How to Lose an Ex in Ten Days

It’s nothing I’m not prepared for. It’s the same way every year, even though each time May rolls around again, I pray that it won’t be. That this day will fly by like any other. Sometimes I dream I might even forget about it all together, only realising after it’s already passed. In my darker moments, though, I wonder if that’ll ever really happen. Or if this date will haunt me forever, a ghost I can’t shake.

The one bright spot of this whole experience is that I know it’s only one day. It doesn’t last. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and the pain won’t be there anymore. Not in the same way, at least. It’ll have retreated to whichever dark corner it hides in for most of the year, and I’ll feel like myself again. Tired, wrung out, empty, but myself. And I’ll realise that it was all an illusion, that what I’ve built for myself is real, that it means something. That I still mean something, even after everything.

Knowing that it’s only temporary – even if it feels like the longest day of my life at the time – is what keeps me going. Still, it’s hard. Particularly when I have such bothersome colleagues grating on my already stretched nerves.

Darren holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Touchy. It’s not my fault you got caught out.”

I suppress a sigh. For reasons which utterly escape me, Darren has convinced himself that we’re in competition somehow. The way he carries on, you’d think we were contestants in the final of some lurid reality TV show, not two lowly junior reporters working for a slightly archaic Edinburgh newspaper.

I don’t even know why he bothers; it’s not as if there’s a lot of career progression in print journalism these days. And his toadying approach is woefully misguided when it comes to Steve; watching the expression on his face when Darren puts up his hand like he’s in a classroom is the highlight of my day. It’s like he’s discovered an entirely new species of fungus.

The whole thing would almost be worth it… if the layout of the office didn’t enforce close proximity to Darren, day in, day out. Our desks are so tightly packed together I could practically reach out and touch him, should I be gripped by a sudden desire to do so.

Needless to say, I never have been to date. I can’t see that changing any time soon.

The Illuminator offices occupy a deceptively prestigious address just off the Royal Mile, in the heart of Edinburgh’s famous Old Town; alas, once you get inside, the impression doesn’t last for long. We’re on the top floor, for one thing. The seventeenth-century building might boast a historically interesting service lift, but nothing which was designed to carry a fully grown human. Which isn’t to say that it hasn’t been attempted a couple of times during the latter, hazier hours of the office Christmas party, but that doesn’t really count. But anyway, I’m digressing. The point is that every trip to and from my desk involves six flights of narrow, uneven servants’ stairs. Which, admittedly, is excellent for my thighs, but that’s about the only plus side I can think of.

It’s not even like it improves much once you’re up here. The tiny porthole windows hardly let in any light, casting the place in a perpetual layer of gloom. Which is probably just as well, as what you can see certainly doesn’t invite closer inspection. The decor doesn’t appear to have been changed since the 1950s; there are still cigarette burns on the dark stained mahogany desks, and a smoky atmosphere pervades the air, no matter what anyone does to try and dispel it. It’s like a museum set; the office that time forgot.

I glance over at Steve, who’s scowling with disproportionate ferocity at a proof copy on his desk. I bet he still wishes it was the 1950s, when the newspapers were experiencing a golden age, and editors could shout and swear and do anything to get the story without fear of such pesky inventions as employee rights and regulating bodies swooping in and spoiling all the fun.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, he still shouts and swears with reckless impunity, but the rest… well, journalism’s not what it was. The rise of online platforms has changed the face of news, and little publications like us struggle to keep up. As it is, it’s only our age and reputation which keeps us afloat, although we’ve had to adapt over the years. Once a satirical Victorian start-up, we’ve now evolved into more of a niche local opinion piece, commenting on the goings-on in Edinburgh, both colourful and mundane.

Unfortunately, my role seems to lean heavily towards the more mundane side of things.

Look, it’s not like I’m bored or anything. I mean, maybe it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned when I left university with my shiny new degree in journalism, but then, to say that life hasn’t always shown the utmost respect for my plans would be a laughable understatement. I’ve had to learn to make do with what’s available to me.

