and all that . . . well, nearly five pounds now, actually ,’ she mutters under her breath.
As she heads across the kitchen, I abandon the tea and scoot over to her computer. Sure enough, on her screen I see a diary entry from 4 January 2011:
Dear Diary,
Had my first date with Seb! We went for a drink in Chelsea . . .
I see his name and break off, the words spinning before my eyes.
What the . . . ?
Suddenly I go hot and cold. For a split second there’s a pause, then my thoughts begin crashing over each other, tossing my mind around like a boat on stormy seas. Yet above the din, one thought is loud and clear: So I’m not crazy. I didn’t make him up. I haven’t imagined it all.
I feel a flash of vindication.
‘See, I told you!’ I say triumphantly to Fiona, suddenly finding my voice.
‘Told me what?’ She turns around, a bowl of soup in her hands.
I’m about to drag her over to show her the evidence when halfway down the page my eyes come into focus and I see:
. . . and Fiona bought a dress for her online date next week. It’s super-tight and super-short and this sort of funny pale pink colour which makes her look a bit like a sausage. She asked me if it made her look fat. I lied and said no . . .
‘Um, nothing,’ I say, quickly pressing eject. ‘It’s just a load of old nonsense, nothing important.’
And, snatching up the disk, I leave her eating her soup and beat a hasty exit from the kitchen.
I close my bedroom door and sit down on the edge of my bed. Flea lets out a disgruntled squeak at being disturbed on my eiderdown, but I’m too distracted to scoop him up. Instead I remain motionless. I’m vaguely aware of the hot cup of tea burning the palms of my hands, but I can’t move.
I can’t do anything. It’s like every bit of energy is diverted to my mind, which is racing around and around, just like that little rainbow-coloured wheel I got on my computer, furiously trying to process all the weird, unexplained events from the last few days: being blanked by Seb in Starbucks, Fiona’s reaction, everyone’s reactions . . . Like a tape recording in my head, I hear a cacophony of voices. Fiona: ‘ Seb who? ’ Gramps: ‘ I’ve never met a Sebastian .’ Mum: ‘ You’ve never mentioned him before .’ They’re all blurring into stereo, into one single voice . . . and then I see Seb again: he’s sitting next to me, talking to me, and I’m looking into his eyes and there’s not a flicker of recognition; it’s as though he doesn’t know who I am.
But that’s impossible! What about my diary? demands a voice in my head. And this time it’s my own voice, bringing me up short.
I place my cup of tea on the bedside cabinet and start rummaging around inside. There must be more evidence of our relationship, something more tangible than words on a computer disk. An old photograph, a card that he wrote me, something . . . My fingers scrabble around desperately. There’s so much junk thrown in here: old lipsticks, my stash of earplugs, those spare buttons that come with new tops and I never know where to put . . . Yet nothing that links me to Seb. No pictures of us together, no cards he sent me, nothing.
But of course I’m not going to find anything, I remind myself quickly. I threw it all away, remember? I wanted to try and forget about him. That’s why I deleted all his texts, his emails, his Facebook page. That’s why I burned all the mementos from our relationship in the fire on New Year’s Eve.
As the thought strikes, a blurry memory stirs – an image flashes up of the man on TV. He was wearing spacehopper ears. What was his name? He was talking about rituals. I grope back through the tequila-sodden memories, trying to recollect . . .
‘ . . . an ancient ritual . . . all the things you want to rid yourself of, be it . . . painful memories, hurt . . . throwing them into the fire at the stroke of midnight. ’ I strain harder, thinking back: ‘ . . . many
As she heads across the kitchen, I abandon the tea and scoot over to her computer. Sure enough, on her screen I see a diary entry from 4 January 2011:
Dear Diary,
Had my first date with Seb! We went for a drink in Chelsea . . .
I see his name and break off, the words spinning before my eyes.
What the . . . ?
Suddenly I go hot and cold. For a split second there’s a pause, then my thoughts begin crashing over each other, tossing my mind around like a boat on stormy seas. Yet above the din, one thought is loud and clear: So I’m not crazy. I didn’t make him up. I haven’t imagined it all.
I feel a flash of vindication.
‘See, I told you!’ I say triumphantly to Fiona, suddenly finding my voice.
‘Told me what?’ She turns around, a bowl of soup in her hands.
I’m about to drag her over to show her the evidence when halfway down the page my eyes come into focus and I see:
. . . and Fiona bought a dress for her online date next week. It’s super-tight and super-short and this sort of funny pale pink colour which makes her look a bit like a sausage. She asked me if it made her look fat. I lied and said no . . .
‘Um, nothing,’ I say, quickly pressing eject. ‘It’s just a load of old nonsense, nothing important.’
And, snatching up the disk, I leave her eating her soup and beat a hasty exit from the kitchen.
I close my bedroom door and sit down on the edge of my bed. Flea lets out a disgruntled squeak at being disturbed on my eiderdown, but I’m too distracted to scoop him up. Instead I remain motionless. I’m vaguely aware of the hot cup of tea burning the palms of my hands, but I can’t move.
I can’t do anything. It’s like every bit of energy is diverted to my mind, which is racing around and around, just like that little rainbow-coloured wheel I got on my computer, furiously trying to process all the weird, unexplained events from the last few days: being blanked by Seb in Starbucks, Fiona’s reaction, everyone’s reactions . . . Like a tape recording in my head, I hear a cacophony of voices. Fiona: ‘ Seb who? ’ Gramps: ‘ I’ve never met a Sebastian .’ Mum: ‘ You’ve never mentioned him before .’ They’re all blurring into stereo, into one single voice . . . and then I see Seb again: he’s sitting next to me, talking to me, and I’m looking into his eyes and there’s not a flicker of recognition; it’s as though he doesn’t know who I am.
But that’s impossible! What about my diary? demands a voice in my head. And this time it’s my own voice, bringing me up short.
I place my cup of tea on the bedside cabinet and start rummaging around inside. There must be more evidence of our relationship, something more tangible than words on a computer disk. An old photograph, a card that he wrote me, something . . . My fingers scrabble around desperately. There’s so much junk thrown in here: old lipsticks, my stash of earplugs, those spare buttons that come with new tops and I never know where to put . . . Yet nothing that links me to Seb. No pictures of us together, no cards he sent me, nothing.
But of course I’m not going to find anything, I remind myself quickly. I threw it all away, remember? I wanted to try and forget about him. That’s why I deleted all his texts, his emails, his Facebook page. That’s why I burned all the mementos from our relationship in the fire on New Year’s Eve.
As the thought strikes, a blurry memory stirs – an image flashes up of the man on TV. He was wearing spacehopper ears. What was his name? He was talking about rituals. I grope back through the tequila-sodden memories, trying to recollect . . .
‘ . . . an ancient ritual . . . all the things you want to rid yourself of, be it . . . painful memories, hurt . . . throwing them into the fire at the stroke of midnight. ’ I strain harder, thinking back: ‘ . . . many
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