Crappily Ever After Read online

  Chapter One

  Have you ever wondered what sets the precedent for a lifetime of choices? Perhaps it is the earliest memories that will determine your choice of friends, career path and partners? For me, it was probably my male influences that set the tone for my future failures – and believe me when I say some of those failings were quite spectacular. Don’t get me wrong, the women in my life were wonderful people; but being female myself, they didn’t hold the same mystique. The men surrounding me then set a high ideal that now seems impossible for any man to live up to. OK, they weren’t infallible, but they were certainly way over my innocent expectations.

  Maybe it’s the memory of being pulled onto my Granddad’s knee for a hug when he came home from work, having the honour of choosing the scores for his pools coupon and discussing what we’d do with the money when he won? Could it be the various adoring uncles who looked on fondly as I made my first attempts to apply make-up to my five-year-old face and then told me, without laughing, how beautiful I was, despite looking like I belonged more in a circus than a beauty pageant? Or perhaps it was the early trauma in my life that created an air of mystery surrounding the male species? I’m not sure, but I know it exists for me. Do I assume that all men will be as wonderful as my first experiences of the opposite sex? I guess so, otherwise why would I have ended up with some of the biggest losers without meaning to? Yet time and time again have the expectation that they will be fabulous – the perfect man. I mean, by your mid-thirties you should at least have some degree of cynicism, instead of the hopelessly idealistic anticipation of a child, combined with a puppy’s need to please and the memory of a goldfish, to forget those failings, and blunder blindly from relationship to relationship. What a mess. But I’m complicating things. Let me start at the beginning.

  My first memory of romantic disillusionment began, aged nine, in my Grandmother’s living room. My younger sister, Mary, and I were snuggled under a blanket, fresh in from making a slush man in the Scottish December. It was two days before Christmas and the fairy lights on the tree twinkled brightly. It was 6pm and already dark outside, with patterns of frost on the window panes. The perfect seasonal ambience. We had worked ourselves into a state of exhaustion with the excitement of the forthcoming days. Gran walked into the living room and smiled tenderly at us. She put down two steaming mugs and walked over to the electric fire. Having switched on an extra bar, she pulled the fleece blanket tighter around my sleepy, thumb-sucking sister.

  ‘Mary can have her hot chocolate if she doesn’t fall asleep. It’s still a bit hot, leave it a minute or so.’ Gran switched on the old black and white TV with the folding doors which, when guests happen by, disguised the fact that we’re anti-social enough to have a television. Luckily, the movie that was playing – It’s a Wonderful Life – was in black and white, so for once we didn’t feel poor compared to our friends with colour sets.

  I was later given the movie in ‘glorious Technicolor’ by my sister, and though the -It’s no longer the 70’s, we should not be deprived-sentiment was well meant, it just wasn’t the same. ‘I love this movie Lucy, you will too. Mary will be old enough to appreciate it next year.’ Gran smiled nostalgically and stroked back my over-grown fringe.

  She was right. I did love it; I liked George, he had dreams. Me too, I had just completed my Brownies First Aid badge and I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up. George was funny, kind and saved an orphanage kid from being poisoned, as well as his little brother Harry from the ice. So there we were, Lucy and Mary Ramsey, having been encouraged into a rite of passage movie classic. Except Mary had fallen asleep, her hot chocolate now cold. I thought about drinking hers too, but it had that horrible skin on top that I hate. Like swallowing a slug.

  I sat agog as George stormed out of his home on Christmas Eve. Why would anyone want to leave the festive atmosphere? What could possibly be so important that you would forget the wreath for the front door? This normally fun-loving person, a wonderful father and husband. Something must be terribly wrong.

  For anyone reading this that hasn’t seen the movie, I recommend going straight to your

  nearest rental place – and I’ll see you in a few days and several boxes of tissues later… For the rest, let me continue. I would marry the perfect man, and I would be as strong and loyal as Donna Reid‘s character, Mary. Once I had found my soul mate and had my four children (yes, one named Zuzu), I would live happily ever after in a cosy world of Christmas-time, where every angel gets his wings.

