8

Despite me trying to channel my inner creative genius since late last night, I am still no further forward on a blog topic or a revenge plot.

Luckily for me, last night’s writing group was all about benchmarking and looking at blogs, so I’ve got a whole week to write my own before we look them up in class.

So although my personal life is in a state of flux while I work out what to do about Will, I’m focusing my attention on writing my blog and taking advantage of my previously underused lunch breaks.

It’s actually quite refreshing to step away from my desk and into the fresh air. I’m so used to grabbing a quick sandwich or, if I’m feeling adventurous, heading down to the subsidised staff canteen. And it really is adventurous since you can never be too sure if there are vegetables in the veggie lasagne, or just what meat is in the meat loaf. But today, I’m heading outside and away from my computer to a coffee shop to sit behind . . . my laptop. Yep, OK, still a screen, but at least it’s a change of screen.

With the noise of the coffee machine, the chatter of fellow customers and the windows steamed up with condensation, I can indulge in my fantasy that I’m a full-time writer working in some big exciting city, rather than a wannabe writer in a small coastal town on my lunch break.

All I need to do is think of a topic to write about. Janet, our group leader, said it didn’t have to be book-related and that it could be about our real lives. I’ve only got to come up with half a dozen different posts for class, it’s not like I’ve got to keep it going. Yet I’m still stumped.

I’m just about to start typing – really I am – when a shadow falls across my desk.

‘Hey there,’ says Robin, as I look up at him. ‘Moonlighting, are we?’

‘Oh,’ I say, looking up in surprise. I thought I’d gone far enough away from the council offices not to bump into colleagues. I’m a bit flustered and I don’t want him to think I’m here applying for other jobs or running some sort of secret company. I need to think of a good excuse for what I could be doing. ‘I’m just doing a bit of writing.’

I groan internally. I hate new people knowing about my hobby. By telling them, it’s like I’ve invited them into a secret room, and once they know about it, people start poking around and offering advice.

I close the lid of my laptop, as I don’t want him to see the empty page in front of me. I’m too embarrassed to admit I’ve got writer’s block.

Robin sees this as an invitation, pulls out the chair opposite me, and sits down.

‘Don’t worry, I’m just waiting for my panini to cook and then I’ll leave you to it. So what do you write?’

I sigh. This is where it starts.

‘Thrillers, mostly. Although, today I’m working on a blog post. You know, establishing my social networking platform,’ I say, pretending that I know what I’m talking about.

‘Good for you,’ he says in a tone that sounds a bit patronising, but from the look on his face I don’t think it was meant in that way.

We sit for a moment in silence and my eyes drift over to the counter in the hope that his panini is forthcoming. But the waiting staff seem busy with other customers.

‘So . . . do you come here often?’ I say, trying to change the subject, before I realise what I’ve said and cringe. I really hope he doesn’t think I’m flirting with him.

‘Well, I would if I knew . . .’ He laughs at his own joke and it only makes me cringe more. ‘Yes, I do. I have a real weakness for their tuna paninis. I know it’s a long way to come, but they use red onion and really good mozzarella. You should try one, you know, if your taste buds aren’t too damaged from all that fast food.’

‘Hey, that was a one-off. It had been a big weekend.’

‘Right, the wedding. They can be rough. Especially the older you get. My hangovers seem to go on for days now,’ he says.

‘Me too.’ I knew that must be a thing. ‘I’m not looking forward to getting any older if this is what’s to come.’

‘I think you’re OK yet. You’re what, twenty-five, twenty-six?’

He’s looking at me like he’s trying to count my wrinkles, as if they’re the circles on a tree stump.

‘Actually, I’m thirty-one.’

‘Oh,’ he says with a look of almost shock. ‘You’re looking really good for your age, then.’

‘Um, thanks,’ I say, not knowing if it was really a compliment. One of those awkward silences falls over the table and I wonder what to say. ‘How’s your work going?’

‘OK. I mean, it’s still early days, but I had a quick meeting with my boss Beth this morning and she seems happy with my outlined proposal for what I’m going to look at. Or as happy as an ogre can be.’

I feel goosebumps prickle my skin at the thought of Robin’s report. I know he told me that he’s not out to get us fired, but I do still feel uneasy about it.

‘I tell you, you’re so lucky to have a boss like Jacqui. She seems to really focus on the talents of her staff. You should have heard the things she said about you.’

‘Were they good?’ I squeak in hope.

‘Yes, let’s just say if you ever needed another job, your references would glow more than Regent Street at Christmas.’

I know that should make me feel a little better, but I also know that whatever happens after the report, it won’t be Jacqui’s decision to make.

There’s another pause, and I’m wondering if they’ve gone to catch the tuna for Robin’s lunch.

‘How long have you worked at the council, then?’ he asks.

‘Um, about seven years.’

‘In the same job?’

