‘Are you about finished for the day, Lea?’ My colleague, Tanya, appears next to me. ‘I know how committed you are to this work, and it’s greatly appreciated, but it’s nearly six p.m. on a Friday. Surely, you have somewhere else you’d rather be?’
‘Oh, uh, is that the time?’ I glance at my watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. I’d better get out of here.’
My foot catches on the strap of my bag as I jump out of my seat, causing me to stumble.
‘Careful.’ Tanya reaches out to steady me. ‘You don’t want to ruin your weekend plans by breaking your ankle.’
‘Obviously not.’ I flash her a grateful smile while pulling on my jacket.
‘Well, whatever you’re doing, make the most of it. Before you know it, you’ll be married with three sulky teenagers – one of them being the man you married – and the highlight of your weekend will be cleaning the bathroom with the music on full blast.’
I chuckle, taking in her almost haughty expression. Tanya is the research fellow on the project I’m working on and she’s the human embodiment of an oxymoron. On the outside she’s well-polished and articulate, with a slightly plummy-sounding voice. You might expect her to be a bit prim and dull, and hyper-politically correct, but she’s actually the complete opposite.
‘That doesn’t sound so bad,’ I say.
‘You’re just being kind.’ She light-heartedly narrows her eyes at me over the top of her rimless spectacles. ‘I’d sell my family to be your age again.’
‘I’m sure they’d be delighted to hear that.’ I raise an eyebrow and chuckle.
‘I’m serious, I would. Now, off you pop and have a wonderful time with those gal pals of yours. I want to hear all about your adventures on Monday.’
Saying goodbye, I hurry out of the lab and through the clinical-looking hallways of the university campus building where I work. Then, once I’m outside and well out of range of Tanya, I slow to an aimless wander. Instead of delightedly breathing in the humid early-August air, and enjoying the feeling of freedom the weekend brings, I give a loaded sigh at the gloominess that’s already settling over me like the many-a-summer-day-ruining Edinburgh haar. Though I know there will be nothing of interest on my phone, I pull it out of my bag anyway, always hopeful that I’ll be proved wrong.
I’m not.
Scrolling absently through my social media feeds, I take as long as is humanly possible to traipse to the bus stop. At least out here, with the commuters rushing by, I’m not alone – not in a physical sense anyway. It’s going to be another long evening of just me and my streaming services, but at least I have a date to look forward to tomorrow – with a guy I actually see some potential with.
I spend Saturday morning thoroughly cleaning my two-bedroom Marchmont-based tenement flat, which my great-aunt Lizbeth left me in her will. Not because it’s particularly dirty, but because it’s something to do to pass the time, and because I’m also hopeful that tomorrow I won’t be waking up alone. Once there’s nothing left to dust, wipe, hoover or polish, I have some lunch and take a walk to the corner shop on Marchmont Road.
My thinking is that if Paul does stay over, I can tempt him to stick around by serving something tasty for breakfast. Not that he’s needed much tempting so far. We’re nine dates in (yes, I am counting) and he’s stayed at mine four times. So, I’m hoping for another sleepover at the very least, and perhaps even spending Sunday afternoon together, if things go really well.
Paul is super dreamy. He’s like a cross between Shawn Mendes and Robert Pattinson, is scarily intelligent, plays rugby, is always dressed impeccably, and he has this sexy Borders accent that makes me want to maul him (in a good way) every time he opens his mouth. In a word, he’s H-O-T.
After getting breakfast supplies in, I find myself at a loose end, neither able to concentrate on the witty romance novel I’m halfway through, nor on the Netflix series I’m binge watching. Instead, I resort once again to looking at my social media feeds, trying hard not to feel like the only person in the world who doesn’t have an amazing social life. I’m paying little attention, scrolling in that dead-behind-the-eyes zombie-esque way that means you’ve lost control of your thumb, when I see a familiar face float across my phone.
‘Ooh, Paul, what are you up to?’ I peer at the photo of my current love interest, who’s grinning like he’s won the lottery while holding up a document from the Australian Government titled: ‘Visa Grant Notice’.
It takes a moment and a read of the caption below the photo to realise what’s going on, and when I do, I jolt with horror and disbelief.
‘You’re moving to Australia?’ I shriek at my phone. ‘Are you bloody kidding me?!’
