Read Online Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead - Free Book Online Page B

than me, hauled me off and I strained like a Rottweiler on a leash, yapping a torrent of invective at Rick.
    Girls in a similar situation would want to know why. How could they hurt someone who was a friend? Were there emotions involved? But all I wanted were the facts. All of them — when, how, and how many times?
    But facts don’t help in a situation like this. You want to know them all, but each little detail hurts a little bit more than the one before. There are a thousand questions, but each answer twists the knife a little deeper.
    Yet there was one ‘why’ I did want to know. Why had he lied to me so successfully when I went round to his flat to confront him, and then confessed in this extraordinary way during a stupid drinking game six weeks later?
    â€˜I didn’t lie, Jack,’ he whimpers. ‘I hadn’t slept with her at that point, innit. I really did back away from her in the club. And then she texted me on Valentine’s Day, and I was so low and lonely that I popped round for a quick drink.’
    So there you go. Valentine’s Day — the day of commercialism, despair, desperation, love and sleeping with your ex-boyfriend’s best mate before replying to his lonely-loser text and sleeping with him, as well.
    â€˜Get out of my flat before I fucking kill you,’ I say, marvelling at the dangerously low volume of my own voice. Jasper the thespian nods approvingly. I sound like I mean it. I think I probably do.
    After Rick has cleared off, Flatmate Fred says, ‘That was a bit harsh, Jack. At least he owned up to it. That’s the beauty of “I have never” – the drink never lies. The opportunity to show off in a self-consciously coy way always wins through.’
    â€˜Right, you can get out of my flat before I fucking kill you, too,’ I scream dementedly.
    â€˜Jack, you tit, it’s my flat. And having just witnessed your little performance, I’m not convinced that you could “fucking kill” a fly. I am not a fly, ergo I’m staying.’
    How do you argue against such classically erudite logic?
    And so to bed. Thumping the pillow and imagining it’s Rick’s face.
Saturday 12th March
    Made up with Flatmate Fred over a very long and boozy pub lunch.
    Afterwards, I came back to the flat and started thinking about last night’s news again. Would I have done the same if I were Rick? After all, Lucy is very attractive, and they’d always got along very well together while we were going out? Had he actually done anything wrong?
    Of course, he knew from my anger over her invented snog how much this would hurt me. Some things in life are meant to be off limits. It’s one of a few simple, unwritten rules. You don’t mock your mates’ parents openly, and you don’t sleep with their ex-girlfriends.
    But then I’m just as angry with myself. It’s a curiously powerful emotion, jealousy. I just can’t put my finger on the aspect that bothers me the most. Is it the pure physical act? Am I worried that he was better than me? Is he bigger? Did he last longer?
    Or is it the emotional theft that it was Valentine’s Day and he was going through the motions of making love to the former love of my life? Did they lie around and chat afterwards? Was there pillow talk? Did they mention my name? Had she been thinking about him while we were going out? Had she fantasised about him during sex with me? Did they share all ourprivate little jokes together? Did she tell him our pet name for my penis? And how could she sleep with a ginger?
    These thoughts were all spiralling out of control in my head. They were gut-wrenching in the extreme. That’s the problem with being the dumper as opposed to the dumpee. You get all the pain of the loss and none of the sympathy. It’s all your fault.
    Flatmate Fred had tried to listen, but I needed solutions not empathy. I had to talk to someone who would really