Page 61 of Stella is Starting Over

At the office I try to join in our morning meeting about What’s Hot right now, but obviously I don’t know What’s Hot. I could suggest that leaving your baby at childcare when they’re screaming for you isn’t hot, but that’s sort of the opposite of what anyone here is interested in, and, let’s face it, every woman who’s already had a kid will tell me that they’ve been there, done that and my discovering it is actually quite boring for everyone else.

The week wears on. I get the morning routine down, Rose screams at drop-off then cheers up after I leave, I miss the train, do an average-to-poor job at work, come home, eat a ready meal or breakfast food, and then go to bed at an appropriate bedtime for a nine-year-old. On Friday morning, Dom messages me. He’s been quiet, since the announcement that he’d (thankfully) parted ways with awful Florrie.

Let’s go for a drink tonight, he writes. Don’t say no and don’t be boring.

I can’t, I reply. Sorry.

Boring, he writes. I turn my phone over and look at the article that I’m supposed to be editing. I’ve read the same paragraph three times and it doesn’t make sense, but I’m concerned that it’s because my brain has gone to mush rather than because it’s badly written.

My phone buzzes.

Boringggggg, he writes.

It pings again a few minutes later.

I put it on silent.

At lunch, I open WhatsApp and Dom has sent three sleeping emojis and then other emojis intended to illustrate how boring I am, which I would probably have found funny a few weeks ago, back when I had a personality. Then at the end, there’s a plaintive, earnest message. I have actually been feeling really down and obviously don’t want to let any of my male friends know that I’ve got a soul, but if you could face me popping over for a glass of wine tonight that would mean a lot.

I am still very much supposed to not be seeing him any more, as far as Richard knows. But Richard is in Dubai again and has been giving me a tastefully wide berth while I readjust to the working schedule he doesn’t think I should have. And I do want a glass of wine. And a chat. And to do something that isn’t work and childcare followed by more work and more childcare. Okay, I write back. But I am going to be in bed by 11 p.m.

Deal.

Dom arrives carrying a six-pack of beer, which I have no interest in drinking. He sits on the kitchen sofa, clicking the can in his hand in an annoying, repetitive way, and I pour myself a glass of wine.

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks, grinning.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, from between my gritted teeth. ‘Did you bring anything? Are you planning to cook?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Okay, angry, I can order us a take-away if you want.’

‘I don’t want that,’ I say. ‘I need to eat something with a vegetable in it, otherwise I’m going to get scurvy.’

‘Okay. . .’ He trails off. ‘So being back at work is great, then?’

I look at him, and behind him I can see my reflection in the mirror I stupidly hung at that end of the kitchen. I’ve got purple shadows under my eyes so dark that I can see them from across the room. My skin looks completely dull, matt, like I’m made out of wax. The shirt that I’d hoped was sort of cool and slightly boho in an Isabel Marant way is straining across my chest because it’s from the pre-Rose days where I had sensible-sized tits, and the whole outfit is giving middle-aged mum at a middle-class sports day. I’m filled with desire to take the lid from the casserole dish I’m currently holding and hurl it across the room, smashing the mirror. Obviously, I don’t do it. But I wish I could.

‘It’s shit,’ I say, trying to keep it together. ‘I’m doing a bad job with Rose because I’m exhausted and a bad job at work because I’m exhausted. I have to be two people every single day and I hate it.’

‘That’s shit,’ Dom says flippantly. ‘I hate that for you.’ He leaves a gap for a moment, presumably for me to ask how things are going with him. I start chopping an onion instead.

‘So Florrie blocked me on everything,’ he ventures. ‘But also sent me a thousand-word WhatsApp message about how I’m not emotionally mature enough to be in a long-term relationship, which, in fairness, is very much how I advertised myself from the beginning.’

I realise in that moment that I haven’t registered my single-person discount for council tax, and I was supposed to do it months ago. I put the knife down on the chopping board, wipe my hands and go to find a pen to write this down so that I don’t forget again.

‘Are you okay?’ Dom asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve been really clear about that, I’m in a shit mood and I’m having a shit time, and I know that you and Florrie broke up and I’m really sorry about that, but she was awful and you didn’t really like her, and I don’t have the emotional energy to pretend that I feel really sad for you because it’s not an actual problem and nothing actually sad has happened.’

Dom looks surprised, but also sort of impressed. ‘Wow,’ he says, shifting on the sofa. ‘I mean, first of all, ouch. And secondly, yeah. I guess, fair. Ouch, but fair.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, going back to the chopping board. ‘I’m being such a bitch.’

‘It’s fine, I think I actually quite like it.’

I half laugh, and tip the onion into the pan. ‘Why did you actually break up? I’d assumed you’d do that typical man thing where you were just half-hearted and cold until she got the picture and ended things with you.’

He laughs. ‘I mean, that is my usual style, but no, on this occasion I didn’t need to. She broke up with me.’