‘Leo, you know we take suicide “jokes” very seriously here,’ she said with a death stare.
‘I am sorry. I don’t actually intend to kill myself. The pills really prevent me from doing that,’ I said. ‘I am much better, I promise.’
‘Just make sure you keep taking them every day.’
Why wouldn’t I?
Forty minutes of, This is the crisis number. Please call them before you think about jumping in front of a train, later, I was well on my way to my old flat. My hair was starting to succumb to the humidity and my face probably looked like a tired, dehydrated, puffy mess, but I was so excited to get some dog love.
Obviously after snooping into every single drawer in the house.
Unhealthy? Yes, but I never said therapy was working.
My old flat was just off a residential road in Putney. Ground floor small flat with a garden and a neighbour who’d call you at all times of the day to question random noises coming from the apartment. Martha used to hear Squall barking even when he wasn’t home for days. She didn’t get out much.
It had just started to rain, so I proceeded to walk a bit faster. Didn’t want to look more of a mess in case Marc was already there.
Bleurgh. Marc. Marc Rhodes was the piece of trash my ex-husband decided to stick his wiener in on a regular basis. He was the kind of guy I promised myself I’d never date or ever give blood to. I’d tick the option to never donate my organs if they were going to such a little bitch. He was constantly out partying, first in line to do a tour of every gay Pride in the country, consistently wearing mesh t-shirts, crop tops and denim shorts. Someone who’d caption their Instagram posts with, “When your friends buy you a drink and you’re doing Stoptober. Oops.” Or, “On Fridays we wear black.”
The guy was three years younger than me and earning a six-figure salary.
Fucker.
Meanwhile, I was nearing my thirtieth birthday, and I’d plan my shopping trips based on when Tesco would sell nearly expired hummus for 25p and sad cucumbers for under 15p.
I couldn’t say he felt particularly threatened by my charm or success, but I did like to think I was the one with the brains. The brain that got away, even. When not on antipsychotics or drunk on £4 Aldi wine, of course. Then I’d be just as dumb as Marc.
The gate door was in front of me. It had recently been painted a shade of dark grey.
Jake loved doing housework, while I’d mostly pick what to watch on Netflix. That was our dynamic.
I opened the gate which surprisingly did not make a loud noise anymore, and got to the front door.
Smelling my old life was nostalgic. I knocked, even though I had a secret copy of the key. Like a mad psychopath.
‘Oh, there you are,’ said my already displeased 6’4” ex-husband.
Squall, on the other hand, ran towards me and put his paws on my chest. He was excited to see me. In a world where bleeding to death seemed like the single most perfect evening, this was the kind of pickup my fragile ego had needed.
‘He’s so happy to see you,’ came out of Jake’s mouth.
I couldn’t focus on anything else he was saying, as there was a freshly inked giant tattoo sleeve sported on his left arm.
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked, while probably looking like I had just sucked on a mouldy lemon. Drenched in bleach.
‘Oh, this? I just felt like it,’ said my almost forty-year-old ex-husband.
This was Marc’s doing. Marc was the kind of person to have stupid hippy tattoos all over his body.
‘How very eat, pray, love,’ I said. ‘So where are you heading tonight?’
Like I didn’t know already from Instagram.
‘It’s an outdoor screening of Madame Butterfly in Regent’s Park.’
I cackled as I saw the rain outside.
‘Fun! I hope you don’t mind; Sara will be coming over to keep me company later, just so that I can be having some fun too. Not play-under-the-rain kind of fun, but…you know.’
He grabbed his keys and pretty much ignored any of my sarcastic attempts at mockery.
‘I should make my way as I’m already late. You doing okay otherwise? Therapy going alright?’
‘It’s an absolute blast, thank you for asking,’ I said while having a quick flashback of me pounding down a tub of vegan Ben & Jerry ice cream just two nights before.
‘You sure? You seem a bit on the high side.’
‘That’s not how it works, Jake.’
‘Okay, as long as you’re taking your meds—’
‘I can function enough to remember to take a pill every day,’ I interrupted him. ‘I am not your responsibility.’
‘True,’ he snapped. ‘Well, I will see you later.’
‘Enjoy your evening!’ I said with a fake smile while closing the door behind him.
It was wine time.
An hour and a little over half a bottle of Casillero Del Diablo later, I opened the door to my gorgeous should-really-be-a-model friend, Sara Langaard.
‘Hey, woman,’ I said, with cartoon hearts in my eyes.
‘Have you started without me?’ she asked, sounding somewhat surprised.
Sara was a 5’9” skinny twenty-eight-year-old with long, straight light brown hair, huge green eyes, perfect teeth and a relatively large toned arse that looked incredible in skinny jeans.
She was also a heavy smoker and a near alcoholic with a slight hint of disordered eating, but I liked to focus on the positives. Like most chatty, beautiful and stylish women in London, Sara worked in public relations and events management.
‘This fucking journey took forever,’ she barked while entering the house with a bottle of wine in each hand. ‘I didn’t like it when you lived here, and I certainly do not like it now.’
‘Like you ever came before.’
‘Jake gone already?’ she asked while looking around.
‘It’s just you and me. And the husky, my love. I am surprised you have managed to come here so quickly. You’re not working until midnight today?’ I teased.
‘I am sure you know my boss had somewhere to be, so we all got to sneak out earlier.’
Marc was Sara’s boss. God damn Marc. Same guy my husband decided to fuck all those times I stayed at home watching reruns of This is Us, munching on soy nuggets and trying to remove dog hair out of my beard.
‘Your boss is an annoying cunt,’ I exclaimed while pouring a hefty chalice of red.
‘Oh, that he absolutely is,’ she said while taking her shoes off.
She sat on the sofa, grabbed her glass and put her phone on the coffee table.
‘The flat looks different,’ she noted.
She wasn’t wrong. Gone were the framed movie posters and PlayStation games stacked on the shelf to make room for Indian printed emerald green cushions and paintings of random women wearing a burqa. The place indeed felt different. I did not exist in this reality. There were no more photos of Jake and Leo on the chest of drawers, no more Buffy the Vampire Slayer memorabilia in the study and no more me. Anywhere. ‘Me’ was never to be found again in this place. That was my old life.
There was something extremely self-harming about having to spend one day a week in what used to be my own home, but it was my only chance to cuddle with the dog, and I would take that as often as I could. Even if that meant having to sit in the ground zero of my previous life while my ex-husband was taking his new boy to all the restaurants I used to be taken to.