I know what he’s thinking, that I should have moved on by now. I’d only ever meant to work there for a year or two, as a stepping stone for something bigger, but the lure of staying in my home town was too appealing. Having moved from a bedsit in Tooting, I had found that I could afford to rent a flat that I could swing a cat in and have money left over at the end of the month. My two best friends (Vanessa and Cara) had moved back after university too, and it was handy that my parents were round the corner. What really put the nail in the coffin, though, was when, a couple of months into the job, I met Will. With all those reasons to stay – and a genuine love of my job – I haven’t wanted to climb the career ladder.

‘Yeah, but I love it,’ I say, giving him the simple explanation. ‘I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. And you?’

I know from my own private observations that he’s been there for a few years.

‘It’ll be four years in January. It’s crazy how quickly time flies.’

‘Do you think you’ll stay?’

‘For now. There are quite a lot of opportunities for me still. I’ve bought a flat on the Hamble, and I really like it. So unless I take a job at one of the other local councils, I think I’ll be here for a bit.’

‘Where are you originally from, then?’ I ask, trying to guess, but pinning him down to the Home Counties with his plain, slightly posh accent.

‘Leatherhead, in Surrey,’ he says.

I almost do an air punch. I would so have said Surrey. He’s got that look about him.

‘Avocado on toast with a baked egg,’ says a waitress, hovering over us.

Robin and I both look up and I raise my hand.

For once I’m pleased that I didn’t go for the pulled pork sour- dough that I’d so craved. It would have looked like all I ate was stodgy, fatty food.

‘I’m sorry to be a pain,’ he says, flashing a winning smile at the waitress. ‘I was just wondering if my panini will be ready any time soon? No hurry, just when it suits.’

The waitress looks like she’s going to swoon, and I think if he’d asked her to murder puppies for his panini, she’d have obliged. He’s got that old-fashioned, proper gent charm down to a tee.

‘I’ll get it right away,’ she says.

There’s a colour to her cheeks that I would have had in a similar situation up until a couple of days ago, but I’m slowly building up immunity to his charms. I’ve realised that he makes everyone feel special and I keep reminding myself of that so that I don’t get sucked in.

‘So, social networking,’ he says. ‘What does that entail, then? Posting to Facebook?’

‘I’m playing around with a blog. Mainly just about my life.’

I hope he doesn’t ask any more questions as I don’t really want him to know the details.

‘I’m sure you must have lots to write about. Your job seems interesting with the different artists and organisations you get to work with.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I say, nodding. ‘But I don’t blog about work. I like to keep my private life separate.’

‘Of course. Plus, most of the interesting blogs are about people’s personal lives, aren’t they? Look at all those YouTube people that have become famous.’

‘I guess, but I can’t imagine people would be dying to see my daily life here, my commute to the council building, my house that’s covered in paint samples and dodgy wallpaper from the last owners.’

Robin smiles. ‘I’m sure people are just as fascinated with actual real life as they are with what they see on Instagram.’

‘Are they? Are they really? Don’t we all just wish we lived liked Tom and Giovanna Fletcher?’

‘Who?’

My mouth drops open.

‘Um, Tom – from McFly.’

‘Are you sure you’re not twenty-five?’

‘Whatever,’ I say, picking up my fork and starting to eat my food before it gets cold.

‘Couldn’t you write about your relationship? Aren’t you the ultimate laid-back girlfriend? Not minding that your other half goes off to the footie instead of going to your best mate’s wedding. It could be called the Good Girlfriend’s Guide.’

I almost choke on my avocado. If only he knew the truth about what was going on at the moment. With all the anger and the thoughts of revenge, if I wrote down what was actually going on in it would be more like the Good Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Even.

The waitress finally comes over and gives him his paper bag, along with a big smile. I’m guessing he gets that a lot.

‘Right, well, I should leave you to it. Good luck. You never know, you might become the next Princess on a Shoestring.’

I look at him confused, as I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘She was a blogger turned bestseller. My sister’s getting married, and she carries her book around like it’s the Bible.’

I almost splutter a laugh at the thought that someone would want to publish a book about my whining.

Robin gets up and leaves the coffee shop and I slowly pull the laptop screen up. I try to turn my attention back to the task in hand.

I stare at my blank screen. But what’s interesting about my life? I work all day in a job that I enjoy, but it’s really not of that much interest to the wider world. I am content in my long-term relationship with my boyfriend. I’m so far a failing aspiring author. We don’t even have a pet that does interesting things that I could talk about.

It’s hardly bookmark material.

I laugh for a moment at the thought of writing about my relationship with Will, like Robin suggested. I’m not sure that it would go down so well. I cheekily type out the bio that Janet said we should write for our page.

 

I’m Lexi, thirty-one-year-old woman, in perpetual long-term relationship with sports-mad boyfriend. Follow my blog to hear of our perfect domesticity, where I have my life organised around the fate of eleven men in red-and-white stripy shirts and the Sky Sports schedule. Expect much swearing and exasperation, from both him, at whichever umpire/referee of the game he is watching, and me, from being ignored – AGAIN!

