Festive frustrations

After the drama of the last few months, I had idyllic fantasies of my Christmas with the folks in France. I had visions of myself coming over all zen, realising that there were more important things in life than pesky boys; that I was perfectly at ease with my own company; and frankly way too good for either of them. Of course, that’s not exactly what happened.

What did happen was a catalogue of disasters, beginning with getting so ill on the plane that I spent the first three days of my trip in bed. This unanticipated period of convalescence gave me way too much time to think, resulting in my mooning over the whole thing with John way more than the dalliance deserved and sinking into a heavy fug I just couldn’t seem to lift.

Thankfully come Christmas morning I made a miraculous recovery and was just preparing our annual Champagne breakfast when the mood was ruined by an unwelcome text. As soon as I saw his name on my phone (yes, HIM – as in John, as in the man who wimped out of our relationship weeks before, and whom I’d not heard a dicky bird from since), I lost it, hurling the phone and several expletives across the living room as my bemused parents looked on. “I’m sorry but he doesn’t get to do that! He doesn’t get to remove himself from my life then pop back into it on bloody Christmas day! And he certainly doesn’t get to call me by a nickname, and ask how ‘Damo’ and the family are – what’s he playing at?”

“Er, think I’ll go and set the table,” mumbled Dad, shuffling off while I looked demandingly at Mum, as if she’d have the answer. “Maybe he was just thinking about you, sweetheart…” she suggested. “Well he doesn’t get to,” I huffed, sulking off to the shower. “And he needn’t think I’m responding!” *Door slams*

Of course, I did respond. And by the time, dinner was done and Dad was forcing me to watch the Michael MacIntrye DVD, we’d exchanged several chatty texts and I was feeling pretty perky about the whole thing. Sadly, a family fallout over breakfast the next morning (my mum had overcooked the eggs – an error which somehow escalated into talk of divorce) put an end to my short-lived positivity and any hopes I’ve had of cosy family bonding. Instead, I passed the hours surfing the net – a seemingly harmless pastime, which inevitably ended in disaster.

Perusing my emails, I realised I’d overlooked the latest newsletter from Meddlers of Honour – the monthly dating night where J and I first met. Laura had tried desperately to get me to attend the December event but given the whole mess it had gotten me into last time, I’d refused. Still no reason not to check out if any potential hotties had attended, I thought, clicking on the link to the photogallery. And it was then that my heart literally plummeted into my stomach.

There was John - who, just to recap, didn’t want to be in relationship with “anyone” and was too busy “getting over a long-standing virus” to be physically able to maintain anything casual – caught on camera, with one hand grasping a bottle of beer and the other draped languidly around the waist of some blonde (yes, I know I’m blonde but that’s no reason not to use it in an accusatory tone towards other blondes – besides, mine’s real). I was livid.

The anger threatened to spill out of my eyeballs but I managed to transform the tears into rage. “Lying little fucker,” I yelled. Mum was at my side in a second: “What’s he done now?” I pointed at the screen, waiting for a similarly outraged reaction to mine, but it didn’t come.

Instead, she turned traitor on me. “But Carrie, that doesn’t mean he lied to you. It means he was never there looking for a relationship in the first place. And didn’t you tell me he texted you a couple of weeks ago to say he’d been forced into a kiss with a girl and that all it had done was make him miss you?”

“Er, yeah.” (Okay so we had been in touch that one time).

“Well there’s your girl.”

It was plausible, but I still couldn’t let it go…hence the irrational text: {So I just saw the pics from meddlers. Hope you had more luck this time round than you did the last time.}

I knew I was provoking an argument but wasn’t it about time? I’d been pretending I was okay about everything all along, but why should I? He hurt me and all I’d done was reassure him, and tell him it was okay to treat me that way. Well screw that, it wasn’t okay.

Of course, his explanation pretty much exactly mirrored my mum’s theory – with the additional fact that he’d been dragged there against his will, and a question: “Why can’t you understand that it’s because I like you so much that I wish circumstances could be different?”

“Because that’s bullshit’ seemed an unreasonable response so instead I typed the following: {All I understand is that things were great until you decided you’d rather be miserable and alone than have anything more. And the only ‘circumstances’ there are, are in your head.}

His answer: {I know this}.

And thus we finally reached stalemate. There was nothing left to say so I deleted his number and every text he’d ever sent me, and I did what I always do in times of need these days – I called Rob…

Me: I’m back in town tomorrow – fancy meeting up for a drink?

