claim strain and give him the heave-ho, as long as he is safely ensconced in a home, with some crayons, where he can’t get to me in one last rational act of anger and passion. It’s amazing how quickly you plan the next month of your life, four seconds to be precise. But then I’ve always been an A grade student; it might take somebody else a little longer. I have forgotten Charlie is still in the room, as I make my getaway plans, but he speaks and I jump slightly in surprise.
‘I need to get away for a few days, Nicola. I think I’m cracking up.’
It’s the understatement of the year – ‘I think I’m cracking up’ from the guy in the hot blue Lycra and no pants, with tear stains down his cheeks from half an hour’s bawling.
‘Charlie, will you be alright, just going off by yourself? Go and stay with your brother or something instead.’ I am relieved to hear him say he wants to get away, and he isn’t expecting me to stick around. It would be hypocritical of us both. Maybe he’s not so mad after all, and has just had a bad couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, I am horrified byhis experience, but I can’t pretend I wasn’t about to end this twisted relationship, and I can’t pretend our problems have just disappeared. I want him to get out of London, clear his head of the trauma of the last few days, and then come back, either still completely mad, although this is obviously not my wish, or more realistically, insensitive and tactless as ever. I dread breaking up with people, even though I haven’t had to do it for years, I can still remember how horrible it is. I hate the weeks leading up to it, when you can feel it coming, when you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet, but you know what you are going to do. The sentences are already forming in your mind, you just aren’t quite ready to say them out loud yet. And then gradually, you find yourself rehearsing it in your head at night, like some school production of Shakespeare, stumbling over your lines. By the time it comes to actually doing it, you are a professional. Then he pleads with you, with his eyes, and his words. He reaches out and grabs your hand, just a little too roughly, and tries to stop his voice from breaking, and grabs at the tears at the sides of his eyes.
Except that’s not how it turns out at all. You fluff up your lines, your own voice breaks with emotion, he just sits, no dramatic response, understanding that it’s been on the cards for a while. And he is reasonable. It’s not romantic, it’s pathetic and he is stronger than you. You know you have done the right thing, and that you weren’t compatible and you hadn’t been happy. But even so you have just, and of your own volition, completely ostracized one of your best friends, the person you have spent most of your time with for the last six months or whatever.
I have always felt better being dumped. You have no choice in that matter. At least you can get on with it, spurred on by rage or pride or secret relief that he has done it now and not waited a couple of weeks, by which time you would have been forced to do it yourself.
‘Charlie, where are you going to go?’
He looks at me desperately, and grabs my hand again, too quickly for me to pull it away. His voice rises. The madness is back again, I just know it, he’s about to say something stupid:
‘I need you to come with me. Nicola, come with me, you have to. I’m losing it. I can’t ask anybody else. Nix, please – I don’t know what’s happening to me.’
I hadn’t expected this. It’s not the best time for us to take a weekend break. Maybe I should tell him … confess all.
‘Nicola, if the last six years mean anything to you at all, please come with me.’
I can’t go with him, I just can’t. I can’t tell him I don’t want to see him any more, but I can’t swing the other way. He has pushed it too far for this – he has spent the last year showing no thought for my feelings, and yet now
‘I need to get away for a few days, Nicola. I think I’m cracking up.’
It’s the understatement of the year – ‘I think I’m cracking up’ from the guy in the hot blue Lycra and no pants, with tear stains down his cheeks from half an hour’s bawling.
‘Charlie, will you be alright, just going off by yourself? Go and stay with your brother or something instead.’ I am relieved to hear him say he wants to get away, and he isn’t expecting me to stick around. It would be hypocritical of us both. Maybe he’s not so mad after all, and has just had a bad couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, I am horrified byhis experience, but I can’t pretend I wasn’t about to end this twisted relationship, and I can’t pretend our problems have just disappeared. I want him to get out of London, clear his head of the trauma of the last few days, and then come back, either still completely mad, although this is obviously not my wish, or more realistically, insensitive and tactless as ever. I dread breaking up with people, even though I haven’t had to do it for years, I can still remember how horrible it is. I hate the weeks leading up to it, when you can feel it coming, when you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet, but you know what you are going to do. The sentences are already forming in your mind, you just aren’t quite ready to say them out loud yet. And then gradually, you find yourself rehearsing it in your head at night, like some school production of Shakespeare, stumbling over your lines. By the time it comes to actually doing it, you are a professional. Then he pleads with you, with his eyes, and his words. He reaches out and grabs your hand, just a little too roughly, and tries to stop his voice from breaking, and grabs at the tears at the sides of his eyes.
Except that’s not how it turns out at all. You fluff up your lines, your own voice breaks with emotion, he just sits, no dramatic response, understanding that it’s been on the cards for a while. And he is reasonable. It’s not romantic, it’s pathetic and he is stronger than you. You know you have done the right thing, and that you weren’t compatible and you hadn’t been happy. But even so you have just, and of your own volition, completely ostracized one of your best friends, the person you have spent most of your time with for the last six months or whatever.
I have always felt better being dumped. You have no choice in that matter. At least you can get on with it, spurred on by rage or pride or secret relief that he has done it now and not waited a couple of weeks, by which time you would have been forced to do it yourself.
‘Charlie, where are you going to go?’
He looks at me desperately, and grabs my hand again, too quickly for me to pull it away. His voice rises. The madness is back again, I just know it, he’s about to say something stupid:
‘I need you to come with me. Nicola, come with me, you have to. I’m losing it. I can’t ask anybody else. Nix, please – I don’t know what’s happening to me.’
I hadn’t expected this. It’s not the best time for us to take a weekend break. Maybe I should tell him … confess all.
‘Nicola, if the last six years mean anything to you at all, please come with me.’
I can’t go with him, I just can’t. I can’t tell him I don’t want to see him any more, but I can’t swing the other way. He has pushed it too far for this – he has spent the last year showing no thought for my feelings, and yet now
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