This is Not a Love Story

Chapter One

I am wide-awake at 6a.m., listening to a furious scratching sound filtering through the paper-thin walls of my bedroom.

I know exactly what this is.

Gazing up at the ceiling, I attempt to curb my rage for approximately ten seconds before swinging my legs out of bed and stomping through to the kitchen.

What I really need, I know, is a cigarette. But what I’m probably going to do is start a nicotine-craving-fuelled argument with my boyfriend that I’ll regret for the rest of the day.

Martin is hunched over the sink, viciously scrubbing a pan that I washed last night. I now have a choice. Tell Martin to please save his sanitising for when I’m not savouring my sleep hours due to a wild night of back-to-back episodes of The Office , or keep my mouth closed, roll a cigarette and begin my day with peace. I am weighing up my options when he turns around and smiles at me.

‘Morning, lazybones!’

‘I washed that pot last night, Martin.’ I attempt an amenable tone, but it comes out as a sort of screech, so I plaster a grin on my face to mask it.

‘I know you did, my love, and you did it very well! It’s just there was this teeny little piece of spaghetti sticking to the rim, so I thought I’d just rinse it off.’ He holds up the pan and it glints at me sadly, not used to such a violent cleansing.

‘You need to look up the definition of “rinse”, Martin.’ The grin is sliding off my face at alarming speed. Stay calm. I clench my teeth. ‘Would you mind saving the more aggressive scrubbing for after I’ve woken up next time?’

I leave the room again before he can answer and, more importantly, before I explode, and head back to the warm sanctuary of my duvet. Martin is undeterred and I hear him padding to the bathroom, no doubt to floss the toilet roll holder or something.

I reach my arm across the thirty-centimetre space between my bed and the window and swing it open. I’m just licking the edges of my rolling paper when Martin hurls himself into the room.

‘Maggieeeeeeee...’ he sings, ‘look what I’ve found!’ He holds out his hand, his thumb and index finger clutching something invisible. I lean forward and strain my eyes.

‘A hair?’

Oh, for god’s sake.

‘They really are everywhere, aren’t they!’ He waggles his finger on his free hand. ‘These can be a real nightmare if they build up, remember? You should always try and lift up the plug after you’ve had a shower and just pull them out — easy-peasy. I can show you, if you like?’

What life Martin believes I lived until I met him I do not know. He seems to think that, as a single woman, I spent my days eating from the floor and flushing unflushable items down the toilet for fun, with absolutely no idea how the world ‘ actually works ’ (his exact words). I have restrained thus far from reminding him that I have lived independently in the centre of Manchester for the past nine years, whereas he still technically lives with his mum in a semi-detached house in Rochdale.

‘I know how to unclog a plug, Martin.’ I try to keep my voice level. He’s only trying to help, he’s only trying to help. In his defence, the plumbing system in this place has worked impeccably since he moved in.

‘I’m sure you do, sweetheart,’ he wrinkles his nose, ‘it’s just that you weren’t too clued up about emptying the bin last week, were you?’ He wiggles his horrid, horrid eyebrows.

I put my cigarette to my lips, flick the lighter and inhale slowly. Blowing plumes of smoke through the room, I gaze at him steadily.

‘Fuck off, Martin.’