Monday November 6

Location: London, England

Steps taken today: 243. I know. I suck.

Calories consumed: How many are in a giant Cadbury’s chocolate bar?

Because I’ve eaten exactly three of those.

Calories burned: I don’t want to talk about it.

Activity level: Rancid sloth who’s been dead for three days.

Cancún, Mexico.

That’s where I’m supposed to be right now. On a romantic honeymoon, sipping piña coladas while I stare lovingly at my brand-spanking-new husband, the sun beating down on us both, bronzing us into living gods.

The only problem is, I don’t have a husband. Oh, I’m supposed to, of course. We were supposed to get married two months ago. But that was before I found out that my now-former fiancé, Brian, had stuck his love-pickle into my BFF, otherwise known as she whose name will not be uttered aloud by anyone, EVER.

Call me crazy, but in the moment when my eyes landed on the sight of their sweaty, heaving bodies as they did the mostly-horizontal mambo, I decided that maybe an expensive wedding with a hundred and fifty witnesses—I mean guests—wasn’t the best way to commemorate the occasion.

So in the end, there was no solemn exchange of heartfelt “’Til death do us part” bullshit. There was no white gown.

And there sure as hell wasn’t any honeymoon in Mexico.

Instead, I salvaged some of the money we’d intended to spend on things like new toaster ovens and sex toys, and traveled from my home in Vermont to London, England.

I now find myself on some kind of self-pitying escape from the universe and all its inhabitants—at least the ones who are related to me.

My family means well, but for the past two months, they’ve driven me almost bonkers with their daily utterances of “Hey—I have a really good idea. Why don’t you and Brian work things out? So what if he sullied his dick in your best friend’s fun-hole? You can still have a great marriage. Just maybe try not to think of them fucking. Definitely don’t think of him slamming his hard-on into her while she shrieks his name in ecstasy while making a mockery of your life-long friendship. Just forgive him and move on, would you?”

Thanks, family and friends, but no thanks. I’d sooner gouge my eyes out with a spork than listen to another bit of advice from well-meaning folk who have zero idea of the torments I’ve been suffering for precisely fifty-nine days.

So here I am, in London. Pretending they don’t exist. Pretending to be starting my life over. Pretending everything is okay.

It’s November. It’s drizzly, chilly and generally miserable in this town, which suits me just fine. London and I, it would seem, are kindred spirits. We’re both a little mopey, a little bitchy, and occasionally we both start weeping for no apparent reason.

Of course, London is much more interesting than a hormonal, snivelling woman who lies around all day in yoga pants and stained t-shirts. I’m a freaking disaster clad entirely in cotton-lycra blends, whereas this city is classic, beautiful and inviting. It’s both elegant and homey, seductive and friendly.

London brings to mind everything that is comfortable and comforting in the world:

Bangers and mash.

Fish and chips.

Hot toddies.

Hugh Grant. But not the pervy Hugh Grant who cheats on his hot model girlfriend. I’m talking about the sweet, cute, unassuming guy he often played in his younger years; the one who charms women with his bumbling jibber-jabber and repeated utterances of oopsie daisy. The one who lures Julia Roberts to his flat to shag her after he’s only known her a few hours, and somehow manages to make the act seem innocent and charming, rather than skeezy and dirty.

I want that.

I want to be a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to bang her until she can’t feel feelings anymore.

Except for the fact that I made a very important promise to myself after the shit hit the fan and knocked my love life into a state of mayhem: no rebound relationship allowed. A psychiatrist friend recently told me that after a traumatic breakup, you should take a year off for every five years you were together. Brian and I were together for five years. We broke up a little over two months ago. Which means that I’m supposed to have ten more months of solitude ahead of me before I’m mentally healthy enough to even consider embarking on another relationship. So even if young Hugh Grant waltzes into my rental pad, it’s imperative that I say no.

But I’d like to at least enjoy my sex-free solo holiday as much as a despondent, wretched, hopeless mess of a woman possibly can. Thing is, I’m failing miserably at that, just like I failed at getting married.