And the Illuminator is a respectable publication. People are always impressed when I say I write for them; I expect they think it’s all very glamorous, being a journalist. If only they knew.

Patting a yawn, I half-heartedly type a few more words onto the end of my article. Well, if you could really call it an article. That would be stretching it a tad.

Okay, so yes, I suppose maybe I am a bit bored. Under-challenged, as my grandmother might say.

Which, unfortunately, doesn’t tend to bring out the best in me.

Especially not on a day like today, when I need distraction more than ever. Otherwise, I have to find it in other places.

Taking aim, I ping a rubber band at the back of Darren’s ear. It misses by a mile.

Damn.

I’m just loading up another missile when a familiar voice floats down from above.

“Working hard as ever, I see.”

I count out five long seconds before I allow myself to look up. My heart’s already skipping in my chest; I can’t help it, even if it is to my intense annoyance.

Nate D’Angelo is about the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life. And I don’t say that lightly; believe me, I’m particular about these things. Hemlines started rising office-wide when he joined the paper three years ago as a senior journalist, and they’ve never gone back down since.

Combine sun-drenched Italian looks with the softest hint of a Scottish accent, not to mention an easy-going nature and a winning smile… well, even Margaret who does the accounts perked up considerably, and she’d looked pretty much fossilised before.

“Just… ah… taking a creative break.” I pretend to stretch, wondering what the hell I’m doing. “Getting the juices flowing.”

Great, now I’m blushing, I think crossly. What am I, a teenager?

“I see,” he’s nodding intelligently, though his eyes are sparkling with amusement. Why do I always get the feeling he can see right through me?

“Yes, well,” I blurt out. “Got to… you know, carry on. Articles don’t write themselves.”

Ugh, now I sound like Steve. Perish the thought.

I turn back to my screen, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel his gaze on my face.

The truth is, Nate brings out mixed feelings in me. I mean, yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, he’s charming. And yes, I’ve always had the sense that there’s something between us, a fluttering attraction which makes every bantering exchange charged with extra meaning. But he’s just a bit… well, maybe I’m jaded and cynical, but those things kind of leave me cold nowadays. He’s just a bit too confident, a bit too smooth. It makes me wary. Because I had someone who was all of those things once before, and all I ended up with was a broken heart and a torn, dusty, white dress.

I’m not venturing there again. That much I’m adamant about. And I’m really not up for dealing with Nate right now; I’m feeling far too fragile. I just want him to go away.

Okay, so I’ll just… look efficient. Pretend that I’m so wholeheartedly engrossed in my latest scintillating article on streetlamp timers that I simply have no time to idle away on mindless chitchat. Or flirting.

Definitely no flirting.

Briskly, I begin to type on my keyboard in what I hope looks to be a suitably efficient manner, glancing up at him cursorily.

Which turns out to be a mistake. The moment I look into his warm, brandy-coloured eyes, my fingers crash across the keys, spilling a load of gibberish across my screen. Because, at the end of the day, I’m only human, for God’s sake.

“Are you all right, Belle?” he enquires mildly.

I jerk upright from my keyboard. “Yes! Yes! Why wouldn’t I be?” I splutter. At the same time, I feel a flash of irritation. Seriously, is there nowhere else he needs to be right now? Why won’t he go away and leave me in peace? Miserable peace, granted, but still.

“You just… look a little flustered, that’s all.”

“It’s the streetlamps, you see,” I hear myself saying, even as I curse myself for doing so. Why do I keep on with these streetlamps? Haven’t I learned that it never ends well? “There’s so much…”

“Nuance?” He supplies, with a wry smile, as he perches on the edge of my desk.

Ah, so he heard that, did he?

“There is,” I say defensively. “Think of the chaos. The whole of Edinburgh plunged into darkness…”

“Of course,” he says gravely. “People getting eaten by foxes, and such like.”

“I never said that,” I say hotly, although my lips are turning up at the corners. Oh God, here we go. This is what happens. This is what he does. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with him.

