I was on my way to see an attractive local weather girl switch on the Christmas lights when I met Lucy. There she was, standing on the platform, practically illuminating it, when I began to rethink my 15 mile journey. Here are the Christmas lights, I thought. And this is my weather girl. And though I couldn’t, from my vantage point on platform 5, accurately ascertain her occupation, I nevertheless took my thoughts as profound, broke all the rules of my involuntary celibacy and asked for her number. Breaking further rules, and indeed, expectations, she gave it. And I waited just a few moments until she disappeared behind the station building to punch the air in delight.
As I swung somewhat pointlessly into the cold, dark night, I considered my recent romantic misfortunes and felt glad to have not seen Lucy with a child, a grey hair, or even a hint of a penis.
My friends were less sure. “Come on,” said Bill. “What’s wrong with her then?”
“Nothing!” I said. “Well, anyway I’ll find out on Sunday. I’m seeing her then.”
“There’s got to be something.”
“Can’t this just be that I meet a hot girl, my own age; I ask her out, we have a good time and it all works out?”
And, though this was really a rhetorical question, by Sunday it had been answered loud and clear, and only fifteen minutes into our date.
“So, do you live with your folks or do you have your own place?” I asked, already thinking of potential sleeping arrangements.
“No,” she said, putting her coffee down, as if getting ready to leave. “I live with my daughter.”
Thinking, perhaps under some sort of illusion, that I wasn’t the kind of guy to just get up and run, I held steady on to my coffee cup, and looked interested. “Oh wow!” I said. “What’s her name?” I didn’t really care what her name was. What difference does it make? And the smile that curled at the edges of my mouth wasn’t in excitement at this news but in knowing that, of course, this was “what’s wrong with her.”
Whilst she told me her daughter’s name, and the story behind it, which I hoped I’d never be quizzed on because I wasn’t really listening, I began to rationalise the situation, and think of how this could work without my becoming little whatsherface’s new daddy. The pause, I thought, signified the end of her story.
“So that’s where little…your little daughter gets her name from!” I said. “Great. Shall we go for a walk?”
And so we did. But at every turn was another startling revelation that only the illusion of my own kindness kept me running from. She’d been unwell for several years, she said, and so, tempted by curiosity I asked with what. And when she answered, “anorexia”, I again responded with “Oh wow!” but suddenly felt awful for having listed ‘thin’ as a quality in describing her to Bill. (I’m surprised he didn’t already guess.) But that wasn’t all.
As our walk took a turn towards the river and our conversation for the worse, she began to recall her days in the mental health institution where she was committed with schizophrenia. It was there, in her defence, that she discovered that she was pregnant and that she must recover for the sake of her daughter, whose name, at this moment in time, escapes me.
Her recovery and, indeed, the sing-song way in which she told her story, endeared me to her and, as our walk led us to the pub and one drink to another, the date somehow picked up. But whatever good she impressed upon me that evening she soon undid with the 87 text messages that followed.
In the brief moments between them I pondered my dilemma. Just how do you break up with a young, single mother with a history of schizophrenia and anorexia? Despite the phrase ‘unlucky in love’, which I take credit for coining, I’d never been in this situation. I thought that doing it in a text message was a bad idea. Over dinner was even worse. I mean, what do you say? “It’s not you, or you, or you, it’s me”?
