Chapter Three

I wake to the irritating sound of my mobile phone bleating somewhere in my vicinity but my head feels far too heavy to even attempt to lift it from my pillow. For a second I wonder why I'm lying face down on the bed in the first place, and then I remember. The restaurant, Chris's pathetic face as he told me it was over, the realisation that there was someone else, me shouting and then sobbing. My heart sinks and instantly the pain in my chest is back like an ice-cold hand clutching at my heart and squeezing with all its might.

Chris broke up with me. Our relationship is over. He's been cheating on me. He wants to be with someone else. The words flow repeatedly through my head like a solemn mantra.

Ultimately he doesn't want me any more.

I feel physically sick, broken and emotionally shattered.

My heart is willing me to lie here forever, but my body is challenging me to get up. I'm completely dehydrated and my tongue is sticking disgustingly to the roof of my mouth, in desperate need of water. Dragging myself up from my bed, I glimpse my reflection in my dressing-room mirror and I catch my breath; it's not a pretty sight. It's so bad that I have to stop and take a second look. I step closer and stare at the unkempt, almost unrecognisable reflection looking back at me. Last night's mascara has smeared around my eyes and down my cheeks, giving a whole new meaning to the term 'panda eyes'. My face is puffy from all the crying and the sleek, shiny hair that I left the house with last night has morphed into a matted mass that is half plastered to my face from the salty tears and half sticking up on end like I've received an electric shock. In a way I did, and maybe this is my whole body's reaction. It's turned on itself and gone into self-destruct mode.

Maybe caffeine will help.

My mobile phone bleeps again, signalling that a text message has arrived, and I glare at my handbag, the holder of said mobile phone, as it taunts me from the corner of the room. I eye it up warily. I don't even want to look at my phone but it's going to continue to prod me with that beeping sound until I do, and right now that feels like a drill pressing hard against my scull. Similar to pulling off a plaster, I realise I need to do this quickly. I rummage around in my handbag for the phone and glance briefly at the screen before sighing with relief. It's just Sophie. Oh no! She wanted all the details of my wonderful romantic evening. She's going to expect me to be engaged. I rub my temples, trying to dispense the thick fog that is clouding my brain. I'm not ready to regurgitate the events of last night just yet, even to Sophie. I feel too numb to even try to put what happened into words. I switch the phone to silent and toss it onto the bed.

Twisting myself into a knot, I extract myself from my little black dress and pull on my big, fluffy dressing gown, wrapping it around me like a security blanket as I head downstairs to the kitchen.

A few moments later, armed with a steaming mug, I reach the sanctuary of my sofa. As I sit nursing the mug of tea with the television on mute, I realise my mum is wrong – a cup of tea can't fix everything. It doesn't even come close. I'm torn between feeling so angry that I could go round to Chris's place right now and rip his head off and so sad that everything I thought we had we didn't. All the dreams of a future together were mine and not ours.

I quickly come to the conclusion that wallowing alone is only going to lead me to a further depression. Sitting upright and placing my empty mug on the coffee table, I decide that I need to have company or I'll end up drowning my sorrows with the last of the brandy left over from my attempt at a Christmas pudding, and no good will come of that.

I head back upstairs to text Sophie.

Hi. How was the second date with Connor? Last night didn't quite go to plan. Can you come over?

I take a deep breath and press 'send' but I realise, with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, that once I talk about the hideousness of the last supper, it will become a reality. It's not just some horrible dream and there's no going back.

My phone beeps.

Can be at yours in an hour. x

A hot shower does little to improve my puffy face but at least I can now blow-dry my hair back into a more acceptable style. Applying every lotion and potion I can to my skin seems to help, and by the time I hear the doorbell ring I almost resemble my normal self. As I open the door I see Sophie's face, which is initially bright with anticipation but then wavers slightly before she asks the dreaded question.

'What happened?' She frowns at me. 'Is everything alright?'

I step back from the door to let her in but I don't trust myself to speak quite yet. I can feel the emotion building in me again and my bottom lip quivers, causing me to fear that a repeat of last night's sobbing is about to erupt. I walk through to the kitchen and Sophie quickly follows behind me. I switch the kettle on and prepare two coffee cups, and then turn to face her. She hasn't uttered another word but she's staring at me intently with a worried expression, clearly waiting for me to begin to explain why I'm not grinning from ear to ear and shouting that I'm engaged from the top of my lungs.

'He didn't take me to La Sapiniere to ask me to marry him.' I take an awkward gulp of air. 'He took me there to break up with me. '

I lean on the kitchen side for support and watch Sophie's changing expression as she digests what I've just told her. She too seems completely floored by this news: she stands open-mouthed, mirroring my own flapping goldfish response from last night. Then she steps forward and pulls me into a hug. This simple act of friendship is my undoing and the tears begin to flow again.

After a moment or two I regain some of my composure and pull away from her, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand as I resume the task of making coffee.

'What happened? Why has he ended things?' Sophie asks softly.

'That's the best part of the story.' I sniff. 'He's been seeing someone else.'

'The bastard,' she snaps, clearly outraged. 'Who is she?'

I see a steely glint in Sophie's eyes.

'I don't know. He wouldn't say. There was a lot of yelling, on my part anyway.' I shrug. 'You know what? It doesn't really matter who she is; it's who he is that matters, and that's someone in a relationship, someone's boyfriend. The truth is, it's him that's the most at fault; he's been playing me. I just, I don't know… I guess I didn't see it coming at all. I thought things were great. I thought we had a future. He was the only long-term relationship I've had. The rest all fizzled out after a few months. I actually thought we had a chance of a happy ending.'

'I know, I know.' Sophie grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. 'I'm sorry.'

I nod, too choked to speak. Taking a deep breath, I try to put a lid on my turbulent emotions.

'So anyway, how was date number three?' I slide a mug across to her.

A wry smile spreads across Sophie's face but then her expression falters.

'Hey.' I touch her hand gently. 'I'm fine with the fact that you're happy and in love in your new relationship. It's not your fault that Chris ended up being a complete shit.'

'I just feel like it's bad timing, that's all.' Sophie nods slowly as she takes a sip of her coffee. 'It's going really well, though.' She can't help smiling again.

'You really like him, don't you?' I can see the fuzzy glow of lust all around her.

'I do. He's…different.'

'I'm happy for you.'

She looks at me with what I perceive to be a mixture of pity and sympathy.

'Honestly I am,' I reassure her, and I genuinely mean it. 'It's about time you had some decent luck on the relationship front.'

'Are you going to be alright?' she asks tentatively.

'Not right now. But I guess I will be.' I say quietly. What other choice do I have?