Eva Woods - The Ex Factor

EVA WOODSgrew up in Ireland and now lives in London, where she writes and lectures on creative writing. She likes wine, pop music and holidays, and thinks online dating is like the worst board game ever invented.

To Diana Beaumont, who makes me a better writer

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author EVA WOODS grew up in Ireland and now lives in London, where she writes and lectures on creative writing. She likes wine, pop music and holidays, and thinks online dating is like the worst board game ever invented.

Title Page

Dedication To Diana Beaumont, who makes me a better writer

Prologue Prologue Marnie ‘Will all passengers please fasten their seat belts; the captain has now started our descent…’ She ignored the announcement for as long as possible. After all, when you were running away—when you had nowhere else to go—there was no hurry to arrive. Only when the air hostess came to tell her off did she grudgingly belt up, and take out her headphones and open her window blind. From above, London was grey. Like something shrivelled, shivering in the January air. She wasn’t sure why she was coming back. Not home—she didn’t know exactly where home was right now. The plane banked lower through freezing winter fog. Around her people began to gather their possessions, crumple up their rubbish, stretch their legs and arms. Looking forward to a new city. Buckingham Palace. The Tower of London. Madame Tussauds. Not her. She was terrified. But if her mother had taught her anything, it was this: always get your game face on . And so she put on her huge sunglasses, despite the gloom, and brushed in-flight food from her carefully put-together outfit, reapplied red lipstick. Was the cape-coat too much? The dress too bright? No time to change now. She took out her phone and composed a tweet. Hitting the tarmac! Can’t wait to see you all, London! xx. She had a moment to think of what she’d left, and feel the tears push at her eyes for the tenth time that journey. Game face . She pasted on a smile. The tannoy dinged, and the grey ground came into sight. She was back.

Chapter 1: Interrupted Routines

Chapter 2: Pickled Eggs and Popcorn

Chapter 3: The Internet Wizard

Chapter 4: The Accidental Proposal

Chapter 5: A Decaf No-Syrup Low-Fat Soy Latte

Chapter 6: The Ex Factor

Chapter 7: How Everyone Met Everyone

Chapter 8: Four Dates and a Social Funeral

Chapter 9: The Madwoman in the Attic

Chapter 10: Broccoli in the Bathtub

Chapter 11: Drowning in a Vat of Rescue Remedy

Chapter 12: War and Piss

Chapter 13: Bumhead and Eggface

Chapter 14: Undercover Cheerleader

Chapter 15: The Dirtiest Martini

Chapter 16: Triple Word Scores

Chapter 17: The Love Algorithm

Chapter 18: The Leather Ceiling

Chapter 19: Bling the Merciless

Chapter 20: My Miniature Heart

Chapter 21: Jurassic Garden Centre

Chapter 22: Suggestive Topiary

Chapter 23: The Awkward Makeover

Chapter 24: The Final Showdown

Chapter 25: The Incident

Chapter 26: The Dating Dessert Buffet

Chapter 27: How Voldemort met Chewbacca

Chapter 28: Bean Counting

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Marnie

‘Will all passengers please fasten their seat belts; the captain has now started our descent…’

She ignored the announcement for as long as possible. After all, when you were running away—when you had nowhere else to go—there was no hurry to arrive. Only when the air hostess came to tell her off did she grudgingly belt up, and take out her headphones and open her window blind. From above, London was grey. Like something shrivelled, shivering in the January air. She wasn’t sure why she was coming back. Not home—she didn’t know exactly where home was right now.

The plane banked lower through freezing winter fog. Around her people began to gather their possessions, crumple up their rubbish, stretch their legs and arms. Looking forward to a new city. Buckingham Palace. The Tower of London. Madame Tussauds.

Not her. She was terrified. But if her mother had taught her anything, it was this: always get your game face on . And so she put on her huge sunglasses, despite the gloom, and brushed in-flight food from her carefully put-together outfit, reapplied red lipstick. Was the cape-coat too much? The dress too bright? No time to change now. She took out her phone and composed a tweet. Hitting the tarmac! Can’t wait to see you all, London! xx.

She had a moment to think of what she’d left, and feel the tears push at her eyes for the tenth time that journey. Game face . She pasted on a smile. The tannoy dinged, and the grey ground came into sight. She was back.

Chapter 1 Interrupted Routines

Helen

How many texts do you get in an average day? How many emails, Facebook alerts, tweets? Most get instantly forgotten—your friend obsessing about their weight or if their boss spotted them on Facebook (ironically), that marketing newsletter you keep meaning to unsubscribe from, a celebrity’s breakfast on Instagram. But sometimes you get a message that’s more than this.

This message might not say anything special. At first you might even ignore it, roll over and go back to sleep, slip your phone into your bag, forget about it. But although you won’t know it at the time, the message is the start of something that means that your life will never be the same again.

Of course, at least 99.99999 per cent of them are total rubbish, but still. You can never quite be sure.

* * *

Helen was woken by the buzz of her phone, shooting upright in bed, groping on the bedside table among the TV remote, the control for the windows blinds, the tissues, the hand cream, and the framed photo of her cat—her flat was somewhere between NASA launch control and the Pinterest board of a forty-something spinster. She blinked at the phone. Read the message again. Emitted a small ‘huh’ to the empty space beside her in the bed, then checked the time: 7.45 a.m. Only a person of deep selfishness would text a freelancer at 7.45 a.m.

The message stayed on the screen, burned behind her eyes. Her first thought was: She’s back. Hello, Marnie, goodbye non-interrupted sleep . Her second thought was: Bloody hell! She’s back! A flicker of something came and went in her stomach—excitement. Nerves. Something else that she couldn’t quite identify. Then she sat up and started Googling bars, restaurants, and detox treatments.

* * *

There’s a saying that if knowing someone doesn’t change you as a person, then they’re not a true friend, just an acquaintance. Helen would have added to this. If knowing someone didn’t permanently make you feel like you were about to get on a roller coaster—excited, terrified, and with the slight possibility of serious injury— then they weren’t a true friend.

She got up on the dot of 8 a.m.—no need to vary the Routine yet—and commenced her morning. It was a Tuesday, so she washed her hair, flossed her teeth, and shaved her legs. She rubbed in a deep conditioning mask, setting her alarm for exactly four minutes, then spent that time looking into the mirror at her flushed face and chanting, ‘I am successful. I am happy. I am fine on my own.’

She wasn’t convinced by the affirmations—she didn’t feel all that successful or happy. But she was most definitely on her own.