Hello, Heartbreak

Amy Huberman is from Dublin, where she still lives. She is an actress, best known for her role as Daisy in the popular RTÉ series The Clinic. Hello, Heartbreak is her first novel.

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What in the name of sweet, gentle, divine and suffering Jesus did I look like?

‘Keelin, you said these things were going to boost my confidence,’ I whimpered, my bottom lip quivering again, ‘so why do I feel like going outside, lying on the road and waiting for an articulated lorry to come and end this misery?’

‘Izzy, for God’s sake, you’re such a drama queen. They’re only a pair of Spanx,’ she huffed, as she and Susie continued to hoist the horrific tube of flesh-coloured elastic up my body.

‘But why would you do this to me?’ I wailed. ‘Have I not suffered enough?’ I watched my reflection in the full-length mirror as the two traitors on either side of me continued to make me despise myself even more than I already did. Every upwards whoosh lifted my feet a few inches off the floor, and every time I thudded down my shoulders slumped even further.

‘Izzy, you really aren’t making this easy. Do you want us to put you in a back brace as well?’

‘Oh, why not go right ahead, Susie? Then I’ll be just about ready for the hair shirt and orthopaedic shoes you’ve lined up for me.’

‘Then why exactly have you shoved me into a horrific, flesh-eating,’ I twanged at the thick elastic digging into my thighs, ‘tit-deforming, ass-annihilating body condom? Is this some sort of last humiliation I have to suffer before I become –’

They slid something over my head, which I figured was most likely the hair shirt. But as I slowly prised open my eyes in terrified anticipation of the next bout of enforced dressing, I realized how badly I’d misjudged the situation.

‘Oooh,’ I cooed. I watched the silky material fall gracefully to my knees, and I knew that this was no hair shirt. Oh, no. This was my gorgeous new sparkly gold dress.

The same one I’d thrown out of my bedroom window when I got home after trying it on in front of my full-length mirror. I seem to recall it had something to do with being a fat, violently unattractive pathetic lump, or something along those lines. Anyway, that didn’t matter now. Not when it looked like this.

If I hadn’t hated myself quite so much as I did at that moment, I might even have gone so far as to say I looked human. And not a fat-violently-unattractive-pathetic-lump human – oh, no. A passable human with a lovely cinched-in waist, pert boobs and tight arse.

I flitted from left to right in front of the mirror, grinning inanely. ‘Where would I be without you guys?’

Ow! That was stinging now. I must remember that I didn’t have to spray myself with perfume or go again with the lipstick every time Keelin ran through the checklist.

‘Don’t forget your kohl eyeliner,’ Susie warned, as she whizzed past me to get her coat.

Kohl eyeliner. Check. Eyeliner sharpener. Check. Bronzer. Rouge. Pen thingy to make under my eyes look less knackered. Check. Mascara: one lengthening, one thickening. Hairclips: one grippy, one knotty. Serum. Comb. Check. Check. Check.

Okay, one last quick look to make sure I hadn’t slathered my fake tan on in cement-like mounds in the manner of an over-enthusiastic bricklayer. Damn, not so pretty workmanship around the ankles. Hmm. How long would it take to buff down about three layers of skin with an exfoliating loofah? Oh, bollocks to that! If men were looking at my ankles when I was wearing this dress, my troubles ran far deeper than I’d thought.

Spare sim card in case the spare battery freakishly turns out to be ‘not charged’. Although charging it for around thirty-six hours ought to have done the trick.

I know this all sounded highly neurotic, but everything just had to go like clockwork. I’d been planning this for days, and far too much was at stake for anything to go wrong.

Why the hell not? It wasn’t like I’d thrown in any nonessentials, for crying out loud. Basics was all. Basics! For the love of God, could someone out there not design a bag to accommodate the measly basics of a woman’s night out? Please? In the form of, say, an incredibly cute clutch? Was I really asking too much?

Fine. I suppose I could leave the curling iron and the hair straightener at home.

‘Wait! Stop! For the love of God, stop!’ I yelled, wedging my foot in the front door. ‘I can’t do this!’

‘I’ve forgotten my eyebrow brush!’ I half screamed, silencing them both. They blinked back at me.

I think they’d grasped the seriousness of the situation. I was one eyebrow brush away from complete and utter hysteria. This required sensitivity, the compassion of a loyal friend.

Of course, there was a fair chance the spinning was down to my having necked that pint of vodka and tonic. And now Susie was cranking open my jaw and pouring a baby Guinness down my throat. She pushed my chin up, allowing me to close my mouth. ‘Get that down you.’

‘Nonsense!’ she said briskly, prising my lips open with two fingers. Even though my teeth were clenched, the Sambuca still managed to filter through and slide down my gullet.

‘Oh, he will,’ Susie replied. ‘He’s a predictable wanker, I’ll give him that.’

