Pt.4 When he arrived home from Amsterdam-by-way-of-Paris he was in for a shock. So was I….

It was the day after my birthday and two whole months since we last saw one another. Since I last said ‘I love you’ and he last laughed ‘You’re only human’.

I never felt comfortable in cleavage, but I donned it that night. Determined to prove I had just as many desirable assets as the girl who got paid to look pretty. When I met him at the door he looked no more or no less excited than he ever did.

We left for his favourite restaurant. In the car I waited, excited, for the talk. The one he had promised. The one wherein he’d admit his folly and profess undying love for me and my girdled waist. It never came.

Three hours later I was on my third glass of Sancerre. He was going on about dirty Amsterdam and annoying French bureaucracy - the name Van Strudel noticeably absent from all conversation - when I asked “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He smiled and winked and then offered up my present. “I don’t know if you’ll like this,” he said, “it’s rather girly.”

When I was little and use to beat up Cousin Dusty my grandmother told me it wasn’t ladylike. I meditated upon her words as I fought an unmitigated urge to leap on the grinning European across from me.

“It’s not as if my name’s Chuck!” I snapped, and snatched the envelope from his hands.

Before I could open my Day at the Spa he said “Pardon?” and I growled these words:

“I paid three hundred dollars for hair I hate………. and ok, my legs may not actually be any longer, but in these heels, they look it …….. and I’ve spent the past eight weeks taking dieting tips from Parisians who eat cotton balls soaked in orange juice to stay thin JUST to look fabulous for YOU! And all I get is a ‘You Ain’t Girly’!”

His face said it all. A big ball of apathy, amusement and anger that couldn’t figure out whether to laugh or scream or just not care.

I crossed my legs and crossed my arms and waited. He drank his wine and finished his dessert. He smoothed the napkin in his lap and never looked up. His voice was low and slow when he spoke.

“Buffy…..I don’t feel that way about you. I never have. I never will.” He paused. Like he needed time to form his words. Like he hadn’t said enough already. “It’s never going to happen. You need to stop this.”

He didn’t look at me when I stood up and asked for my coat. Or when I walked out into the almost-autumn air to hail a black cab home.

That night I cried. I gave the dress to a homeless lady who lived in an alley two streets over, shoved the shoes under my bed and packed a suitcase for Dew on the Kudzu.

On the plane I wondered when I’d finally learn. When I’d stop trying to change me for someone else. I was resolute. Firm. For eight whole hours. But by the time I landed, I was already planning my return.

Continued……

I’ve moved. But I’ve no time to settle. In two days time I go galloping across the globe to follow his passion - photography.

He calls it an adventure. Like backpacking through Europe. Only we’ll be SUVing through America. Split lives. Here and there. The excitement and the stress of it all. He’s as enthusiastic as they come. I’m scared - to death.

Of course he’ll never stay Stateside. I know this. He’s far too British for that. But there are worse things than living between two continents.

And we’re just about there. Ready to begin what both he and Gabby (age 5) calls A Really Really Big Adventure.

First, we take a detour.

“London, Paris, New York. The holiday trifecta. What do you say, darling? Shall we celebrate in style?”

The words were his. The birthday, mine. My twenties are over on Sunday. I’m going out with a bang.

(Will post while away….the laptop goes everywhere.)

Pt.3: Then he used the word sister (SISTER!) and said he was going to see Van Strudel. We’d talk when he got back.

I went straight to Eliza. All she said was “Oh B” and “Let’s make for the Hogs Head.”

My inebriated friend was the queen of optimism-verging-on-delusion. “He’s dying to sweep you away,” her voice was all drama, “he’s just pig headed.” She mulled it over for another minute and then said “You know that Bonnie Raitt song, I can’t make you love me?” Yup. “Well it’s bunk.”

Later, through my third tumbler of amber ambrosia, I agreed. “He already loves part of me,” I drawled. “I’ve just gotta make him love the other part.” By other part I meant the part that didn’t look like a Dutch runway model.

The next afternoon I made my way through the streets to the first Toni and Guy with a cancellation. A glam man in mascara seated me. “What’s your pleasure, dahling?”

I flipped through a magazine until I found a photo of a very thin Catherine Zeta Jones - the closest I could come to Miss Van Strudel on such short notice.

“Make me look like this,” I said, and meant it.

A year later we’d sit back and wonder at the events of the following week. Eliza would laugh a laugh full of snorts and I would cringe and hide my head.

