I’m on the train home after my mini holiday with Mini in Totnes. The apartment was perfect, with a huge terrace, a Big Green Egg barbecue, a huge outdoor table, sun loungers, organic bedding.
The refrigerator was stocked with wine and water. There was fresh sourdough. Four bedrooms, a huge kitchen, space! I ate at the Bull Inn across the road every day; the owner, Geetie, used to run the Duke of Cambridge in Islington, where I dined every Friday evening, fearing my then husband would dirty the kitchen just moments after H, the cleaner, had left.
I didn’t pack any dog food, since Mini only eats human food. I bet after this weekend she will only be eating restaurant food. I decided to go alone, by train, without my friend, to decompress.
But I discovered that the worst part of going on vacation is that I always take myself with me.
The three spotless, unslept beds only made me feel like an idiot: what have I done with my life? Why am I alone?
I hid in the apartment with a novel: Yellowface. With its story of being put on trial via social media, the main character, a failed writer who lives alone and scours the internet looking for other writers who are more successful than her, hit a little too close to home.
It made me very worried.
I sat in a corner wondering why I wasn’t in a villa surrounded by family
I was planning to go out. I booked a table at The Pig at Combe, where I had once been with David 1.0.
But I couldn’t convince a taxi company to take us. One even hung up the phone at the prospect of a 40-mile fare each way.
I wanted to take Mini to the beach, but was afraid it would be too much for her.
So, faced with the options of the wild expanse of Dartmoor and the red sands of the coastline at Sidmouth, I opted for a tiny square of grass twenty yards from the apartment, where Mini would pee next to a sign that shouted ‘Don’t do that’ . let your dog pollute our community garden!’
I was watching the Women’s World Cup final on my laptop and worried that if I went to a pub the cheering would upset Mini.
I then watched Silver Linings Playbook and Juliet, Naked, both of which I’ve seen dozens of times before.
Every evening I sat in a corner of The Bull Inn and wondered why I wasn’t in a villa, surrounded by family, under a swaying pergola, sharing deep bowls of food. Laughter.
But unfortunately, real life isn’t like a rom-com. Mental illness makes you unstable, not Jennifer Lawrence.
The rock star you meet online is not waiting in a cafe and is smiling when he sees you, ready for your happy ending.
He certainly doesn’t look like Ethan Hawke. Someone recently posted online that staying at a spa is hell because it’s like being surrounded by people shuffling around in slippers, like being in an asylum. Correct.
I realize why, whenever I traveled for work, I always booked a treatment at the hotel spa. It’s something to do, about an hour where I can try not to catastrophize.
A few moments where, at least from the outside, I look normal.
Like there’s a man waiting for me in the bar, a life waiting for me when I get home.
I had texted David 1.0 to tell him I was in Devon. He seemed to think I was with a man. Why?
‘A small mini break is also called a one night stand.’
Oh, for God’s sake. Who would seriously want me?
Saturday night, feeling like I had to make an effort, I put on jeans, my new navy gray V-neck, and Gucci slides. After a few minutes, a man came to my table and leaned forward.
Damn! I’m still catnip! Catnip for men! And then he said, ‘Your ears are ringing very high. My wife wears hearing aids, so I think you need to push them in a little more.”
Oh God. I want to shrivel up and die.
I rush back to the apartment and close the curtains.
I’m on the train home now, phew, after enlisting three men and a woman to help me get Mini – who is afraid of the hole – into the carriage.
Me? I’m already dreading getting off in six hours.