I arrived in London two days ago. And for two days straight, instead of going out and seeing what the city has to offer, I’ve been sitting in my rental flat, staring at a flashing cursor while I shove handfuls of chocolate into my pie-hole and try not to hate my life.

I’m a blogger by trade. A moderately successful one, even. I write about a lot of things, but the most popular topic centers around my daily struggles with the electronic pedometer that I wear around my wrist. It’s called a Stepbit, but my readers and I lovingly refer to it as the Stepbitch (The Bitch, for short).

The Bitch and I have a difficult relationship, to say the least. She barks orders at me all day long, shames me for having an ass like a flabby sack of jello, and makes me feel like if I don’t exercise, I will surely die of an ugly bout of deep vein thrombosis.

So I write about it.

To be specific, I make up conversations that we might have if the Stepbitch were a human. On an ordinary day, one of my entries is a brief, invented chat between myself and the Bitch that goes something like this:

Stepbitch: YOU NEED THIRTY MINUTES OF MODERATE EXERCISE EACH DAY, YOU GELATINOUS MOUND OF USELESSNESS.

Me: Great! Is sex exercise?

Stepbitch: NOT THE WAY YOU DO IT.

Readers love any talk about my sex life, particularly if the Bitch is insulting me (spoiler alert: she always insults me. It’s how she rolls). My fans are filthy-minded, and I love them for it. They’re mostly women who, like me, want to know that they’re not alone in the world. They want to know that there are other women who share their pain, who bicker with technology and hate being pressured into exercise by an annoying, buzzing entity that lives on their wrists. I’m here to make sure they know that the Sisterhood of the Slovenly is alive and well, and not only am I a card-carrying member; I’m also the president.

But today, I’m afraid that my thousands-strong fanbase is going to be disappointed, just as they’ve been for the last few days. There will be no blog for them. I’ve tried; I really have. I’ve racked my brain looking for my muse, but apparently she’s run off with whatever self-control normally keeps me from eating all the chocolate in the world.

Now, abandoned by all the character traits that normally make me a semi-useful member of society, I just want to crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling, muttering about how much I hate my life.

Or else I could drink six bottles of wine.

Or take up smoking.

Anything but write, walk, breathe, eat healthy food, or engage in remotely productive activity.

“Ugh. It’s really come to this,” I mutter as I eye the last crumbs of milk chocolate on the discarded Cadbury’s wrapper next to my laptop.

Don’t you dare, I mutter to my hand when I feel myself reaching for it. Don’t make me hit rock bottom. I’m too young to die with my tongue stuck to a piece of torn cellophane.

Try and stop me, you weak, gluttonous hag, snarls my hand as it advances like a tarantula going in for a kill.

I’m about to succumb to the temptation of tiny chocolate morsels when a sharp squawking pierces the air like a warning, forcing my hand to retreat so violently that I nearly clobber myself in the face.

Oh, thank God. A human is trying to contact me. Maybe, just maybe I’ll be pulled back into civilization and out of the horror show that is my current state of being.

“You. Cheating. Bastard!” crows the nasal voice that I’d all but forgotten I set as my ringtone.

Silence.

“You. Cheating. Bastard!”

There’s nothing like a personalized, bitter ringtone to pull a pathetic woman back to reality. Or rather, shove reality down her throat.

Desperate to make it stop, I reach for the phone before it can bark out another accusation at my invisible ex.

“Hello?” I half-groan when I’ve hit the reply button, rubbing my eyes as I try to refocus my poor, damaged brain. I’m not entirely sure that I remember how to talk.

“Hello, Riley?” a woman’s voice responds.

Uh-oh.

She sounds cheerful.

Whoever she is, there must be something wrong with her. What kind of fucked up adult female can possibly manage to sound happy when the world is so full of unfaithful douche-nozzles? Hasn’t this madwoman—whoever she is—learned the horrible truth about the universe yet?