Surely not. Something as significant as this would have to have come up in conversation before now. Wouldn’t it? Plus, he’s blurred out the key information on the document, so there’s no saying that’s even his visa confirmation. He must be playing a prank on someone. He’s mentioned his mates are the boisterous type, so perhaps it’s to wind one of them up.
I quickly tap out a WhatsApp message.
I see that he reads my message straight away, then the status bar at the top of the screen says he’s typing. My heart is in my throat, hoping for a confirmation that will surely come imminently. While I’m staring at the screen, willing him to hurry up, he stops typing and appears to go offline.
‘No, don’t do that,’ I plead with him. ‘Just tell me we’re all good so I can get on with… well, not doing very much.’
Puffing out my cheeks, I look around my pristine flat, seeking something to distract me while I wait for him to respond. But this isn’t necessary, because by the time my attention has returned to my phone, he’s replied. Drinking in his words like a parched gun dog, every ounce of me instantly deflates.
‘Damn right, you should have.’ Tears of hurt and injustice prick at the corners of my eyes, but I force them back.
Then, on cue, my naturally analytical brain goes into overdrive. Why did he not tell me about this? How, even? Nine dates, we’ve been on. He’s had nine opportunities to bring it up – yet, he hasn’t. How is that even possible if he’s this excited about it? The chances of him just blurting something out during conversation or making an unintended remark must have been high. Unless…
Now pacing back and forth across my living-room floor, I rack my smarting brain for some other explanation, but come up empty-handed, meaning I have no choice but to face the grim reality of this situation. All the little signals he’s been sending me, leading me to think we were going somewhere, were fake. He’s been using me. I was his last Scottish hurrah: someone to get his end away with until he packed his bags and flew off down under.
‘You total knob end,’ I spit at his WhatsApp profile picture on my phone, having lost any sense of myself or the fact that having it out with a phone app won’t really achieve anything. ‘You’re so not just getting an “Oh, OK, then. Wish things could have been different for us and hope you have a wonderful life”. Nope. You need to know what a complete cock you are.’
I furiously type out a response to his non-apology.
Having at least the presence of mind to read back what I’ve written, I delete the last sentence to retain the moral high ground, before jabbing angrily at the send button. I then can’t help but watch to see when he reads the message, imagining his conscience – if he has one – kicking into gear and making him write me an actual apology. He starts typing again and I wonder if ‘schooling’ him has in fact made a positive difference. Maybe the women of Australia are safer now I’ve called him out on this.
His message pops up on my screen, and it takes all of half a second to realise I should never have been so naïve as to mistake Paul for a human being.
His message is cruelly punctuated with a waving-hand emoji, making me want to immediately reply with one giving him the finger. His reply gives me an insight into who Paul really is: a nasty, misogynistic, egotistical arsehole. I should be lauding my lucky escape, but even with his true colours proudly on display on my phone screen, I can’t help feeling like I’m the one who is deficient and who has lost out. While unconscionable Paul is heading down under to chase the ‘better life’ that’s heralded on British daytime TV shows, I’m left staring at the nicely painted but suffocating walls of my flat, dreading the emptiness of not just this evening and tomorrow, but every evening and weekend for the foreseeable future.
I really don’t want to cry over this bastard – crying means he wins – so I text the two people I know I can talk to about this stuff and who will be on my side: my friend from university, Katie, who lives on the outskirts of Edinburgh with her husband and two adorable but demanding toddlers, and my oldest friend, Jill, who swapped her life in Scotland for the Netherlands first chance she got after a long and very boozy weekend in Amsterdam.
Pinging them each a message, asking if they’re around for a chat (I’m doubling up because I don’t like my chances), I anxiously await their replies. The first comes from Jill, who is permanently glued to her phone.
Then, moments later, Katie, replies.
Katie’s message is followed by an entire row of vomiting emojis, which theoretically should make me feel better about my own situation, but it really doesn’t.
Flopping onto my large navy-blue sofa, I discard my phone and my resolve to keep a stiff upper lip, and dissolve into tears. Tears that are not just about Paul having used and discarded me like a wet dishcloth. They come from the sense of inadequacy I try so hard to keep buried, because I’m in the prime of my life (as Tanya incessantly reminds me) and at the age where I should be living it up, making amazing memories to look back on fondly. I do love my job as a research assistant and the career I’m building for myself, and there’s nowhere I’d rather live than this amazing city, but the fact is: I have no one to hang out with and I’m desperately lonely.