Gemma Burgess - The Dating Detox - A laugh out loud book for anyone who’s ever had a disastrous date!

That’s not a rational thing to think. Be rational, damn it. Pull yourself together.

How the hell do you get out of this mansion block shithole? I feel sick. I feel like throwing up. I am definitely going to throw up. Where can I…ah, a plant pot. Lovely.

I lean over the pot, bend the plant out of the way, and start dry-heaving. Up come my three vodkas and the peanut butter sandwich I ate before I left home. I can see my teeth marks in the bread. Gross. I must chew my food more.

I stand up and wipe my mouth. My hands are shaking and tears are running down my face. How could he, how could he? Why hasn’t he followed me? Has he even called me? I’ll check my phone…no, nothing. What happened between us arriving at the party together and him shagging someone else? Did I do something wrong? Who the hell shags at parties anyway? She must have seduced him. I hate her.

I’m going to call him. Maybe it’s a huge mistake and he’s hammered and thought she was me. That would be…no, that would not be good either. Please, please let this not be happening.

He doesn’t answer the first time I call, so I try again. On the seventh ring, he answers.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me…I’m…How could you do that, Rick?’

‘Pretty easily,’ he says, and starts laughing. His voice is muffled. What is funny about this? What? Is he talking to someone else?

‘Who is she?’

‘No one you know.’

Is he even going to apologise? ‘I’m so upset…’ I say. He doesn’t say anything. ‘Did you plan this? Why did you even…’ (I start crying, but try to hide it) ‘…ask me to the party?’

‘I didn’t ask you to the party. Don’t give me that shit. You asked what I was doing and assumed you were coming too.’

I’m still crying silently, trying to quieten my shaky breathing. Typical lawyer, trying to point score even when completely in the wrong.

‘I…I…’ I can’t talk. ‘How could you d-d-do this to me? It’s so h-horrible of you…’

I hear him sigh impatiently. I don’t know what to say now and my stammering seems to have kicked in, so I don’t say anything. Please, please let him apologise. I want to go back in time and stop this from happening. Dear God, if it is even the tiniest bit possible, please send me back in time right now to stop this from happening.

Or just make him ask me to forgive him.

Or even say sorry. Once.

Instead he just says: ‘I can’t deal with this. I just…I don’t love you and I don’t want you anymore…I gotta go.’

You know when you jam your fingers in a drawer and you know a split second before the pain hits that it’s going to hit, and your chest has that weird icy seizure? That’s what I have right now. And then he hangs up, and the pain hits me, and I’m standing outside some mansion block on Kensington Church Street with a stack of books and my pince-nez and my handbag and I squat down—which isn’t easy in heels, you know—and bury my face in my hands. I can’t breathe. I want to vomit, but nothing is left in my tummy. I can’t bear this. I can’t bear to wake up tomorrow and have this as a memory.

Fucking, fucking, fucking bastardo. Never again. I will never let this happen again.

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