“Yes?” I say, my voice trembling with regret. Why did I even answer the damned phone? I have zero desire to talk to anyone. I should have known better, damn it.

“It’s Katherine,” she says, her tone changing to something like concern. “We’ve spoken before. I run the…”

“Single Ladies’ Travel Agency,” I interrupt, my spine straightening as I snap to attention. “Yes, of course. We’ve spoken on Skype.”

Katherine is the owner of the agency that hooked me up with this apartment, not to mention my flight from the United States. But she’s more than a travel agent. I remember reading a quote from one of her former clients on her website who’d described her as a sort of “fairy godmother for single women.” I have no idea what that means, except that apparently she has a knack for looking after her clients with a very special sort of personal touch.

This phone call is evidence of that. Though God knows, I don’t want to be looked after, unless it’s by someone able to administer vast amounts of morphine.

“Listen,” she says, “I’m sorry that I haven’t called sooner. I wanted to check in with you and see how things are going in London, now that you’ve had a chance to settle in.” She has such a cool accent, like a mix of English, French, maybe a little Italian. Whatever it is, I want one like it. I want to sound exotic and sexy and interesting and amazing, and not like a woman whose head is a combination of broken ego, confusion, and morbid fear of anything with testicles.

“Things are…fine,” I say, trying to edit myself before any ill-advised words come out. That particular four-letter F word is a better response than its alternative. It’s also significantly better than replying with: Well, let’s see: I’m a wreck, my ego has been trampled, my life sucks, and everything and everyone that I know is awful. But other than that, London is just super, thanks for asking.

“Fine? Are you quite sure?” she asks. I guess I don’t sound convincing.

“I’m just jet-lagged, I think.” Yup. Masterful lying by yours truly. The truth is, I’ve hardly done anything but sleep since I arrived in England. If anything, I’m reverse-jet-lagged.

“Well," says Katherine, “I hate to sound like a mothering twat, but I’m concerned.” Twat. My fairy godmother instantly melts some of the ice around my heart with her use of the T-word, a particular favourite of mine. “Mrs. Hudson told me that you haven’t left the flat since you arrived.”

Mrs. Hudson lives downstairs. She’s my temporary landlady. Sort of. Rather, she’s become my surrogate, nosy-as-hell grandmother. She likes to bring me tea about eighteen times a day. She also likes to ask a lot of deeply personal questions that I have no desire to answer, which I think is the real reason she brings tea so frequently.

Why are you single, dear? she’ll ask. What are you, twenty-eight? Goodness, by your age, you should certainly be married.

How do your parents feel about not having any grandchildren yet? Don’t you worry that you’re being selfish by not providing them in a timely manner? You know, your parents will die one day, and their heartbreak will be on your head.

I’ve contemplated murdering Mrs. Hudson with a frying pan on more than one occasion.

“I’m in the business of making sure my clients enjoy themselves when they’re on holiday,” Katherine adds, “so if you don’t have a good time, that makes me feel like something of a failure.”

There’s no point in bending the truth about what I’ve been up to. “Mrs. Hudson’s right. I haven’t gone out, not really,” I admit. Except to buy copious amounts of chocolate and wine at the shop on the corner, that is. “I guess I’m not used to traveling alone.”

“Well, I have good news for you: I am.” Her voice has gone chipper, sending alarm bells ringing through my skull. Oh, shit. She has a plan. “And let me tell you, the first thing you should know is that the best part of traveling alone is being able to do what you want, when you want. It’s chatting with someone you would never otherwise chat with. Dressing how you like, acting however you want. Starting over in a place where no one knows you. Meeting hot English blokes, even.”

Meeting hot English blokes.

Damn. That sounds so good. Something in her words almost inspires me, sparking my insides to life for just a second.

But the spark fizzles and dies immediately, like someone’s taken a Super Soaker to it. The thing is, I’m not supposed to be meeting blokes.

Especially not hot ones.

