The Man You Meet in Heaven: An absolutely feel-good romantic comedy Page 11

  ‘Great, I’ll book the tickets now. It’s Sunday night so we should get a seat without any problem. You can buy the popcorn,’ he said happily.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, putting a smile into my voice. ‘But, er, I’m really whacked after my weekend with the girls so, ah, if it’s all right with you, I won’t stay over.’ My mind mentally raced ahead on how to deal with the break-up. Already I was envisioning us watching the film, and me being a bit aloof. Keeping my hand in the bag of popcorn, rather than resting it on his leg. Putting some emotional distance between us, so to speak, so that by the time the credits were rolling and we were heading out of the cinema, he’d have sussed something wasn’t quite right and be primed for the moment when I pulled him aside as the late-night audience streamed past, and told him face to face that I didn’t think it was working any more.

  In front of all those people, Hattie? my brain gasped.

  Oh. Good point. Right, so not at the cinema then. Perhaps it would be better to go back to his flat after all? I wouldn’t stay the night, but I’d talk to him there. It would be private. Somewhere to quietly say, ‘Look, Martin, I’m terribly sorry, there’s no easy way to say this, but you bore the pants off me.’ Oh no, no, too unkind. ‘Sorry, Martin, but I no longer find you attractive.’ Nooooo, that wouldn’t do either. ‘Martin, darling! Listen, I’m madly in love with my boss, and we spent all weekend in bed behaving like oversexed rabbits.’

  Oh GOD! Why wasn’t there an easy way of doing this without causing pain… hurt… upset? I heard a floorboard creak and knew Mum was eavesdropping. I needed to end this call, and quickly.

  ‘Right, let’s do this!’ I said, the determination in my voice unfortunately being misinterpreted as enthusiasm by Martin.

  ‘Fab, babe,’ he crooned into my ear, ‘and even if you don’t stay overnight, I trust you’ll still come back to the flat for a little while, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly. But it wouldn’t be for the reason he was thinking.

  ‘I can’t wait to have you all to myself and show you a time you’re never going to forget.’

  ‘We’ll see!’ I twittered nervously. ‘Catch you later.’ I abruptly hung up, heart pounding, just as my mother yanked open my wardrobe door.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I said, scrambling out of the closet and plonking the handset in Mum’s hand.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes. To do what I should have done ages ago.’

  ‘You’re ending it with Martin?’ said my mother, looking aghast.

  ‘I don’t love him any more, Mum.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, my girl.’

  But I wasn’t listening. I was too busy mentally rehearsing what I was going to say to my soon-to-be ex. Minutes later, I was out the house, heading off into the night, all the while preparing my speech which, no matter how many times I tweaked or changed it, still sounded awful.

  Even now, revisiting this memory, I couldn’t tell you what the film was about. I do know that we had a couple of drinks each before the film started. I sat stiffly in the auditorium, my body tense, staring at the screen, not taking in any of the action or drama. Afterwards, I allowed Martin to take me back to his place, shut the main door after me, lead me up the stairs to his flat and then walk me across the living room to his sofa. We had a few more drinks as I delayed the inevitable. It was only when I realised that Martin was drinking doubles to my singles and getting a gleam in his eye that I snapped to. I sat down, back ramrod straight, and began burbling out the words that had been floating around for the last few hours in my head.

  ‘Martin, you’ve been my boyfriend for… well, it seems like forever… and, well, the thing is… the thing is…’ I trailed off helplessly, looking at the ceiling, the curtains, the carpet, anything for inspiration. But then he did something unexpected. He’d been sitting next to me, but now he moved himself, so he was sitting at my feet. He leant forward and took both my cold hands in his, rubbing warmth into them, holding them tightly.

  ‘Don’t, Hattie,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t say another word. I know exactly what you’re trying to say.’

  Relief flooded through me. ‘You do?’ Oh, thank goodness. Call me a coward – which I was – but it was so wonderful not to have to say the dreaded words that he’d sussed.

