I got up this morning and snuck out the flat before HarryPotter got up. I felt so bad walking out that flat. So bad it actually gave me a pang in my stomach, but I’ve written that off hoping that it’s menstrual cramps.
On the train, I pulled out the Kindle due to force of habit. Normally, when I’m kind of bored, I pull out the Kindle and have a drag through the slush pile. Unfortunately, I have no idea if there’s any point in doing that now.
Theoretically, if the Agency closes, I could be an independent agent, or work for London or Paris, and then a gem in the slush pile may be useful. Or maybe, theoretically, the dream scenario could actually come to pass and I could save the Agency. If that happens (unlikely) things would be like they were before and a gem in the slush pile would definately come in handy. If, indeed, I am still able to work.
I trawled through the electronic slush and realised that it was all moot, because even if I had a job, everything in the slush pile at that moment was shit. Okay, that’s harsh, but right now I’m not in the mood to be nice. Which reminds me, I need to send these people a rejection letter, but I really should wait until I’m in a better mood so that I don’t take my aggression out on some poor delusional wannabe writer. See, I can’t be nice right now.
Slush pile has been put away. I’ll give all those stories a second consideration when I’m in a better mood.
Also in that Kindle was Fife’s manuscript that his editor sent me. I highlighted the title, but couldn’t bring my finger to open it. Maybe if he wasn’t in the flat when I got back, then maybe, just maybe, I’d read it.
Well, he was in the flat when I got back.
His eyes were red and the scruff on his chin was a full beard, and he was wearing the same clothes as when I left.
‘This is enough. You’ve made your point, but it’s time to stop acting like a child,’ he said as I opened the door.
I walked into the bedroom. I threw my bag on the floor, took my laptop, phone and Kindle out the bag and put it in a knapsack. Then I walked back to the door and said, ‘I will be gone for the rest of the day. If you and your stuff aren’t gone when I come back, I will be calling the police. And remember, you’re not the lease, so I can have you kicked out.’
And I slammed the door behind me.
I tried to find something to do during the day. A coffee at the café, a wander through McManus galleries, a peak at the exhibition at the DCA. I spent the morning trying not to let my head spin, as there was so much to deal with: Fife, work, HP and my ‘situation’. I tried to compartmentalise it all, and only think about one problem at a time, but it all ran together.
Would HarryPotter still want to be with me if he knew I was possibly having another man’s baby? Would he still love me if I kept it? Can I continue to work? What if I had to move home? Oh shit, my parents. They’d go mental. Oh fuck, my blog. Katie reads my blog. Why hasn’t she said anything to my parents? Do they know? And the biggest question of all, how did I fall for Fife? How did he fool me into believing he’s a really great guy? All of this, every single possibility, spun in my head, despite trying to stop it.
I can’t take it any longer, so I’ve found an old man pub in the city centre, gotten a lime and soda water, and I’m hidding in a booth in a corner where no one will notice me. The Kindle is out and I’m going to read Fife’s manuscript.
Why Fife’s manuscript? Because I have to answer that last question. Why did I fall for Fife? I was in love not that long ago, or so I thought I was. I need to prove to myself that I wasn’t the fool, that there was something good in him. Not so that I’ll take him back or anything as ridiculous as that, I just need to know that I wasn’t a moron by going out with him. Maybe his manuscript would show that charming, caring, loving man I thought he was.
So here it goes. I’m about to open that manuscript. Part of me hopes its shit, it reminds me not only of what a horrible person he his, but of his possible failure as an author. Another part of me hopes its brilliant, I can see his good side and I don’t feel so bad about the ‘situation’, and he’ll have a lovely bright future as an author without me around.