Katey Lovell - The Singalong Society for Singletons

He rabbited on about head office and career progression, his tunnel vision blinding him to everything else. I’d never felt more irrelevant. I wasn’t even a Christmas cracker-sized spanner in the works. His mind was made up and that was that.

‘I can’t just drop everything,’ I said, feeling a smidgeon of annoyance that he expected me to. I had my job at the school, for starters, I couldn’t let them down by buggering off to the other side of the world. And then there were my dance classes, the ones I attended every Thursday night without fail. The six of us in the class had been dancing together since we were tots. They were my extended family, my safety net. I didn’t want to leave them behind, but I didn’t want to be without Justin either.

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he’d repeated, the light in his eyes not dimming despite my lack of enthusiasm. ‘For me and for you.’

His hand had rested on mine and I’d flinched. I didn’t pull away, even though the last thing I wanted right then was for him to touch me. I just didn’t have the energy to move.

‘Imagine it, Mon. Me and you in the big city, living the American dream.’ His eyes were alight with a passion he normally reserved for Saturdays when the Blades were playing at home. I knew, then, that he was going to go regardless. His mind was made up. Nothing I could say would change a thing.

‘I can’t go,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to. It’s not my dream. Anyway, there’s no way I could get on a plane and go all that way. Have you forgotten the melt down I had on the way back from Corfu?’

I could tell by his expression that he had, but I hadn’t. We’d suffered terrible turbulence and the pilot’s attempts at keeping his updates humorous and light hadn’t reassured me in the slightest. I’d ended up bent double, hunched in the brace position ‘just in case’, despite Justin’s instructions to breathe in and out of the sick bag to regulate my panicked gasps. It’s safe to say me and aeroplanes don’t mix.

‘I’m sorry, Justin. But if you go to Chicago, you’ll be going alone.’

He’d looked guilty then. He was going to America with or without me.

As we sat on the cold stone borders that flanked the segments of grass in the gardens, I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought this would be the most romantic night of my life. A bitter, biting wind whipped through the open space, an invisible slap in the face to accompany the sucker punch my gut had just taken.

Worst of all, everyone around us had been full of festive spirit, carrying on as though nothing had changed, whilst for me everything was about to change irrevocably. I wanted to shout, to kick up a stink right there in the middle of town, but my body didn’t feel like my own. It was a terrible dream and I watched on helplessly as it played out around me.

‘I’d hoped you’d come with me. I thought it’d be an adventure for us both.’

I shook my head. ‘I just can’t.’

He’d looked crestfallen, the joy he’d had earlier evaporating out of him into the dark winter night. ‘It’s not the end for us though, is it? Loads of couples make long distance work. And the world’s a smaller place these days, that’s what they say…’ It was as though he was trying to convince himself.

‘I suppose there’s always Skype…’ I said half-heartedly.

I couldn’t imagine not being able to physically feel him. We’d always been one of those touchy-feely couples, the kind that makes everyone feel a bit uncomfortable. Our constant public displays of affection were legendary, but you can’t touch someone through a computer screen. You can’t hold them or kiss them or make wild, passionate love to them. There’d be no substitute for having Justin here with me.

‘We can make this work,’ he’d said, his voice full of a false yet hopeful confidence. ‘If anyone can, we can.’

But even then, I wasn’t sure.

*

He’d left, just as he’d planned to, on the day we’d started back at school after Christmas break. I’d been assisting the more able children, helping them write sentences about the gifts Santa had left under their tree while he was on a cross-country train over the Pennines to Manchester Airport, ready to start a whole new life on a whole other landmass.

That was the weirdest part of it all. I was still in Sheffield, with the same job and the same friends and the same bedroom in the same house; but with an empty chest of drawers sitting hollow in the corner instead of filled with a selection of Lynx aftershaves he’d been bought for his birthday by some well-meaning aunt and every Sheffield United kit from the last ten years.

I’m sure that outwardly I looked much the same as ever – a twenty-five-year-old woman of average height and naturally athletic build with a fluffy mass of unruly dark blonde curls – but inside I felt as empty as those drawers. I’d hoped that by forcing myself to raise a smile I’d fool people into believing I was fine. But I wasn’t fine, deep down. Deep down I was breaking.

*

I still have a photo of me and Justin together on my dressing table, in a heart-shaped wooden frame. It was taken at a charity ball the summer before he went away. In it I’m staring up at Justin, who’s stood almost a whole foot taller than me and my face looks like it might split right in two because I’m grinning that hard.

I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that. As much as I try to show the world I’m the same positive, smiley Mon I’ve always been, it’s not my face splitting in two any more. It’s my heart.

Friday 9 thSeptember

* Frozen – My choice*

‘I’ve been waiting for this all day .’ Issy sighs with audible relief as the ruby-red Merlot sloshes into the glass. ‘Honestly, I can’t tell you how ready I am. In fact, I’m more than ready. I’m a woman in need,’ she adds dramatically.

‘Only all day?’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Then you’re a stronger woman than I am, Isadora Jackson. I’ve been waiting all week .’

My blonde curls bounce wildly. People say they look like a halo, but although I’m a good girl, I’m certainly no angel.

‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘the only thing that’s got me through the madness that is reception class during the first week in September is the thought of wine o’ clock. We’ve had so many children crying when their parents leave, the noise in that classroom is phenomenal. Phenomenal! Thank your lucky stars that the kids you teach are past that.’

Issy gulps her wine, raising her eyebrows in a challenge of disagreement. I know that look. It’s the one that says whenever anyone plays the ‘I work in the most difficult age group’ card, Issy’s going to take that card and trump it.

‘Teaching Year 6 isn’t a bundle of laughs, you know. All those raging hormones and that snarky pre-teen attitude…’ She visibly shudders. ‘Can you believe I had Ellie Watts in tears this lunchtime because Noah Cornall dumped her? They’re only ten! And the bitching and backbiting that goes on – I’ve not seen anything like it. It’s the Big Brother house, but worse. How many weeks to go until half term?’

‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.