  He nodded, his expression one of understanding, and then his face broke into a banana grin. ‘But it’s wrong for you to be the one to ask.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s a man’s job. Hush,’ he said putting one finger over my lips, still grinning away. ‘I know we seemed to drift apart for these last few weeks, but I’ve given this a lot of thought. I want things to change. For the better.’ Seconds later he’d shifted his position, so that he was now down on one knee. ‘Darling, Hattie. My heart has been yours ever since we met at uni, and it will always be yours. You’re the love of my life, and I want to grow old with you.’

  And then he said the four words I’d been dreading.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  Twenty-Six

  I stared at Martin in horror. His heart had always been mine? I was the love of his life? I’d never felt that way about him, even before Nick had crashed into my life playing havoc with my emotions. I had loved Martin, once, but in the way one might love a dear friend. Even now, I was still fond of him. But, shamefully, I’d always regarded him a bit like a favourite bobbly cardigan. Reassuring. Familiar. The fact that we’d sometimes slept together was just something that had happened. It was like going to bed with a cuddly teddy bear, or a comfort blanket. It was pleasant, but not mind-blowing. And if that sounds heartless, I don’t mean it to. There was a time when I’d thought him fascinating, but that had been when we’d studied together which, now that I’d met Nick, seemed another world away. My mother had often reminded me that Martin was ‘a good catch’. Despite repeating her mantra to myself many times over, I’d remained unconvinced that he was my good catch. And anyway, you can’t marry a person just because your mum longs to go shopping for a mother-of-the-bride outfit and a big hat. Sooner or later, the relationship would have floundered. But now I had two things to contend with – extricating myself from this relationship and turning down a marriage proposal. Somehow it felt like I was about to be doubly cruel.

  Martin laughed. ‘I can tell you’re ab-sho-lutely gob-shmacked.’ He was slurring slightly from the alcohol. ‘Why? After all, isn’t that what you were going to ask me?’

  I stared at him with huge, apprehensive eyes. ‘N-No, actually, I was—’

  ‘No?’ Martin interrupted, his brow furrowing. ‘You weren’t going to ask me to marry you?’

  ‘Er, no. I wasn’t.’

  There was silence for a moment, as he regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You mean, I’ve just made a dick of myself for nothing?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, my voice sounding placating. ‘It was a lovely proposal. Lovely.’

  He looked at me uncertainly, the cogs in his brain almost audibly whirring. ‘Right, okay. Well, never mind,’ he said, recovering his composure, ‘I was going to ask you anyway, on your birthday. I had it all planned out. A trip to a Toby Carvery – no scrimping on the roast beef for my girl – a nice shandy with dinner, maybe have your parents there with us, and then somewhere between the ice-cream and coffee, I’d have popped the question right there in front of the entire restaurant.’

  ‘S-Sounds splendid,’ I whispered, as a part of me started to wonder what I’d ever found attractive about this man. A proposal in the local carvery? What, packed out with screaming children, oblivious parents, Nan and Grandad’s mobility scooters blocking the aisle, while a harassed waitress sprayed sanitising fluid across the next table before rearranging and banging down the salt and pepper pots?

  Martin shrugged. ‘I can still do the formal proposal on your birthday. But having asked you the question here, you might as well give me your answer now.’

  I gave him a frozen smile. ‘R
ight.’

  ‘Right? Is that a “yes” then?’

  ‘It’s… it’s a…’ I gulped, ‘maybe… not.’

  ‘A maybe not?’ he frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, his brow knitting together. ‘What’s a maybe not?’

  ‘It’s… it’s a no.’

  ‘No?’ he repeated, his expression turning to one of confusion. ‘You mean… hang on, let me get this straight, you mean—’

  ‘I mean I don’t want to marry you.’ I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath until those words tumbled out of my mouth, leaving me gasping slightly. Feeling stressed about it didn’t help. I’d be hyperventilating in a minute.

  A mixture of emotions played out across Martin’s face. From shock, to disbelief, to horror, and finally anger. When he next spoke, his voice was like a pistol shot.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because,’ I said, quaking, ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re a lesbian?’

