“Yeah,” he says. “Your enthusiasm is…nil.”
“Sorry. I’m…” And then for reasons unbeknownst to me, I tell him in the most basic way possible. “I’ve been dumped.”
“By who?” he asks immediately. And I tell him, in the shadow of the Gothic architecture and the modern glass buildings that surround me in the City, I tell him everything. He’s quiet. I’m not pouring out my soul—not to George. I’m working up to something. I’m giving him everything from start to finish, so that when I end and tell him I’m in no mood for a holiday, that I’m going to write the cost off and that I hope he has a nice time, because I’ll be the worst travel companion ever…he’ll understand, thanking God that I’m not going with him.
But he says, “Oh, Hannah. That’s bloody awful. The poor guy.”
“So you see why I can’t come? Why I can’t force myself to have a good time? You are, honestly, better off without me. I might evengo back to my parents for a little bit of it. But I can’t face going to Thailand.”
He’s quiet and I wait for a contemplative response, but George merely says, “Don’t be a dick.”
I widen my eyes in shock. “I’m not being a dick.”
“You really are. You’ve been dumped. Happens to everyone. If everybody stuck a pin in their lives just because they’d had a rough ride, most planes would be traveling around the world half-empty.” I try to interject, but he continues, “Dig out your passport, blow the dust off your sunglasses and I’ll see you at yours in an Uber the day after tomorrow.”
How has the time gone by so fast that it’s the day after tomorrow? He doesn’t even say goodbye. He simply hangs up, like some kind of dramatic, impressive exit. I realize now that George always has to have the last word. I eat my soup at my desk with one hand, typing with another:I’m not coming, George.I hit send.
I see he’s online and then he’s offline. He doesn’t even respond. I am being a dick. I know I am. I’m losing a friend over this, but I mean it. I can’t go. Maybe if I wasn’t going with George, it would be easy. Maybe I could happily—and I use the term “happily” loosely—holiday on my own. But I can’t handle George and his Duracell-bunny outlook on life. Not now. Not the day after tomorrow. And not for ten days in Thailand, with his “every page is dog-eared” travel guide. Although, actually, I’d be free most evenings to wallow in my own self-pity because he’ll be out chasing girls for one-night stands.
I want to message Davey. I want to say something heartbreakingly cruel, such as, “Remember that fit personal trainer I went on a date with, when you and I were getting to know each other? Remember I was going on holiday with him? Well, I still am. Enjoy being alone.”
But I don’t send it.
Instead I type a different message to him. He’s told me not tocontact him and it’s so raw, so fresh—this strange relationship that never was, this ending—but I type it all the same:I miss you. I wish you hadn’t ended us. How are you? Are you coping? Call me. I’m here.
I don’t know what else to write, so I just look at the cursor blinking at the end of my sentence. I hold it in my hand for a moment and then I hit backspace until the whole message has gone. I look up at the top of the screen. He’s offline:Davey, last seen today at 12:01 P.M.Only an hour ago. Who did he message at that time? What is he doing now? Is it one of his chemo days? I have no idea. The cycle sounded grueling, and far too sporadic for me to keep up with from afar. I miss our chats, our laughter, our being together while being apart. I miss everything and I have to go to the toilet, lock myself in a cubicle, and cry as silently as possible so that no one hears me.
—
My doorbell rings in the middle of the next night and I lurch awake. I have woken from a dream. One in which I was halfway through a video call with Davey. I don’t know what we were talking about, but I was laughing. I wake with a smile on my face at something so wonderful—not even a memory, but a wish of what there might still have been. But then as the doorbell sounds again, I blink in shock, climb out of bed, pull the front door open a smidge, with the chain still on for safety, and look into the face of George.
“Watcha,” he says, looking me up and down, taking in me, my pajamas, my scruffy bed-hair. “Do you need a few minutes?” he asks.
“What for? What are you doing here?”
“It’s taxi time, baby. Have you overslept? I didn’t even bother going to bed. No point.”
I stare blankly at him. “I’m not coming,” I say.
“What the fuck?” he replies.
I close the door, slip off the chain, open it up wide. His face istotal confusion. He looks me up and down again, realizing that I’m not dressed for a reason. “I didn’t think you were serious,” he cries. “Hannah…you have to come.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”
“George,” I plead.
“No,” he says, almost barging his way into my flat. “You have two options. You get dressed, grab your bag, and bring it out to the car, where I’ll be waiting. You have ten minutes max. Or you get dressed, grab your bag, andI’lltake it out to the car, and I sit here in your flat to make sure you do it.”
“George!”
“Get dressed, Hannah,” he barks at me. “Fucking hell. Chop-chop.”
He pushes me in the direction of the shower. “I don’t even think we’ve got time for you to shower, but it’s a bloody long flight, so get a move on. Where’s your stuff?”
He spies my suitcase in the corner of my bedroom and makes a beeline for it. “This it? You packed? You’d better be bloody packed, woman.”