  The movie ended and my eyelids grew heavy. I snuggled into Mary. Gran nodded over to Granddad. He scooped up my sister and carried her upstairs, returning to pick me up and tuck me into the double bed that Mary and I shared. He reached down and switched off the electric blanket and kissed us in turn on the forehead. I inhaled his scent of Brylcream and Old Spice, before drifting into a deep, warm sleep. At 8am Mum crawled in beside us. Back from nightshift. Chilly from the winter air and smelling of early morning wood smoke from the chimneys. Mary and I instinctively flung an arm each around her neck. For a second I thought of waking her to see if we can get up, but I knew even then that this would be unfair. We could sleep for another hour. It’s Christmas Eve I thought, giving a small squeak, before squeezing closed my eyes in a vain attempt to drift off again.

  Fast-forward 26 years. In the London suburb of Islington, a Vodka-fuelled session has culminated in a screaming match at my portable TV.

  ‘Loada shite!’ yells Becky, good friend and flatmate from Dublin. ‘Absolutely no feckin’ men out there like George Bailey!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘I’ve known a few suicidal Mummy’s Boys who couldn’t wipe their own arses in my lifetime.’

  ‘Whatever,’ dismisses Becky. ‘I’m off to bed. Saturday tomorrow, only three sleeps ‘til Christmas – so many men, so few morals. I have to look my best. And no, before you say it, I know I can’t lose half a stone overnight! So I’ll just have to go with reduced eye bags and take it from there.’

  Becky pauses and looks sadly at our dilapidated Christmas tree. It’s been ten months since she broke up with Bob, her partner of three years. It had come as a huge shock to Becky, who had been deliriously happy and had assumed Bob was the same. He had begun to act nervous and seemed distant in the weeks running up to Becky’s birthday. She had called me at work and declared that he was most definitely about to propose. Becky was then on a mission. She dragged me into every jeweller we passed to fuss over rings. She held each one up to catch the light and told the saleswoman that her boyfriend had already asked her to marry him, and had sent her out to find a ring. In reality, she simply wanted to have found the perfect one when he finally asked her, but without the pitying glance of a sales person thinking she was deluding herself. God forbid Bob would choose one himself. Many a discussion we had on how to get around this. I was to chat to him about it discreetly; I never got the chance. Bob had ‘the talk’ – as it was now referred to – with Becky one week later. It turned out he was nervous and distant because he had been sleeping with a girl from work. He had tried to wait until after Becky’s birthday, but couldn’t stand the guilt any longer. He told her about his fling and promptly dumped her. For her own good, of course, according to him. She didn’t deserve him and should be with someone who adored her and wouldn’t even look at anyone else. Too true, but she was devastated.

  I nursed Becky through almost two months of despair. Bringing her soup in bed and agreeing that, yes, all men are bastards. Demanding she get showered and dressed on weekends, before finally flipping out on week seven. I informed her that I’d had enough of the moping. I did understand – I truly did – but enough already. I told her I was off on a night-out on the pull and had bought a new top. She c
ould get her own soup that night. A flicker of interest illuminated her eyes. I attempted to decipher the flicker. Soup? No, surely not. Night-out on the pull? Possibly, but doubtful.

  ‘Can I see your new top?’ Becky asked tentatively. She was on the path to recovery.

  But that night, three days before Christmas, Becky was obviously caught in a moment of feeling haunted by the ghosts of boyfriends past. I decided I was too drunk to deal with the inevitable tears and hysterics that would no doubt ensue, and vowed to be a much better friend in the morning. I would only be too truthful about what I thought of them right now; she would be defensive and we’d end up falling out. Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that speaks volumes, I reasoned.

  Allow me to digress slightly. I have discussed my own personal issues about men – in depth – with family and friends. Responses vary from:

  ‘You’re far too bloody fussy!’ and ‘stop trying so hard’ to my Mum’s contribution,

  ‘You have the Cinderella complex. Stop looking for a Prince and settle for a nice frog.’ Helpful? Well no, actually. Not when your Prince is George Bailey and not even Jimmy Stewart himself could have lived up to that. I wouldn’t actually mind a nice frog, but the ones I seem to attract are, in fact, toads. Besides, my life is a fairytale. Let’s see: there was Grumpy, Dopey, psycho, stalker, liar, junkie and idiot. Gullible and the Seven Tossers!

