Page 37 of A Clean Sweep

T abitha had woken gradually, the dawn chorus heralding the start of a new day.

She hadn’t planned on waking quite this early but last night’s evening alone had given her plenty of time for soul searching.

When she’d gone to bed just after ten – not long after receiving Tom’s text – she’d made up her mind.

Staring at her deep-cleansed face in the mirror she had rehearsed the words carefully.

‘I’m sorry Tom, but this just isn’t working. I know it, you know it. There’s no one else. I just think we should call it a day.’

She hoped he wouldn’t be too upset – if he started crying she’d feel like a complete bitch – but it was better this way.

Given time, he’d meet someone else and so would she.

Hopefully. If her mother could start dating again then who knew what might be waiting for her around the corner?

She didn’t know what time Tom had rolled home.

He was zonked out next to her, a beatific smile on his face as he snuggled up to his pillow.

Oh dear, she was going to wipe that away pretty soon.

She felt a pang of guilt as she eased her way out from under the duvet.

Time for a slice of toast and a cup of coffee before she dropped her bombshell.

‘Excuse me, but what ! Could you repeat what you just said?’ Tabitha felt like a character in a movie who’d slipped into an alternate universe.

One in which everything had been turned upside down.

Or maybe there was something wrong with her hearing.

Had some of last night’s gloopy hair mask got lodged in her ears?

She prodded inside one but found nothing amiss.

’I’m sorry. I said I think we should split up.

It’s been on the cards for a while now. I really don’t want to hurt you, Tabitha, but it’s just not what I want anymore.

’ He’d looked at her with remorseful eyes.

She resisted the temptation to gouge them out with the bread knife.

How dare he? How very dare he? There she’d been, her script perfectly prepared, and he’d completely pulled the rug from under her feet.

She was the one doing the dumping, not him !

‘So, is there someone else? At least tell me the truth!’

Of course there was no one else. Tom might be ranking highly in the bastard scale right this minute but he absolutely wouldn’t … OK, now he was looking like a condemned man on the way to the gallows.

‘Actually, there is. I’m sorry, Tabitha. She’s not the cause, just a symptom.’

Which made this other woman sound like a rare medical condition rather than a brazen hussy who’d snaffled her man.

Even if she didn’t want him to be her man.

She just didn’t want him to be someone else’s man quite so quickly.

He could at least have had the decency to feign heartbreak, just for a moment or two.

Instead, he now looked like a condemned man who’d been told his sentence had been quashed after a last-minute appeal.

Obviously relieved to have confessed his sins and now free to go and fornicate with a clear conscience.

Or at least a marginally less grubby one.

Was that what he’d been up to last night?

Not comatose on Clive’s couch after a beer-swigging session but busting the bed springs with Miss Perfect Pants?

‘Fine. Totally fine with me. It’s a relief, in fact. Now I can focus on my future career and meeting someone who appreciates me.’

And my mung beans and lentils and other amazingly healthy pulsey things. Although right this minute she’d kill for a bacon buttie and something strong and alcoholic. A Bucks Fizz or a mean Bloody Mary. Anything to take the edge off her humiliation at being gazumped at the eleventh hour.

Several hours later and Tabitha was feeling slightly better.

A glass or two – or three – had nicely numbed the pain.

And chewing her way through two rounds of Tesco’s finest smoked bacon encased in slabs of sliced white slathered in butter had helped too.

Maybe not her cholesterol levels but who gave a flying fig about that right now?

She was young, she was single and the world was her oyster.

Or lobster, as Aunt Celeste was prone to saying.

She’d had a little snooze, curled up on the sofa like an ageing tabbie.

Bollocks, not the cat analogy again! Woken up with a mild headache and a sense of being wounded but not defeated.

Tabitha metaphorically prodded her heart.

Definitely bruised, but broken? Probably not.

Being dumped by Tom wasn’t up there in her Top Ten moments to cherish but in a way, it was a relief.

