“I’ve met somebody else.”
“What!” he yelled, making me jump. “Are you fucking kidding me!” he screamed down the phone. “Two weeks, it’s been two fucking weeks!” he yelled, “and you’ve met someone else.”
“Yes,” I sobbed. He stayed silent. I knew I’d broken his heart as well as mine and I was now on my hands and knees on the floor. Again, silence.
In a deathly voice he asked, “Have you slept with him?” I could hardly answer. How could he even think that? My chest was breaking.
“Yes,” I sobbed. He made a guttural noise and the phone went dead. He had hung up. I collapsed into the foetal position on the floor, knowing he was probably on the floor like me. I was a cold heartless bitch, how could I say that? My heart was broken, my chest hurt. I was crying so loudly I was sure the neighbours could hear me.
I stayed in bed for a week, unable to eat and hardly able to keep anything down, while my mother doted on me, thinking I had a stomach bug. I lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. I had no tears left.
Even to this day, seven years later, that memory brings nausea to my stomach every time I think of it. It is as if it happened yesterday. I am brought back to a young seventeen–year–old girl lying alone on the lounge room floor clutching the phone. The pain is so vivid it’s unbearable. I do what I always do when this memory haunts me. I get straight up, put the television on and get into the shower. Sometimes I stay in the shower for over an hour—it is as if I am trying to wash the lies away. Although it’s not possible, if only I could. I’ve never forgiven myself., I should have told him the truth. He deserved the truth. Something’s got to give as this is unbearable. Why do the memories of this man haunt me—how do I escape him?
“You know what shits me?” I moan as I look into my compact mirror at my face, turning my head. “When I pay good money and say I have a wedding and I want to look hot, that does not mean code for I want to look like the tooth fairy on crack.”
“I know, right,” Bridget tuts. We are in the back of a cab surveying the damage from our hair and makeup appointment. “At least your hair looks good. The silly bitch put so much lacquer in my hair I’m like a Venus Fly Trap. I hope there are no flies at the reception as they will all get stuck in my hair.” I giggle as I pull a disgusted face. At least the makeup disaster has taken the edge off my nerves—only three hours until I see him. I smile out the window as I hunch my shoulders. I feel like a little kid at Christmas.
“Do you think I should have spray tanned?” I ask.
“No, too much skin. You would have looked like a Penthouse Pet.”
“Maybe that’s the look I’m going for,” I smirk.
Bridget narrows her eyes and laughs, “Well you do have the makeup for it.”
“Very funny ha, ha.”
I look into the mirror at the young woman staring back at me, my long dark brown hair is set very Raquel Welch. I’ve successfully removed my Steve Tyler makeup and reapplied. My bronze sky–high strappy shoes are on, and I am waxed to within an inch of my life. I stare at my reflection. My charcoal Grecian–style dress is fitted but drapes in all the right places. It is backless with a thigh–high split down one leg. The dress is understated elegance I think, a little sexy without trying too hard. I look good, if I do say so myself. I like this dress better than the other option. Josh has never seen me like this. I was a girl when he left. I’m now a clinical psychologist, fit and in every part of my life confident and assured. Too bad I’m being eaten alive by guilt, suffocated by a love I don’t even have. I pull my shoulders back and take a deep breath. Perk up, old girl, I say out loud to myself, today you start to heal. Time to rip off the bandaid.