“I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s life. One must play with the cards one is dealt. Jolly good.”
There was nothing to be done with him in this state. He walked me in silence back to the car and I cried all the way home.
SEVEN
FUCKWITTAGE
WEDNESDAY 18 OCTOBER
8 p.m. My flat. “That’s it, I’m an idiot. It’s all my fault. He’ll never forgive me.”
“Er, excuse me. He did have something to do with this,” said Miranda.
“He fucking slept with you then brutally fucking dumped you,” yelled Shaz.
“He didn’t have to be so mean.”
“Darling, you know Mark’s psychopathology,” mused Tom. “He’s avoidant. He emotionally flees at the first hint of pain. He’ll come round.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Look at the engagement party. I just can’t believe I was such an…”
A text pinged up on my phone.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
(I had recently made some changes in my address book.)
Everyone jumped in startlement and peered at the phone as if it contained a message from an Egyptian god released by the morning sun shining through a tiny hole in a pyramid onto an amulet.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
Jones, sorry about the phone cutting out the other day. Could I possibly come over?
Then another.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
I shall, of course, be wearing Wellington boots and a full-body plastic cagoule.
“DON’T SEE HIM,” ordered Miranda bossily. “?’Ere have we run out of wine?”
“I can’t just not see him; he might be the father of my…”
“You should see him,” said Tom thoughtfully.
“Bus DON’TS sleeps wi’ him.”
“She’s goner get pregnant again.”
“Wis triplets,” slurred Shaz.
“SPECKLED triplets,” growled Miranda.
THURSDAY 19 OCTOBER
7 p.m. My flat. Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs holding a stylish bunch of flowers wrapped in edgy brown paper and tied with straw.