Break-Up Club

  LORELEI MATHIAS

  Break-Up Club

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  MAZE

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016 as Reader, I Dumped Him …

  This edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

  Copyright © Lorelei Mathias 2016

  Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

  Lorelei Mathias asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008202330

  Version: 2016-05-16

  This book is dedicated to:

  Katie and Mark

  The memory of my Dad and Evie

  And anyone, anywhere, who has ever had a break up.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  The Rules of Break-Up Club – ‘to Our Members, We’re the First Emergency Service’.

  Part One

  1. Tunnel Vision

  2. Airbrushing

  3. Holloway

  4. Habana

  5. Unexpected Item in the Bagging Area

  6. Recalculating

  7. Break-Up and Smell the Coffee

  8. Don’t u… 4Get About Me

  Part Two

  9. And Then There Were Four

  10. The Cistern Chapel

  11. Love Don’t Live Here Anymore

  12. Status Anxiety

  13. Friday, I’m Not in Love

  14. Bang and the Pain Is Gone

  15. Niche Quiche

  16. Like Buses

  17. When the Night Meets the Morning Sun

  18. Back in the Foetal Position

  19. Bang on Trend

  20. When Harry Met Holly

  21. She Who Is Tired of London

  22. Departures

  23. Bleak Camping

  24. Leaving on a Jet Plane

  25. Somebody That I Used to Know

  26. Eating for Two

  Part Three

  27. Here’s What You Could’ve Won

  28. Mind the Gap

  29. Forrest Grump

  30. The ex-Orcist

  31. Ctrl Alt Del Ldn

  32. Out With the Old

  33. Resolutions

  34. Broke-Up Club

  35. Traffic Wardens

  36. Alight Here

  Epilogue

  Reader, I Left Him

  ‘Out-Breaks’ – Scenes From the Cutting-Room Floor

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  ‘What does not kill me makes me stronger’

  (Nietzsche)*

  * just how many break ups did you have, Freddy?

  The Rules of Break-up Club – ‘To our members, we’re the first emergency service’.

  #1 – The first rule of Break-up Club is, you do not talk about Break-up Club.

  #2 – The second rule of Break-up Club is, you do not talk about Break-up Club with your ex.

  #3 – If this is your first night at Break-up Club, you will be expected to cry.

  Uncontrollably.

  #4 – Meetings take place once a week, every Sunday.

  #5 – Each member must be prepared to perform Initiation (otherwise known as Brunch Duty). You shall deliver croissants and a smile to the residence of a new recruit on their First Weekend As A Singleton.

  #6 – No Face-Stalking. Exes should be de-friended no later than 48 hours after a break-up. Phone numbers should be deleted or re-saved under the name ‘Don’t Answer’.

  #7 – Members must be prepared to drop everything in the event of a Crisis Meeting. Common triggers range from a member relapsing with an ex, to an outbreak of F.I.H. (Facebook-Induced Hysteria).

  #8 – Members must be willing to accept phone calls from co-members at any time of day or night, and talk them down from the bridge.

  #9 – Hook-ups between co-members are strictly prohibited.

  #10 – For their own protection, members must respect the N.G.Z. (No-Go Zones) imposed by a break-up. N.G.Z.s fall into three categories – Locational, Musical and Gifting. However, your ex does not have long-term sole custody of Bob Dylan or Streatham Hill, and a time will come when you’ll be able to assert the first major bastion of Break-up Club (BUC) law: The Reclaim.

  #11 – Understand the two absolutes of break-ups:

  i) Eventually, you will be OK. You will recover.

  ii) You absolutely cannot imagine ever feeling OK again. Ever.

  Signed: Bella, Olivia, Harry

  249A Fortess Road, Tufnell Park, London.

  *

  ‘Go on then,’ Bella said, holding an old-fashioned fountain pen up to Holly’s face.

  Holly stared at the pen, watching it go in and out of focus, her eyes thick with tears. Everyone was staring. It was not unlike being back on the school playground. She was half expecting a football to come and thwack her round the head. She looked down at the epic list of rules and wondered how it had all come to this. What was next? Laminated membership cards? A ten per cent loyalty discount at Thornton’s?

  ‘Yeah, Folly, sign,’ Olivia said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Please don’t call me Folly. Lawrence calls me that.’

  ‘Called you that,’ Olivia corrected.

  ‘C’mon Holly. Let’s face it now, the only way is up!’ Bella sang while doing a move that wouldn’t have been out of place on Top of the Pops circa 1990.

  Maybe they had a point. Holly wiped her green eyes for the tenth time that day and reviewed the evidence. She had only slept three nights out of the last twelve. Currently, her top three activities were: binge-drinking, insomnia and unabashed howling on public transport. And, these days, the face that stared back at her in the mirror was none other than the bastard sister of Freddy Kruger.