She was right. That was Cian. Predictable to the core. Predictable in all the wrong ways, unfortunately. Like being tactless. And stubborn and insensitive. Not to mention thoughtlessly cruel.

So why was I there? Same old, same old. For every reason I had to hate him, there seemed a million more why I couldn’t shake loving him. For one, he’d been part of my life every day for the past three years. And he was Cian. My first and only love.

Had been. Had been a part of my life. It still didn’t seem real. It felt like some awful half-dream that was slowly sucking the air out of my world. And I was stuck right in the middle of it, not knowing what to do, or where to go, or even how it had happened. And no matter how much it hurt or how much I cried, no one was coming to wake me up.

‘Holy shit! He’s just arrived!’ hissed Keelin, as if she’d witnessed the second coming of Christ.

I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run and hide behind the DJ box and curl up in the foetal position and call my mum.

But if I did that, then it would pretty much definitely be over between us. I’m not exactly sure how much more ‘definite’ I needed it to be, seeing as I’d found out he’d been having sex with another woman and all. But, you know, I still wasn’t really getting it as such, so perhaps a little more clarity on that front might help to clear things up for me.

Anyway, I couldn’t fail tonight’s mission – not after all the work the girls had put into getting me here. The mission was for Cian to see me so that he could realize what an awful mistake he’d made. Then he’d drop to his knees and beg me to take him back. I would play hard to get for a suitable length of time, then jump his bones and straddle him for all I was worth. Simple.

After that, everything would be okay again. I’d be the old Izzy and life wouldn’t seem like a steaming pile of shite. My heart was broken without him. After three years, he had to feel even a little heartbroken himself, right? He just needed to remember how great we’d been, and then he’d want us back.

‘Of course I’m sure. What else would I do? I’m cool, Susie, I’m breezy. I’m out with my friends, just casually getting on with my life, while coincidentally wearing a magnificent dress with my hair professionally blow-dried. It’s going to be absolutely fine. You don’t have to worry.’ I went to rest my hand on her arm reassuringly, but I missed and ended up petting Keelin’s boob. There were no two ways about it: I was trolleyed.

Keelin and Susie exchanged nervous looks as I made my way over to him. It felt like the longest walk in history. Like a pilgrimage to Knock from Dublin, trudging over broken glass, in bare feet, against 60 m.p.h. winds. I squinted, trying to pull his face into focus. He was standing with a group of his friends, his back to me. My stomach flipped at the familiarity of the back of his neck. Not far to go now, just across the dance-floor and over to the other bar…

‘You guys stand here and pretend you’re just chatting and I’ll come from over there to join you. It’ll mean I’ll have to pass him, and then he’ll see me and I’ll be a picture of nonchalance.’

After seven attempts at the same routine, the fish still hadn’t bitten. God damn it! Bite, fish, bite! The girls even tried calling my name as I walked over, but the music was so loud he couldn’t hear it. Then, on the eighth go, it happened. I was sashaying to perfection, like they do on Britain’s Next Top Model, and my hair was falling perfectly around my shoulders and I’d just reapplied my lip gloss, when – good God – he saw me. Cue soaring music. Here we go. This was it. Finally, the Moment!

‘Cian! My goodness! Hi, what are you doing here?’ My heart was banging against my ribs and I had to steady myself against a bar stool so I didn’t fall over. I could see Keelin and Susie in my peripheral vision, clinging to each other in suspense.

That’s exactly why I’d known he’d be here. Here was our social life. Here was where we ended up every Saturday night. It was where we all came to worship the gods of booze and cheesy music. Most of all, it was our spot, where we’d been known for three years as the couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Good Lord, how soon could we get the pleasantries out of the way and skip to that bit?

Hang on a minute. He looked uncomfortable and his voice sounded cold. And he was staring at me like he’d just caught me out on something. I looked into his eyes and was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that coming here tonight had been a terrible mistake. ‘Well, why wouldn’t you expect to see me here?’ I said, with a defiance I didn’t feel.

I swiped a baby Guinness off a passing tray of drinks and slugged it back in one. ‘I’ll get you back,’ I lied, replacing the empty glass on the tray and shooing the waiter with my hand.

I searched his face. Nothing. No emotion. Just… blank. If my heart was a shiny red helium balloon full of hope and love and expectation, he’d just popped it with a pin. And I hung there, withered and deflated, as the gas disappeared into the ether around me.

I had to look away. All of a sudden I felt so embarrassed. So pathetic. He wasn’t on his knees begging me to come back to him, proclaiming undying love. Far bloody from it. I was annoying him. He didn’t want me here.

What had I been thinking? That I could come here tonight in a gold dress and some nice shoes and that would be enough to convince him to love me again?

Christ, how could I have been so stupid? I felt like my face was being slapped and each slap spelt out a different kind of hurt.

