After a good long cry, I spend a further forty-five minutes lying on my sofa, staring at my ornately corniced ceiling, listening to the skeleton wall clock in the hallway ticking away as if counting down to the end of my existence. It takes a while longer for me to come around from the blow Paul’s cruel words have inflicted on me, and when I do, I decide I can’t bear to be here like this any longer. Right now, my flat feels more like a prison than a home, especially as it’s August and, seemingly, the whole world has descended on the city to be part of the iconic Edinburgh festival (which is actually a handful of different festivals that run largely in parallel to each other).
‘OK, Lea.’ I haul myself to a sitting position, my fingers drumming anxiously against my thigh. ‘Suck it up and go do something. Anything.’
Changing out of my ‘comfies’ into a casual summer dress and my favourite sandals, I quickly apply some mascara and smooth out my long, straight, chestnut brown hair, before perching my sunnies on the top of my head.
‘There you go. That’s a bit better,’ I say soothingly to my red, puffy-eyed reflection in the hallway mirror, trying to ignore the sadness that’s so evident in my grey-blue eyes. ‘You don’t need a man in your life. And you can still have fun on your own.’
Cringing at my mirror image, I ponder for the gazillionth time whether talking to myself makes me weird. I’ve been caught doing it at work on the odd occasion, with the jovial ‘first sign of madness’ comment having inevitably followed. My view is that, whoever made up that saying must have been lucky enough to have a lot of people in their life. I’d also add that they were a bit lacking in sensitivity. When you spend a disproportionate amount of time on your own, you crave human interaction in a way that some might never understand – and sometimes your own reflection is as good as it gets.
‘If it makes me mad then so be it.’ I shrug at myself, then with one last check of my appearance, I lock up my flat and make my way down the echoing stone staircase to the beautiful, breezy afternoon outside.
I roam the Old Town and surrounding areas for a good hour, battling my way through the hordes of groups that have descended on the city for some festival fun, but this only makes me feel more alone. Having reached the conclusion that returning to my flat might actually be a less painful experience, I’m making my way along Crichton Street in the direction of The Meadows, when I’m accosted by a cheery young bloke brandishing a pile of flyers.
‘Fancy a free show?’ He practically shoves one of them into my hand before I can even respond. ‘This one’s a dinger. Do you like cats?’
‘Why? Do I look like a “cat lady”?’ Though affronted, I’m starting to wonder if that’s the life I’m doomed to.
‘No.’ He bellows with laughter, obviously unaware of what’s at the root of my irrational response. ‘It’s a comedy show about cats. All the ups and downs of humanity’s relationship with what the comedian calls the “world’s most devious critter”. The guy who does it is really funny. You’ll love it.’
I’m tempted to hand the flyer back, particularly because I’m in no frame of mind to stomach any ‘cat lady’ jokes if they do come up, but then I realise this is exactly how I can spend the evening out by myself, without feeling like a loser. I can go to some free shows and be invisible in the audience.
‘Ah, hell, why not.’ I smile at the guy, who looks mighty pleased to have recruited an audience member. ‘When does it start and where is it?’
‘In an hour. Just over on West Nicolson Street in a bar called The Smiling Bull.’ He vaguely points in what I know to be the right direction. ‘Fringe venue 259. Make sure you’re there ten minutes before so you get a seat. It’s a small room.’
Leaving the leaflet guy to scope out further victims, I scan my surroundings, wondering how to pass the time until the show, and my eyes land on the outdoor bar in Bristo Square that skirts the McEwan Hall. I could definitely enjoy a glass of prosecco before the show – might even help me get through it if it’s crap.
I start towards the bar, then hesitate. I’ve never gone drinking on my own. Not that this is ‘going drinking’ as such. Will I look like a saddo? Because I really couldn’t cope with ‘judgy’ eyes on me today of all days.
I’m about to back off from the idea and go find a bench, when my mind suggests I reconsider. Will anyone really care? I could be waiting for someone who’s late. Why wouldn’t I grab a drink for myself in that situation? And surely there must be plenty of people who visit the Fringe alone. I can’t be the only one.
