The odds that he was not invited are slender. With most exes, I would not mind, but I haven’t heard so much as a word from him since the near-miss at that birthday party some time back, there’s been no sign of the mystery car at all, and I therefore have no idea whether he still pines, or hates me, or has forgotten about me altogether. And I can’t decide which outcome would be the worst.
It would take only a minute to ring the bride-to-be and ask, but that would flag my concern, and if I know this couple at all, I know that other people’s discomfort is their sport. So best not say anything at all.
I could certainly use a weekend out of town, though, and it’s the best option going so far. samedi, le 5 juin
N and A3 and I dissected the interview. N has no real idea what I studied, but was unfailingly supportive and convinced the job will be mine. A3, on the other hand, works in a similar field and is, it must be noted, grumpy at best.
I’ve my own personal angel and devil figures, just as in cartoons. Though the idea of carrying their combined thirty-odd stone on my shoulders is laughable. mardi, le 8 juin
“They must at least be considering you,” N said. “I went for an interview in Newcastle once, and they rang up to reject me before I even got to the train to come home.”
“What were you going to Newcastle for?” I asked.
N gave me an odd look. “Never you mind,” he said. “Point is, you have to be more patient. They’ll let you know in due time.”
He’s probably right, but it doesn’t stop me fretting. Could I have given a better presentation, I wonder, or answered their questions more professionally? Did something about my clothes or manner put them off? How did I stand up against the others? If I get the job, will I fit in, will I disappoint them? Do any fit men work there? mercredi, le 9 juin
As near as I can figure, possible reasons I have not been contacted yet about the interview include:
• They have decided to hire someone else, and neglected to tell me.
• They have decided to hire me, and neglected to tell me.
• They are making an offer to someone else first and waiting for a response before rejecting the other applicants.
• They are rejecting the other applicants before contacting the successful candidate (i.e., me).
• The letter has been lost in the post.
• The letter has not been lost in the post, but was delivered to the wrong house.
• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant died suddenly on the way to the door, and no one has found him or the letter yet.
• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant has a dog, who ate the letter.
• The letter was delivered to me, but as a test of my mental acumen, cunningly disguised as one of the thousands of circulars that come through my door daily, and I mistakenly threw it away.
• The letter was delivered to me, and rapidly disintegrated.
• The letter was delivered to me, and soon thereafter I suffered acute head trauma, erasing my memory of either the letter or the trauma.
• And my memory has filled in the erased portions, so not only do I not remember any of this, I do not have any mysterious gaps in my recollection.
• I dreamt the interview.
• The letter has not been sent yet.
• They haven’t made a decision yet. jeudi, le 10 juin
I couldn’t take waiting any longer. I rang the personnel department. The woman on the other end of the call was kind-voiced, slightly dappy-I had to give her the job reference number three times. She apologized-apparently there had been problems with the internal mail and the letters hadn’t been posted yet, though a decision had been made. I gnawed the fingers of my left hand while she looked for the information.
“Ah, here you are,” she said. “It looks like you’ve gotten it.”
My heart leapt. I grinned. “Really?”
“You are Louise, right?”
And just as quickly, it fell back to the pit of my stomach. “Er, no.” The pudding-faced girl. How had they chosen her over me?
“Oh, sorry!” she tittered. “I’m afraid you haven’t been successful, then.” I thanked her and rang off.
Phone call from Dr. C, who is visiting his parents and wants to drive up and visit next week. I suppose the current situation gives me some free time at least. Silver linings and all that. And I am definitely going to that engagement party. Nothing hath charms to soothe the wounded ego quite like alcohol and flirtation.
So I should be away all weekend. Sod’s Law: if in the city with no escape, the days will be blazing hot and sunny; the minute I step foot outside this urban sphere, it will chuck it down endlessly. And I will be wearing open-toed shoes with white trousers. If you experience unpleasant weather this weekend, be assured that it is my fault entirely. dimanche, le 13 juin
The benefits of sex with an ex:
• No chance of being shocked by what he looks like naked the first time. That horrible mole is right where you left it.
• Not having to awkwardly ask for contact details after. If you don’t have them, it’s not by accident.
• He knows where your buttons are, how many there are, how long they need to be pressed, and whether they should go side-to-side, up and down, or in little circles.
And the drawbacks:
• There’s probably a good reason you’re not together anymore. A very good reason.
• One of you will think this means the relationship is back on.
• There is absolutely no way you can tell any of your friends without coming off as the world’s biggest prat. After all, they had to live with you post-breakup, right?
Cripes. I’m going to commence a head/wall interface now. Back later when I have knocked some sense into myself. lundi, le 14 juin
So, yes. Sex. With someone I honestly expected never to have sex with again.
The Boy. The effing Boy.
Still sorting it out. It’s a mess. He gave me a lift back to London and now won’t leave. But I would like to confirm that-at least before the slightly tipsy postcoital glowing phase ended and the horrible, horrible veil of Oh-Dear-Me-Not-Again descended-it was good.
Better than good. He sat on my chest and fucked my mouth; he took me from behind, above, and below. I smiled and asked how he’d gotten so good with his tongue, thinking there must be some genius tart showing him the ropes now. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just think about it a lot.” I came harder, faster, and longer than usual, and for a brief moment I thought, If he never said anything stupid again, I could be quite happy with this.
Sod’s Law Mark II: he will open his mouth and say something stupid within thirty seconds of thinking that. And it was raining outside so I couldn’t make some excuse to vacate the flat, walk around for a bit, and come back when enough time had elapsed to be certain he’d gone. mardi, le 15 juin
There’s no why to ex sex, there’s only the how (long it will last, soon it will be over, fast can I leave). Most of my exes are friends, and most of my friends are exes, and I don’t fuck them afterward as a rule. But there are one or two who fall out of touch, usually because there was little in the relationship worth building a friendship on, and this was one.
The morning he left he offered me a lift to a meeting. Thank goodness, I thought, that means he’ll be on his way, hopefully never to return. Before we could go, though, he asked if I had any money on me. I didn’t. Except when working, I usually carry less spare change than the Queen.
He drove us via an ATM so I could make a withdrawal and pay him back for the tomatoes he had bought me. (N.B., these were replacing tomatoes I already had that he had helped himself to. So, I was paying for my own tomatoes twice. Nice.)
I emerged from the car shaking my head. Walked to the ATM. Withdrew a crisp tenner-the tomatoes hadn’t cost that much, but who knows, maybe he was going to impose a surcharge on my own toilet paper, or something-and walked back to the car. Put the note in his hand.