It Had to Be You (3 page)

Too upset to drive my little Kandy I decide to take a taxi. I wave at the first black cab I see and it stops. I nearly pass out on the spot. Christ Almighty, when does that ever happen? I can only imagine I have one tit hanging out, or my skirt has got stuck in my knickers and half my arse is on show. I never get a cab that quick at the best of times and on Christmas Eve it is unheard of. Maybe I look distraught, that must be it. Then again, when has a London cabbie given a shit about a distraught woman? Let’s face it they are always the first to drive past aren’t they?

‘
Are you free?’ I ask, not quite believing my luck.

‘
No not even at Christmas. You still have to pay,’ he quips.

‘
I meant, are you for hire?’

‘
Not really, but if you don’t mind sharing with Bradley Cooper,’ he says sarcastically.

Honestly, don
’t you just hate cab drivers with a sense of humour? I mean, it’s not natural is it?

‘
Where to then darling?’

Tower Bridge seems a good idea. I could throw myself off. After all, no one would give a shit. I
’d just be one more Christmas statistic. There is probably a queue there already and I’ll most likely find a ticket system set up to make us wait until our number lights up before we can jump. Yes, that’s about my luck at the moment.

‘
You do want to go somewhere don’t you love?’ he asks irritably.

‘
No, I just fancied a sit down,’ I snap.

I sigh and look back at my apartment block, and oh God, is that Oliver running out in his pants and T shirt?

‘Westbourne Grove and make it snappy,’ I say, feeling my heart race.

‘
What do you think this is, a movie take?’ says the cabbie.

Bloody hell, I
’m paying aren’t I? And most likely at some exorbitant Christmas Eve rate.

‘
Yes, so could we have some sodding action here,’ I say averting my eyes from the embarrassing sight of Oliver. I can’t believe I was hoping this man would propose to me over Christmas. Oliver I mean, obviously not the taxi driver. After all, I barely know him. I suppose that won’t happen now will it? The cab shoots off leaving a waving Oliver hanging onto his loose underpants. It’s not a pleasant sight. I fumble in my bag for some tissues and pull them out along with the stupid parking ticket.

‘
Got done?’ asks the driver.

Oh God, yes I
’ve been done all right.

‘
The bastards love to get you at Christmas,’ he says with a snarl.

‘
Well they all got me,’ I say hiccupping. ‘All the bastards got me.’

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Yeah, well don’t let it ruin your Christmas,’ he smiles, tinkering with a Saint Christopher lucky charm. ‘Worse things happen. You could have lost your job.’

‘
I did lose my job,’ I mumble, before popping a handful of M&Ms into my mouth.

He sniffs and goes quiet. Why me? I look out into the snow
-dusted streets of London where happy couples are walking hand in hand. I don’t understand it. I did everything right. Well, I thought I did everything right. I can just hear my mother’s words.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Bloody stupid saying that is. Damn, we were driving down to my parents tomorrow. That means I’ve now got to face the M4 in a filthy mood which will inevitably result in road rage and missing the bloody exit. I hate driving at Christmas. Oliver never seems to mind. Honestly of all of the times to shag someone else he has to do it the day before visiting my parents. I find myself wondering if he was telling the truth. What if this wasn’t the first time? What if he’s been shagging her for weeks? No, mustn’t think about it. It probably was just a Christmas thing. God, I’m excusing it now. Like that makes it perfectly okay if it was just a Christmas thing. But in our bed of all places, I mean, he could have used the couch, or the floor. Oh do shut up Binki, you know he could never do it on the couch with his back. Christ, the whole thing has turned my head. Why the hell am I thinking of his sodding back. Hopefully he’ll be crippled by the morning. That will teach him.

‘
Where in Westbourne Grove do you want me to stop love?’

I see Muffy
’s street approaching.

‘
Here will be fine,’ I say.

I climb out reluctantly. The last thing I want to do is tell my closest friend that the love of my life has just che
ated on me with some huge brown-nippled woman on Christmas Eve. Maybe I won’t. Perhaps I’ll just say I was passing and thought I’d drop in for coffee. I pay the exorbitant fare out of my brown envelope. Blimey, that little bonus didn’t last long did it? He stares at the notes like they’re Scottish currency or something. I’m not giving him a bloody tip if that’s what he’s waiting for.

‘
Thanks very much,’ I say, slamming the door. ‘The quickie with Bradley Cooper made all the difference.’

‘
And a Merry Christmas to you too,’ he says before shooting off.

Don
’t you just hate people who wish you a Merry Christmas with attitude? It’s obvious they are really wishing you the worst one possible. He got in a bit late didn’t he? Let’s face it; my Christmas couldn’t get less merry if it tried. I trundle down the steps to Muffy’s basement flat and put on a brave face. She opens the door, takes one look at me and the tell-tale M&Ms in my hand and says,

‘
Don’t tell me. You found the bugger in bed with some tart from work.’

* * *

‘What a bastard thing to do at Christmas,’ says Muffy, crashing about in the kitchen.

What a bastard thing to do, period. I
’m stretched out on her couch with a cold compress on my head and two aspirin fizzing away in a glass of water. I’ve got a box of tissues in one hand and my mobile in the other, although I’m ignoring every call from Oliver, and there have been seven so far. I can’t even bring myself to listen to his voicemail messages.

‘
What is it with bloody men and Christmas?’ She yells. ‘They always seem to end up naked with a bimbo balanced on their balls. Christ, if we did that, can you imagine?’

I sigh.

‘No I can’t imagine balancing a bimbo on my balls,’ I say stupidly.

