Page 72 of Stella is Starting Over

I stare at him, once again trying to process the vast amount of information being fired at me. ‘And what did you say?’ I ask, at once desperate to hear the answer and wishing that he’d stop talking.

‘I said I was scared that I’d just realised that I want a family and kids and a wife, and all the grown-up stuff that I’ve been putting off for my entire life, and I said I was scared that I want you because I want those things and you’re an instant route to it, and what if I try it out and I don’t like it and I break your heart and fuck Rose over. And then Orla said what if I’ve only realised I want those things because what I really want is you, and because I’d want any life with you no matter what the set-up was, and I realised that was it – the things she said.’

‘Orla had a lot of insight,’ I say, slightly dazed.

‘I’m making it sound like she talked me into it,’ he says.

‘A bit. Yeah.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he says, talking at double speed. ‘Literally nothing like that – I’m just telling this stupidly badly because I’m nervous. What I’m actually trying to say is that I have feelings for you and you know that, and you have feelings for me – I’m pretty sure about that – and we have so much fun, and you’re just – you’re the best. And I want to be with you. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be together.’

I look at him – at his beautiful, handsome, wonderful face, at his eyes and his beard and his lips, at his coffee-stained T-shirt and his stupidly overpriced Japanese trainers, and I close my eyes. And I say the only sensible thing. The thing that I know I have to say. The right thing.

‘I’m so sorry, Dom. But I just can’t.’

He looks like a little boy, and my heart is breaking watching him. ‘What?’ he asks.

‘I’m not. . .’ I trail off. ‘I’m not a good version of me at the moment. I’m still very, very broken. And the nicest thing I can imagine would be to let you fix me, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.’

His eyes fill with tears, and my eyes fill with tears, and I hate every single thing about what I’m going to have to do.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks. ‘It’s really a no?’

I nod. ‘It’s really a no.’

Stella

One Year Later

‘Happy anniversary,’ I say, clinking my champagne glass.

‘Happy anniversary.’ Gavin smiles, clinking back. ‘Wait, how is this our anniversary? We got married in October.’

‘Not that anniversary,’ I say. ‘It’s the anniversary of filing for divorce.’

He laughs. ‘You’ve got such a memory. One of the things I always hated about you.’

‘And you remember basically nothing, one of the many reasons that you drove me mad,’ I return.

The restaurant is filled with couples, having a romantic lunch before a bit of shopping or a gallery visit, getting a quick bite before going to the theatre, enjoying all the reasons that anyone goes to this kind of restaurant, celebrations and indulgences and joy. I imagine that Gavin and I are the only pair here, on a Thursday afternoon, sharing a bottle of champagne and drinking to no longer being together. But then, perhaps I’m being judgemental. Maybe we aren’t the only ones with a juicy backstory. If I’ve learned anything in the last couple of years, it’s that people are often dramatically more complicated than they seem.

‘How are you?’ he asks, like he’s really asking.

‘Better,’ I say. ‘Not perfect. But a lot better.’

It’s a good question, and I’ve given him an honest answer, because I really am doing better, though only through sheer bloody-mindedness and willpower.

After the Richard incident, I decided that things needed to change. Obviously, dating wasn’t working for me. I was picking terrible men and putting myself in dangerous situations, and if Rose grew up noticing any of that then I’d have failed spectacularly. So no men. An entire year of no men. No apps, no flirting, no dates, no nothing. I bought a better vibrator and a bolster pillow for the bed, and that was it. For a few weeks, I would get itchy fingers, wanting a quick fix, a hit of attention and conversation, the adrenaline shot of great, flirty messages. But instead, I’d start painting or sanding or filling, or doing something else to the house, and by the time I’d made the entire place look half decent (with some paid help from qualified professionals), the cravings had passed. I was clean. In remission.

And it turned out to be a fairly practical use of my time, because three months ago I put our house on the market. Gavin had offered to give me another year – he said his mum liked having him around and he was travelling for gigs so often that there wasn’t much point paying rent on his own place. But it was time. That house had seen so many of the lowest days of my life, and it was far, far too big. We got an offer over the asking price within a week of putting it on the market. I found a place down the road for me and Rose – a tiny two-bed cottage with wisteria growing on the front and a pale green front door. It was in need of some work, but owned by a lovely older woman who cooed over Rose and told me to rip out everything I didn’t like without compunction. Gavin even let me keep the profit from the big house, presumably because he still felt guilty for walking out, and I didn’t fight him on it. Instead, I ordered a butter-yellow stove for my new kitchen. We move next month and I’m excited about it. The first home I’ve ever owned on my own.

‘How’s Louella?’ Gavin asks.

‘Pregnant!’ I say. ‘She met this guy in Korea, a Canadian, and they spent six months internationally shagging, then she found out she was knocked up, so he moved to the UK because he’s some tech tycoon who can work from anywhere, and now they’re having a baby.’

‘Wow,’ says Gavin, looking dazed. ‘That’s very your sister.’

‘I know,’ I agree.