My boyfriend, my lover, my confidant, my friend – all gone. Every little piece of our relationship had been pulled apart and discarded, as though they’d never fitted together in the first place. My heart ached for him, and before I knew it, trails of hot, salty tears were streaking my painstakingly made-up face. In that moment – the moment it dawned on me that it was over, that I’d lost him for ever – standing amid hundreds of people, I don’t think I’d ever felt more lonely in my life.

Then something unexpected happened. It was as if someone had pressed ‘play’ on some 3D horror film in which I unwittingly had a starring role, but the sound was muted, so I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. A sequence of terrifying moving pictures started to unfold in front of me. What the hell? Why was an exotic beauty sidling up to Cian and draping her arm around him? Why was he looking at her like she was a Bond girl he wanted to have sex with? And why the bloody hell was she calling him ‘baby’?

Oh, fucking hell, it was her! The woman who’d been sleeping with Cian behind my back… my Cian. I felt unbearably hot, as if someone had buttoned me into an Aran sweater and locked me into a sauna. My head felt as if it was about to detach itself from the rest of my body and float away.

Jesus Christ, they were together. I’d thought, you know, it must have been a fling. A bit of excitement, maybe. A mistake, definitely. But here they were, standing in front of me, carrying on like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

I looked her up and down. So this was the owner of the voice at the other end of the phone. The shameless hussy who had called my mobile to leave a message with Cian’s ‘assistant’. At first I’d thought I was speaking to someone with crazily outdated views on gender roles and women’s rights, but as she rattled on, I realized she thought I was his PA. Just as I was about to inform her otherwise, she told me to tell Cian thanks for the fantastic weekend away and that the little gift he’d sent fitted her perfectly, but he was so naughty to buy it for her. Then the phone went dead. Followed by my entire world. Shut-down.

And now here she was, with her long, elegant limbs and long, silky hair. This was the infamous Weekend-Away-With-the-Diamond-Thong Girl, as I had christened her in drunken rants to the girls. Of course, I didn’t know what little gift had fitted her so goddamn perfectly, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t bought her a pair of long-johns and some novelty socks. I’d convinced myself he’d imported diamonds from South Africa and hand-sewn them to an Indian silk pink thong.

She opened her perfect mouth and crashed me back to the present. ‘Who’s this, baby?’

I swear to God, if she said ‘baby’ to him one more time, my ears were going to bleed.

Cian was swishing the end of his beer into a little vortex at the bottom of the glass. ‘Erm, this is… eh, Izzy,’ he muttered.

‘I see,’ she purred, scanning me up and down like a security camera. ‘So this is Izzy!’

What the hell was I supposed to do? Wave? Shake her hand? Move in for the airkiss? All I wanted to do was punch her dainty little nose, but that might not sit too well with my ‘nonchalant’ thing.

‘Ah, Cian,’ she said, smiling at me like a reptile. ‘She’s so… cute.’

I strove to cling to the last vestiges of dignity. ‘Sorry, and you are?’ Let’s not be too hasty here, perhaps she was just some long-lost overly tactile cousin of Cian’s whom I’d never met.

I could, but I think I’ll stick with shameless hussy if it’s all the same to you.

She snaked an arm through his. ‘Yeah, maybe you should do that, Izzy. Things could get, you know, a tad awkward otherwise.’

I looked at Cian helplessly. Was he going to let her speak to me like that? As if I was someone insignificant, dismissible?

The room started to spin in slow motion. She nestled into Cian like a cat, not taking her eyes off me for one second. I started to inch backwards, resisting the urge to get the hell out of there. I wanted to give them an I’m-so-over-it look of contempt, flick my hair and walk away, taking my incredible arse with me. But it was impossible – I couldn’t stop staring at them. It was like watching a car crash, or an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show. Even though it was making me nauseous, I couldn’t look away.

The really painful thing was that she was a total ride. There were no other words for it. A ride. I had led myself to believe that the woman he’d chosen to run off and sleep with was a wiry-haired, overweight, overwrought minger, preferably with false teeth and a limp. That was how the story had gone in my head.

But, no, that wouldn’t be how things worked out in the real world at all, now would it? No, here she was, with her sickeningly predictable long black silky hair and the longest legs I’d ever seen on anyone bar Naomi Campbell. (I saw her in Brown Thomas once when she pelted past me like an ostrich.)

And her dress. Oh, dear God, her dress! That was the final nail in the coffin. It was a backless gold number with long lace sleeves down to her wrists and an elegantly cut neckline. Stunning. Plus it was set off by the most amazing pair of Louboutin gold peep-toes, which looked like they’d cost about three pay cheques, where my crummy wages were concerned.

She was everything I wasn’t. Tall and dark, with expensive clothes and killer accessories – she looked almost Asian. Her skin was flawless, clear and radiant. I felt like yelling, ‘Good score!’ and high-fiving Cian. ‘Saffy’ was an A1 boyfriend-stealer, I’d give her that.