  I nearly laughed, except it wasn’t funny. Nerves were taking off in my stomach like a shoal of leaping salmon. Indeed, one appeared to have shot up into my oesophagus and entangled itself with my tonsils. I tried and failed to find the right words to placate and provide some sort of damage limitation as Martin’s face went from pink to puce.

  ‘Bloody well talk to me, Hattie,’ he demanded, giving me a little shake. ‘It’s the least I deserve. Do you mean you don’t want to get married yet or, more specifically, you don’t want to marry me?’

  It would have been so easy to have opted to answer the former question, followed by lots of soothing words, ‘Yes, I meant later of course, obviously I want to marry you one day in the future’, and then administering a reassuring peck on the cheek before getting the hell out of there. Once home, I could have then reached for my mobile phone and done what thousands of other people do. Texted and got straight to the point.

  Me: I don’t want to go out with you any more and I definitely won’t be marrying you.

  Martin: Are you dumping me?

  Me: Yes.

  Martin: Oh, okay. You bitch…

  Me: Really sorry…

  Martin: Cow. Tart. You were frigid anyway. Oh, and yes, your bum does look big. In everything. We’re talking larger than Lidl.

  Me: *presses block button and heaves a huge sigh of relief*

  However, regrettably, that option wasn’t available. I was in Martin’s flat. And something so hideous was about to happen that I couldn’t stay with the memory of it for a moment longer. Suddenly I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at my throat, screwed my eyes up and screamed out loud. It was the most piercing primeval sound I’d ever made in my life. Abruptly, Martin’s flat disappeared, and I sat bolt upright in the pink and white bedroom of the Halfway Lounge, hot tears pouring down my face.

  ‘It’s okay, Hattie,’ Josh said, holding me tight. ‘Shh, everything’s fine.’

  ‘I can’t relive what happens next, Josh,’ I cried, snorting attractively and wiping snot from my nose with the back of my hand. A tissue instantly appeared in my palm. Pulling away from him, I trumpeted into it.

  ‘You don’t have to relive it, Hattie,’ he assured me, ‘you just have to review it.’

  I regarded Josh with bloodshot eyes, desperately trying to push down the feelings of panic. ‘And you?’ I demanded. ‘You said you’d be right there with me, but I didn’t see you.’

  ‘You won’t see me, Hattie. I explained that to you previously. There are vibrational changes involved. But you’re not unsupported, or alone. It was me who brought you out of the memory. I could see from your aura colour that your stress levels were rising.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ I rounded on Josh furiously, the unhappiness of it all making me angry, and regrettably he was now right in the line of fire. ‘I don’t want you seeing private stuff… situations where I’m… ’ my voice trailed off.

  ‘I told you before,’ said Josh gently, ‘circumstances that are sensitive, just like your thoughts, are kept private from me. But I’m still able to read you. It’s like a finger marking a page in a book and therefore knowing the exact place you’re at in a memory, all down to frequency patterns and, well, I won’t bore you with the quantum physics of it all. Just understand the screening of personal stuff remains private to you, okay?’

  I nodded, reassured a modicum.

  ‘The important thing to remember,’ said Josh, ‘is that you don’t have to relive what happened next. But, as I said, you do have to review it. So, when you’re ready, Hattie, you will have to return to that moment. You made a vow, remember?’

  I tutted disparagingly, dabbing at my eyes with the now soggy tissue, gratefully taking another that hovered in the air like a small flag fluttering in a breeze. ‘All these vows, Josh, that I’m supposed to have made—’

  ‘There’s no suppose about it.’

  ‘Well I’m fed up of them. People go through life wagging their fingers at other people, at the situations they’ve created whilst muttering all sorts of dark threats and oaths, but they get by. They don’t end up having surreal experiences like this.’ I reached up and briefly tore at my hair. ‘I feel like I’m going blooming mad.’