Immediately, it sets all the alarm bells clanging in my head. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from bitter experience, it’s that no one should possess both pulchritudinous looks and an engaging disposition. It’s a recipe for disaster. With a face like that, he ought to be withered inside, like Dorian Gray.

Maybe he is. I kind of hope he is. It would make it all so much easier.

“So this is how one generates creativity, is it?” He picks up one of the rubber bands between his forefinger and thumb, raising a brow at me.

I tilt my chin impishly. If he wants to play that game, then fair enough. I can play too.

“It’s very effective. You should try it.”

That’ll get rid of him, I think smugly. He’ll never do it. He’s far too responsible, far too—

“All right.” Before I can blink, he’s stretched the band back and pinged it at Darren.

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. But the rubber band narrowly misses Darren’s head, landing soundlessly on the floor instead.

One might even say that it was a perfect miss. Too perfect, I’d say.

“Spoilsport,” I accuse him, in a hushed voice. “You missed on purpose. You could easily have got him from there.”

“Of course I did. Can’t have senior journalists injuring the staff, can we? What kind of example would that set?” He leans in across the desk. “But it was fun to watch your face when you thought I’d do it.”

He’s close. Too close for my liking. And the teasing expression has completely slid from his face. My breath hitches, and I steel myself.

“Belle,” he begins haltingly, after a couple of seconds. “I was wondering…”

A heavy file of council minutes crashes onto the edge of the desk, making us both jump.

“Thank you,” Steve thunders sarcastically. “I’m so glad I’ve finally got your attention.” He allows for a dramatic pause before continuing. “Now, what the hell is going on here?”

I can’t decide if I want to bow at Steve’s feet or will the floor to open up beneath them. Emotions crash together, turgid and confused. I blink, trying to keep a handle on my thoughts.

Not that I need to. Nate steps in, ever ready with a smooth answer.

“Just a bit of research, sir.”

My head swivels around. Research?

“Research?” Steve unwittingly echoes my thoughts. He still looks suspicious, but less so. Unlike me, Nate has a spotless reputation.

“Belle has agreed to help me with a story,” Nate explains easily. I blink. Who knew the man was such a good liar? I’d always had him down as Mr Perfect, the ultimate goody-two-shoes. “I could really use her expertise…” he hesitates deferentially, then adds, “with your permission, of course.”

I almost choke on air. Expertise? I’m not sure I have any. Not anymore. Maybe once, when I was fresh and young and full of confidence in myself. Now, I’m just pretending. Pretending that Ed didn’t drive away with that all-important piece of me, along with everything else he threw into the boot of that ubiquitous hire car. I wanted to be a fashion journalist before it happened; these days, I can scarcely trust myself to choose the right shade of lipstick or throw an impromptu supper party for my friends. Things which I never would have thought twice about before now seem almost dizzyingly daunting.

Steve looks as surprised as I do by the suggestion I might actually be of some use to anyone.

“Well, if you really need her…”

“I do.” Nate’s eyes meet mine, and an involuntary shiver runs through me. My heart sinks with foreboding.

“Fair enough,” Steve grumbles, already half turned away. “If you’re willing to put up with her, then by all means. It’s your funeral.”

Charming. I grit my teeth together and try not to scowl.

“Brilliant.” Nate pushes himself away from the desk, as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. He starts to head back across the room, but stops to throw back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Belle?”

I sit upright.

“Yes?”

He smiles.

“Try and get some work done today, won’t you?”

I glower at his retreating back, then forcibly smooth out my features. At this rate, if I’m not careful, I might get stuck like that.

Chapter Two

There’s a parcel on the mat when I get home; one of the neighbours must have brought it upstairs. Bending down to retrieve it with one hand I somehow manage to juggle my keys in the other and wedge myself backwards through the front door.

“Belle! You’re home,” Tess’s soft voice floats through from the living room. Rounding the corner, I find her reclining on the kingfisher-blue sofa, a magazine open on her lap. Her naturally blonde hair is gathered up in a loose topknot, with tendrils delicately framing her face. Even in a baggy, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and fluffy pink socks, she looks amazing. If she wasn’t my oldest friend, I could easily be inclined towards jealousy.

