Chapter Nine
Kirk did come back to her about the list. As planned, they linked up on a Skype call so that they could discuss the list and whether Sasha was willing to sign it.
Looking back, Sasha was aware of how ridiculous it sounded. How utterly insane that a man would produce a list of rules and expect her to sign them. As though they’d stepped into a time-warp machine and ended up back in the fifties.
But no, this was now. And it was real. And it was her reality. The embarrassing thing was, that every inch of her body wanted to sign the list.
Despite modern times, despite all that she knew about feminism, and everything her head believed in, her heart told her something different. Love. That was the problem. Love made her want to sign the list, and agree to everything he wanted, and run off into the sunset with him.
But she was armed. Armed with the ammunition of advice from Jason and from her sister, Rachel. Jason was her closest male friend who was like a big brother to her. Having worked together years ago, they had clicked and bonded. Unfortunately she didn’t fancy Jason. There was no chemistry between them. And yet they had a great friendship. Jason was one of those guys who could be brutally honest yet tactful at the same time. In a long-term relationship himself, he had several female friends. His girlfriend, Josie, was entirely comfortable with his female friendships; a set-up which Sasha found fascinating. There was absolutely no jealousy from Josie’s point of view.
Jason’s advice went like this:
• Don’t agree to any ultimatum
• Don’t sign anything
If you agree with him and sign his list of rules, then you will be stuck with a life of doing everything he says
• You will be miserable
• He’ll end up controlling you forever more
• Don’t let him control you
Please!
So Sasha took on board Jason’s advice. Even though she wanted to agree to every single demand Kirk made, just to keep the peace.
“No, I don’t want to sign any list, Kirk,” she found herself saying, her voice quavering. He looked shocked at her response. He really had expected her to acquiesce. He looked at her with a mixture of horrified surprise and secret respect. They were on a Skype call again. Their relationship seemed largely to be on Skype these days, the screen providing a barrier between them.
“You’re going to have to accept me as I am, Kirk. Otherwise, what’s the point?” she asked, mirroring the lines that Jason had fed her earlier.
He nodded, as though understanding. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” he said. And then he was gone, the Skype line was cut dead and the monitor went blank.
Somehow, sometime, he came back. Sasha couldn’t remember the event – so inconsequential was it. All she knew was that from the point onward, the relationship slipped downwards even more, if that was possible. Kirk became more and more distant. His texts came less and less often. When he did text, the tone was less and less affectionate. He was slipping away, like a low tide riding out into the ocean.
She remembered that Valentine’s day, just one month after that, was one of the hardest times. He didn’t bother coming to see her; didn’t bother to send her a card. She sat in the coffee dock at work, on her lunch break, reflecting about how miserable Valentine’s was. Here she was, finally in a relationship, and yet this was the most rubbish Valentine’s she’d had.
She’d thought of all those years she’d been single, before Kirk came along. All those Valentine’s days that had come and gone. All those Valentine’s that she tried to pretend she didn’t care, that it was all a load of commercial rubbish, but secretly, deep down, she would have loved to celebrate Valentine’s day. To go to her letterbox and find a huge red envelope waiting on the mat for her. To open the large card and see declarations of love and adoration. To be at work and gasp in surprise, when a large bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk by a smiling delivery man. To go out for dinner in the evening. Not minding the tacky commercialism of it all. The tables for two crammed together. The cheesy menu with titles like ‘Sweetheart Soufflé’, ‘Be My Valentine Veggie Salad’ and ‘Melt My Heart Marinade Sauce’.
Yes, she wanted that. Yes, my name is Sasha and I want the whole tacky commercial Valentine’s experience.
But instead, she was sitting in the skanky coffee dock on her own, eating a packed lunch, with no plans for Kirk to visit her any time soon.
Looking back, she realised this must have been the time he was grooming the new girl. Getting number two lined up before getting rid of number one; keeping his options open. Of course she didn’t realise it at the time. She was in a tunnel of denial, blindly hoping that everything would work out fine; that things would go back to how they were at the start of their relationship. But in hindsight, she realised that his distance meant something else. He was stringing her along; when all the while he was flirting with someone new; paving the way for a new relationship. All the signs were there; distancing himself; taking a step back; putting less and less effort in.