  ‘Who’s to say they don’t experience this but just don’t remember it?’ Josh pointed out. ‘You’re not going mad, Hattie. There’s more chance of you going mad if you don’t revoke the pledges made. And right now, you need to deal with Martin. What he did left a black mark on your soul. These things, if left to fester, not only cause resentment, they can make you ill. How many times does someone say that a situation, or a person, “makes them sick”?’ And if they say it enough, it manifests. The soul is like the most beautiful flower you can ever think of. It’s also like a sponge. When anchored to the body it absorbs the emotions that filter through the human layer. If the soul becomes too darkened from the power of words, it will eventually shake itself like a wet dog and spray everything back into the human body. In turn, that can cause illness.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I spluttered. ‘That’s a shocking thing to say.’

  ‘But unfortunately true,’ said Josh. ‘Listen to me, Hattie,’ he said, gripping me tightly and forcing me to look directly into his eyes, ‘everyone has the ability to heal themselves. It’s just knowing how. It must come from within. That is the starting point.’

  I shook my head wearily. Some of what Josh said rang true. I knew I was sick of carting all the secrets around with me. Sick of feeling weighted down. Sick of a deep unhappiness that went way beyond feeling fed up or disgruntled. And then I noticed the language I’d just used whilst mulling it all over. Sick of. It made me question if that was why, in my ordinary everyday life, I was always the first to succumb to coughs and colds, the first to develop a tooth abscess on a bank holiday, and the last to get over a bug. But it wasn’t just my physical health that sometimes seemed a bit off, my emotions very often felt skewed too. In the corners of my mind, I often felt haunted by the past, and there had been private moments where I’d seriously wondered about the state of my mental health.

  ‘You don’t have to do this now, Hattie,’ said Josh. ‘We can take a break. Go and have some fun. Ride a rainbow or something.’

  ‘Ride a rainbow?’ I gasped, half laughing. Whatever next?’

  ‘Sure. It’s exhilarating. Want me to show you?’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Yes… yes, I’d like that. But—’ I hesitated, as another part of me weighed things up. I was all for playing hooky and avoiding the situation with Martin, but on the other hand I wanted to go home and get back to my normal, gloriously boring and mundane life. Putting off the inevitable wasn’t helpful. ‘I want to return to Martin first,’ I said. ‘I need to get this sorted out.’

  Josh nodded. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Do I have to lie down, like previously? You know, go back to sleep?’

  ‘Only if you
feel a need to rest and gather your energy.’

  I considered. ‘Nope, I don’t feel tired at all. In fact, if anything I feel energised. I guess now that you’ve reassured me, I’m eager to get this piece of the past addressed.’

  Josh squeezed my hand encouragingly and gave me one of his blowtorch smiles. Despite the seriousness of what was about to happen, it didn’t stop the all-too-familiar zings whizzing up and down my spine.

  ‘Now just remember, Hattie, you are reviewing this scenario. You will remember how you felt, the facts of the situation, and see yourself acting them out as such, but you won’t be living it, although you can step in and change the script anytime you like to serve your purpose.’ I nodded. ‘And,’ Josh continued, ‘the crucial point here is that you find it in your heart to forgive.’ I momentarily closed my eyes, and then nodded again. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Just like an audience watching Act One end for the interval, suddenly the curtain was back up ready to continue with Act Two. I was back in Martin’s flat, and everything was as it had been before I’d screamed, and Josh had yanked me back to the Halfway Lounge. The only difference was that I was now both in the scene and observing it, from a detached place that I can’t properly describe. In some respects, it was a bit like watching a programme on the telly and being so thoroughly immersed in the drama that I was right there with the protagonist. However, it was also like having my backside superglued to a seat, making it impossible to leave the room, whilst at the same time discovering the remote control was missing so the channel couldn’t be changed.

  It was a revelation to revisit this chapter of my life with fresh eyes, because so much had been deliberately blocked from my mind over the years, thus distorting facts and blaming myself. Only in my darkest, loneliest moments had snatches of memory ever filtered back to haunt me, and even then, like strands of annoying hair around one’s face, I’d irritably pushed them away, sweeping them back to the recesses of my mind, whilst continuing to believe everything to be my fault.