Monday. I don’t hear from him all day. I leave him be, it’s his first day back at work, as it is mine. In spite of last night’s heavy and disturbing conversation, I am in denial, convinced he will reverse his decision, still on some kind of holiday high.
I have a stab at doing some work, make some phone calls and bring my girlfriends up to speed (mostly leaving out the Hot Frog fuck fest).
I think about CC constantly and after a thrashing night of inner torment, I text him.
Miss you a lot. Hope you are OK? : - ( xxx
Several hours pass and eventually he replies.
I have missed you terribly and slept little. I'm pretty sure I am not strong enough for this Xxx
With the imminent release of The Toyboy Diaries, there is a flurry of publicity out there and I cannot stop it. Like Diana’s sister said to her the night before The Royal Wedding: ‘You can’t back out now, Duch…your face is on the tea towels.’
I draft a reply:
Sweetheart, I am devastated and crying as I write. I understand your fears but please can we talk one more time? I couldn’t bear not to see you again. We have a chance for love. Is that not worth a shot? xxx
But I don’t send it.
In the evening, he phones me. He is very somber, his voice flat and monochrome. I somehow manage to persuade him to come over tomorrow night so we can talk face to face.
Wednesday. He calls me several times during the afternoon to tell me he’s running late. Every time I see his name on my screen I’m convinced he’s going to cancel. My two best girlfriends are au fait with the situation, and I have already placed bets with them as to what the evening holds in store. They try to keep my spirits up, but I know what I know. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. He’s coming over to tell me that he’s made his final decision. It is going to be over.
And so it comes to pass that he enters my doorway at 7.20 p.m. and slumps down in my tiny tub chair with such a badass body language, I can hardly believe it’s the same person. And no one ever sits in that chair anyway – unless the three-seater sofa has four people on it.
He is too far away from me for a start, and despite his stature of 6’2”, he seems to have imploded, shrunken in on himself as he hunches, withdrawn and anxious, unable or unwilling to make eye contact.
‘What can I do to take us back to last week?’ I plead gently.
He glances at me like he’s never seen me before and quickly looks away.
‘If you like toyboys so much’ he says, expelling the word from his mouth like a bitter taste, ‘what on earth are you interested in me for? I’m forty-six, for God’s sake, practically geriatric…’
‘You’re not!’ I argue. 'I…’
He shakes his head vigorously to show he will not listen.
‘But how would I trust you?’ he asks simply... and I have no answer to that.