But I was full of confidence on the day I decided to turn myself into the woman I hated.

I coloured my hair the darkest shade of brunette. Adopted towering heels and an accessorised-to-death style. I even began learning drunken German - because she spoke the sober kind - and went around saying things like “Ich liebe mich Affe” and “Ich bin sehr konfus”.

When he arrived home from Amsterdam-by-way-of-Paris he was in for a shock. So was I.

Continued…..

I’m eating crumpets. With big dollops of butter that’ll stick to my thighs. Then it’s a martini and more because I never have before, and because an old alumni I didn’t know I knew seems to think they’re good in a crisis. That’s what I’m having. Here’s why.

* I’m packing - for a year. Trying to store two lives into multiple plastic containers and tiny, chemically treated cardboard boxes charged out at $90 a pop. It’s not cheap (I’m on box 21). And it’s not fun.

* Today I broke the head off a Lladro figurine. It was dear to me. I just breathed on it and it fell over. I cried. Then I sat on the stairs and laughed. I’ve been flip flopping like this all day. People are afraid.

* And there’s the airport thing. It’s awful and terrible and makes me think of amitriptyline. It’s hauling fourteen pieces of luggage across London and through lock down security. It’s being frisked by large hirsute women and camera gear I’m going to have to FedEx to the States.

* Last but not least. Someone’s peddling porn on MySpace with my smiling face attached. Spammers have used my account to send out an uber graphic video to my contacts list. Recipients include grandparents, deacons, workmates, Hannah (cover your eyes!) and Billy Joe.

I’m not moaning. I’m just saying.

The Not So Super Model Saga will continue shortly……

Pt 2: I stopped eating and drinking and breathing, because what I heard was this: “I love you. I just don’t know it yet”. So naturally, I went and made a fool of myself……

That Wednesday was dinner and a movie. I called in Indian. Korma, rice pilaf, nan bread with those little sweet bits.

He told me he didn’t like the look of circles under my eyes and I thought Nice of you to notice. I’ve had them for a while.

He asked “What’s wrong?” and I told him.

It was a three word whimper. A whimper’s all you can manage when you hold onto something that long. He smiled and took my hand and for a second I could see him thinking ‘like family’. Then I said it again. He creased his face and went for a Budvar even though he didn’t drink.

I wished I’d ordered a Madras or maybe even an awful Vindaloo. Then I’d have a reason to get all teary. I always cried when I ate too hot curry and he knew it and wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. But I had korma and who cried into coconut milk?

We watched The Goonies. When he didn’t laugh at the truffle shuffle I knew it was bad. Three days later he turned it into a joke - because that’s what he did when he couldn’t cope.

“You’re only human.” He laughed a laugh that wasn’t his and tried to make light. I called him an idiot and bawled. Out loud. Hiccups. Runny nose. The works. I held back for two years. When I let go, I let go bad.

We went a week and didn’t speak. He said I was insane and needed time to get over the stress of exams and a bad break up (more on that later). Then he used the word sister (SISTER!) and said he was going to see Van Strudel. We’d talk when he got back.

It got worse.

Continued….

Pt.1 : I blamed it on a 5′11 Dutch model but to be honest, it was his fault for liking Dutch models in the first place. She was glossy and gorgeous and every time I saw one of those ads I’d have to deal with it………

We’ve all known chics like that - Haylie Duff’s character in Napoleon Dynamite - small town girls everyone calls beautiful because they’re just a little bit prettier than their friends.

Well, Miss Van Strudel wasn’t that girl. She wasn’t gorgeous-by-comparison. She was the real deal. The full fat. The double chocolate latte with whipped cream on top. And because he loved her, I hated her. (To be fair I’m betting I would have hated her anyway…….)

We’d go out to dinner and I’d pretend to be thin and love rocket and wonder if they sold garlic bread at the bar. He’d tell me about his work and his music and then he’d talk about the weekend and her.

He’d say things like “she’s rather mean………..but what an amazing smile”. And I’d think Sure, she has a lot of teeth, but so does my horse.

He’d ooohh and aahh over the way she looked in trench coats and piggy tails. I’d have a glass of something sparkling and want to die.

Then one day (12 December….Of course I remember) he got quiet and said this: “I do wish she were more like you, Buffy.”

I stopped eating and drinking and breathing, because what I heard was this:

“I love you. I just don’t know it yet”.

So naturally, I went and made a fool of myself……

Continued….