  Saturday dawns – far too early for my liking – with our over-enthusiastic housemate vacuuming outside my room. I swing open the door and give him a glare worthy of Medusa. What could possibly possess someone to clean at 9am on a Saturday morning? I’m suspicious of teetotallers, unless it’s for health or religious reasons. His are neither. Why would you choose not to drink? Nothing puts Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder faster than a large glass of Pinot Grigio.

  Ian smiles sweetly at me and informs me that there is fresh coffee in the pot. Oblivious to the mascara- encrusted, ‘styled by having fallen in a hedge’ mad woman who doesn’t look best pleased to see him. I shove past, grabbing one of a selection of our chipped mugs. Choice of today is ‘Do I look like a people person?’ – pretty apt for how I feel, I counter.

  I pour a strong black coffee and pluck a cigarette from the spare morning pack I keep in my dressing gown pocket. Well, if Ian can ignore the ‘No Housework before 11am’ house rule, I can ignore the ‘No Smoking in Shared Areas’ one.

  I carefully flick my dog end into next door’s garden. Old bat, mad as a box of frogs, who one morning raged at me at 3am for forgetting my keys and shouting up to Becky to let me in. I’d sarcastically informed her that it wouldn’t happen again and I’d sleep in the wheelie bin next time. I decide a shower is my next move. It’s rudely interrupted by having to go back to my room for a Post-it note to stick on my soap for the hairy Italian man who shares my landing.

  ‘Again! Do not use my soap. I will send it for DNA-testing if necessary, but I am pretty sure that these are your pubes!’

  He is truly disgusting. My last note, a week ago read:

  ‘Peeing whilst showering is not good time management!’

  As was his excuse last time I complained about this.

  ‘I know it’s you. We are the only two who use the bathroom and it certainly wasn’t me!’

  There was no mistaking the yellow puddle. Shower over, I decide to see if Becky is awake. Maybe a little lunch out would be the order of the day.

  Sitting in our local pub, the Frog and Bucket, an hour and a half later, well into a second bottle of wine, I inform Becky that I am going home by five o’clock. I have an early train to catch home to Scotland. She sniggers knowingly, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. And, true to form, by five o’clock I’m back at the bar, shouting my order to the barman for our third bottle of wine. On my somewhat wobbly return to the table, I announce that I am going home by six o‘clock. Becky dissolves into uncontrollable giggles. It’s her influence that’s the problem. I have nothing but good intentions when she’s not around.

  By seven we’re staggering around our local Supermarket. Trying desperately – and failing – to not find it funny that we are so blatantly hammered. So far our basket consists of: one chicken tikka massala, one lamb bhuna, poppadoms, a multi-pack of crisps, a family sized bar of chocolate and two bottles of Pinot Grigio. Added to this by the time we leave the shop are two packs of cigarettes; this is due to the fact that I always completely over-estimate how much I will actually smoke and drink when drunk.

  ‘Will you look at that? A heart attack in a carrier bag,’ I announce, peering into our selection of shopping. We get off at the bus stop after the usual one, having missed ours due to dulled reactions. We walk back towards home, arguing over the importance of whose curry should be heated first. Becky wins, based on the fact it’s her microwave from the old flat, and if I had to oven cook mine it’d take forty minutes as opposed to the six minutes it will take to wait until she cooks hers. We lean into each other for support as we walk and cackle at the earlier amorous attempts of one of the bartenders who so obviously fancies Becky, but who is so ‘under her league’, as she puts it.

  By nine we decide that it’s best to open our presents for each other under the tree. Saves taking them all the way home to Ireland and Scotland to open them and then bring them back. Ten o’clock and we‘re dancing to one of Becky’s gifts from me – titled something along the lines of, ‘Cheesiest Christmas Songs Ever, Volume Two’ – and wearing the suitable attire of one of the gifts that Becky has given me. Stripy socks, one each; matching gloves, one each; and, to complete the set, a bobble hat, taking it in turns to wear – at the moment it’s mine. We really did wish it would be Christmas every day.