There’s a generous glass of rosé on the coffee table next to her elbow. Following my gaze, she motions towards the kitchen with her head.

“The bottle’s open on the counter. I thought you might… you know.”

She tactfully turns back to her magazine article, and I have to blink against a sudden surge of emotion. Of course she’s remembered what today is. Tess never forgets anything like that.

“Thanks,” I say brightly, as I set about divesting myself of coat, handbag, and bulky parcel forthwith. Rain droplets are showering off me onto the carpet; I put a tentative hand up to my hair, which I can already feel is plastered to my head.

The rain didn’t let up all afternoon. By the time I left the office, it was coming down in sheets, the waterlogged streets devoid of all their usual bustle and life as people retreated into hotels and restaurants. The whole place had a dank, oppressive feel to it; on a day like today, it’s easy to remember why they call Edinburgh one of the most haunted cities in the world. It feels like the ghosts have the run of the place.

“How did you get on today?” I ask cautiously, casting an eye around the flat, which appears unusually tidy. It’s been unusually tidy for so many weeks now that actually, it’s starting to not be so unusual after all.

In most cases, a tidy home is nothing to complain about, but in this instance it’s beginning to get me concerned. I’ll explain. Tess is an illustrator; she creates these incredibly stylised, willowy fashion drawings in ink and watercolour. They’ve been featured all over the place, in fashion magazines, on book covers. I still get ridiculously excited every time I spot one, even if Tess just rolls her eyes and looks faintly embarrassed. She hates any kind of attention. Anyway, she’s super talented, and when she’s in a good place, perfectly productive. But sometimes, usually when something’s bothering her, she just… dries up. She stops drawing, and that’s when she starts cleaning. Which is fine; in fact, I’ve always thought it rather convenient. It means the flat gets a good once-over a couple of times a year.

Usually, though, these phases only last for a week or two.

Tess studiously avoids the question, instead looking at the parcel I’ve set down on the floor.

“Is that another one for Rosie? I didn’t hear the intercom buzz.”

“You were probably hoovering,” I reply mildly, trying not to look pointedly around the spotlessly clean apartment.

My sister appears in the doorway to her bedroom, her arms loaded with bags of what appears to be confetti.

“Is that for me?”

“They’re always for you,” I say flatly. As usual, there’s no preamble from her. No polite greeting, or enquiries about my day. Rosie prides herself on ruthless focus on the matter in hand.

She harrumphs.

“Well, it’s about time. I’ve been waiting ages for that to arrive.”

I already know I’m going to regret this next question.

“What exactly is it, anyway? Surely you can’t need any more wedding stuff.”

The look she gives me is part censure, part pity.

“Favours,” she replies grandly, dropping the bags of confetti into a heap in the middle of the floor. Tess looks far from thrilled, but as usual she doesn’t say anything. Tess always opts for the peaceful route in any given situation.

Rosie, on the other hand… well, you’ll see. She’s a veritable force of nature. Even I scarcely dare to contradict her.

Nevertheless, sometimes it must be done.

“Don’t you already have favours?” I venture, hanging my trench coat on the last available hook. It’s half coming off the wall, and you have to get the balance just right, or the coat simply slides right off again. It’s a shame that Tess has no proficiency for DIY, come to think of it. There’s loads of stuff which needs fixing. I could blame it on ours being an all-female household, but in this modern age that’s not really an excuse. “What about all those boxes of sugared almonds you made us hand emboss about a month ago?”

I will never forget doing that. It took hours. Sometimes I still dream about it, and every time I look over at the pile still left to do, it keeps getting bigger, and…

I suppress a shudder. Rosie’s wedding day cannot come soon enough. Let’s just say it will be the happiest day of my life for more than one reason. I never want to see another scalloped edge, or pastel hue, or hand-lettered initial, as long as I live on this earth.

“These are other favours,” Rosie says deliberately, as though I’m a complete simpleton and the whole thing should be transparently obvious. “You know, secondary favours. Give people a bit of variety. It’s in all the magazines.”