 

I read what I’ve written. It’s actually funny. I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m laughing at how pathetic my life seems, or if I’m actually harbouring a comedy genius inside. Perhaps Robin was on to something.

 

My boyfriend and I have been together seven years. SEVEN. And in that time, I’ve learnt an awful lot, mainly how no matter how many times he is told, the toilet seat will always be left up and the answer to the question ‘What should we do today?’ will always feature a time window as there will be some sporting event to be watched before/after. Yes, my friends, I am a sporting widow.

You might be one, or you might know one. You can usually spot them a mile off – they’re the ones that are sat in restaurants not talking to the men they’re with as they’ll be looking up scores on their iPhones. The ones who get dragged along in the freezing cold to the arse end of nowhere to watch games against teams they’ve never heard of, as that’s the only way they get to spend time with their partners. The ones that have to hunt for their men in social gatherings, only to find them holed up in a corner having found a TV to watch the sports on.

I’m sure, like me, they’re the ones that can probably tell you the name of every football ground in England, what an LBW is in cricket, and the new rules in Rugby Union scrums. The only saving grace of such useless knowledge is that it will hopefully come up in future pub quizzes.

 

I stop typing and glance over what I’ve written. I like the warm tone to it, and it sounds quite witty, but I can’t help thinking it’s lacking something. Would I really want to read a blog that is just someone moaning about being ignored and having acquired enough knowledge to go on A Question of Sport?

I highlight the text, hit Delete, and then pause for a minute. I think back over the best-practice blogs that we looked at in our writing group last week. All of them had an interesting angle or a hook.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I know what the hook for my blog should be, I just don’t know if I want to write about it. I take a deep breath and tell myself that I can just see what it looks like on the page – it’s not like I’m going to be posting it live right now.

 

Sporting Widow Seeks Revenge

 

Up until a week ago, I was a happy sporting widow. OK, maybe happy is a bit too strong a word, but let’s just say I didn’t mind playing second fiddle to my boyfriend’s sporting obsession. I was content writing my novel and fitting our social life round his seemingly never-ending sports watching. When it came down to it, I always thought if he had to choose between the sport and me, he’d pick me. Oh, how wrong I was.

It all started when I got a wedding invitation from my best friend. I should have had my suspicions then, when he was quiet about it. Usually when an invitation arrives there’s a frenzy to check the date so he can work out if his beloved football team are playing, or if there are any other sports he might miss. It’s often worse than a Middle East peace summit, trying to arrange his terms for attendance as we negotiate how and when I’ll allow him to monitor the game/match – phone, mobile app, TV (e.g. he’s banned from checking during the service/speeches/first dance). So when we RSVPd without his usual strop, I thought that was either because (a) his football team were playing away, or (b) he knew her wedding was too important for him to kick up a fuss.

The wedding day arrived and we were getting ready to go (so far so good) when my boyfriend was struck down with food poisoning. He was hobbling round, wincing in pain, groaning as he ran to the toilet. Believing he was almost at death’s door, I tucked him up in bed after administering Imodium, like the good girlfriend I am, and then I trotted off to the wedding alone. I was having a grand old time until I got a picture message from one of my work colleagues showing his TV screen – with my boyfriend at the football on display. That’s right, my lovely boyfriend had faked an illness to miss the wedding and go to a football game. I don’t need to tell you how livid I was.

I’m sure you’re already imagining the mother of all rows we had. But in truth, he doesn’t know I’ve found out about what he’s done. Instead, I want to make him pay for it – I’m going to get my own back. One piece of revenge at a time.

By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll be missing that much sport he’ll be the sporting widower.

 

Blimey. My fingers stop typing and I stare at how much I’ve written. I read it back through and I think it works. It fulfils the brief. It’s a blog. It’s interesting (or at least I think it is), and I should have enough material to fill the next few weeks of class. It does make me sound like a little bit of a Fatal Attraction ‘bunny boiler’ – but I’m allowed to embellish the story a bit, aren’t I?

What am I thinking? I highlight the text and hover over the Delete key. These blogs might be a pet project in our writing class, but they’re still going live on the Internet. There is the potential that someone other than my writing class might stumble across it and read it. Do I really want them to?

I know that not many people will read it, but I feel a bit guilty talking about Will like this. I mean, he is my boyfriend, and I love him dearly – sports obsession and all – and having what he did down on paper in black and white when I haven’t told him that I know feels a little bit like I’m betraying him.

But then what would the alternative be? I take a deep breath and instead of deleting the post I save it. I can decide later if I’m brave enough to post it.

I close my laptop down and triumphantly eat the rest of my avocado on toast. Now, if only I could solve the problem of what I’m going to do about Will’s lying as easily.