  Well, ‘til approximately ten o’clock the following morning, that is. I awoke to a stripy-socked leg draped over me. The bobble hat had slipped over her eyes so all I could see was the tip of her nose and a wide snoring mouth. Sitting bolt upright, I shouted:

  ‘Late! … Work? … Shit, train!’ I frantically put together the pieces of today’s planned events. I had one hour to get to King’s Cross; luckily, Becky had three hours to get to Heathrow. Shoving her off me, I made the dash to the shower. Gagging at the exfoliant effect of hairy soap grazing my body. I bolt back to the bedroom, throwing my wet towel onto Becky with the aim of hiding her eyes from the sight of my bare backside on a morning when I’m sure she couldn’t deal with it.

  ‘What’s up?’ her muffled voice queries from under the towel.

  ‘Get up! You have a flight to catch, I have a train, we have to go.’

  Becky shot out of bed as if she’d been electrocuted and did a similar shower dash. Luckily, in a separate bathroom from me, one shared by clean and sweet-smelling girls. How unfair. I was living there first. Luckily for her, Stu the Serial Shagger had been evicted two weeks after she moved in; his presence was why I hadn’t taken her room over mine when the last idiot who inhabited her room left – and she moved in. Sharing a bathroom with the hairy Italian who left more skid marks down the toilet than you’d see at Brands Hatch had seemed, at the time, infinitely more appealing than constant sleep disruption from the squeaking springs emanating from Stu’s room as he entertained his latest conquest.

  Fifteen minutes and two hastily packed cases later and we’re standing at the bus stop, squinting in our hungover states through the low winter sun in the direction our buses will arrive. As the Number 27 lumbers up the hill, Becky gives my arm a squeeze.

  ‘Here’s mine. Merry Christmas Luce, sweetie,’ and she was off. Jammy bugger, I thought. Some of us landed on our feet in life. Some – and I was one of them – were arse-landers. She, who had infinitely longer than me to get to where she was going, was on her way first.

  Somehow I made it. Rushing through the doors of King’s Cross Station, dodging tourists, business people, suitcases and buggies. I skip the queue as I know fine well that waiting at point A, B or C will only result in being directed to the platform that I can find instinctively by now. Another veteran ‘Scot
going home for Christmas’ pulls up in position beside me. He hasn’t booked a seat either – I just know it. I have learned a lot since the first Christmas Eve train I had taken from London, when I had to spend six and a half hours sitting on my rucksack. Obviously, I hadn’t learned enough since then to make sure I had actually booked a seat! Each year I had done the manic-eyed dash through the train to find the Unreserved Seats – until, that is, they introduced the Holy Grail for disorganised passengers. The Unreserved Carriage!

  Platform announced, fellow Scot and I make our way as swiftly as we can in a nonchalant ‘I’m not in a hurry’ kind of way. Eyeballing each other occasionally. Less seasoned travellers dwindle metres behind. If getting to the Flying Scotsman’s Unreserved Carriage was ever made an Olympic sport, I would be a five times-over Gold Medallist.

  ‘Which is the unreserved carriage?’ fellow Scot bellows at the guard.

  ‘There isn’t one! It’s Christmas, we’re full.’ He rolls his eyes, baffled by the stupidity of non-booking travellers. This bought me precious seconds. I wasn’t involved in the niceties of conversation so, with a most unladylike snort and a duhhh! look at fellow Scot, I made my way to the train like a bat out of hell.

  Sitting smugly in my seat, I watched through my eyelashes as he attempted to shove his bag into the storage compartment, before making his way down the aisle looking for any vacant seat without a ticket on the top. I was pretty sure I had the only one in the carriage. I couldn’t help but mumble:

  ‘Messing with the big girls now, huh?’

  ‘Sorry?’ he said, throwing me an attitude-laden glance.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ I sympathised. ‘Just saying what a pain it is to find a seat when you haven’t booked. That’s all.’