She was eyeing me equally frankly, which made me feel unbearably vulnerable and exposed. I looked down at my gold dress, so tacky and cheap beside hers, like a sprig of lacklustre tinsel. There was no comparison, and it crippled me.

Had he always been too good for me? I’d never really thought about it before, but he was gorgeous. Even now, when he was being so cold, I couldn’t tear my eyes off him. He had an undefinable, inexplicable something that had me hooked. Some would call it sex appeal but it had always felt like so much more than that to me. His cropped sandy-blond hair, his big blue eyes, his tall lean frame and broad shoulders had become a blueprint for what I thought of as beautiful. Every other man on the planet paled beside him.

He turned back to me, catching me offguard. I half smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. ‘It’s time you made yourself scarce.’

‘Yeah, Cian’s right,’ said Bitchface. ‘It was lovely to meet you, but we really just want to enjoy our night together now.’

‘Izzy, honestly, you should go before you make a fool of yourself,’ Cian said, with an edge to his voice.

Well, all I can say in my defence is that he’d found the only button he hadn’t already pushed and just pressed ‘detonate’.

‘I’m sorry? Before I make a fool of myself? Fuck you, Cian Matthews!’ All the pain was suddenly replaced by an overwhelming fury. ‘Fuck you, you self-righteous, self-satisfied, heartless, cocky fuckhead!’

I’d forgotten they were there. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. ‘You are the one who made a fool of me in the first place by not having the balls or the decency to inform me you were shagging another woman behind my back!’

‘Seriously, Izzy, abort!’ Keelin pleaded, trying to pull me away. She would have had more luck trying to bridle a wild horse: this girl was not for turning.

By this stage a rather substantial group had formed around us, all wanting a slice of the action. ‘What?’ I shouted at the crowd. I think adrenalin had pumped the alcohol around my body because I was suddenly feeling out-of-my-mind blind drunk. Some of them looked away, others were cringing with embarrassment, while a good majority were shaking their heads as if I was the most pitiful sight they’d ever chanced upon.

‘Don’t pity me!’ Was this really my voice? It didn’t sound like it. ‘Pity them!’ I yelled, my arms flapping about wildly to illustrate my point. ‘They are going to be miserable!’ God, I sounded like Skeletor from He-Man. ‘He is going to be miserable without me!’ I roared, wrapping the entire argument up neatly for the crowd. ‘Ha!’

I didn’t receive a round of applause or calls for an encore. Instead, the shocked, silent stares continued to burn through me until they’d melted all my resolve. I suddenly felt weak and pathetic, like some circus freak who’d stepped outside the tent. As quickly as it had arrived, the rage that had hijacked me departed, replaced by utter mortification.

I burst into tears. And, no, not the subtle tears I’d shed rather eloquently earlier on, but full on, snotty, wailing, heaving sobs. I stood there, swaying, with mascara staining my face, looking every inch the woman scorned. The last thing I remember is Cian, eyes wide, staring at me with horror. Then everything went blank.

One month p.m. (post-mortification)

iPod choice: ‘I Will Survive’

I’d decided that flowing, silky hair and long, skinny limbs was just such a cliché. Far more intriguing and quirky to have to get every pair of jeans you buy turned up and to have hair that’s slightly unruly, with a fringe that won’t lie flat.

I’d also decided that Cian sleeping with the Cliché behind my back was possibly the best thing that could ever have happened to me: I’d dusted down all the shelves in my bedroom, something I always said I’d get around to but never found the time to do. Being single meant I had lots of time. And I’d put it to good use by vacuuming under my bed as well and pairing off all my socks. And sewing missing buttons back on to all of my blouses. I honestly couldn’t believe I’d sacrificed all of this just so I could be with a boyfriend! I mean, was I mad?

I’d spent most of last week trying out different conditioners, which had been a right hoot. It wasn’t an attempt to make my hair lovely and silky, no, just so I was up-to-date and well informed the next time I found myself in a discussion about haircare.

I honestly had to say I’d never felt happier in my life. People kept asking me was I ‘okay’? Of course I was okay! What not-okay person goes and alphabetizes the food presses? Or sorts out all of the towels in the hotpress? Or scrubs the moss from the gutters? I was more than okay, was what I was! I had a new lease on life! I felt fresh and fantastic and wonderful, and all of my blouses had their buttons on them and the tins of beans were now so easy to find and my sock drawer looked so pretty and lovely.

Two months p.m.

iPod choice: ‘Everybody Hurts’

I’d decided that Cian sleeping with the Cliché had ruined my life. For ever. I hadn’t come out of my duvet cocoon in quite some time. It was really quite cosy and I’d made no plans to leave any time in the near future. Westlife and I had forged a new type of bond. I mean, I’d always been very fond of the lads, but now? We were tight.

