Triptych part 3 of 3

A year and three months. That’s how long Matt and I have been together. Officially that is, because unofficially we met way before. I’m sure we both fancied each other, but he was damaged goods. Freshly split with Clair, the wonder-woman, the only long term he’d ever had. I was there to pick up the pieces.

I like picking up the pieces. I find broken men to put back together again, pasting over the cracks other women have left behind. It gives me a sense of achievement. Matt’s my first long-term project. I’ve never been in a relationship this long before. I never put the effort in. Not that I didn’t want to, the right guy just didn’t come along. It’s a question of being at the right place at the right time. That was how it worked with Matt. It sounds planned and calculated, but broken men come to me, not the other way round.

He asked me to move in after a year – the precise length of time before serious commitment is considered appropriate. We didn’t shop for much furniture together as he already owned most essentials. I brought my CDs and a bedside table, stored the rest with my parents until we move somewhere bigger. Or rather, if we move somewhere bigger. Because it’s all still uncertain at this stage. We haven’t yet committed to sharing toothpaste or shopping for each other’s underwear. The only thing we bought in common was the rug. I made it clear I’d be the one choosing the colour and material. We decided to repaint the living room soon after I moved in and I was the one making the decisions there too, although I asked for his advice. You’ve always got to ask a man’s advice, include him in most decisions, even if you’re the one with the reins. He chose the store we’d go to pick it out rug, because it’s his hometown and he knows it inside out. We went to the trendy one, on the high street. Turned out to be a bit of an inspired choice.

I saw her looking at us before he did, I’m sure of that. I didn’t know who she was, but I thought her pretty insistent. She obviously didn’t realise I’d caught on to her. I work in PR – I notice when someone’s trying to look inconspicuous, to fade into the background so you won’t notice them and ask for that marketing report you’ve been waiting on for three weeks. I held on to Matt’s arm, leaned in close. When we got to a corner of the store where we were in her direct line of sight I kissed him, pulled his head down with my hands on his shirt collar, like forward women do in those black-and-white movies when they want to demonstrate their passion. I wanted to make her jealous, even before I knew who she was.

When she came up to us, which I admit I wasn’t expecting, I knew just what to say to make her uncomfortable. It’s as if I’d rehearsed the entire scene. I think Matt was angry with me when we left the store, but he didn’t let it show. It’s an unspoken agreement between us – I don’t complain about him leaving the seat up and he doesn’t curtail my behaviour in public. I think he was annoyed though, that I hadn’t felt or acted more uncomfortable than I was. I don’t see why, seeing as she was acting embarrassed enough for two. Such bad hair, like she hadn’t had it cut for months, but a good overall tan. The gift-shopping fiction was quick thinking on her part, almost worthy of a publicist, but then again I don’t suppose her job offers much room for creative thinking. I hope it was worth her giving up a four-year relationship for. I don’t talk to Matt about her often but I know he’ll never get over it. I don’t particularly want him to, either. It can only make him more conscious of how lucky he is, can only increase the chances of us working out.

I knew he was dying for me to say something all evening, but it felt good to draw it out. My position was secure. I was the supportive, diplomatic girlfriend. After we’d had sex I decided I’d drawn it out long enough and asked, although I already knew the answer, knew he would blow me off for prying into a private life he’s still too wounded to talk about. It’s all part of the therapy. I give him the opportunity to be defensive about his break up without actually talking about it long enough to make it painful.

These are things I’ve found out, ones I’m sure Clair never figured out for herself. Still, she must know him better than I do, even now, which is why I can’t take her for granted. In a couple of years maybe, if Matt and I stick together that long, I can relax. Sometimes I catch myself wishing ex-girlfriends left manuals. It would have been useful, for example, to know how to deal with the mood swings. Everybody has them, but you still have to spend an age working out what it is a person in a strop wants. A simple line in a notebook would have done, like – Feed him apple pie or Hide in bathroom until normality resumes. These are useful things to know. If Clair had told me, for example, over a confidential cappuccino at the local caf, that I needn’t bother talking to Matt when Top Gear is on because he’ll deny the conversation, even after you’ve had to call him from the train station because he said he’d pick you up, “no problem honey”. Or that crying got you nowhere, because his mother had used that kind of emotional blackmail on him since he was a toddler.

His mother I can fathom, but Estelle isn’t someone Clair could have warned me about. The rudeness wouldn’t have applied to her, after all. It’s always Clair this and Clair that when we go over, which is the only time I feel uncomfortable at the mention of her name. She’s some kind of Mother Theresa to most of their friends - taking off like that to help the third world in need, ignoring how much it would hurt her personal life. Nobody seems to realise how cut up Matt was over it, how much smoothing over I’ve had to do. Estelle and Brian are the only people Matt willingly talks to about her. But in the end, it doesn’t matter what his friends think of me. We’re a modern couple, financially independent, culturally aware. I don’t need to see Estelle more than I want to, not yet anyway.

Sometimes I wish we could all just drop the act and have it out, in a bar maybe, around strong spirits to give us courage enough to say the things we need to get out of our systems. It should be legally prearranged - a separating couple who have been together for a year or more should be made to write reports on each other. New partners should be called upon to meet exes, to give them a chance to be sussed out, weighed and confidently dismissed as unworthy, beneath, unsuitable. Relationships need to be built on solid foundations. Young professionals bounce back quicker than most, we’re adaptable by definition - even relationships are treated professionally. We should make the most of that.

All would have been all right if we hadn’t bumped into Clair. She hasn’t exactly stalled the project, but therapy is going to take longer than previously planned. I’m better for Matt than she was, way better. The trick is to make him see that without outright telling him. Make him understand I’d never leave him for a fad, because I love him more than anything.

Maybe the solution is to have it out after all. I could pre-arrange something. Find out where she lives now, ask around his mates next time we’re out. I could get them to bring her to a surprise do for his next birthday. We’d be forced to talk to each other then, ex-girlfriend or no.

Surprisingly enough, I got a phone call yesterday from Estelle, of all people to ring up on a Sunday morning! Dragging me out on a shoe shop for a wedding I’m not even invited to is not my idea of fun, but I suppose I should be happy she’s trying to be friends. Still, keeping me in the same bloody store for two hours is rude when she knows Matt and I like to spend our weekends together, especially since he’s been doing so much overtime at work. I know the Clair incident is on his mind. Estelle will have to be blackmailed into getting all three of us to meet. I know I could handle it, I’m secure. Matt’s not an idiot, he knows he’s onto a good thing.

Besides, how many boyfriends take off after meeting their exes, who dumped them to go play the missionary, after a three-year separation? That’s right, not many. Not mine.

© Emilie Connes

Read Triptych Part 1, Triptych Part 2, Marmite, Diamantes and Fuzzy Carpets

Emilie Connes is French by birth and learnt English in Africa. She also writes in French and Spanish. She completed a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at Lancaster University, experimenting with short stories and poetry. It was followed by a Masters in Creative Writing at the same institution, her final portfolio being a collection of short stories entitles Loose Ends. She is currently living in Romania, working for a publishing company in Bucharest and working on a novel.