  Olivia held out a plate of baklava. Holly recoiled, feeling a bunch of moths practising the high jump in her belly.

  ‘Christ no. Nothing against Harringay’s finest delicacy, I’m just not really doing food at the moment.’

  No one commented, but it was obvious what they were all thinking. Things must be bad if Braithwaite was off her food.

  Oh no you don’t, she thought as her eyes welled up again – the tear jar is full today.

  Bella put her arm around her. ‘Let it out, Hol. That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘But that’s all I’ve done today. Cry. Blow my nose. Watch American teen dramas. And repeat on a loop. I have no brain cells left, and the most overworked tear ducts in all of Nort
h London.’

  ‘Sweetie, you’re supposed to indulge it at first,’ Bella said.

  ‘Yeah. That’s the point,’ Olivia said, holding out the tray of baklava. ‘Here, get your strength up.’

  Holly tried a tiny morsel.

  ‘It’s really just a formality at this stage,’ Olivia said, sounding a little too much like she did in her day job. ‘In the eyes of BUC law, you and Harry are already members. You both joined by default when you did a Synchronized Dump.’

  Holly winced at the ridiculous slogan and scanned the room for any trace of irony. She looked across at her best friend from childhood, Harry, who had signed only moments before. The wry smile on his freckly face said that yes, he appreciated how ludicrous this all was, but the alternative was too bleak to comprehend. Going it alone. Venturing into the Valley of Unrelenting Doom in a seat for one. No, that was too horrendous a thing to imagine. Much better to travel on a bicycle built for two; or in this case, four.

  Holly wiped her nose and took a deep breath. ‘All right. Gimme.’

  Bella did a small handclap, then passed her the pen.

  Even though this was all madness, there was still a part of her that felt like she was betraying Lawrence. Somehow signing on a dotted line made it all seem more final. Counting to three in her head, Holly signed her name in funeral black, next to the other squiggles.

  ‘And then there were four,’ Bella said.

  Everyone cheered and clinked glasses. Holly pretended to look pleased and dedicated to the cause. Pretended she wasn’t thinking about Lawrence for the fourteenth time that minute.

  She handed the document to Olivia, who returned it to its A4 plastic sleeve, the matter of New Joiners now dealt with. ‘We can always add to The Rules, as we see fit,’ she said, stretching up to place them high on a shelf as though they were the Dead Sea scrolls. ‘I think we’re done here, don’t you? Unless anyone’s got any AOB?’

  Bella, Harry, and then Holly shook their heads.

  ‘So then, let’s go out and celebrate your inauguration!’ Olivia smiled.

  As they descended the stairs in the flat, Holly felt her eyes well up again and finally she gave into the tears. She let them fall in time with her walk, leaving little droplets on every second stair. Before long, there were so many lines of black eye make-up down her cheeks that, as she shut the front door behind her and stepped out onto the street, she had the distinct look of a Jackson Pollock No.7.

  Of course, none of them had imagined they’d ever need a thing so absurd as a Break-up Club. None of them had imagined they’d be spending the fag-end of their twenties slumped together in a living room in Harringay, knocking back cheap wine and baklava to a soundtrack of The Cure. Least of all Holly, who had always been such a committed Marxist. Not of the hammer and sickle variety, but the one Groucho

  Marx gave to the world when he vowed never to belong to any club that would have him as a member. The kind that has since led to neurotic girls everywhere (Holly among them) running for the hills whenever anyone shows too much interest. Which was why out of all four of them, she was the last to see this coming. But then, there are some things in this world – your first grey hair, an on-time Northern line train, a pig flu epidemic – that you just never see coming.

  PART ONE

  (Two months earlier)

  ‘Your heart is a weapon the size of your fist.

  Keep fighting. Keep loving.’

  (‘Pure Evil’ Street Art, East London)

  1. Tunnel Vision

  I love him; I love him not.

  I love him… Holly decided, tearing off the virtual petals and staring across at the handsome man with the brown curls and big blue eyes… the one who’d first rocked her tiny world five years ago.

  Yes, I one hundred per cent definitely love you, Lawrence Hill. Holly put the imaginary pile of ‘love him not’ petals to one side and stared at his silly face with fondness.

  ‘Stand clear of the doors. Mind the gap,’ came a brusque female voice, puncturing the moment.

  ‘Wow. She’s in a grump today.’

  Lawrence smiled from across the carriage. ‘You realise it’s just a recording? She’s not real?’

  ‘She probably was, once…’ Holly mused, a scene unfurling in her mind of a glamorous actress in a Soho sound booth, trying out different tones – from jovial to breezy, to downright matronly.

