I’ve had to move into the bathroom, because I don’t want him to hear me crying through the walls. I’ve tried to stop sobbing, but I can’t stop.
I don’t even have a pillow or a duvet so I could turn the bathtub into a bed, but instead I’m stuck sitting on the cold tiles trying to keep from sobbing.
Fucking Fife. I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. And please, I know this is the time I’ll get comments and advice, but I don’t want any. I wouldn’t even know how to respond. I’m not dealing with the possibilities very well.
Fife sat me down when I got home from work to have a talk with me.
Here’s how it went:
‘I’ve got something to tell you. You know how you joked about not feeling well…How do I put this?’
I had no idea where he was going with this.
‘You could be pregnant,’ he said with a big fucking Cheshire cat smile on his stupid face.
I was confused.
‘You see I never had a vasectomy,’ he said.
I was confused.
He got excited, ‘This so very wonderful. Yesterday we were talking about kids, and how you’d like to have children, but with my vasectomy… See, this is brilliant. Maybe it’ll be a girl. Two boys and a little girl would be…’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I never had a vasectomy.’
I can’t believe it. As I type this, I just can’t believe it. Why would he lie about that? It doesn’t make any sense. And, he’s not just been lying to me, because that friend of his — the woman from the village near the cottage, the one who knew Helen andFifef rom Uni — she knew about his vasectomy. Or what he told everyone was a vasectomy. Why would he do that? Why would he spend years telling people he’d had a vasectomy when he hadn’t? I just don’t comprehend it. It must be a joke.
‘You’re joking,’ I said. ‘I don’t get it. Why’s this funny?’
‘I’m not joking. This is fantastic. You should go out and get a pregnancy test straight away. When [Helen] was pregnant we took…’
What the fuck! I just can’t believe him. There has to be a mistake.
I got a bag, put in a change of clothes and my laptop, and I left. I didn’t say anything; I just walked towards the door. He asked what I was doing, where I was going, and I said I needed to leave. I didn’t even want to look at him.
‘No. Stay,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’
I walked out and told him, ‘I want you out of this flat by the time I get home tomorrow. And do not to follow me.’
I had planned on walking into the city centre and checking into a hotel. Or there are plenty of B&Bs by Loraine’s house. I thought about getting a train to Glasgow, but it was too late, and I’m not sure if I want to tell HP. It’s fucking embarrassing to admit that you’ve been dating a psychopathic control freak.
On the landing outside the flat, I looked across at Posh’s flat. I don’t know what made me do it, but I tried the handle and miraculously it was unlocked. Inside it was a wreck. Posh left the place as it was at the end of her party: pizza boxes, wine bottles and beer cans everywhere. But I guess she’s rich enough to have someone clean the place. And she owns it, or her family does, so it’s not like there’s a deposit issue. Why did she move to that flat? With her money she could have lived in a much nicer place in Dundee. Not that where I live is bad, but there’s much posher digs. Knowing Posh, she probably thought she was slumming-it or something.
Why am I talking about stupid Posh’s flat?
I don’t know what I’m going to do. This can’t be happening. In fact, I don’t know if it is happening yet. I could still be late. I’m always late. What the fuck!