Claudia Carroll - Love Me Or Leave Me

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.42 a.m.

Dave,

As it happens, I think you’d have made a fantastic speaking Sky Plus box. Shame you weren’t offered something made of wood though, then you really could have had a chance to show off your range.

Have to go, flight taxiing now.

Am greatly looking forward to coming home to a lovely, empty flat, free of any and all reminders of you.

Jo.

PS. Please don’t tell me the subliminal reasons behind my behaviour. I know there’s nothing easier for you in the world than to conveniently blame what I’ve been dealing with personally for the breakdown of our relationship.

But trust me, it’s broken and unfixable. It’s over.

From: davesblog@hotmail.com

To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 11.10 a.m.

Sweet-natured angel of mine,

Has your flight landed yet? Because I’ve a few further points I’d like to make and given the humour you’re in these days, it’ll be more than my life’s worth to say to your face.

Firstly, may I remind you that I’ve done absolutely everything you ever asked of me? You were the one who wanted to get married in the first place, when we’d only been seeing each other for about a year. And I use the term, ‘seeing each other’ loosely, given that you were off on business trips more often than not. So I did what you wanted and proposed.

Then you were the one who bloody well insisted on a three-ring circus of a wedding, which was basically anathema to me, but I kept my mouth shut, just so you could have your dream day. Even though the sight of myself in the wedding photos, beaten into that poncey-looking morning suit still makes me want to vomit.

Thirdly, you were the one who made the decision that if you were ever going to have a child, then now was your chance. Again, I had virtually feck all say in the matter, but still went along with it. I actually wanted us to have a family of our own, and for the record sweetheart, I thought we’d have made grade A parents. You’ve have instilled discipline in our kid, whereas I’d have taught them when and where it was okay to wave two fingers at anything remotely resembling authority.

Not only that, but may I point out that I’ve stood by you through everything else that’s been heaped on us since? I’m blue in the face at this stage reminding you that what you’re soldiering through, I am too, as it happens. I know that minor, inconvenient fact tends to be overlooked by you, but just take a moment to really dwell on it, my love.

Why would you think that a miscarriage followed by several failed IVF treatments would be any less painful for me? Where’s it written that you get to have the monopoly on disappointment and heartache and just what a fucking nightmare we’re both stuck in here?

As an aside, on that very point, I spoke to Bash’s pal Emma about what we’ve been going through. She’s a maternity nurse and says your behaviour and the way you’re acting so unlike your usual self is actually perfectly normal. It’s just all those shagging hormones and fertility drugs they’ve been pumping into your body for the last eighteen months. That’s all and it will pass.

Lastly, dearest love, you asked me to move out. Ergo, I did.

But over my dead body am I going to make this divorce easy for you. No, you don’t get away from me that easily.

Your ever-loving husband,

Dave.

Jo had landed in Heathrow by then, having spent the entire flight doing all the lovely calming exercises she’d been taught at the clinic she’d been attending as an outpatient. But the very second she switched her phone back on and read that particular gem, somehow every bit of the deep breathing and meditation went right out the window.

Don’t reply , she warned herself. If Dave wants the last word that badly, then let him have it. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself and a few seconds later, her fingers were busy tapping away.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 11.17 a.m.

Dave,

If you ever even think about discussing the ins and outs of my medical history with some random stranger ever again, I’ll not only hit you with a divorce petition, but also I’ll personally see to it that you’re hauled through the courts for breach of privacy.

Jesus Dave?!! What next? You going to start standing on street corners, handing out flyers with photos of my lady bits on them?

And just so you know, this is categorically NOT hormones. It’s you, driving me insane. End of.

Jo.

‘So you’ve really left him then?’

‘Be more accurate to say we left each other,’ Lucy answered, knocking back the dregs of the margarita in front of her and crunching loudly on an ice cube. It was her third and she probably should have left it at that, but somehow she found herself waving over to the barman for the same again. To hell with it anyway, she thought. My marriage just ground to a shuddering halt this week, why the hell not?

‘Oh Lucy,’ her pal Bianca said, shaking her head sadly and dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a Kleenex. ‘I just can’t believe it. I mean, this is you and Andrew we’re talking about. You were like the gold standard of happy couples! If you guys can’t make it, then what hope is there for the rest of us?’

Lucy managed a weak, watery smile back at her. Bianca was a sweet, lovely girl who meant well, but who actually did nothing but make Lucy feel guilty, for having the barefaced cheek to have marital problems in the first place.

Bianca, it had to be explained, was a die-hard romantic, who’d watched one too many romcoms starring Jennifer Aniston, and was convinced that once you sealed the deal with a bloke and had a ring on your finger to show for it, it would inevitably lead to happy ever after. And the sad thing was that at one time, Lucy had bought into all that too.

Whereas now she thought, what a load of my arse.

Besides as far as Bianca knew, what she believed was the absolute truth. After all, she and Andrew had once been loved up and happy together, hadn’t they? So happy; Hollywood-ending happy. In fact, that was the whole bloody tragedy of it. Lucy had honestly thought this was her soulmate; the man she’d happily grow old with. The two of them should have ended up old and grey, worrying about their cholesterol and going off on Nile cruises, with a prescription for Viagra stuck in his back pocket on account of the age gap.

Not, for the love of God, with her sitting on a barstool, with the hangover from hell, yet already onto her third margarita and wondering how many more it would take for her to get so completely hammered that it would somehow numb the pain a bit.

Lucy had never really been much of a drinker, but these days booze was the only thing getting her through this. Lovely, lovely booze and lots of it. It was completely unlike her, not her normal carry-on at all, but then she figured, if this wasn’t a dire emergency, then what was?

‘None of this was your fault, you know,’ Bianca told her firmly. ‘If it hadn’t been for … well, you know. Circumstances.’

‘I know, sweetheart,’ said Lucy, squeezing her hand, flushing with gratitude to have a genuine pal like this in her corner. ‘Circumstances. That’s all it came down to in the end really, wasn’t it?’