Despite herself, the tears fell. There, in the coffee dock, at work, when anyone could have turned up. She wiped them away surreptitiously, aware that CCTV cameras were watching her. Aware that the receptionists in the main office could look at the CCTV screens now and see her patting at her eyes. How they would look at her with pity. ‘Aw, look at Sasha – she’s crying on Valentine’s day. Things must be going badly with Kirk.’ Meanwhile they had flashy engagement rings on their fingers, huge bouquets from their loving partners adorning the reception and dinky little gift boxes of jewellery or chocolate sitting proudly on their desk.
Sasha knew she was full of self-pity. She knew there was other people in the world with bigger problems to deal with – much bigger problems. But this was her pain and things just weren’t right.
Sure enough, the end did come shortly after that. It was a month later. Kirk had arrived up on the Saturday morning. They’d had a perfectly nice day together. All seemed fine. But Sunday morning was an entirely different story. Kirk had that ‘bear with a sore head’ look on his face. Sasha didn’t know about the drugs at that stage. He’d kept all that secret. Little did she know that he had become addicted to painkillers – and he’d just run out. He was on edge; desperate to get out of there so that he could rush to a chemist and stock up on codeine; anything to numb the pain.
Sasha had gone to great effort to prepare a nice breakfast. She had shopped during the week and bought sausages, eggs, bread, beans. Kirk had had a long lie-in. When he finally arose, he looked grumpy and tired.
Hoping to lift the mood and create a romantic Sunday morning, Sasha tried to enlist his help while cooking the breakfast. He became narky and impatient; annoyed at her timid caution when the saucepan angrily spat oil in her direction. He aggressively took over; edging her out of the way so that she tried to busy herself with setting the table; making the coffee.
During breakfast, he was sullen and quiet. She tried to spark up conversation; to suggest plans that they could have for the day. But his face was drained; uninterested. He shrugged his shoulders in indifference. She had no idea then, but he was craving his next fix.
“What’s up?” he asked her, sensing her worry and unease; cleverly pointing the problem at her, rather than admit his own grumpy mood.
“Nothing,” she said, defensively.
“There’s a vibe,” he said. His face was set, as though itching for a row again.
“Actually, I thought your vibe was odd,” she pointed out gently.
That was all she said. “I thought your vibe was odd.” But those were the last words. The six words that ended their relationship. He rolled his eyes, stood up abruptly and went into the bedroom.
She followed him. She watched as he grabbed his bag and began putting his clothes inside it. Little did she know that this would be the last time she’d see him doing this.
“Please don’t do this,” she begged him. “Please don’t go.”
She knew she sounded needy. She knew she sounded ridiculous. But she didn’t care. Looking back, she wondered why she just didn’t say ‘fuck off, then.’ But it was love. She was in love. And love is blind.
Instead, she cried. Deep, heart-wrenching, wrecked tears. Tears that came from the very pit of her stomach and spilled down her face. She slid to the floor and cried endlessly. She could hear herself. She sounded like a wounded animal. She had the distressed wail of someone who really couldn’t figure out what to do anymore. She had tried everything. And now this, now it was her ‘vibe’ that wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough for him.
Because, actually, he wanted to get home to get more drugs.
She stood up again, finding a second wind of energy. She saw him standing with his bag on his shoulder, his coat on, the taxi booked. She couldn’t believe it, that this man who supposedly wanted to marry her, who had spent days dreaming with her about their perfect wedding, was now walking out, because of a vibe.
Anger erupted from somewhere. Fierce, raging anger.
“Okay, fuck off then!” she screamed. “You using bastard, fuck off then!” Her voice was loud; ferocious. Her hand jutted out and pushed him. She saw him flinging back, his face alarmed. She couldn’t believe it. Was that actually her hand that did that? Was that actually the love of her life, recoiling from her like a frightened animal? Her blood literally pulsated in anger. She could feel it, racing.
Oh my God, she thought. This is what it feels like to be a raving lunatic. This is what it feels like.
And then he was gone. In the taxi. Away. She wouldn’t hear from him again. Not for a very, very long time.
But he would be back.
Eventually.