This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Four

Home, home, home. At midday! This is incredible. And it’s four hours until Martin gets back so I actually have some time alone for the first time in months. One of the worst things about Martin is that he only works six hours a day — he’s a personal trainer at the local gym — so he leaves the house after me and gets back before me. He also never goes back to his own house, although I pray every day that he will; he just trots back here every afternoon like a homing pigeon. His mum probably thinks he’s dead.

So, you see, it’s not like I’d be leaving him homeless if I kicked him out. His mum’s house is lovely and she has very thoughtfully kept his Busted duvet cover on his single bed just in case he ever fancies a visit. Unfortunately, Martin clocked pretty quickly that a ten-minute walk to work was much more convenient than a twenty-five-minute train journey, so he stopped going home almost as soon as we met. It was fine with me, at first; I actually looked forward to coming home to him during those first few months, when I really thought I’d hit the jackpot by settling down and finding someone. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.

I’m boiling myself in the bath and my skin is the colour of chicken tikka marinade. I’m making myself hungry. If I want curry for dinner I’ll have to make it myself because Martin doesn’t ‘do’ takeaway, as he is so fond of telling anyone who so much as breathes in his direction. He keeps saying he’s going to write a book about his ‘lifestyle’, which as far as I can see consists of lifting weights and being annoying. It’d probably be quite popular.

God, I’m horrible. Why am I thinking these horrible things? Martin isn’t a bad person, he’s just not my person. He’s custom made for an organised, health-conscious gym bunny, which is about the least fitting description of me you could possibly come up with. I can’t blame him for how I’m feeling, though. It really isn’t his fault, and he’s totally clueless as I never talk to him anyway.

I sense the tide of unhappiness and self-consciousness lapping at my skin in time with the bath water. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to lash out at people I care about. I just need a little pick-me-up, that’s all. A nice curry will do the job. I can already feel the endorphin rush of that first bite of greasy garlic naan.

I could order it now... I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I shouldn’t, though. It’s only midday, and I’m already toeing the overweight line. But why is there so much shame attached to ordering a takeaway in daylight hours? If I wanted to eat a fourteen-inch Domino’s at 9a.m., why on earth couldn’t I? It’s open at 9a.m., so surely there are people who swim against the tide.

Sod it. I’m young, free and only a stone overweight; I won’t be able to order Indian food when I’ve got three kids and a mortgage, will I? Although god forbid that ever happens because I can’t even look after myself.

OK, according to JustEat, only one of the thirty-seven Indian restaurants in my area is open. It’s a sign! Other people do this too. Holding my phone carefully above the water, I place my order — which could feed a family of four with leftovers — and heave myself out of the bath. I empty the water and watch three of my hairs coil themselves around the plughole. Something to occupy Martin later. Stop it, Maggie! I fish them out and toss them into the bin.

Waiting for a takeaway is the worst feeling in the world. I’ve put my phone on maximum volume but I keep checking it anyway, because if I miss the call and my onion bhajis get cold I will die. You can’t microwave a bhaji. I distract myself by sitting on my bed in my wet towel and flicking through Instagram. God, Emma Penton’s in Santorini. There are loads of pictures of her standing outside whitewashed buildings in bright, flowing dresses with the kind of shoes you wouldn’t expect would go with the outfit, but really do. Katie Sandhurst is travelling Asia with her model boyfriend. They upload these montage videos to Facebook with amazing backing music and it all just looks so good. Jess Benham’s having brunch in London. Why is it always so bloody sunny in London?

I haven’t spoken to any of these people in over fifteen years. When I got Facebook in 2009 I was seriously lacking in high school friends, so I just added everyone I knew, including people from primary school who I hadn’t seen since I walked out of the gates on the last day of year six. How did they all get so beautiful and successful? I bet none of them work in a basement dungeon. I bet they all carry themselves with absolute professionalism and never get curry at midday. Perhaps I should have listened to Kelsey. Maybe I’ve been so determined to hate Rachael that I didn’t realise she was actually winning? I can’t pretend I’m living my best life as an overweight sofa dweller whose idea of a good time is getting a free cheeseburger with my out-of-date student ID. It seems like every single person I know is doing something incredible — getting engaged; travelling; experimenting with Scandinavian interior design. The last holiday I went on was a weekend in Dublin with Martin where it rained the entire time, so we just spent most of it holed up in the hotel room (not shagging, I was miserable enough as it was).

