‘They’s fine! You’se gone mad. Where’ye put your iPhoto library?’
‘Jude,’ said Tom, ‘leave her alone, leave her to me. I. Am ssprofessional. I. Am a doctor of pyscholosphy.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘Thanks you,’ said Tom. ‘You are dealing with six things in a relationship. Theirs fantasy about you. Theirs fantasy about the relationship, your fantasy about them, their fantasy about your fantasy about themselves and – how many is that? Oh. Their fantasy about . . . thems!’
Then Tom rose sententiously, walked calmly, if unsteadily, to the fridge, returned with a packet of chocolate buttons and a bottle of Chardonnay, and pulled a packet of Silk Cut out of his jacket pocket.
‘Some things neeever change!’ he said. ‘Nows opens your mouth and takes your medicines. Thassas a good girl.’
When I woke up in the morning, I was all tucked up with a selection of soft toys, a copy of Thelma and Louise, and a note from all three of them saying: ‘We will always love you.’
However, when I picked up my phone there was also a text from Jude with an OkCupid login and password.
THE YAWNING VOID
Monday 24 June 2013
135lb, texts from Roxster 0, emails from Roxster 0, phone calls from Roxster 0, voicemails from Roxster 0, tweets from Roxster 0, Twitter messages from Roxster 0.
9.15 p.m. Children are asleep. OH GOD, I’M SO LONELY. I miss Roxster. Now that the bubble has burst, and I have realized Mark is still gone, the children still have no father, and all the other complicated, unfixable things, I just quite simply and straightforwardly miss Roxster. Is so weird going from total closeness to . . . nothing. Total cyberspace emptiness. The text is silent. No emails from Roxster. He no longer tweets. I cannot get on his Facebook because to do that I would have to join Facebook which I know is emotional suicide, and then ask to be his friend on Facebook and then find loads of pictures of him snogging thirty-year-olds. Have reread the old messages and emails and there is just nothing left of Roxby McDuff now, at all.
Had not really stopped to think how much Roxster meant to me because I really was being Buddhist and staying in the moment. Had not realized we were building a little world together: the farts, the vomit, jokes about food and our favourite pubs, and the barnacle’s penis. Every time something funny happens want to text it to Roxster. And then realize, with cold, lurching remembrance, that Roxster doesn’t want to hear about all the funny little things any more, because he’s doubtless hearing funny details of the life of someone who is twenty-three and likes Lady Gaga.
10 p.m. Just got into bed. Cold empty boring bed. When am I ever going to have sex again or wake up with someone as young and beautiful as Roxsterrrrrrrr?
10.05 p.m. Fuck him with his fucking curry! I absolutely do not care about Roxster any more whatsoever. Pah! He was simply a curry-eating . . . Callow Gigolo! Have deleted him from contacts and will not correspond with or see or ask to see him ever again ever. He is deleted.
10.06 p.m. But I lurrrrrrrrrrve him.
Tuesday 25 June 2013
Number of mean texts made up to send to Roxster in case Roxster texts me 33.
9.15 p.m. OH GOD, I’M SO LONELY. Keep thinking maybe Roxster will text that we should have a drink, and keep making up imaginary haughty texts in reply:
<I’m sorry, who is this?>
<I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that might prevent me from meeting people who match my own emotional maturity, glamorous social life and stylish designer outfits.>
Or:
<But what if a thirty-year-old walks past in the middle who likes farting and vomiting?>
Wednesday 26 June 2013
9.15 p.m. OH GOD, I’M SO LONELY.
9.16 p.m. Have just had brilliant idea! Will text Leatherjacketman!
9.30 p.m. Texting exchange went as follows: