“I’m telling you he’s playing up,” Bridget whines.
“Oh fuck, not this again,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair, my elbows resting on the table.
“Just dump him already.”
“No, I need proof.”
“Why?” I scoff. “I’m over hearing about this wanker, it’s doing my head in.” I take my phone from my bag and check my messages, trying to block her out.
“Listen here, you,” she points her teaspoon at me to accentuate her point. “You listen to all kinds of crazy shit at work and you’re going to damn well listen to mine.” I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, but I get paid for that and my patients actually respect my opinion and besides you’re different. I can tell you what I think and I think you should dump the prick.”
“So you think he’s a prick now?”
“No, you think he’s a prick.”
“When did I say that?”
“When you said he was playing up on you.”
“Oh god, don’t start your shrink shit with me, you’re twisting my words.”
I roll my eyes. “Listen if you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask for it.”
“Fine, I won’t.”
“Good, suits me.”
“What are you two arguing about?” Abbie joins us from the rest room.
“We are not arguing,” I moan.
“Yes we are, Tash thinks Jeremy is a prick”
Abbie laughs and nods, “Who doesn’t? Jeremy is a prick.” We are at our favourite coffee shop, Oscar’s. We meet there a couple of times a week. Oscar’s is small and unassuming. Its walls are dark timber panelling with big green–glass pendant lights hanging low over oversized chocolate leather lounges that have coloured scatter cushions all over them. Big wooden coffee tables adorn the centre of each setting. The clientele are eclectic, from normal girls like us to doctors and lawyers, punk rockers to gorgeous gay men. Great coffee music always adds to the ambience and atmosphere, although on the last four or five times it hasn’t been as enjoyable as normal. Abbie (Bridget and my best friend) and I have had to endure countless hours of Jeremy crap.
Bridget rummages through her bag. “Abbie, I bought you something,” she pulls out a white paper bag.
Abbie frowns, “What is it?”
Bridget smiles. “It’s a bumper sticker for your car.” She pulls it out and we all burst out laughing. It reads: If you’re going to ride my ass
Can you at least pull my hair?
“That’s funny.” I can’t stop laughing.
“And you bought me this because?”
“Because you told me you like it when guys pull your hair.”
“When did I tell you that?”
“Oh fuck off. Are you denying it?”
“No, yes, shut up, stop it,” she laughs. “Show me a red–blooded woman who doesn’t like having her hair pulled.” Bridget and I both look at each other sheepishly and raise our hands in unison. She pulls a disgusted face. “God, you two must be shit in bed.” She rolls her eyes while we giggle. “Anyway I can’t put this on my car, my dad will freak.” She shakes her head as she stuffs it in her bag.
“Ok, back to the conversation. Once and for all tell me why you think he’s cheating. I want ten reasons.” I wave my teaspoon at her. “No excuses.”
“Ok,” she nods. “We used to see each other every night but now he’s a partner in his law firm I don’t see him much through the week.”
“Ok, maybe he’s just working,” I answer.
“Maybe,” she nods. “The sex has dropped off.”
“By how much?”
“Well it used to be three or four times a week and now it’s like once a week and usually I initiate it.”
“Maybe he’s tired and stressed.”
Abbie pipes in. “Bullshit.”
“Abbie, you can’t comment. Boyfriends are different to one–night stands,” I mutter.
“Ok, agreed,” she nods.
I love Abbie, she’s a self–proclaimed sneaky slut. By sneaky slut I mean when we are out and having a great time dancing and drinking, she just disappears. Twenty minutes later we get a text telling us she’s gone home. She has a few boys in her kitty as she calls it. We know them as number one, first reserve, tall guy, hot guy, army guy and she has a tradie as well, although I don’t know what he does. Number one always has right of way if he’s out although I think army guy is rising through the ranks pretty quickly. Bridget and I know them all by sight but in all honesty have probably not spoken more than a dozen words to any of them. She likes it like this. We love her honesty and good on her if she can do it without guilt—why not? I could probably take a leaf out of her book and loosen the hell up.
“And,” Bridget continues, “he’s started to guard his phone.”
“Hmm, that’s not good.” We all silently sum up the situation.
“And get this, last week when I stayed at his house I was looking in his drawer and he has bought all new underwear.”