The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [125]
“Alice, I’ve been trying to reach you for ages.” Julian sounded anxious.
“I missed your call by about two seconds,” she pointed out.
“But I tried earlier, and I’ve been texting…” His voice dropped, and he announced flatly. “It’s over. Yasmin’s moving out.”
“Oh, God, what happened?”
“It just…” He sounded weary. “I don’t know, we’ve been fighting so long…Look, could you come over? All her stuff is here, and…I just want to get drunk. Can you come?”
“I…” Alice glanced around, the waiter finally choosing that moment to materialize by her side. “I’m kind of busy right now, but later?”
“Aly…” Julian drew the word out, part pleading, and she was reminded how many times they had played out the post-breakup ritual over the years. And not just for Julian; when James stopped returning her calls, Alice had spent three days in a pair of his old pajamas, crying on the sofa while Julian provided a never-ending supply of sympathy, tissues, and homemade blackberry crumble.
“Sure, fine,” Alice agreed at last, looking up at the waiter. She mimed scribbling the bill. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks.” Julian sounded relieved. “And bring vodka. I’m all out.”
Nadia returned just as she was signing the credit slip. “I’m really sorry,” Alice apologized, and explained about the call. “Can we do a rain check on that next slice of cake?”
“Sure.” Nadia was sympathetic. “Here, I’ve got the tip.” She rummaged in her bag, coming up with a handful of pound coins. “Is he going to be OK?”
Alice sighed. “I think so. I mean, he usually is. But this one lasted a while.”
“Well, usually for breakup wallowing I’d say Dirty Dancing and Pretty in Pink, but maybe he wouldn’t be into that…”
“Yes, I don’t think so.” Alice gave a grin. “Jules is more of a Woody Allen kind of a man. He’ll be sprawled out in front of Annie Hall, muttering about our inability to form meaningful relationships, I’ll bet.”
***
He was. When Alice arrived on his doorstep bearing alcohol and crisps, she could hear Diane Keaton babbling in the background.
“You look terrible,” she told him affectionately, reaching up to ruffle his unkempt hair.
“Thanks.” Julian was wearing a graying pair of tracksuit bottoms and his old university T-shirt. The wallowing, clearly, was well under way. “You brought the booze?”
Alice held up her supplies as evidence, making straight for the living room. Yasmin’s belongings were already stacked in neat piles at the edge of the room: gaps in the bookcase and a half-empty mantelpiece marked her imminent departure.
“So you’re sure?” she asked, picking up the remote and pausing the film. “It’s really over? No chance of making everything up?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s done.”
Collapsing on the sofa, he gazed morosely at the screen. Woody had been caught mid-kvetch, his mouth wide and disgruntled.
“I take it Yasmin’s found somewhere else to stay?” Alice took a seat beside him, kicking off her shoes.
He nodded. “She went straight to the airport, for another bloody business trip. I guess she’ll take her stuff when she gets back.” He tipped his head back and exhaled. “Fuck. I’m too old for this, Aly.”
Alice passed him the bottle to open. “Annie Hall? Yes, I thought you’d grow out of it years ago.”
Julian mustered a weak smile. “Hush, you. That’s Woody we’re talking about.”
“Exactly.” Alice gave him a playful nudge. “You know, for someone who isn’t a Jewish, New York intellectual, you’ve got a rather strange attachment to the man.”
Julian took a swig, straight from the bottle. “What can I say? He knows a thing or two about the futility of commitment and human connection…”
Alice rolled her eyes. “I’ll watch the damn film—again—because that’s how good a friend I am,” she informed him with a grin. “But seriously Jules—next time, how about we find a new breakup anthem. Terminator, maybe; I could live with that.”
“Next time?” Julian groaned. “You mean I’ll get to fail at this all over again?”
“Oh, at least two, three times.” Alice kept her tone light, but he looked so morose that she softened. “Did you…love her?” she