Getting Over It

GETTING
OVER IT

Anna Maxted

ReganBooks

An Imprint of
HarperCollins
Publishers

To Leslie Maxted

Acknowledgments

So many brilliant people to thank for their time, talent, and support: Phil Robinson, Andy Robinson, Mary Maxted, Leonie Maxted, Caren Gestetner, Richard Hermer, Jonny Geller, Wendy Bristow, Laura Yorke, Lynne Drew, Andy McKillop, Emma Dally, Jo Kessel, Dr. Michael Kessel, Dr. Maurice Cohen, Mark Curtis, Jeanette King, Evelyn Smith, Daniel Silver, Laura Dubiner, Kathryn Mayor, Christabel Hilliard, Jason P. Worsnip, Dr. Jeremy M. Pfeffer, Louise Bowtell, Margaret Carruthers, Sarah Vessel, Heather Blackmore, Sybil Sipkin, Paul Bern, Paul “TCB” Burke, Hudson and Gina Britton, Sasha Slater, Anna Moore, Lisa Sussman, Grub Smith, Alicia Drake-Reece, Martin Raymond, Lynne Randell, Women In Need, Sam Leek, and James Buchanan.

GETTING
OVER IT

Chapter 1

W
HEN IT HAPPENED
, I wasn’t ready for it. I expected it about as much as I expect to win Miss World and be flown around the planet and forced to work with screaming children. And being so awesomely unprepared, I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost. I followed my instinct, which turned out to be hopelessly lost and rubbish at map reading.

Maybe I was too confused to do the right thing. After all, the right thing rarely involves fun and mostly means making the least exciting choice, like waiting for the ready-cook pizza you’ve torn from the oven to cool to under 200 degrees before biting into it. Or deciding not to buy those sexy tower-heeled boots because they’ll squeeze your toes white and lend you the posture of Early man, and a vast chunk of your salary will moulder away at the back of your wardrobe. If we always made the smartest choice, we’d never get laid.

That said, the day it all began, I came close to making a very smart choice. Here it is, bravely scrawled in black ink, in my blue Letts diary:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

Words that whisk me back to what was barely one year ago but seems like an age. July 16 remains as sharp in my mind as if it were today. Maybe it
is
today. And this is how today begins:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

He deserves it for being called Jasper, for a start. And for a finish, he falls several thousand feet below acceptable boyfriend standard.

Funny thing is, at the age of five I knew what that was. I was dating the boy across the road and I routinely drank his tea before embarking on mine. I also tantrumed until he surrendered his Fisher Price wheely dog. And I refused to play in his bedroom because it smelt of wee. Then I grew up and started taking crap.

Unfortunately, Jasper is beautiful. Tall, which I like. The only time I’ve had dealings with a short man is when my domineering friend Michelle set me up on a blind date. He rang the bell, I wrenched open the door, and looked down. And I’m five foot one. Two Weebles wibble-wobbling their way down the road. Michelle’s excuse was that when she met him, he was sitting down. (We’ve known each other for twenty-one years and I’ve never heard her say the word “sorry.”) So Jasper, at six feet, is a delight. I wear five-inch heels so he doesn’t notice the discrepancy. He has floppy brown hair, eyes so paradise-blue it’s incredible he actually uses them to see, and my favorite, good bone structure. And despite being the most selfish man I’ve ever met—quite a feat—he’s a tiger in the sack.

I’m on my way there now. Sackbound. For one last bout. Except I’m stuck in traffic on Park Road. There appears to be road work with no one doing any work. I’m trapped in my elderly gray Toyota Corolla (a castoff from my mother, who was thrilled to be rid of it—please don’t think I’d go out and buy one even if I had the money) and trying to stay calm. In the last twenty minutes I’ve rolled forward a total of five inches. I might ring Jasper to say I’ll be late. The road converges on approximately fifty sets of lights and everyone is barging—as much as you can barge when you’re stationary. It’s 2:54
P.M.
I’m due at Jasper’s at 3:30. Great. My mobile is out of batteries. I pick the skin on my lip. Right. I’m phoning him.

I assess the gridlock—yes, it’s gridlocked—leap out of the car, dash across the road to the phonebox, and dial Jasper’s number.
Bmrt-brrt. Brrrt-brrt.
Where is he? He can’t have forgotten. Shit, the traffics moving. I ring his mobile—joy! He answers. “Jasper Sanderson.” Never says hello like a normal person. He’s so executive. I hate it but I love it. He sounds suspiciously out of breath.

“Why are you out of breath?” I say sharply.

“Who’s this?” he says. Jesus!

“Your girlfriend. Helen, remember?” I say. “Listen, I’m going to be late, I’m stuck in traffic. Why are you out of breath?”

“I’m playing tennis. Bugger, I forgot you were coming over. It’ll take me a while to get home. Spare key’s under the mat.”