I’d told my boss I had meningitis. (Must remember to look up symptoms before I go back to work so I can relay the horrors of what I went through.) People just didn’t want to give you time off work if you told them you had brokenheartitis. Why not, for God’s sake? This was far worse than anything else I’d ever had to suffer through before. Even worse than that full body rash I got when I was eleven and Mum had to slather me in anti-itch cream and wrap me in tinfoil for a week.

Keelin and Susie kept asking if I was okay and leaving sambos with the crusts cut off outside my door. Why couldn’t they see that Blue Nun and Tayto were the only food groups I needed now that everything was ruined? Now that Cian had dumped me for the tall girl with the long, silky hair.

If I propped all my pillows around me, I could sit up to drink my wine and still have the duvet over my head. What more could I want? A life? No, didn’t have one of them any more. Not after the girls tried to make me go out last weekend. Not after I’d stepped into the pub and some drunk person shouted, ‘Oh, my God! Look! It’s that psycho from Facebook!’

That’s right. My meltdown. Captured on camera phone. Uploaded on web. Posted on Facebook.

Three months p.m.

iPod choice: ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’

This was it for me. I was going to turn into that crazy lady who roamed the streets shouting at children, ‘Enjoy your lives while you can, you little shits! One day someone will break your heart and then you’ll be miserable! Just like me!’ I’d be that bent-over old witch in the corner of the nursing home, rocking in my chair and stroking my beard, chanting, ‘Cian Matthews broke my heart. Cian Matthews broke my heart,’ while the staff had to restrain me to administer my sedatives.

This was how it would be for me from here on in. I’d never get over him. In fact, I’d make a stand against getting over it and win some award for being the Most Heartbroken Person Ever (also known as the Martyr Award) and then he’d finally know just how badly he’d hurt me.

They’d interview me under my duvet and say, ‘So tell us, Isobel, where did it all begin?’

‘Well, you see it was when Cian Matthews, my first love, shagged the tall lady with the long, silky hair behind my back. It nearly killed me because I thought we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. Because we just knew. We knew when we got together that it all fitted into place. Some said, “You’re too young to know that,” and we said, “No, we’re not. People in the olden days got married at sixteen!” We didn’t care what they thought because we knew. But then he went and spoilt it all and shattered my life. So, thank you for the award, but could you go away now, please? I’m not used to too much social interaction and it makes me nervous. Oh, but you couldn’t just fill up my wine glass before you leave? And hit “play” on the Westlife CD on your way out?’

Four months p.m.

iPod choice: ‘Movin’ On Up’

Still slightly traumatized over what had just happened, but Mum said sweet tea would help. She kept lifting the mug to my lips and making me drink. I didn’t want sweet tea. What was the point if there was no alcohol in it? But I drank it anyway because if I didn’t it’d spill down my front and scald my chin.

Mum, Emma, Keelin and Susie had staged an intervention. I kid you not. I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d thought it was someone coming to drop off another crustless sandwich at the bedroom door, but all of a sudden I was picked up, duvet and all, wrestled down the stairs and into the back of Mum’s car.

‘It’s for your own good, love,’ Mum said sternly. ‘You cannot continue like this. Keelin and Susie are going out of their minds with worry, and so are we.’

‘Yes, but you can’t spend every other waking moment up in your room, under your duvet, drinking cheap wine.’

‘Fine. I’ll buy expensive wine. It’s not like I’ve anything else to spend my wages on.’

‘Izzy, it’s time. Girls,’ she called, waving her hand, ‘be strong. I can’t watch.’

‘No!’ I howled, as Mum held me pinned to the couch, her face turned to the wall.

An hour later, after I’d worn myself out crying, I was lying on the couch, curled up in a little coil of dejection. Keelin and Susie, two of the Scissor Sisters, had gone home. Dad came in to check on me every so often. I liked Dad. He wasn’t as mean as the others.

‘Did Doris get a haircut?’ I asked, looking at her. Why was she staring at me? Had she seen the clip on Facebook?

‘Er, not exactly,’ Emma – Scissors and real-life sister – muttered guiltily. ‘I was sort of trying out these new curling tongs I’d got and they fried a huge chunk of her hair because I kept trying to make it go into ringlets. I ended up cutting the rest off.’

Oh, I see. Doris was actually pleading with me to take her to my home when I left.

‘Izzy, you can’t go on like this. I’m seriously worried about you!’ Emma said gruffly. ‘You have to get a grip now. You used to be such a cool big sister, but now you’re –’

‘Sorry, Dad. Well, no…’ she lowered her voice ‘… but you’re not far off, Iz.’