She was just a bit cheesed off she hadn’t been the one to do the dumping.

More wounded ego than anything else. Although the fact he was heading off on holiday with his newfound love did grate a little. More than a little.

’You’re going to Hong Kong with someone you’ve barely known five minutes?

Are you kidding ? We were together eighteen months and the most I got was a dirty weekend in Bath.

Pardon the pun. And that was only because you had to attend that boring travel expo thingy.

Remember? So, I saw you for about three hours in the evening and you were too shagged out – or pissed – to do very much. ’

Tom had at least looked sheepish as she’d ranted on, furiously stuffing his clothes into a suitcase.

He had disappeared into the bathroom, emerging with a pathetic handful of toiletries and a well-worn toothbrush.

They hadn’t accumulated much together as a couple.

A few cheap wall prints, some DVDs, a set of kitchen knives.

Tom had assured he didn’t want any of it (and was certainly not going for custody of the spiraliser).

So, what now? She was officially single again and free to see anyone she wanted.

The problem was, eligible, hunky bachelors weren’t exactly queueing around the block, in her experience.

Her mum had finally started dating again, although was being incredibly coy about the details.

Meryl was totally loved up with Miroslaw and her aunt Celeste had always seemed very happy in her marriage to Uncle Michael.

She’d just never been that close to either of them.

She’d never quite understood her aunt’s reluctance to having children (although she knew that not everyone was cut out for motherhood).

The topic of Michael’s first marriage and child was a touchy one, her mum warning her many years ago that the subject was taboo.

Tabitha just knew that her own biological clock was ticking away in the background.

Not loudly but ever-present. She adored babies and grew positively misty-eyed when a new mum wheeled her little bundle of joy into the shop.

It wasn’t something she’d ever really contemplated for herself but Tabitha wondered if online dating was worth considering.

She’d tried to persuade her mum – without success – but Meryl had eventually found her prince after a few frog encounters.

Surely there was no harm in just looking, for goodness sake!

It wasn’t like she had to bare her soul – or anything else – in the first place.

Just sign up, log in and fill out a few pertinent details. Then see what, or who, popped up.

Tabitha decided to steer clear of the site where Meryl had met more than her fair share of disasters.

She opted for another, entitled Cupid’s Bow, that claimed the highest match rate on the internet.

Yeah, right. How could they possibly calculate that?

Did its members have to pledge to supply a blow by blow account of their successful encounters, maybe even invite the company founders to their weddings?

Still, the site looked impressive and was easy to navigate.

It was offering a one-month free trial. All she had to do was complete a questionnaire and upload a photo.

This was optional but Tabitha figured she scrubbed up pretty well.

She had a good one of her and Tom together at a party a few months ago which was particularly flattering.

A quick crop and the traitorous one was history.

OK, this might be a little naughty but Tabitha also created a profile for her mum, but without a photo. She was just curious who might pop up as potential life partners for both of them. She had texted Emily several times begging for details about her new man, but been fobbed off with excuses.

A lot on my plate, darling. Be in touch soon xx.

That was a few days ago so she didn’t know about Tom, although it wasn’t going to be a complete surprise following their last conversation. So, a lot to catch up with on both sides.

After a few minutes of the system processing Tabitha’s data – her Five Point Test had come in handy as a guide to her wants and absolute turn-offs – a series of profiles became available for her perusal.

She sped-read through them, immediately dismissing several as no-hopers.

One listed a Crime Watch-worthy physical description of his ideal woman.

As she had neither Pamela Anderson’s boobs nor Gillian Anderson’s hair colour they were destined never to meet.

Another related his tales of romantic woe, including his recent divorce and how he’d been hurt countless times by heartless women in the past. There was one who looked promising from his photo – cute face, curly dark hair, nice smile – but his written profile was littered with grammatical errors and an abundance of LOLs.

Like her mum, Tabitha was a stickler for good grammar and spelling.

Maybe he had an awesome personality but clearly couldn’t write for toffee. Another “no”.