He beeps off. “You’re such an original,” I say sourly, and look up to see the gridlock has cleared and swarms of furious drivers are hooting venomously at the Toyota as they swerve around it.

Forty minutes later I arrive at Jasper’s Fulham flat. I ring the bell, in case he’s already home, but silence. I kick the mat to scare off spiders, gingerly lift a corner with two fingers, and retrieve the key. Ingenious, Jasper! The place is a replica of his parents’ house. There’s even a silver-framed picture of his mother as a young girl on the hall table—and a right prissy miss she looks, too. Happily, he’s never introduced me. His most heinous interior crime, however, is a set of ugly nautical paintings that dominate the pale walls. Thing is with Jasper, just when I think I can’t take any more, he does something irresistible, such as iron the collar and cuffs of his shirt and go to work hiding the crumpled rest of it under his jacket. I poke the scatter of post to check for correspondence from other women and see the green light of his answer machine flashing for attention. Jasper calling to announce a further delay. I press play.

As the machine whirrs, the key turns in the lock. Jasper flings open the door and I turn, smiling, to face him. Oof, he’s gorgeous. I’ll dump him next week. He’s like eating chocolate for breakfast—makes you feel sluttish, you know you shouldn’t, you ought to stick to what’s wholesome, but muesli is depressing even with raisins in it. Jasper is un-nutritious and delicious. He opens his eminently kissable mouth to say “Hiya, babe!” but is beaten to it by a high silvery voice that echoes chirpily over the tiled floor and bounces gaily from one eggshell wall to the other.

“Hiya, babe!” trills the voice. “It’s me! Call me! Kiss! Kiss!”

The smile freezes on my face. Jasper and I both stare at the answer machine which, having imparted its treachery, is now primly silent. Knowing the answer, I croak, à la Quentin Tarantino, “Who the fucking fuck was that?”

Jasper is not amused. If this were Hollywood there would be a muscle twitching in his jaw and his chiseled face would turn pale under its caramel tan. As it is, he carefully places his sports bag on the floor and rests his tennis racquet neatly on top of it. I feel a rip of fury tear through my chest and I want to snatch up the Prince and wallop him. At least he
was
playing tennis, although he’s so damn sneaky I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an elaborate cover. He gazes at my red fear-ruffled face and says smoothly, “My ex. She likes to keep in touch.”

I’ll bet she does.

“When did you last see her?” I snarl.

“A week ago,” he replies. “We just talked.” Ho, really.

I’m like Fox Mulder. I want to believe. And Jasper wants me to believe, too. He’s tilted his face to a penitant angle. Cute, but what I know of Jasper, plus the gut-crunching phrase “It’s me,” induces scepticism. “Its me” is as proprietorial as a Doberman guarding a chocolate biscuit. A woman does not ring an ex-boyfriend and say “It’s me” because for all she knows—and she obviously doesn’t—there is now another me.
Me.

“Did you have sex with her?” I roar. Jasper looks hurt. “Of course I didn’t, Helen,” he purrs. “Louisa calls everyone babe.” Names ending in
ah.
Argh! I narrow my eyes and give him my best shot at a cold stare. The big brave words “We’re through” are warm, ready to roll, but they stick, feeble and reluctant, in my throat. Now, I tell myself, is not the moment. Why, he’ll think I’m in love with him! The only decent thing to do is to walk. “I’m going home,” I say huffily. The rat steps gratefully aside. I intend to sweep out in a
Gone With the Wind
flourish, and it’s going to plan until I reach the doorstep and trip. I stumble, and I’m unsure if the snorty gasp I hear is Jasper not quite trying to supress mirth but I don’t look back to find out. Face clenched, I stomp down his concrete garden path, plonk into the Toyota, lurch-hurtle a three-point turn, during which I dent the door of a parked MG, and rattle off into the fading afternoon.

You wanker. You wanker.
I wrestle my mobile out of my bag in case he calls grovelling, then remember it’s dead. Piece of crap. I am driving as the crow flies.
You wanker.
I have no intention of gracefully erasing myself from the picture so Louis-ah can steal the scene. I can’t decide if he rutted or refused her. Jasper likes to be in demand. But then he likes to lead a streamlined existence. Jasper—unironed shirts aside—likes his life and all that surrounds it to be just so. Shagging his moony old ex would be too messy, it would disrupt his timetable. Then again… .
You wanker.

She’s reared her smugly head before. A month into our relationship, as I like to call it. Jasper called to say he couldn’t meet, as he was staying with his friend Daniel in Notting Hill. Beyond my surprise that Jasper had a friend in Notting Hill, I didn’t question it. We were at that googly-eyed stage where you kiss in public and annoy everyone who is less in lust than you, so I trusted him. The next afternoon, he suddenly said, “I told you a pack of lies last night.” What. “I… I stayed with my ex.” Turned out he’d missed the last train home (he doesn’t drive, his most unfanciable trait) and so he’d walked to Kensington and rung the ex’s doorbell. “She was really good about it.” Good about it! I’m sure she was great about it! Further interrogation revealed that she’d fed him corn flakes with brown sugar for breakfast. The sly witch—she was trying to nurture him! Happily, she was too needy to appeal and so a large bowl of cereal was wasted. But maybe she’s sharpened up. And maybe my appeal is blunted. Oops, my personality is showing.

