Three weeks, six days and unknown hours since the love of my life stamped violently on my heart.
I glance up at the oversized clock on the office wall and it seems to be saying it’s four o’clock. I have to immediately double check it against my computer to make sure I haven’t misread it. Four o’clock? How did that happen? I’ve managed to make it through seven hours of work with no tears. OK, almost no tears, but the sobbing I did in the toilet technically doesn’t count as I was on my lunch break.
I know it sounds a bit pathetic that I’m excited to get through a day at work – as most normal people do day in, day out – but it’s the first time that I’ve made it into the office since Joseph dumped me a month ago.
I’m lucky that I work as a graphic designer at a vibrant marketing agency, where my boss strongly believes that a bit of home-working fuels creativity. I can’t say that it’s fuelled much of mine over the last few weeks, but it has allowed me to indulge in the mother of all moping sessions. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than peeling myself out of my frumpy pyjamas, or doing such basic tasks as showering and hair-washing on a daily basis. How the non-home-working heartbroken people go out to work every day is beyond me.
But, amazingly, here I am, in freshly laundered clothes and clean hair, having lasted a whole seven hours more than I thought I would.
I hate to admit it, but my best friend Sian was right, it has done me good. Not that I’ll tell her of course. I’d never hear the end of it.
I’d love to say that I came into work today of my own accord; that I’d woken up feeling a step closer to getting over Joseph, the love-of-my-life who dumped me out of the blue, but in truth my boss told me in no uncertain terms that I had to come in as not only is my work – to quote him – ‘slipping’, but it’s agency photo day. It’s the day of the year that I dread under normal circumstances, let alone when my eyes are puffy and red as a result of weeks of crying my heart out.
‘You’re next, Abi,’ calls Rick, my boss, as he walks past my work station.
‘Great,’ I mutter, feigning enthusiasm. I’ve been hearing yells and screams emanating from the lobby all day, which hasn’t done anything to ease my apprehension.
Rick hates corporate-looking photos, and he always wants our web mugshots not only to be up-to-date, but also to look like working at our agency is the most fun ever.
This year he’s excelled himself. I thought it was an early April Fool’s joke, but it turns out he’s deadly serious. He’s installed a trampoline in the lobby – the kind that seems to blight the gardens of anyone that’s got kids. He’s rigged up our studio’s green screen behind it and the idea is that we’ll all be jumping ecstatically in front of a brilliant blue sky on a summer’s day that will be superimposed later.
I’m absolutely petrified of heights and the thought of bouncing up and down on a trampoline gives me the heebie-jeebies.
‘If you want to come on down, you can watch Giles and then when Seb’s finished with him, you can hop straight on.’
I nod and stand up to follow him out of our office and into the lobby that we share with six other companies. Just in case it wasn’t embarrassing enough that I have to make a giant tit out of myself in front of my own work colleagues when I’m quaking with fear, there’s also a whole host of other people milling about to witness it.
‘I must say, I’m glad you came back in, Abi. I’m sorry we had to go down the formal route of writing you a letter,’ says Rick. He waves his hand around in a way that suggests that it was no big deal that I got sent a letter telling me that I basically had to pull my socks up and show my face in the office or else I’d be facing disciplinary action – it had scared the crap out of me. ‘You know HR these days; everything has to be done formally.’
‘It’s fine, really. It’s about time I came into the office anyway.’
That really had been the worst post day ever as not only did I get the letter from HR, but I also got one from my letting agent to say that my rent’s going up from next month. That had given me an extra incentive to get back into work because now more than ever I can’t afford to lose my job.
We walk down the white circular staircase that runs around the outside of the lobby and my pulse starts to race when I see the trampoline with my colleague Giles bouncing happily on it.
‘It’ll be great to have these new photos up on the website,’ says Rick, ‘just in case the lot at Spinnaker start looking into the company.’
I nod, hoping that my photos aren’t going to look so horrendous that I scare them off. Our company is pitching to do the marketing materials for the local tourist attraction the Spinnaker Tower, hopefully as a stepping stone to doing all the work for their parent company that owns other famous sites around the country.
‘That’s fantastic. Now jump again,’ calls Seb, our usual freelance photographer.
I arrive in the lobby and watch Giles with trepidation. With his six-foot-five, lanky frame, he looks as if he’s going to reach the ceiling at any minute.
Simply watching him is making me feel dizzy. I cling onto the end of the banister to steady myself. How on earth am I going to get on that thing?
‘Perfect. Thanks, Giles,’ says Seb.
He walks over to his laptop to review his work. ‘They’re perfect. Looks like you’re up, Abi, but do you mind if I grab a quick coffee first?’