Her big blue eyes went doe-like and cartoonish, as they always did when she was insulting me. She had this uncanny knack of verbally abusing people in such a cute way that it was virtually impossible to get mad at her. Like the time I got my hair cut into a bob and she told me I looked like a seven-year-old boy. She’d looked so sweet while she was saying it that I ended up apologizing and promising I’d grow it out.

‘I’m sorry, Emma. I know you’re disappointed, but I tried, okay? I really tried this time.’

‘If you don’t start going out and enjoying your life again soon, you’ll go down in history as the Internet Bunny Boiler. Not that I’m saying people are calling you that – well, not everyone – but you have to come back fighting. Once you’re out there, people will forget. But you have to face the music! There was a girl the year ahead of me who dressed up as a gimp for her boyfriend one Valentine’s for a romantic surprise, but his flatmate caught her and took a photo of her on his phone and sent it to everyone in college. Okay, sure, she was humiliated and no one would sit beside her in tutorials and her boyfriend dumped her, but she got back out there! And now she only gets abused two or three times a week, tops. So, Izzy, please! You’ve got to get a grip before it’s too late and you end up moving back home permanently, putting on fourteen stone and growing a beard!’

That didn’t sound too bad to me. Apart from the beard. ‘Why would I grow a beard?’

‘Because, Izzy, when women lash on a speedy fourteen stone their hormones go haywire and they grow hair all over their face.’

‘There you go, love,’ said Mum, nestling in beside me on the couch. I took the mug from her and slurped the tea.

‘Okay,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve gotta go now, Iz, but we’ll talk more about your recovery plan tomorrow.’

‘Well, you kind of are. You’re like one big nasty recession that we have to pump some resources into before you sink entirely.’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked limply. I was worn out with all this intervention and recovery talk.

‘Out, Izzy. It’s Friday night. It’s what most people do, remember? And it’s what you’re going to start doing again. And, Dad, you’re driving me over to Barbara’s.’

‘Oh, sorry. Dad, please will you drive me over to Barbara’s?’ she said, switching on the blinky cartoon eyes.

It was true, she did look great – but, my God, did she have crazy dress sense. She was like some superhero of bling. Bling Girl! Coming to save the universe from boring colours and lack of sparkle! I think she was wearing every shade of the spectrum in her outfit and the fifty bangles she had stacked up her left arm. It was a pity our tastes clashed so completely as we were more or less the same size. Ah, I remember my youth… going out clubbing, flirting, socializing. I was only five years older than my sister, but it all seemed so far away.

Psychodelic madness aside, Emma really was a stunner, no doubt about it. She looked more like Dad, while I was like Mum. We reckoned Stephen, our brother, looked a lot like Maurice Gibney from number thirty-eight, which we slagged him relentlessly about. Mum would just roll her eyes and tell him he was gorgeous and not to worry, that Maurice only moved onto the road in 1983 and Stephen was conceived in 1978.

‘Thanks, Iz. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there,’ Bling Girl piped, and trotted off, dragging Dad with her.

God, I was sad. Maybe it was time I got myself together. Here I was, wedged between Mum and half-shorn Doris on a Friday night, drinking a mug of tea.

I sighed. Mum moved her hand to mine and stroked it gently. ‘Emma has a point, sweetheart,’ she said softly.

‘I know,’ I whispered. ‘I’m fed up feeling disappointed and hurt, Mum. I want to move on so much, really I do, but it’s like I’m stuck.’

‘Well, some things do take time, love. But there also comes a point when we have to help ourselves.’

‘But I just don’t know how to do that. I’ve been trying to be more positive the last while, but it’s like every time I move forward, I get stuck in all this hurt and shame and disbelief all over again.’

‘Izzy, you’ve never been a quitter. And you know what? No one else is going to do the hard work for you.’

Jesus, she was right – Mum should get her own afternoon TV show. She could be an Irish Oprah. That’d be so cool. And we’d probably get loads of free stuff too. I’ll run it past her once I get my life back on track.

Goodbye, heartbreak! Hello, world (but hopefully not Hello, People With Access to Facebook).

… Seven months p.m.

No iPod choice. No iPod. Fecked iPod against wall.

Blame Gloria Gaynor

I’ll be honest, going to Odds and Sods always terrified me. Even after four years living on the same street, I didn’t know anyone else who dreaded popping into the local newsagent’s like I did. Okay, okay, I know it could have been worse. I could have been living in Beirut or Cardiff. But, then, Odds and Sods was definitely situated on the most frightening corner of Dublin City. Think screeching tyres and late-night police raids. Think shouting and screaming. Think twelve-year-olds in hoodies with fluffy moustaches – and that was just the girls. Honestly, it was a trip to the dark side.

There was nothing for it, though: Odds and Sods was the nearest local shop so we had to cross to the dark side fairly often. Whenever we discovered we’d run out of milk or ciggies or bread, Susie, Keelin and I would stare each other down, and the first to crack would be sent on a tour of duty.