“I guess I haven’t been in a very social mood,” I mutter. “I’m not sure people are what I really need.”

“That’s too bad,” she says. “Because there’s someone I’d really like you to meet.”

“Oh?” Another spark lights up. This one even manages to expand into a tiny, flickering flame of hope. Okay, so maybe part of me recognizes that sitting around here like a lump of chocolate-devouring lethargy on legs isn’t as appealing as I’d thought. Maybe getting out and having a bit of fun would be good for me.

“When you booked this holiday, you told me you’d like for someone to show you London’s sights,” she replies. “I would normally do it myself, but I’m not able to come to London right now. However, I do have someone else in mind.”

The flame of hope fades quickly as I contemplate the idea of actually meeting someone new. Normally I’d be up for it. I meet new people all the time. But not in this state.

The thing is, I’m a hideous mess. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably shitty company right now. I’m also pretty sure I smell like week-old cod that’s been sitting out in the sun.

“Oh God, I don’t know,” I moan. “I’m not sure I want to be around strangers right now. I just need some time…”

Katherine interrupts me. “Listen, Riley, I’m going to be really honest here. You told me what happened with your ex. I understand. I feel your pain, and I sympathize with your sense of betrayal. We’ve all been there. But don’t let someone who’s wronged you bring you down. Don’t give the bastard that power. You’re a victim of a selfish man, and as such you deserve to rise from the ashes rather than wallow in them. Don’t punish yourself for his crimes.”

She’s right, of course. I have been wallowing. Festering, even, in this hell of my own creation. I haven’t managed to write a proper blog entry in days. I haven’t seen any of this beautiful city. I’ve done nothing but stew in dirty sweats and feel sorry for myself while I anticipate Mrs. Hudson’s next untimely visit.

If my life sucks, it’s my own damn fault.

Meanwhile, Katherine, whom I hardly know, has got the balls to throw some tough love my way. She’s the first person who’s told me to suck it up and move on, instead of trying to get me to fix a broken relationship.

I needed that.

And she’s right; I shouldn’t let the asshole ex bring me down. He’s not worth it.

“Okay, you win,” I tell her. “You said you wanted me to meet someone. Who is it?”

I can all but hear the triumphant smile spreading across her lips.

“His name is Galen. How I know him is a rather long story. Suffice it to say that he lives there, and he once offered to help me, if ever one of my ladies should need someone to show them around London. He’s lovely. Friendly, funny, good-humoured. I thought you two might hit it off.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” I reply a little too quickly. “Not even a rebound, not really. At least not with someone nice. I’d probably fuck the poor guy then bite his head off like a praying mantis. I mean, I’d be more than happy to have crazy, quickie sex with some jackass who’ll give me a fake phone number and leave immediately after he’s…”

I cut myself off before I ramble any more. I’ve just realized with utter mortification that she’s probably not actually trying to get me laid.

“I’m not suggesting that you are,” Katherine replies, her tone kinder than I deserve after my verbal spewage. “Galen is a good man, and as far as I can tell, he’s not looking for a relationship, either. You don’t need to worry. So, can I at least tell him to get in touch?”

I let out a violent sigh, directed more at myself than at Katherine. “Okay,” I reply. “Sure.”

“Good.” Her voice perks up. “I’m sure he’ll be contacting you in the next day or two. You’ll love him.”

“Tell me his name again?”

“Galen Davies. Listen, I’ve got to go. But something tells me he’ll be in touch very soon. Oh, and by the way—if you feel like getting out of town at all, I have a lovely place in the Cotswolds that’s sitting empty. It’s yours if you’d like to use it. Talk later, darling.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I shut the laptop and pull myself up to my feet, suddenly inspired to take a shower and get out of this place. But my heart sinks as I notice the droplets of rain cascading down the panes of glass that make up my flat’s enormous windows.

London has started weeping again.

Screw it. A little rain isn’t a deal-breaker. If I don’t get my ass out that door, I’ll start weeping too.