Drink

I was appalled. Not trying, like you do, in a bad and crazily knotted way to forget him, I suppose I had, until he popped up, unexpectedly in my inbox. Email feels safe; spam is sent off back to the cyber gutter as soon as it larily flirts up at me, and so I wasn’t expecting him. It was the name of an ex, a very long ago one, asking me in civil and even friendly tones if he could have the honour of taking me out for dinner.

“Don’t go” my friends hissed, and they had a point. They had nursed me through the worst of it and had been there at the time. Yeah, they knew all about his meanness, the reading of my diaries, the stood-up dates and all the broken promises. “Don’t do it”, they said, again, louder, while I pulled out things from my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. He was not a good boyfriend, and although I look back at my life before marriage and mortgages with more mist than a Hebridean summers day, I admit they had a point. He was truly a rubbish boyfriend, and though I tried so hard to dress nice and impress, I just wasn’t ever going to be the all round brilliant girl he wanted to take home to mummy. And here he was, being pleasant and virtually kind. “Does he know you’re married?” warned my friends, who were ripping open the Kleenex, sighing deeply and weeping like a tragic Greek chorus.

Ooh, just to have a look. It was so tempting. As a colleague (who’s staying anonymous, for obvious reasons) said: sore throats, pills, hypertension and prostates, day in, day out. It’s so boring, just like eternal damned monogamy. He had a point, and as I went to answer Yes! Yes! Yes! on my email, I felt only slightly guilty. I was only reminding myself of just why I am such a happily married wife; it was only dinner, after all; if he were really still as bad I would have a great excuse to chuck a glass of wine over him and leave victorious. If he had improved, well, what was the chance of that?

“Don’t go” pleaded my friend from the hall- she was the only one left, the others having long given me up, wringing their hands and writing me off as a hopeless case. “Won’t be long” I replied as I skipped down the hall; maybe not skipped, as it’s difficult when you’re in heels and Lycra underwear so tight your tidal volume has fallen by 90%. I had adrenaline, I had anticipation, and I had a date; and you don’t have them when you’re wedded, you have a calendar in the hall that you use to make sure that one of you is not on call and is at home with the children.

Perhaps it’s wrong to try and relive what’s gone; perhaps we should just let go, allowing ourselves to be only a little shaped but never surrendered to the past. I had cause to go into the hospital the other day. Yes, I was looking forward to it. There are departments where I still get invited to have coffee with the secretaries, there are consultants who still know my name, hey, I even sleep with one of them on a regular basis (but boringly, he is the one I’m married to.) I entered, oblivious to the peeling paint, feeling like I’d come back to an old, favourite holiday destination. I remembered the late night takes, the sharing of pizza, the breaking of garlic bread. I remembered the parties, the friends, the buzz, the nights when defibrillation worked and penicillin cured meningitis. But as I got further along the corridor, I remembered more: the nights that penicillin didn’t work. The nights defibrillation didn’t help young fathers of younger children, and the heady four a.m. cocktail of exhaustion, loneliness and inexperience. And I peeped into the on call room, which stole my twenties and taught me how to swear, it was the final straw. All in a flurry came that vile memory of thin sheets, saggy mattresses, and threadbare towels that left you, if you dared to use them, smelling of the NHS. Just then, someone I used to think of as a new consultant passed by. He was so stooped he didn’t see me; and all I could think was how old he looked.

Which gratifyingly, was my first thought on seeing my ex boyfriend’s face. His facial lines were deeper than ever, I could make out the start of a double chin and the cornerstones were being laid for jowls. The gin didn’t kick in, and I couldn’t even slightly remember what I’d ever seen in him. By the end of the starter I realised he was wearing the same tasteless, style less clothes. He was wearing them back then when he broke my heart and jumped on all the little pieces, just to be sure. After the mains and even two bottles of wine I was under no illusions; he was still the one who took everything and delivered nothing, who had flirted but failed to deliver his big dreams, which were only ever barren and empty promises.

I left before desserts; which for me, is something. I came home to a quiet house. Somewhere some jazz was at a low welcoming volume on the radio, it was warm, and the hall light was on to guide me in. I kicked off my shoes, stepped over the pile of ironing, hung up the washing and drank deeply of my coffee. Say what you like about the monogamous monotony of general practice. Here’s a true confession: I like it. Hospitals and ex boyfriends; you can keep them both. I’ve had a lucky escape.