The First Love
The Work Mistake
The Overlap
The Friend With Benefits
The Missed Chance
The Bastard
The Serious One
A roaring sound begins in my ears as I read the words again and again. I read the boxes in full now, drinking in the words; the detailed descriptions. I’m vaguely aware of Bibi leaving and returning, slamming another bright pink bottle she definitely didn’t pay for down on the table. She takes a seat across from us, ignoring the looks from Franco on the other side of the room.
‘You pour it.’ She shoves the wine at Louise who happily takes the reins, sloshing more liquid into our glasses.
Alistair, Carl, Alex, Paul, Idris, Will and Rich.
All my relationships, all the connections – real, stupid, intense, absurd, horrible, heartbreaking, illuminating, silly, sexy – they’re all there on the page.The First Love, The Work Mistake, The Overlap, The Friend With Benefits, The Missed Chance, The Bastard, The Serious One: Alistair, Carl, Alex, Paul, Idris, Will and Rich.Maybe not in the right order but all there. I read the details of each one again and the roaring sound in my ears becomes a drumbeat, filling my head with all their voices shouting at once: begging, laughing, hating, fucking, dumping me, being dumped. It’s awful.
I tug at Louise’s sleeve but she barely looks up. She’s Instagramming the wine label. ‘You can really taste the basic bitch,’ she says solemnly to Bibi as they clink glasses.
‘Guys,’ I say quietly, and then again, louder: ‘GUYS.’ They both turn, looking alarmed by my tone. I jab at the page,feeling panicked. ‘I’ve had all these relationships –all of them. Every last one.’ They look blank so I add desperately, ‘And that’s all you get!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bibi squints at me, looking irritated. ‘What do you mean “that’s all you get”?’
‘Imean,’ I glare at her, ‘this is why I’ve spent the last six months going on beyond-terrible dates. This is why the universe keeps sending me men who think wearing an indoor scarf is a personality trait. It’s because I’ve had all seven of these relationships –these exact relationships!– every single one, and one of them was meant to beTheOne. I’ve used them all up! I’ve used up my share of partners, now I won’t ever find The One. Oh god.’ I put my head in my hands and wail. ‘I’ve had my love allocation and discarded them all!’
‘That can’t be right.’ Louise laughs nervously and takes the magazine from me, eyeing the page warily. She looks shaken.
‘No, really, you guys.’ I look between them, feeling wide-eyed but suddenly very sober and sure of myself. ‘You don’t get it. These were my chances – my only chances.’ I pause as something tickles at the back of my brain; the beginnings of an idea. What if I… no, that would be terrible. An awful, stupid, traumatizing, nonsense thing to do.
But what if it’s the only option?
What if this is the only way I’ll ever find The One? What ifnotdoing it will doom me to years of dread every time wedding season approaches? Of begging Bibi to be my plus one at work parties? Of seventy-eight-year-old Auntie June on my dad’s side still asking in every Christmas and birthdaycard if I’ve ‘finally’ settled down? That cow still hasyearsof spiteful life left in her.
I look back down at the pages of the glossy magazine. It’s there, in black and white. Research says you only get these seven chances at love. That means scientists have looked into it. People with degrees who wear white coats and look like Chris Whitty. Theymustknow what they’re talking about.
I know what I have to do. It’s the only thing Icando.
Louise waits intently, eyes wide, for my next words. Bibi picks some gum off the edge of the table, totally disinterested.
I take another breath. ‘Lou, Bibi. I think I have to find my exes.’
‘Which one?’ Louise says, confused.
I look down at the article again, the vivid pictures blurring into one.
I swallow. ‘All of them.’
She gapes at me as I take the magazine from her and shut it.
This is it. This is what I have to do, this is the answer; this is why I can’t find my husband – because I’ve already found him. I just need to re-find him.
And I know exactly who to start with. The only one I could start with.
Alistair Morris.