‘No, no, take all the time you need,’ I say, feeling like I’ve got a last minute stay of execution.
‘That was awesome,’ says Giles as he slides his trainers on, before bending down to tie his laces.
‘You looked like you were having fun.’
‘Well, that was the brief from Rick.’
We look up at our esteemed leader who’s hopped onto the trampoline for a bounce. He’s masterfully dropping on his bum in a seat drop and flip-flopping onto his front and his back. It’s doing nothing to calm my nerves.
‘So how are you, anyway?’ asks Giles with his head tilted in a pity pose.
‘I’m OK,’ I say, lying.
‘It’s good to see you back at work and getting on with things.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Yeah, it was doing you no favours hanging around your flat. Best to get out and about.’
I nod at him, despite the fact I disagree. If Rick hadn’t put a fly in the ointment with his letter, I could have stayed holed up indefinitely. Thanks to the revolution that is Internet shopping, and having every type of takeaway under the sun on my doorstep, there’s really been no need for me to venture out. Before today, I’d only had to leave the confines of my flat a grand total of twice since Joseph dumped me, once on an emergency booze run, and the other when I’d forgotten to order loo roll.
‘In fact, what are you up to this weekend?’ asks Giles.
‘Um,’ I say, desperately stalling whilst I try and come up with a fake answer. ‘I think I’m doing something with my friend Sian.’
‘Right, well, Laura and I are going to cycle to Hayling Island with some of my mates if you fancy it. It’s nice and flat so it’s dead easy. I know Laura would love some female company.’
I’m sure she would. Giles’s long-suffering wife always seems to be getting dragged along on his and his friends’ adventures, but really, cycling from Portsmouth to Hayling Island is not something I’d do even if I was feeling on top of the world.
‘Ah, thanks,’ I say, a small smile forming on my face. ‘But I don’t have a bike.’
‘Well, that’s not a problem, my mate’s got a bike shop and I’m sure he’d lend you a second-hand one for the day.’
Bugger. Why didn’t I tell him the truth? That the last bike I rode probably had stabilisers.
‘I don’t think Sian’s really into bikes,’ I say, lying, ‘so I think we’ll give it a miss, but thanks.’
Giles stands back up.
‘OK, but if you change your mind, send me a message.’
‘OK, I will do.’ Knowing full well that I will not.
‘So,’ says Giles, leaning in closer now that he’s standing upright. ‘What do you make of Linz?’
Ah, Linz. Hayley, one of my fellow designers, went off on maternity leave a few weeks ago and her cover, Lindsey, started whilst I was in hibernation. I met her briefly this morning and I’ve been trying to avoid her ever since. She’s one of those people that’s all perky and positive all the time, as if she’s permanently attached to a mainline of coffee. She’d do my head in on a normal day, so in my current state I don’t have the mental capacity to tolerate her.
‘She seems . . .’ I search for an appropriate adjective, ‘upbeat.’
Giles’s smile grows wider. ‘That’s one word for her. She seems like she’s settled in and got her feet well and truly under the table in your absence.’
I’m about to ask Giles what he means, when Seb walks back over to us.
‘Right then, Abi, let’s get this show on the road,’ he says.
Giles gives me a double thumbs up in support as he heads back up the stairs and I nervously pull off my Uggs.
‘Jump up onto the trampoline and I’ll snap a few test shots to make sure I’m happy with the light.’
He makes it sound so easy. I can feel beads of sweat start to spread over my forehead and my heart is beating ten to the dozen.
‘Are you sure this is safe?’ I ask as I rest my hands on the edge. ‘I mean, doesn’t it usually have netting round it to keep you in?’
‘Yeah, but we can’t use that as it would mess up the green screen and it would be in front of my lens. But you’ll be fine, we’ve had no problems all day and there are crash mats if you get too carried away with the bouncing.’
No chance of that.
My legs are wobbling like jelly, but the fear that I’ll be ridiculed by my work colleagues for not being able to bounce on a trampoline is currently greater than my fear of heights.
I climb up with as much grace as a beached whale and find myself on all fours, too scared to stand up.
‘Right then, get up so I can test the light.’
I turn round and face Seb and see that Rick is standing right beside him. He gives me a broad grin and I know from experience that there’s no way I can get out of this. If I told him the truth he’d take it upon himself to try and cure me of my fear of heights. He’d probably try to push me off the roof of our building for a base jump, or abseiling, or something equally ridiculous and adrenaline fuelled.
I slowly rise to my feet, telling myself that if little kids can bounce on a trampoline, then so can I.