‘Izzy, you haven’t gone in ages and it’s serious this time – we’re out of Skittles.’

‘And I’ve developed some sort of wheat and lactose intolerance, so perhaps you guys should leave me out of the proceedings.’

‘Well, if that’s true, then what exactly are these?’ Susie cried, pointing from the crusts of bread on a plate in the kitchen to the milk moustache on my top lip.

Some friends they were! How come they didn’t hate going to Odds and Sods as much as I did? Maybe it was because Keelin had never been assaulted by a ‘young hoodlum’ with a Loop the Loop while she was innocently perusing the magazines. Hey, don’t laugh, I know it doesn’t sound very dangerous, but it sparked a lengthy hyperventilating and screaming fit in me. Or maybe it was because Susie had never suffered the misfortune of having a half-bald cat jump onto her head from above the shop door. (I can’t elaborate on this because I’m still far too traumatized.)

As I scuttled towards Odds and Sods, I prepared for my ‘safety measures’, which involved a charming charade I liked to call Blending In With the Locals. In layman’s terms, I adopt a tic and appear slightly pissed at all times. Take it from a woman who knows: the key to survival is attracting as little attention as possible. I know because – and call me a posh fuck – I once had a child lob a sliced loaf at my head because I’d had the temerity to inquire about semi-skimmed milk.

I pushed open the door, triggering the bell, which always made me think of a boxing ring. Okay, okay, concentrate, Izzy! Speed and precision! Quick and fast, like ripping off a plaster. We needed three things: bread, milk and Skittles. Go! Go! Go! Ooh, chocolate spread. Some bloke in a pinstripe suit jacket and swimming shorts was shouting obscenities at a jar of Hellmann’s right beside the chocolate spread. I turned to him and said, ‘Fucking mayonnaise,’ so he’d think we had loads in common and therefore wouldn’t mug and/or kill me.

‘Tell me about it!’ he answered, flashing me a smile. Sheer brilliance. My ‘blending in’ never failed. I plucked a jar of chocolate spread off the shelf and wished him luck.

Now that I was feeling a little braver, I decided I’d get some Cheerios and maybe a few eggs while I was at it. The girls would be so proud! It might even win me a bit of compassionate leave before I was forced to come back here again.

I dropped the chocolate spread and pinned my back to the cereal shelf. I couldn’t breathe! Christ, I was dying! Wait, no, I could breathe. I just had to… breathe. Like I’d always done. Same method I’d been using for the last twenty-seven years. In, out, in, out. But my hands were all tingly and my heart was doing a gymnastics routine in my chest.

I started to move, very slowly and very carefully, towards the voice I could hear. When I got as close as I could without being seen, I peered around the edge of the shelf.

I craned a bit further. He was talking to someone. A woman. Oh, Christ, no, no, no!

It was Edna McClodmutton, a.k.a. Bitchface, a.k.a. Saffron, Saffy, ‘up-and-coming’ actress-socialite and all-round robo ride who stole my man. I had renamed her Edna McClodmutton as ‘Saffron’ really was far too nauseatingly cool.

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to hear what they were saying. I willed my ears to translate their mumbles into recognizable words, but it was like doing an Irish-aural exam: I couldn’t understand a bloody thing. They might have been discussing Áine agus Ronan going to an phairc to kick a liathroid for all I knew.

Now they were laughing, like love’s young dream. It was enough to make me throw up right there in front of the All Bran.

My God, I’d only managed to come out of hiding a few weeks ago. I’d only gone back into a nightclub for the first time last week. For the first time since… since Black Saturday. I went puce and light-headed whenever I thought about it or anyone mentioned it. Black Saturday, 10 November 2007, the day I did a Britney and lost my marbles. Not only that, but Black Saturday had become a hit on YouTube, thanks to whatever arsehole had recorded it on their mobile and put it on Facebook under the title ‘Girl Has Shit Fit Over Ex-Boyfriend’s New Girlfriend’. Thank you, arsehole, whoever you are. I owe you one.

Anyway, there was absolutely no way I could face Cian and Edna McClodmutton now. It would set me back months. And what the hell was he doing in my local shop anyway? He lived nowhere near here.

I peeped over the cans of beans to where the door was. Yes! It was still in the same place. God, you couldn’t beat consistency in a world gone mad. Hang on, though. If I made a break for it, the heavily tattooed woman behind the counter might think I was shoplifting, impale me on a stick and parade me up and down the road. Hm, but that did sound far more appealing than meeting Cian and Miss Asia.

I checked the route again. A quick leapfrog over the stack of toilet tissue, past Mayo Man and out of the door, never to be seen again.

Not knowing what to do, I panicked and began to swipe random items off the shelves like some lunatic contestant on Supermarket Sweep. ‘Izzy,’ he repeated. What should I do? Keep ignoring him? His voice was closer now and my heart pounded violently as I turned to face him.