Before my befuddled brain can talk itself out of what it’s just talked itself into, I stride across to the busy outdoor bar area, which has several pop-up stalls. A couple of them are serving food, and a couple more are offering beer and the usual range of drinks – I’m pleased to see there’s also an Edinburgh Gin stall and one serving prosecco out of what looks like a glammed-up horsebox.
After a moment of indecision – I’m almost now wishing there was time for a drink from each – I opt for an elderflower gin cocktail and decant to a standing table, taking a long sip of my drink, which is divine. It’s fruity and light and bubbly, with just the right amount of alcoholic heat.
Smiling to myself while sipping – actually, more like glugging – at my drink, I’m almost content. It’s certainly a reassuring feeling, knowing I have purpose to my presence here. But my comfort blanket of a cocktail is gone too soon and, not wanting to risk standing here looking like the local weirdo, I decide I’ll have that second drink after all.
When I return to my spot armed with a beautifully chilled, fizzing glass of prosecco, I remind myself that I need to make this one last longer, otherwise I’ll turn up at the show not just alone, but also hammered. Not being the world’s biggest drinker – more due to a lack of social life than choice – I’m already beginning to feel the effects from my cocktail. Which leads me to…
Sod Paul, the absolute arsehole! Anyone who allows a person to develop feelings for them when they have no intention of taking things further deserves that label and more. He let me think we were going somewhere and he didn’t do that by accident. It might be that my pain is just numbed by the alcohol, but I can now see that I have not lost out, nor am I a lesser being than Paul; I am actually better than him.
And while I’m in a rare moment of bravery and defiance, why shouldn’t I go out and enjoy myself, just because I don’t happen to have a social circle in the city? Maybe I should do this more often. I’m actually quite good company, if I may say so myself.
Uninhibited thoughts continue to swirl in my mind, acting as an inner pep talk. They include a daydream about Paul’s dick actually falling off after being bitten by some scary-ass Australian spider. I snicker to myself, attracting the attention of a man drinking a beer at a table not far from mine, and my alcohol-fuelled courage has me immediately alert and ready to hit back if he dares to judge me. But he doesn’t. He simply gives what appears to be a sad smile before returning his attention to his pint.
Cocking my head, I watch him for a moment. He’s around five foot ten, with a slender build and floppy dark brown hair that falls into his eyes while he’s looking down, making me want to walk over there and push it to the side so he can see better. With his head bowed like that, it’s hard to get much more of a sense of his appearance. But there’s one thing that I don’t need a better view to figure out, because his stance and body language say it all: he looks utterly miserable. And he’s also alone.
I surreptitiously keep an eye on the man while sipping at my drink, waiting for him to be joined by a sulky girlfriend he’s had a fight with, or a banterous group of lads who’ll cheer him up. However, after about ten minutes, he’s still standing alone, staring into his pint, which he has barely touched in that time.
Checking my phone, I can see it’s nearly time for me to leave for the show, but that’s going to be a challenge because I’m transfixed. There’s something about this guy that’s tugging at my heartstrings, since I know better than anyone how isolating it feels to be in a bad place and have no one to talk to.
Looking at him, it’s like seeing my own loneliness and feelings of inadequacy reflected right back at me. And knowing how awful that is, I so badly want to go across and offer to be the shoulder he needs.
Aware that I’m now in danger of missing out on a seat, or of not getting into the show altogether, I have a decision to make. I either prise myself away from this all-too-familiar scene in front of me or go speak to him.
The two drinks I’ve had get the final vote and – no real surprise – they opt for the latter.
Sinking the last mouthful of my prosecco, I abandon my glass and approach the man with an air of confidence I most certainly do not demonstrate in my day-to-day life.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yeah?’ He looks up from his pint, making eye contact for a split second before angling his gaze over my shoulder, his expression remaining deeply pained.
Seeing him properly for the first time, I note that he’s quite good-looking, though not at all my type. With his dark hair, green eyes and a kind of puppy-dog look about him, he reminds me of a younger – and very unhappy-looking – Paul Rudd.
