and I’m never again going to get a pang of ‘What if?’ when I see a couple cosying up together. It’s incredible.
Like a whole weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I muse, happily sipping my extra-shot latte as I walk to work. Listening to my iPod, I stride down the street with a real spring in my step. I feel lighter, freer—
‘I hear wedding bells!’
Pushing open the door of the gallery, I’m greeted by Magda charging over to greet me, her stilettos clattering loudly on the polished concrete like a drum roll.
‘What?’ Pulling out my earphones, I stare at her in confusion.
‘You and Nathaniel! Can you hear them!’ she exclaims, cupping her hand against her ear.
I stand still in shock, all thoughts of being lighter and freer and never hearing his name again vanishing into the ether.
‘It will be amazing. You should have it at the Plaza. I have a friend, Ernie Wiseman, who can give you a fabulous deal on the flowers.’
I feel a sickening thud. How am I going to break the news to Magda that it’s over?
‘Actually, I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding,’ I say tactfully.
Well, let’s start with the obvious.
‘I know, I know, you want a long engagement.’ She shrugs her tiny shoulders, which are encased in two huge shoulder pads. ‘You want time to plan, to organise, to make it all perfect, but let me tell you, you need to get him up the aisle in the first three months, three months I tell you.’
Faced with the ten-ton truck that is Magda careering towards me in full wedding-at-the-Plaza mode, softly-softly isn’t going to cut it.
‘We broke up,’ I blurt.
For a moment Magda’s mouth continues moving but no words come out. Then letting out a howl, like a wounded animal, her Gucci heels appear to buckle beneath her and she clings on to the reception desk.
‘No, no,’ she wails, finding her voice. ‘This cannot be true!’
‘I’m sorry. It just didn’t work out,’ I try explaining, but Magda’s turned pale, even underneath that Hamptons tan and thick layer of pearlised blusher, and is staring at me with a stricken expression. Though that could be the result of a visit to her ‘friend’ Dr Rosenbaum, I reflect, spotting the telltale signs of bruising around her eyes.
‘But he has Italian shoes,’ she manages to croak.
‘I made a mistake,’ I fib desperately. ‘They were from Banana Republic.’
Magda is undeterred. ‘Don’t worry, we can fix that,’ she says, a look of pure determination in her eyes. ‘I know the manager at Bergdorf. I can get fifty per cent off a pair of Pradas.’
‘No, truly, it’s fine,’