‘Perfect, that’s great. Looks like we’re good to go,’ shouts Seb from over near his laptop. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
I catch sight of Rick who’s staring at me intently and, worried that he’ll guess my secret, I start to bounce. Amazingly I feel myself starting to lift off the floor of the trampoline. Maybe only an inch or two, but I’m actually doing it.
My leg muscles are stiff from my recent inactivity and my muffin top is wobbling over the top of my jeans.
‘Try and put your arms up like you’re punching the air,’ says Rick, demonstrating on the ground and causing me to stumble. ‘You look like you’re bracing yourself for a fall.’
That’s exactly what I’m doing.
I give it another couple of bounces, but the more I try to coordinate my arms and legs, the more my face contorts in a way that must make me look like I’m constipated.
‘Try and think of something that makes you happy,’ suggests Seb.
I immediately think of Joseph tucked up in my bed the week before he dumped me. He’d pulled naked me into a snuggly cuddle, smoothed down my long, straggly bed hair and then traced patterns with his fingers down my arms. I don’t think I’d ever been as content and happy as I was then. Which is why it was so baffling when, a week later, he broke up with me, causing my heart to shatter into smithereens.
The smile drops off my face and I can feel the tears prickling behind my eyes. I can’t cry at work, and I especially can’t cry in front of my boss when my every move is being caught on camera.
‘That’s it, that’s great bouncing,’ says Rick.
I dread to think what I must look like. Thank heavens I put on my baggy cowl-neck jumper. I’d put it on this morning to hide the extra pounds that had found their way onto my waistline during my hibernation, but hopefully now it’s hiding my chest too. Without prior warning of the trampoline I hadn’t secured my boobs into an appropriate sports bra, and they’re bounding about all over the place.
‘OK,’ shouts Seb. ‘You can stop now.’
I’m so relieved that my ordeal is over and that I’ve survived that I don’t give any thought to stopping. I simply straighten my legs as I come down from a bounce and I can feel myself tumble forward with the impact. I’m hurtling perilously close to the edge and I’m sure I’m about to fall flat on my face.
‘Whoa, there,’ says Rick, jumping up onto the crash mat and holding his hands out to stop me.
He manages to break my fall and stops me before I land on top of him. God, that could have been embarrassing. I could have found myself lying on top of my boss, instead of him having stopped me by grabbing hold of my boobs.
Oh, crap, my boss’s hands are on my boobs.
His hands are well and truly cupping my 36DDs and they’re the only thing stopping me from falling on him. I try and push myself backwards, but I’m so off-kilter that all I’m doing is pushing closer to him and giving him more of a feel.
Why isn’t he moving his hands?
It’s like he hasn’t noticed where they are. I know he’s probably relieved that I didn’t end up on top of him, squashing him with the extra weight I’m carrying, but surely he can sense what he’s holding? He’s gripping me so tight that I feel like I’m wearing one of Madonna’s conical bras.
‘You all right?’ he says. ‘That was quite a stop.’
‘Um, yeah, I’d be better if perhaps . . .’
Perhaps you took your mitts of my tits, I want to scream, but I can’t quite bring myself to say that to my boss.
‘. . . If perhaps, I was, you know . . . a bit more upright.’
Rick looks down at his hands and his eyes almost pop out in horror.
‘Argh!’ He pushes me backwards with such force that I land on my bum with a bit of a bounce.
His hands are still outstretched in a cupping motion and he seems to be as scarred as I am by what’s just happened.
‘Thanks for stopping me,’ I mutter, mortified. I slide off the trampoline, desperate to get onto solid ground and away from Rick.
‘No problem,’ he stutters, before finally putting his hands down and scurrying back upstairs, too embarrassed to make eye contact.
Once my feet have adjusted to being back on terra firma, I walk over to join Seb, who’s studying his laptop, having missed the whole boob-grabbing incident.
‘They’re not too bad,’ he says.
I squint at the thumbnails and recoil in horror.
‘But they’re not good,’ I reply.
I can’t believe that’s me on the screen. I barely recognise myself. I’ve got huge black circles under my eyes, and my dark-brown, elbow-length hair looks matted and messy as it flies out behind me. I look like I’ve been electrocuted. The black jumper and jeans that I wore in order to cover up the post-break-up pounds are more frumpy than flattering. All in all, I look like I’ve pulled an all-nighter at a Goth convention.
‘It’s not as good as last year’s photo,’ says Seb diplomatically. ‘But it’s not the worst I’ve seen today.’
I look back at the thumbnails, hoping to see at least one good one, but they all look like I’m auditioning for a part in a zombie movie.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll do something equally as fun next year,’ says Seb.