  ‘Fair,’ Lawrence said, staring at the Tube map like it was some kind of exciting code to be cracked. ‘But in other news, we need to get off in a minute.’ He grabbed his denim jacket off the floor.

  Holly pressed pause on the sound session and looked up at the map. ‘No we don’t.’

  ‘Yes. Ours is the next stop,’ he said with the over-focused determination of Rain Man.

  ‘But we’re nowhere near Tufnell Park.’ She gave Lawrence a knowing smile, her left dimple popping out as she did.

  ‘Ah, but my dear Folly, that is a simplistic way of looking at things.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ She moved into the proverbial brace position.

  Adopting an old-fashioned BBC accent, Lawrence went on, ‘We should alight at Stockwell and change to the Victoria line.’

  Holly’s brow furrowed. ‘Or, surely we just get the Northern line all the way to Tufnell Park?’

  Lawrence smiled knowingly and shook his head. He began picking at the dilapidated shell-top of his left trainer. He pulled at the rubber flaps until they were dislodged, at which point he looked up.

  ‘Of course,’ his eyes widening with his trademark blend of smugness and childish excitement, ‘that is what London Transport’s Flawed Journey Planner would have you believe. However, I might remind you that there are a limited number of secret shortcuts and portals on the underground network, which only the truly seasoned Londoner is privy to.’

  ‘Wow. You have literally never been sexier.’

  He grinned with pride. Lawrence, for all his charms, suffered from a rare yet socially debilitating condition known as Tube Tourette’s. Having grown up in the Midlands, Holly was distinctly less interested in Tube trivia than Lawrence. His fascination for it was so all-consuming, she firmly believed that under his skin were not veins or arteries, but a full replica of the London Underground map (first designed by underground electrical draughtsman Harry Beck in 1933, he’d hurry to tell you, too).

  ‘The Northern line boasts two such changes,’ he went on. ‘One at Stockwell, and another at Euston. While they might appear pointless at first, these two changes will actually shave off a substantial section of your journey time. Not to mention the fact that the Northern line is heinously unreliable, frequently beset by the twin evils of signal failure and engineering works.’ Holly let out a small sigh. Being an avid book-reader (a fact she loved about Lawrence), he had a habit of talking as if he was choking on a thesaurus (a fact she loved less so). There was a time when this had charmed her. Now it just niggled at her sanity.

  ‘Lawrence you douche, just give it to me in English.’

  ‘We’ll cut out loads of time if we change lines here. FACT.’

  ‘I have seventeen bags with me after staying at yours. I don’t fancy changing trains and schlepping all this about.’

  There comes a moment in most long-term relationships when you realise your identity has irreversibly eroded. You might have been a relatively normal individual once, breezing in and out of buildings, nothing but a shoulder bag about your person. But five years into a relationship in a big city, and you’re The Bag Lady of the Northern Line – lugging around so much in the way of work clothes, unwashed gym wear and toiletries that you practically need your own carriage. Holly had recently begun duplicating all her worldly goods for North and South London. She’d had to call time on the doppelganger cosmetics project shortly after shelling out for the second set of GHD hair straighteners. Still, anything to avoid actually moving in with Lawrence.

  As the train drew nearer to Stockwell and the first of Lawrence’s shortcuts, he shifted abo
ut in his seat.

  ‘OK, if you’re so bothered, why don’t you go?’ Holly said sarcastically. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  Lawrence’s big blue eyes widened. He stood up. ‘OK, here’s the plan. No really, this’ll be fun. You take the Northern line all the way. I’ll change to the Victoria line and back again. Then finally we’ll know the DEFINITIVE answer of which is quicker! This age-old debate will have been answered, once and for all!’

  ‘Oh, Lawrence… I was kidding. Please sit down,’ she scolded before noticing that they now had an audience the size of a small fringe venue. All they needed now was a man in a tux selling programmes and overpriced ice creams.

  ‘Aren’t you just a bit curious to know who’s right?’ Lawrence said. As he dispatched one of his daintier breeds of kisses onto her forehead (the ones he liked to call ‘fairy kisses’ when no one else was listening), she couldn’t stop the smile from creeping across her face.

  Lawrence shot up from his seat, his eyes pogoing with excitement. The doors were opening. The old lady across the carriage seemed, from her enormous grin, to be egging them on.

  ‘You’re a freak,’ Holly replied by way of acquiescence. Then, reluctantly: ‘But listen, this has to be a fair test. We walk at a normal pace. No running up the escalators!’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, the doors beeping.

  ‘Love you too. Twat,’ she said as he bounced off the train and the doors began to close.

  Flushed with a mixture of anxiety and humiliation, Holly Braithwaite watched as Lawrence stepped onto the platform and grinned back at her. Then she pulled into a tunnel deep beneath the River Thames, sank into the tired upholstery and leaned against the window.

 
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