‘I couldn’t help but notice that you look upset.’ I smile at him compassionately. ‘Are you OK?’
For a moment, it’s as though he hasn’t heard me, then he looks at me properly.
‘I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.’ His accent is unmistakably Northern Irish.
He gives me the same sad-looking smile he did before, and although I don’t know him, I feel an inappropriate urge to give him a hug and reassure him that everything will be all right.
‘Are you sure?’ I persist. ‘You don’t seem OK. Is there someone here with you?’
‘No, it’s just me, but I’m fine, honestly. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than pick up the pieces of some lad you don’t know.’
‘Actually, I don’t…’ I almost blurt out that I’m as miserable and alone as him, but manage to stop myself in time. ‘I don’t… um… have much time. I’m heading to a show.’
‘Right, that’s nice.’ The man nods. ‘Have a good time then.’
‘Thank you. I will. At least I hope I will. It’s a free one, so you never know. Could be the worst zero pounds I’ve ever spent.’
He half-chuckles in response to my lame joke, then returns to staring into his beer.
Hovering for a moment, I’m unsure what to do, but the man doesn’t look up again, so I turn and leave. However, a full thirty seconds later, as I’m walking in the direction of West Nicolson Street, the man is still on my mind. He looked so lost and, really, it was a bit rude of me to say that I had somewhere else to be. Plus, he might have said he was all right, but it obviously wasn’t true. He probably just didn’t want to burden anyone else with his woes.
Well, he can burden me all he wants, I suddenly decide. Performing an abrupt U-turn that causes a gaggle of Japanese tourists behind me to leap out of my way, I march back into the outdoor bar area and right up to the man.
‘I can skip my show.’
‘Sorry, what?’ He looks up at me once again and blinks.
‘I can give the show a miss. I mean, how funny can a comedy show about cats be, right?’
‘Right.’ His expression turns to one of bemusement, making me realise I haven’t actually contextualised my point.
I give an exaggerated, alcohol-fuelled facepalm. ‘Sorry, I’m not making myself clear. What I mean is, the show is not important. You said that I must have better things to do than pick up the pieces of someone I’ve never met, but I don’t.’
‘Course you don’t,’ he mutters, which momentarily throws me, but I recover almost instantly.
‘No, I don’t. Wouldn’t it be a sad world if we all chose having a good time over helping someone in need?’
‘I’m not sure I said I was in need.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ I adopt a warm-hearted tone. ‘Nobody wants to admit that, which is why it’s important to notice what’s going on around us. Now, what can I get you? Another pint, maybe? That one must be flat by now. Then you can tell me all about it.’ I reach into my handbag for my purse.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Oh, right.’ I bounce my knuckles off the side of my head, communicating my moment of idiocy. ‘Probably not a great idea to self-medicate with booze, eh?’
‘Actually, I meant no thanks to your proposal in its entirety.’ His eyes narrow slightly. ‘I don’t want another pint and I definitely don’t want to talk.’
‘Ah…’ I hesitate, struggling to get a read on the situation. ‘Then maybe you could join me for the show? If we go quickly, we can still make it. A good laugh should help cheer you up – if the show’s funny, that is. You know how it goes with these free ones, they’re so hit and miss. Mainly “miss” in my experience, but that might just be my crappy luck.’ I roll my eyes. ‘So, what do you say?’
‘What do I say…?’ The man screws up his face thoughtfully. ‘How about this? I’m not sure where you got the idea that I want your company, but to be clear, I don’t. When I said you must have better things to do, it was my polite way of saying I wanted you to leave me alone. Am I having a shit day? Yes. But the last thing I want is to be picked up by some weird loner chick who sees me as an easy score.’
I give a startled gasp at the harshness of his words.
‘So, if you don’t mind…’ he continues with a slightly mocking tone to his voice, ‘…I’d like to return to staring into my pint – which, compared to the excruciating five minutes I’ve had to spend with you, seems like a top night out.’
Stunned into silence, I have no words. Not even a catty, petty response. I stand stock-still for a few seconds, as if trying to process what’s just happened, then as the raw humiliation stings my eyes, I slowly turn and walk away.