The first weeks were glossy enough. I met Jasper at a book launch—for a paperback sex manual. I’d gone from work with Lizzy and Tina. Partly because Laetitia our misnomered features editor didn’t want to go, and it is my job as features skivvy on
GirlTime
magazine to pick up her slack. And also because Tina, the fashion assistant, and I are hardcore champagne tarts—anything for a free chug of Krug (or Asti, let’s face it). And although Lizzy is health and beauty assistant in her professional and personal life and her drink of choice is soya milk—she’s so sweet, really walks the talk—she can be persuaded. We twisted her well-toned arm.

The launch was in a smelly Soho backstreet. I’d glammed up for the occasion—black trousers, black boots (five inches—that’s the lowest I stoop and not just in the shoe department), black top. The celebrity funeral look. I’d also smeared a blop of metallic silver glitter on my cheekbones. It looked scarily Abba-ish, but that evening I felt quite strongly I could not attend the launch without it. I’d have felt awkward and incomplete. The older I get and the more tediously responsible I’m forced to be, the more I hanker for tokens of childhood. I now own: a tiny pink zippy purse with coloured beads that you itch to pick off; a plastic helicopter that you attach to the ceiling on a string, which whizzes round with flashing red lights; a kaleidescope; a copy of
Ramona and Her Mother
by Beverly Cleary; a dartboard (well, it’s not a sophisticated pursuit, is it?); and a spoiled kitten named Fatboy.

Usually I don’t talk to people at parties. I survey the hoardes of glamorous best friends all gabbling, laughing, bonding in inpenetrable cliques and I want to run away home. I feel my makeup turning shiny, my face creaks from one unsettled expression to another, and I’m the podgy teenager of ten years ago, complete with dorky specs, a brown satchel, and a blue scratchy duffel coat with shark tooth buttons and a huge hood. Now, of course, I’d be a fashion victim. But the Jasper party was different. I was one of a sparkly three-girl group, I glugged two glasses of sparkly wine in the first twenty minutes, and I was smeared in more sparkly glitter than a Christmas fairy. I sparkled! So it was only natural that Jasper appeared before me and offered me a fag.

“I don’t smoke,” I said primly. In a flash of brilliance, I added coyly, “I’m a good girl.”

He didn’t miss a beat. He replied, “Well, you look filthy.”

It was the best compliment I’ve ever had. What could I do but shag him out of gratitude?

Jasper was “in publishing,” which turned out to mean he wrote press releases for a pipsqueak company based in Hounslow. I, therefore, terrier-torso assistant on
GirlTime
magazine based in Covent Garden, was a great contact. Not that we review many books on Elizabethan sanitation or the indigenous insects of Guatemala, but roughly at the point I looked on his ravishing face and he gazed at my sparkly one, we decided to do business together. For a few weeks I upheld my airbrushed image. I exaggerated the importance of my job. Tina advised me on what to wear, i.e. gray, occasionally. I avoided taking him to the flat. And I edited all trace of squareness from my conversation and pumped up the wacky free-spirit factor. Like Bjork, but better dressed. Shameful, but it works. Of course, I realized after three days that we had bugger-all in common—he called orange juice “OJ” and was stockpiling to put his son through Eton (a tad premature, as he didn’t yet have one)—but I don’t like sameyness, so it was fine by me.

He likes to be amused, so it was fine by him. But sometimes, more recently, I’m sure the bubble is at bursting point. We spent an afternoon in the park last Saturday and I swear we had nothing to say to each other. He walked me to my car, and I was certain he was going to end it. Candidly, in that efficient, emotionless, poshboy way—“Helen, it’s not working out.” But he didn’t. He kissed me a breezy goodbye as if nothing was amiss.

I brooded all the way home. I dislike silence. I fear its potentiality. I prefer to fill it with my own voice, which inevitably gabbers out something goonish. Last week, I blurted to a shop assistant offering help: “No thanks, I’m just mooching.” To the receptionist at Lizzy’s health club who enquired how I was: “Ready for a bout of exercise.” To Jasper, horny an hour after lunch at Pizza Express: “I think I’m still digesting.” Sexy lady!

So, as the silences grow, I slowly blow my sassy cover. He doesn’t seem to have caught on, but I feel increasingly uncomfortable. He doesn’t get my jokes and I feel wrong and not right. I am so not right for Jasper and he is so not right for me, but he still seems amused by me and he has a decent-sized penis. Breaking up is hard to do. Louis-ah does not make it easi-ah.