‘
What was she like anyway,’ she asks curiously, popping her head around the kitchen door.

‘
Oh, you know, young, with massive nipples, gorgeous hair and a voluptuous body. Everything I don’t have,’ I say miserably. ‘The perfect balls-balancing woman I suppose.’

‘
Christ,’ she mumbles, putting a plate of mince pies on the table beside me. ‘Don’t you start feeling bad about yourself? Did you read the Robin Norwood book I gave you?’

Oh God, not the one about women who love too much. It was so bloody depressing. Muffy is my closest girlfriend and staunch feminist, who thinks all men are dysfunctional little shits and who will finally let you down one way or the other. I
’m slowly coming round to her way of thinking.

‘
I tried,’ I mumble.

‘
I give up with you,’ she groans.

It seems everyone gives up on me. I so wish I was like Muffy. She is so comfortable with herself although not so comfortable with men mind you. I think she hates them. Muffy has a brilliant job in public relations and always looks terrific whether she has just stepped out of bed or at the end of a stressful day. Men fall at her feet, seriously, a
nd she just walks all over them. If I didn’t love her so much I would have to kill her. I swallow the last M&M and say,

‘
I can’t eat a thing.’

‘
Don’t let the bugger put you off your food. He’s the one who’s always nagged you about losing weight isn’t he? Well sod him.’

She
’s quite right of course, and I do feel a bit peckish. I can’t help wondering if it was my fault. Maybe I did give Ben Newman the come on without realising it. I can’t imagine what I did mind you, unless he finds being totally ignored most of the week a sexual turn on. Perhaps I didn’t meet Oliver’s sexual needs enough. Not that he ever was that demanding you understand. We made love three times a week, that’s average isn’t it? Well it was always enough for me, I never complained.

‘
If you ask me, he doesn’t want to commit. It’s easier for him if you leave, that makes more sense. He probably feels you’re too good for him. You’ve
over loved
you see,’ says Muffy with an authoritative tone of someone who knows what she’s talking about.

I don
’t see in the least. In fact, I’m having great difficultly seeing altogether with my blood engorged eye that stings like mad. I’m sure it is deteriorating by the second. It must be the stress. Surely if Oliver didn’t want to commit he wouldn’t be looking at rings in Hatton Garden would he? Suddenly a terrible thought enters my head. What if he wasn’t looking at rings at all? Oh, my God, he was most likely looking for some very expensive jewellery for Miss Brown Nipples. Oh how could he?

‘
You’re
stereotypical
, that’s your problem,’ continues Muffy.

Great, at least there is a name for someone like me.

‘Can you take a pill for that?’ I ask cynically.

‘
You’re blaming yourself already aren’t you?’ fumes Muffy, launching into her favourite topic, the complex dipstick male mind. ‘He’ll do anything to wriggle out of …’

She stops and stares at my eye.

‘Jesus Christ, how did that happen?’

‘
A Christmas tree,’ I say flatly.

She jumps up and slaps her thigh.

‘God,’ she thunders. ‘He went at you with a bloody Christmas tree. What a sodding brute. You should report it Binki, like
now
,’ she thrusts a mobile at me. I point out I’m already holding one.

‘
I got a needle in my eye from the tree I brought home. Oliver could barely untangle himself from the sheets let alone go at me with a tree. He’s got a bad back remember?’

She scoffs.

‘That didn’t stop him humping some bimbo did it?’

‘
I’m surprised she didn’t send it into spasm. You should have seen the size of her tits.’

Don
’t think about her tits Binki. Think about something else, anything else, but not tits.

‘
Pity he didn’t go into anaphylactic shock, swallow his tongue and die,’ says Muffy evilly.

I gawp at her, blimey that
’s a bit harsh. Death by tongue swallowing, even I wouldn’t wish that on Oliver, and I’m feeling worse by the minute. It’s Christmas Eve and it has been a day of award-winning horror, definitely worthy of a film. Maybe Carey Mulligan could play me.

‘
You need to change your pattern of thinking. You still believe being
in love
means being in pain. You were expecting him to propose weren’t you? Instead you find him balls deep with some floozy from work,’ she says nonchalantly, biting into a mince pie.

‘
You were the one who told me he was in Hatton Garden,’ I say defensively.

‘
It all stems from problems in your childhood,’ Muffy spouts, cracking open a walnut.

I knew my mother was to blame for something.

‘Did you see yourself as a co-dependent?’ asks Muffy, looking at me intently.

‘
Only on M&Ms,’ I answer honestly.

I feel like I
’m having a therapist’s session. I wonder if this has something to do with the fishnet tights and suspenders. Oliver has a fetish for them, that and pirate outfits, but I always felt stupid with them on. I struggle to remember if Brown Nipples was wearing anything pirate related. No, I feel quite sure she was wearing absolutely nothing and feel the mince pie lurch up my diaphragm. I must put the whole thing out of my mind. Oh God, all the presents we were taking to my parents are back at the flat, as of course are my clothes.

‘
You’ll have to go back and get my clothes,’ I blurt out, ‘and the Christmas presents.’

Her mouth drops open.

‘I can’t go there, what if … Well you know, what if she is still there?’

God, I don
’t believe this.

‘
Tell her to bugger off if she is.’

I shudder at the memory of Oliver
’s pained expression.

‘
Who does this sort of thing at Christmas,’ I say with a little sob. ‘It’s so cruel.’

‘
Half the male population if you ask me. Little shits,’ she snarls. ‘If I go round there I’m likely to give him a knuckle sandwich.’

‘
Can you get my chocolate teapot,’ I say, the thought of it comforting me. ‘You can’t pop round now can you?’