There he was, all six feet and two inches of him, as gorgeous as ever. Euch. He was still so bloody predictable.

Neither of us spoke. We just stood there in silence, gawping at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Like ten Palm Sunday Masses back-to-back. In Latin. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and I knew exactly how he felt. He struggled to say something, but failed. I allowed myself the opportunity to reacquaint myself with his face, his hair, his eyes, his mouth. Did I want to kiss or punch it? I wasn’t sure.

The silence was broken by a high-pitched whine: ‘Cian? Sweetheart? Will you ask if they have any sushi?’

Sushi? Was she having a laugh? We were in a shop where the mere mention of semi-skimmed milk could land you with GBH.

Cian turned to her, leaving me standing directly in her eye line. I felt like one of those timid gazelles you see on nature programmes, the ones the lions are going to be picking out of their teeth in about an hour’s time.

‘Hello,’ I said, trying to sound dignified, confident and very much over it. Didn’t work, of course. It came out as a pathetic squeak – the squeak of a scorned woman who was still alone and miserable and would be for ever more because she’d turned herself into a social recluse. Never knew one squeak could say so much about a person.

I wasn’t at all happy with how this was panning out. I wanted to turn back the clock to this morning so I could get my hair blow-dried, my makeup applied professionally, a spray tan, choose a tailored skirt and sheer silk shirt from Dita von Teese’s wardrobe and buy a pair of skyscraper heels. In red. Not too much to ask, was it? After everything I’d been through?

This was not part of The Plan. You know how it goes: you bump into your ex a few months down the line and you’re wearing Diane von Furstenburg? And there are people all around you in convulsions laughing at something hilarious you’ve just said? And then a man who is sex on legs walks up to you and asks for your hand in marriage, which prompts your ex to burst into tears and cry inconsolably? The Plan.

So how was the plan shaping up when I needed it most? Well, let’s see. Smelly old trainers, bleach-stained raggy jeans, a dark green shapeless hoodie, greasy hair thrown together in a hideous scrunchie that had made its way straight from the 1980s into our bathroom, where I’d found it this morning. Yeah, not so much Dita von Teese as Rita von Shameful Sleaze.

Naturally, Edna McClodmutton looked amazing, which made everything even worse. (Murphy, if you’re out there, I hate you and your bloody law.) Her shiny dark hair spilled over her shoulders, looking so soft and silky that in other circumstances I would have run my fingers through it and asked her what conditioner she used. Even without makeup her almond eyes were compelling: they were almost black against her honey complexion and her pouty bee-stung lips.

I shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot as she strutted down the aisle towards us. Well, this was cosy, wasn’t it? Group hug, anyone?

She smiled broadly, clearly savouring my discomfort. ‘Izzy, darling, it’s been a while.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, trying to sound casual. As though I’d last seen her at the cinema or on the street.

‘Em, Saff, could you just see if they have any… um, dishwasher tablets?’ Cian muttered.

She looked from him to me and back again, let the perfect space of awkward silence choke the air around us, then sauntered up the aisle in her gorgeous lace-up ankle boots, her hair swishing like a sheet of black silk. Just as she was about to disappear around the corner, she turned and glared at me. Again, I had to restrain myself from congratulating Cian on what a ride she was.

‘Please. Don’t.’ I had to look away. This was horrible. I moved away from him and went into the next aisle.

Her heels were clipping back already to where he was standing. This time I could hear everything they were saying. And it was awful.

‘Is she going to have another public breakdown? Honestly, Cian, I’m not in the mood.’

‘Seriously, Cian, she makes me really uncomfortable. My friends think she’s clinically deranged. Remember last month when I went to that open audition for the part of a psycho lady in Fair City? Well, guess whose monologue I downloaded from YouTube and learnt for my audition? That’s right, your crazy ex’s. And, okay, I didn’t get the part, but the director said my piece was very “real”.’

‘No! I will not pussyfoot around her just because she’s mentally unstable. She lost. She needs to get over it.’

Bitch! I could not believe my ears. I lost? That was my boyfriend! Not a bloody game of tennis! I sloped towards the counter, almost too numb to move.

‘Izzy, wait.’ I turned to see Cian whirring towards me like an annoying wasp. I wanted to splat him, the pretentious prick.

‘Just leave it, Cian,’ I said, plonking down the items I’d managed to gather during my fit of shopper’s mania. There, laid out in front of me in all their embarrassing glory, were a packet of nappies, some nappy rash cream, an odd brand of toothpaste for ‘problem bad breath’, an aerosol can of Odour Destroyer and a jar of Bovril. Yep, any time now will do just fine, Lord!

‘And you realized you’d run out of sushi and dishwasher tablets?’ I fished around in my pockets for change as the incredibly-manly-once-you’re-up-close lady totted up what I owed.