‘Something to look forward to,’ I say sarcastically.
He smiles at me and goes over to talk to Pat, the office manager, his next victim. Despite the fact that she turned sixty last year, she shows no sign of fear like I did. Instead she slips off her glasses and shoes, and willingly climbs on board. I watch her do her test bounces as she soars delicately in the air.
I’m so going to win the worst photo this year.
I slip my boots back on and walk slowly back to my desk. I’m not in the mood to do any more work, so instead I turn off my computer. It is Friday, and almost knocking off time.
‘How did your photos go?’ asks Fran, who sits in the cubicle opposite me, as I walk past her desk. I was hoping to sneak off without attracting any attention.
‘They could have gone better. How were yours?’
‘They were OK,’ she says, standing up and picking up her coffee cup. ‘All the better for not being on that bloody trampoline.’
‘How did you get out of that?’
Was that even an option?
‘Well,’ she says, leaning into me, ‘I might have told Seb a little white lie.’
‘Right . . .’ I say, hoping I can learn how to get out of next year’s stunt.
‘I told him that I was a couple of months pregnant.’
‘You what?’ I say, thinking I must have misheard her.
‘I told Seb that I was expecting and that it wasn’t advisable for me to bounce.’ She shrugs her shoulders as if it’s perfectly normal to make up a fake baby at work.
‘And don’t you think he might tell Rick?’
‘I told him not to as I’m waiting for the three-month mark before I announce it, and of course I’ll tell him next time that it was a false positive on the test or that I miscarried.’
I gasp, as if she’s jinxing her future babies.
‘All I knew, when I saw Linz bounding around like an over-excited monkey, was that I wasn’t going to go down that route. Do you know she wasn’t even wearing a bra and she still went on it?’ She shakes her head in disgust.
‘How slutty,’ I say, thinking that it’s slightly ironic that Fran finds the lack of bra the disturbing part of this conversation. ‘Right, I’ve got to run.’
‘OK, have a nice weekend!’
‘You too,’ I say, waving as I practically run out the back fire escape. I don’t want to see that trampoline ever again.
The fresh air hits me and my thoughts turn to the photos I’ve just seen. I knew the last few weeks had been hard on me mentally, but I didn’t realise they’d left such a physical mark too.
I walk home briskly, cursing Joseph and his ‘I don’t think we want the same things from life’ speech that ended our lovely romance. Before that I was a normal, sane human being. One that could get up in the morning without being reduced to tears at the sight of a box of cornflakes that bore his fingerprints.
It’s been four weeks and I don’t seem to be getting over him at all. In fact, absence truly has made the heart grow fonder and I feel like I miss him more and more each day.
I hurry back home, desperate to hide away and mope. I practically run up the steps to the entrance of my block of flats. Usually I’d take a moment to look out at the view of the tree-lined common and the seafront beyond it, but not today. Instead I want to reach the sanctuary of my flat as quickly as I can.
I unlock my front door, and I’m immediately hit by the smell. It’s a musty combination of stale wine and Chinese food.
I walk into the living room and it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time. It looks like a teenager’s been left at home alone for the first time. My open-plan living room is littered with takeaway cartons, wine bottles and half-eaten bags of crisps. It’s hard to tell where the kitchen area ends and the lounge starts.
I hover in the doorway, wrinkling my nose. How have I been living like this?
It’s not just that my flat’s in a mess, I think, as I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror in the hallway – I am too. I turn to study myself.
The bright lights of the photo shoot might have amplified the puffy, panda eyes, but they’re definitely visible. I rake my hand through the knotty hair that’s hanging limply down my back. I puff my cheeks out and prod the bags under my eyes, but it doesn’t change anything. All I see when I look in the mirror is the woman that Joseph dumped.
I’ve desperately wanted him to see the error of his ways and come back to me, but what on earth would he think of me and the flat if he did?
I suddenly know what I’ve got to do.
I walk over to the kitchen and grab a pair of scissors out of the knife rack. I scoop my hair up and hold it as if I’m putting it into a loose ponytail.
Positioning myself back in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath before taking the scissors up to my hair and snipping. I wince slightly as the blades squeak as they cut through, but it only lasts a second and then I’m left clutching nine inches of my hair.
It’s as if I’ve suddenly realised that I’ve got to take control of this post-break-up existence. I’ve already got one pretty major obstacle in the way of Joseph and me getting back together – him – so I don’t need anything else.
I look back down at the hair in my hand and laugh. It’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but somehow it seems like the sanest decision I’ve made in weeks.