The bastard is late again.
I’m sat in the Perseverance on Lambs Conduit Street, waiting for him to turn up so I can give him the bad news. Given the circumstances it’s the last place in the world I ought to be, but I figure that a glass of red isn’t going to hurt me, and at least smoking’s not allowed in pubs these days. Perched at the bar I have to suffer every leering drunken stare from the lecherous old fart who props up the end of the bar. The barman is cute though, so I lean over to engage him in conversation, fingering the stem of my wine glass.
The pub itself is a tarted-up local, the nicotine stains painted over and slightly drooping tulips delicately arranged in tasteless glass vases at each table. The red velvet bench seats have been replaced with leather-effect black vinyl, which is less comfortable even if it is more pleasing on the eye. I wouldn’t choose to be here in a thousand years if it wasn’t the one place my arsehole of a soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend could guarantee to be be found every evening.
Sure enough, I’ve only been talking to Johann (the barman turns out to be a PhD English Literature student who is spending a year in London and who speaks with a confidence that betrays a life of private education) for a few minutes when the black double-doors of the pub swing open and he staggers in with several of the usual suspects. They notice me immediately – being the only woman between the ages of twenty and fifty in the bar that’s not surprising – and I catch a couple of mumbled “uh-oh” and “someone’s in trouble”. They slip away to their normal spot at the far corner of the room.
“Hey sweetheart, what are you doing here?” He steps forwards and is about to kiss me when he notices the expression on my face, and changes his mind rapidly. Instead he orders a round of beer for his mates and a glass of wine for me. I drain the last of my first glass and smile at Johann as he pours me a large Shiraz. He withdraws, displaying a tact that I haven’t seen in a guy for quite some time, and I mouth a silent “thank you” to him.
The boy returns from delivering beer to his friends, and I take a deep breath and start talking before he has a chance to come up with some stupid excuse for not being home for the fourth night running.
“Okay, look I’m not here to drag you home, but I need to talk to you and it can’t wait any longer.” He puts his hand on mine and is about to offer an apology that’s about a genuine as the “Rolex” he wears. I cut him off.
“I’m leaving you. I can’t do this any more. We’ve barely spoken in weeks, and I can’t remember the last time we even slept in the same bed.” That’s a blatant lie. I know the exact date, and am not likely to forget it now. All of a sudden I’m not sure about telling him the next bit. Is there any point in telling him when what I really want is him out of my life?
He’s silent, for the first time since we met he doesn’t try to talk his way through this. He simply sits there as if stunned, and I’m suddenly very scared. He picks up his pint, raises it to his lips, and drains it in one go. I take a small sip of the wine, which is unexpectedly good.
He stands up, the vinyl cushioning of the stool creaking as he does so, and fixes me with a deadpan stare. My heart catches in my throat and my stomach turns over, and I know what he’s about to say is going to hurt me as much as he possibly can.
“I’ve been seeing Emily. I was trying to find the right time to tell you, but you’ve been acting kinda strange the past couple of weeks.” Emily is his personal assistant. Which means everyone sat over in the corner knows, and right now they’re probably all assuming he’s just dumped me. My heart stops beating, and all I can see is his face – the smug, grinning bastard looks over to his mates and then back at me – and the only thing I can think of is to slap him as hard as I can.
“Fuck you Nina.” He walks over to the mass of giggling, whooping wankers that he works with, shrugging and twirling his finger in the air around his temple. I can just make out the words “crazy bitch” before they erupt in laughter.
I turn around and drain the rest of the wine, my hand throbbing from the pain of hitting him. Johann makes a motion to offer me another, but I shake my head. Instead, I take a pen from my purse and carefully write my mobile number on a bar mat, which he picks up and places behind the bar.
He calls at eleven thirty. By midnight he’s in my bed, and I’ve forgotten that I’m eight weeks pregnant.