* * * * *
Copyright Oggbashan January 2007
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
* * * * *
Almost as soon as I got home from work that Friday I slumped in the comfortable armchair in my flat's living room, miserably clutching an unopened can of lager. It was the last can and would remain the last until payday at the end of January, a week away. I was broke.
I wouldn't be broke if I hadn't planned a weekend away with Joanna. I had bought a double ticket for the Valentine Dinner Dance in a town thirty miles away where we would be anonymous strangers. I had paid for a double bedroom at the venue for the Friday and Saturday nights, with breakfast and dinner on Saturday, and breakfast on Sunday. The cost had strained my bank account, already hit by Christmas.
But now? I still held the can of lager as I walked into the kitchenette. I put the can back in the fridge unopened. I'd keep it a few more days. I opened the food cupboard. I could eat for the next week if I didn't mind cooking. There were only a few instant meals. Most of my supplies assumed some preparation. As I wouldn't be going anywhere in the evenings, I suppose it didn't matter that I'd be spending time cooking basic meals for one.
If only Joanna had dumped me BEFORE Christmas. I could have saved on the presents for her; I wouldn't have emptied my bank account for a weekend that wasn't going to happen.
I was being unfair. She may have dumped me but she hadn't quarrelled with me until last week. She didn't know that we would break up. Her Christmas presents to me had been equally expensive. Her bank account was probably as sick as mine -- except for the Valentine weekend costs.
I couldn't cancel and get a refund. The hotel had a non-cancellation clause in their special deal for the Valentine weekend. I had spent hundreds of pounds and now I wouldn't even get a few meals out of it. What was the point of going to a Valentine event on my own?
I had assumed too much. That is why Joanna had quarrelled with me and why I was broke. I had thought that Joanna would be delighted at the prospect of a Valentine weekend away with me, the two of us sharing the dinner dance and then that double bed...
She hurled words at me like "commitment", "love", "partnership", "equality", and "trust". Each one stung as she lambasted me. What I had done was to put her in a position where she had to agree to something that was a step further than our relationship had reached. The stinging words were those I should have used, and attitudes I should have tested before taking such a dramatic decision.
When I told her that we were booked in as Mr and Mrs Protheroe, that was the end.
"So I have to lie, as well, do I? I have to pretend to be married to you, Graham, and lie? I'm not going to. You can go on your own. I hope you enjoy every single solitary minute..." She had slammed the flat's door as she left.
That had been a week ago. I had tried contacting her, directly and indirectly. I had made enquiries through mutual friends. The answers were clear. Joanna was still very angry with me and showed no signs at all of wanting reconciliation. If the Valentine weekend wasn't still booked I think she might have been more reasonable but I'd told her, in the heat of the argument, that I couldn't cancel. There was no way she could back down before that weekend. Afterwards? Perhaps we might slowly rebuild if she was willing, but before? No way that was possible.
I had bought the Valentine card to send her. I had written a grovelling apology in it and put it aside to post. Perhaps I should buy a less ostentatious card but I had no money left even for cards. Next week? Perhaps.
I began to make a mug of instant coffee, shaking the container to check that it would last the rest of the week. There was enough if I was careful.
The phone rang. I turned the kettle off and lifted the phone.
A female voice asked:
"Graham?" and then burst into tears. One word was enough for me to recognise my elder sister, Claire.
"What's wrong, Claire?" I asked. More sobbing was the only answer. Eventually she admitted that she too had been dumped by her long-term boyfriend, James. I invited her round to talk and then suggested that I collect her. She was in no state to drive.
Even when I arrived at her flat, all she could do was hug me and wet my shoulder with her tears. I drove back to my flat. It is small but private. Claire shares with three friends. Intimate conversation is only possible in a bedroom and even then has to be in whispers. The partition walls are very thin. Claire works shifts. This was an early week so her flatmates wouldn't be home yet but would be soon.
I rang the doorbell. Claire opened the door. I entered as she hurled herself into my arms. I hugged her as she cried on my shoulder. I pushed the flat door shut behind us. I stroked her blonde hair gently. I had always liked Claire's hair. Now her hairstyle was much shorter but her hair was still smooth and silky.
"Come on, Claire," I suggested, "pick up your toilet things. You can stay with me tonight."
She stopped sobbing and helped me pack. She was still sniffling. I produced a large white handkerchief to dry her eyes. She managed a small fleeting smile. She had insisted that I always should carry a clean handkerchief.