That is not a thing. She’s just made that up. I know, because she’s made me read all of those magazines. Part of my duty as maid of honour, apparently.

Tess catches my eye with a minute shake of the head. I know what she’s saying. Sometimes, it’s just easier to go along with it once Rosie’s set her mind to something.

I watch my sister now as she rips into the box with alarmingly careless abandon for someone wielding an enormous pair of scissors, marvelling at how two people who share DNA can be so totally different. I mean, granted, we do look very similar. We’re what’s affectionately known as Irish twins, which means that we were born less than a year apart. We have the same tawny hair, although hers is cut to brush the tops of her shoulders while mine cascades down my back. And we have the same heart-shaped face, with large, wide-set eyes, except that hers are a pale dove grey whilst mine are striking violet blue.

But apart from that… well, what can I say? Rosie’s just so single minded, so focused. She’s always known exactly what she wants, and she won’t give in until she makes it a reality. She met Leo whilst we were all still at school. Their eyes met across a crowded GCSE English lesson, and that was pretty much that. She decided that he was the one, and she’s never wavered from that conviction since. Neither of them has.

I’m more emotional than that. I make decisions recklessly, assuring myself that in going with my heart, I must be making the right choice. It hasn’t always worked out quite as I’d hoped. But let’s not go into that right now.

Tess looks on in dismay as Rosie delves into the box, sending polystyrene nuggets spilling over the side and all over the carpet.

“Couldn’t you store some of this stuff at Leo’s?” I ask, wearily, picking my way across the sea of chaos towards the kitchen. “We’re beginning to drown under wedding paraphernalia here. And he’s got loads of space at his flat.”

Oh, yes. That’s another thing. Rosie and Leo have elected not to live together until after they’re married. I suppose it’s rather sweet, really. Rosie claims it will give them something to be excited about after the wedding’s over, and the honeymoon, and everything starts to get back to normal. The novelty of living together for the first time, after almost twelve years as a couple. I suggested that the prospect might be more exciting for her than for Leo. I’m still not sure the poor man knows exactly what he’s letting himself in for.

Alas, my little jest was not well received.

But in all seriousness, I’m not really looking forward to the day Rosie moves out, and I know that Tess feels likewise, even if her characteristic reserve means she’s never said it in so many words. I know what she’s thinking. After so many years, we all know what each other is thinking.

It’s always been the three of us; because Rosie’s birthday falls in September and mine the following July, we ended up in the same school year. After our parents’ divorce, we moved up from Hampshire to Edinburgh to live with my grandmother. At first, we stuck out like sore thumbs at our new school, with our English accents and our mismatching uniforms, because we’d started in the middle of term. But Tess wasn’t bothered by any of that. We became friends in the first week, and by the end of the term, we were practically living in each other’s pockets. The only time we’ve ever really been apart was at university; we all went our separate ways then, me to London to study journalism, Rosie up to St Andrew’s to be with Leo while she did her criminology degree, and Tess to art school in Oxford. I’ve never been so lonely. I missed that love, that closeness, so much that it hurt. Looking back, perhaps that’s why I did what I did. Why I allowed myself to be swept up in something which promised all of those things and more.

And then, six years ago, when it all blew up in my face and I was desperate for a fresh start, it seemed that moving back to Edinburgh was the best option. Rosie was already here, she and Leo both having found jobs. Tess was so thrilled that she sorted the whole thing out so we could live together. She persuaded her parents to buy her the flat on the grounds that she needed somewhere to pursue her art. How she convinced them that a four-bedroom apartment was required to do so I’ve never been certain, but she managed it. She has a studio set up in the spare bedroom, so technically it wasn’t a lie, I suppose. Not that I think they’d even have the chance to notice; they’ve never visited. They both have high-powered jobs in banking, and have always been chronically unavailable in both a literal and emotional sense. I think I’ve only met them a handful of times. When Tess was growing up, she all but lived with us and they never seemed to object.