Rob: Er, yeah, but, well…I can’t tomorrow. I’ve sort of got plans. Actually I’ve met someone…

Me: *silence*

Rob: Carrie, you still there?

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit……………

Nothing serious?

A few days after our lost weekend, John headed off to New York on holiday, unwittingly leaving me to fall foul of temptation. It all started innocently enough; with a few of us girls going along to a party one of Rob’s friends was throwing in a nearby bar. But a few hours later, when I let him kiss me, I knew I was on a slippery slope. Realising I’d made a mistake, I wasted no time in telling him that all I could offer was friendship. But his reaction wasn’t at all what I expected. “You’ll come round,” he assured me. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He was true to his word too. When John got back, we picked up right where we left off, but Rob was always there in the background, charming me with his banter via email, sending me playlists he thought I’d like, asking me again and again to give him a chance. Most of the time, it was easy to give him the brush off but then John started acting weird. He assured me it was simply because he wasn’t feeling well, that he’d felt wiped out ever since he got back from New York. And sure enough, when he went to the doctor, they informed him he had glandular fever.

But I knew there was more to his sudden distance than an illness, and over lunch one day, he dropped the bombshell. “What do you think about what’s going on between us’?’ he asked. It felt like a trick question. “I thought we were having fun,” I offered.

“Yeah, good, me too,” John agreed. “I just can’t get into anything serious right now.” I tried not to look like I’d just been punched in the stomach, and attempted to figure out in my mind where I’d got things so wrong.

It didn’t add up though. John had never exactly played things cool. From the very beginning, he’d made it very clear that he was keen. Keen enough to want to talk everyday. Keen enough to dub Fridays ‘our night’, to dub the pub where we’d had our first date ‘our pub’, to confess that he’d told all his friends, his work colleagues, even his parents all about me. And what’s more, he’d been on at me to meet his parents for weeks. And now this?

“I bumped into my ex last week and it just made me realize how much I still haven’t dealt with the whole thing.”

Of course, I should have known there was another girl involved. He’d told me about the ex before – she was his only serious girlfriend and they’d split up when he left her in India and flew to New York because ‘he needed space’. He’d told me he felt awful about it, that she’d never forgiven him, and that they’d never met to talk it over. But why now, a year later, was it an issue again? I had no idea, but I knew one thing, I wasn’t letting him have the upper hand here. He’d been honest with me so it was time for me to come clean too.

When I told him about Rob, he looked confused. “So are you like dating this guy?” No, it was nothing like that, I assured him. “Have you slept with him?” No. “Are you going to?” No. “I just wanted to be honest. He’s around, I like him and he’s made it clear he’s not going anywhere. He made me a mixtape for god’s sake!” I joked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Which was annoyingly good.”

Now it was John’s turn to look like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Lets go for a walk on the Heath,” he decided, regaining his composure, and putting his arm round me. “I’m glad we’ve talked about this.”

“So what shall we do on our night this Friday, my dear?” he asked a while later when he’d taken me up to the top of the heath to see his favourite view of London. “And how do you feel about pet names?” So we were back on.

Of course, it didn’t last. A few weeks later, after many more perfect dates, many soppy text messages, a romantic night in a hotel for John’s birthday, and even his suggestion that we go on holiday together, he went cold on me again. Bizarrely, he’d introduced me to his mother 24 hours before bombshell number two came… “I think we should have a break for a while. I need to focus on getting well, and I still feel like I’m not in the right headspace for all this.” So we were back to the ex-girlfriend.

That night was horrible – I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d let my guard down till I found myself in tears on the floor of my bedroom. I’d agreed to this ‘break’ but I knew we were never going to go back to the way things had been, and finally, my self-preservation gene kicked back in…“I can’t do this, John. I can’t pretend I’m okay with this, and I can’t wait around while you decide how you feel so I’m going to make it easy and walk away.”

And that was that.

And you know who was there to put me back together again? Rob, of course. He’s been an absolute gem, making me laugh, taking me out, and somehow charming every single person in my social circle so it feels like I’m being indoctrinated into some strange Rob-loving cult. I know he’s not doing any of this because he wants a friend but he’s stopped pushing me to give him more, and if going along with it means I have someone to take me to the cinema to see It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas eve and text me in the wee small hours to tell me I’m beautiful, then it’s pretty hard to walk away from.

I just wish I could give him what he wants for Christmas. And I wish I wanted the same thing.