I bet people think I’m drab and scruffy. I wonder if the girls ever roll their eyes when they talk about what we’ll all wear on our nights out: well, we all know Maggie will be dressed the same as she always is. No, they wouldn’t be that horrible. But I need to up my game. I need to buy some sunglasses and start getting brunch. I jump up from the bed and start pulling my clothes from the drawers, throwing them on the floor. Perhaps I can make some chic outfits from some of this. No. All of it will have to go. I need long dresses, ankle boots and shoulder bags. I need to say goodbye to Rimmel and spend three days’ salary on some Estée Lauder foundation and a mascara. I could even start contouring. In fact, I’ve got the afternoon off (working from home , yeah, yeah); I’ll go now.

This is it! I’m so full of energy, I’m shaking a bit as I pull on a scabby bra and a greying t-shirt. I’ll get out there and buy stuff until I become the best version of myself. It’s a tried and tested, fail-safe way to solve problems.

The doorbell rings.

Oh. The takeaway.

Well, I have to eat , don’t I? No one ever had a successful shopping trip on an empty stomach. I’ll eat this giant curry, and I’m sure once I’ve got a belly full of rice and naan I’ll feel even more energised and ready to go and raid the shops. I’m sure I will.

I open the door and there’s an elderly man with a JustEat bag.

‘Hot Flavas?’ He squints at me.

‘Yep! Thanks so much.’ I reach for the bag.

‘Thirty-two pounds please.’ He pulls the food back out of my reach.

‘Sorry? I paid by card?’

‘Card declined. Thirty-two pounds please.’

This is just not happening. I scrabble for my phone and check my online banking app. Sure enough, only ￡29 left of my overdraft. Shit . I run to the bedroom and pull out my emergency money sock. Situations like these are the exact reason I have this secret stash — this is an absolute Grade A emergency. The man stands and watches sadly as I dig notes and coins out of the sock, which is grey and has a picture of the Spice Girls on it.

‘Here, sorry about that.’ I thrust two twenties in his hand and he passes me my change and my food. He looks at me with concern.

‘You take care,’ he says eventually.

‘Yep, yep, you too, have a great evening, hope the weather’s good to you, bye-bye.’ I shut the door in his face.

I gaze miserably into my sock. Just twelve pounds left in there now. Maybe I could ask Theo for a pay rise? I laugh out loud. That’s about as likely to happen as Oasis getting back together.

I grab a plate and a spoon, go into the bedroom and close the door behind me. Dragging my laptop onto the bed, I bury myself in the covers and load up The Office . Season bloody seven. How has it come to this? I’m trying to calculate how many hours of my life that totals, but I don’t have my Excel spreadsheet and it’s hard to do maths while concentrating on not spilling lamb madras all over the bed.

The rush of that first bite is like nothing else. Total ecstasy. But there’s still that little voice in the back of my mind: what are you doing? Two years ago, all I wanted was to find someone; do cute things, get engaged, be a unit. Yet here I am, alone in the middle of the afternoon, stuffing my face with curry. I suppose the upside is that I’m no longer bothered by the idea of being with that perfect partner; I just want to be on my own in my space. The downside, however, is that I now seem to have fifty thousand more problems than I did two years ago. I peel the lid off the rice and shovel a huge spoonful into my mouth. The voice quietens a little.

I’m dunking my second garlic naan into the chicken tikka masala when I hear a key in the front door. Fuck. Is that Martin?! It’s only two-thirty, what’s he doing here? Or maybe it’s a burglar? But a burglar wouldn’t have a key... Or maybe he would, if this is a premeditated, extensive operation? Maybe I’ve been targeted. Someone’s been following me for weeks, waiting for the right moment to steal and copy my key. Working stealthily to gain access to my apartment so they can — what? Steal my second-hand NutriBullet and five-year-old vibrator?

The person in the apartment starts whistling the Lord of the Rings theme tune. Oh Christ, it is Martin. I’d have preferred a burglar. If he finds me with this curry in bed he’ll flip. I’m not going out there. I’ve finally got an afternoon to myself and I am not spending it discussing how many grams of saturated fat are in a prawn korma. I’m just going to stay here and finish my curry. Curries. There are three. I’m actually quite full now, but I feel like finishing this would be a protest against chic brunch-eaters, my job and the society that frowns on midday takeaways.

Martin has settled himself in front of the TV. He doesn’t know I’m here; I’m not supposed to be back until five thirty. I keep the volume on low and lay my head on the pillow, lazily feeding myself pieces of saucy lamb with my bare hands. I sort of need the bathroom, but Martin’s out there and I think I’m in a food coma. I’ll close my eyes for ten seconds and then I’ll have to go and face the insufferable music.

God, I’m so comfortable. Life is so nice without work. I can’t believe I’ve got to go back there tomorrow and write more briefs, smoke more bathroom cigarettes, feel more pathetic. I’ll think about that later.