Page 4 of Romantic Hero
‘Oh God. You heard that? I’m so sorry! Did I keep you awake?’
‘It was not just last night. It has been every single night for thirty days in a row. The wailing. It is beginning to haunt me.’
My face turns fiery red with humiliation. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’ I squeak. ‘I would have cried into my pillow instead! You should have just told me to pipe down!’
Mrs Casablancas shrugs a shoulder, the movement making her dangling sapphire statement earrings dance about prettily. ‘Week one, Henry had just left, your heartwas an open wound and you needed to let it all out, I thought. Week two, you were singing a little, which seemed like an improvement, even if the songs you were singing were full of melancholia. Week three, the singing stopped and the crying got louder. Then last night I heard you cry out, “Jesus, why me? Why me? Help me, Jesus!” And I’m afraid that really felt like too much, especially since I have invited you to attend church with me on numerous occasions and you have never accepted the invitation, not once.’
‘I was drunk last night,’ I protest weakly, shame skittering its way across my whole body like an army of ants. ‘Plus I’m feeling really really sad right now. Henry and I were together for almost four years. I thought we’d get married! I thought we’d grow old and senile together. I thought—’
‘It is time to pull yourself together, Gertie,’ Mrs Casablancas cuts in plainly.
I press my hands to my burning cheeks and sigh. ‘I know. I do know. I’m trying. Iwantto pull myself together. I hate feeling sofragmented.’
‘Heartbreak is rough, everybody knows this.’ Mrs Casablancas waves her hand about impatiently. ‘Processing it is necessary, yes. But self-pity? Self-pity is like quicksand. The deeper you sink into it, the harder it is to climb out.’
I wish I could say that I’m not filled with self-pity, but I know deep down that’s not true. I ambaskingin that self-pity. Rolling around in it like Squish rolls around in the muddy puddles of Hyde Park. It’s the only thing I know how to do right now. The only thing stopping me from the creep of bitter cynicism which, to a romantic like me, is thekiss of death. If I don’t throw myself into a little dramatic misery, what else is left? The cold, echoing, harshly lit reality of my life? No thank you very much.
I stare at my feet and sigh.How the bloody hell did it come to this?
‘You are newly single!’ Mrs Casablancas trills, selecting a biscuit from the open tin on the table and taking dainty nibbles from around the edge. ‘Shouldn’t you be out with your friends? Having meaningless hot flings? Dancing in the nightclubs of Soho and sowing wild oats?’
‘I’m not the meaningless hot-fling type.’ I point at myself to indicate my whole deal. ‘For ever and ever amen? I want it. I want it bad. Sowing wild oats with zero emotional connection? Not for me.’
Mrs Casablancas acquiesces with a little tut. ‘Fine. But surely seeing your friends will cheer you up? At least distract you from your lonely heart? Jump-start the next phase of your life?’
I don’t want a next phase of my life. I was fine with the original phase. I want that phase back.
‘Have you called your friends? I’m sure they would be happy to help you in this time of need.’
I bite the corner of my lip. The embarrassing truth of the matter is that since I met Henry, I somehow did that awful thing of letting my friendships fall by the wayside. I’ve never been a person who needed a ton of friends because I always had Josie by my side. But the ones I did have sort of faded away the more embedded I became in my relationship. Friendships need upkeep, and cocooning with Henrytook up every ounce of spare time I had. And whenever I wasn’t with Henry, I was wrapped up in the lives of my characters. I was never ever lonely, which meant I was mostly pretty content.
I think about Alicia who I met last year at a publishing party. I cancelled our trip to the cinema because Henry had a terrible case of the flu. The second time I cancelled on her, it was last-minute because Henry had just had a short story rejected by theNew Yorkerand wanted me to stay in and help cheer him up. After that Alicia texted a lot less which … fair. My heart twists as I recall what Henry said, about me revolving around him.
I clear my throat. ‘Well, as much as I would love to go to the nightclubs of Soho with all of my many friends, I need to put every ounce of energy I have into writing my final Bedlam Creek book.’
Mrs Casablancas swallows the remainder of the biscuit, her eyes widening. ‘It isstillnot finished? Dear, oh dear.’
I refill Mrs Casablancas’s cup from the teapot and laugh darkly. ‘Inspiration’s running low these days. Plus, you know, I’ve been extremely busy wailing in the bath.’
‘I had the same trouble last winter,’ Mrs Casablancas confesses, taking a large gulp of her tea. ‘Complete creative stagnation, totally out of the blue.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s the worst.’
‘You’re telling me. Three whole weeks I made not a single thing. No hats, no garments, not even a cushion cover, and you know how much I love to make my cushion covers.’
I glance across at my sofa – it’s spilling over with all theMrs Casablancas covered cushions I have acquired over the years. ‘I do know.’
‘When it happened, I thought to myself, “This is it! I have finally used up all my artistic juices. I might as well just die! What’s the point of life without creation?” And then I saw an internet post about “Manifesting” and I was instantly intrigued. Have you heard of creative manifesting, Gertie? It’s amazing. Aled at the library gave me some books, I found some articles online and I watched a YouTube video called “Unlock Your Magic with Manifestation!” The very next day – thevery next day, mind you – my artistic juices were gushing like the Ganges once more.’
‘Manifesting? That’s great, but what exactly—’
Before I can finish my question, Mrs Casablancas slams both hands down onto the kitchen table, making me jump. A little bit of tea spills out from her teacup and splatters the notebook in which I have written zero words. ‘We will do it foryou, Gertie!’ she declares. ‘A manifestation ceremony. Tonight there will be a full moon, which is imperative for a successful manifestation. It must be fate! We will do it! It will help with your writer’s block, I know it will.’ She stands up from the table and starts packing the hats back into the plastic box. ‘Do not worry, I will get everything ready.’
I pull a face. How to say no to this without causing offence?
‘A ceremony?Manifesting? While I like to consider myself a believer, Mrs Casablancas, that all sounds a little …’
‘Hippy dippy? Woo woo? I thought so too when I firstread about it. But I was so desperate I was willing to try anything. Aren’t you desperate, Gertie?’
