her name changed

I saw her last name had changed. I knew she was engaged but had unfollowed her Facebook updates, not wanting to know more. Then her name popped up when I discovered a new tab containing all the mostly annoying people I’d unfollowed on Facebook, but remained friends with. And it had changed. I couldn’t not look at her profile to see a few of the first smartphone images of the wedding. A castle, a beautiful long flowing dress, a proper looking wedding. She looked appropriately starry eyed. Her guy looked solid, sort of dreamery and distant, ‘easygoing’. They took regular, enviable looking hiking holidays to grand mountain ranges. I imagined they both enjoyed solid employment. Several weeks ahead of my own rather more understated affair, I had strange feelings.

This was a girl I took a ridiculously long amount of time to get over. She ruined me, even though our relationship wasn’t all that long, not quite a year at the very start of our twenties. The decision to separate had been mutual, but it appeared to me like I was the more devastated when we met for a polite coffee or something a few months afterwards – the last time we conversed in person. She ruined me for a while, or perhaps I ruined me.

My success with women during the course of my twenties has been likened (by me) to Emile Heskey’s goals per games ratio for England. (I don’t even know the exact figures but I think he scored something like 6 or 7 over about 10 years). And my strike rate probably wasn’t quite that good. Reflecting from now it seems flattering, because you can cluster a handful of different memories, places, nights and women and it seems respectable enough. If we’re talking ‘lad points’ it trumps guys who got together with a girl really young and have stuck faithfully with them ever since. But at the time, living it day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year, it’s often boring, occasionally humiliating (with a brother like mine) and harrowingly lonely.

Part of that was because of her, who I kept thinking and occasionally dreaming about. It was far and away the most serious relationship I’d had before or for about ten years afterwards. I loved her and she was pretty into me for a while.

I remember meeting her off a train once and feeling flattered to the point of dizzy that she’d missed me so much. When I visited her childhood home at her parents’ house in one of the prettiest little fishing towns in Cornwall, we had a moment that I remember thinking was near perfect. I remember thinking ‘wow, this is incredible, I’ll remember this’ and I have remembered it.  We’d gone for drinks at a traditional oaky old fishermen’s pub in the town and seen some live music, before walking back up a steep hill to her Mum and Dad’s place, which overlooked the ocean. We had to sleep in separate beds. Her mother spoke at a frightening pace, barely needing me to say anything to keep the conversation flowing. Her parents’ powerful love for her, their only child after some major medical struggles, was overwhelmingly apparent. Nearly at her front door, we turned and looked out across the town and harbour. The full moon reflected off the sea and I held her tight, articulated my pleasantly drunk affection, which I’m not sure was quite reciprocated. Something faltering.

I’ve glimpsed her in town once or twice since returning to this city five years ago, and just a few weeks back we found ourselves in the same room at a business event. About thirty of us watched a posh guy in a suit give a talk, after which I downed some orange juice and bolted away, missing the breakfast, half bottling a potential conversation. We’d glanced shyly across the room at each other but not fully acknowledged each other’s presence. Only an hour or so afterwards she casually posted to my Facebook wall that she was about to come and say hello, but I’d gone. Wall posting! She was always a little behind on social media, never discoverable on Twitter or LinkedIn, despite having roughly the same communications job at the same employer for well over ten years.

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