The Thrill Is Gone

The doctor ended up prescribing antibiotics for her lip, which unfortunately for Paulina, meant she could no longer drown herself in alcohol as she’d been planning. The news came as a surprise for her. She’d thought that a thorough cleaning of the lip would be enough to make sure it wouldn’t be infected, but apparently all the vomiting she’d done had ensured that bacteria slipped into her lip, and in order to make sure it didn’t get out of hand, they cleaned it as best they could and then put her on antibiotics. She was tempted to tell them she’d just deal with the bacteria and hope that nothing to bad came of it, but just as she was getting the courage to tell him that, she remembered that she’d just picked up from her dealer. There were uneaten cookies at her place, along with an eighth. With that at her apartment she wouldn’t even need alcohol.

And so instead of drinking heavily with her friends at the pub, she ate a cookie during her walk over and then sat down on a barstool to get high while they got drunk. She was surprised that every single one of her rugby mates had made it out for the drinking session. And despite most of them not being the best at communicating feelings, they – in their own way – let her know they were there for her and that they hated that fucking asshole. They drank and laughed, and told her she was better off without him. That he didn’t deserve her. Terry even went as far as to say they’d get her a nice piece of ass at the bar, one better looking than Henry. He was handling the break up the way he’d had his handled in the past. The best thing for a broken heart, in his opinion, was a one night stand, but Callum reminded Terry that she’d busted her lip, bruised a rib and had a black eye that seemed to engulf the entire right side of her face.

With those deterrents, Terry found himself forced to abandon his initial plan. He instead promised her that as soon as she got herself out, they’d go out on another night on the town and get her the best looking bloke out there. They’d even follow him to the loo to check out the size of his cock. It was then that she started laughing hysterically. That was all it took to put a smile on her face for the rest of the night. She sat there with a foolish little smile on her face, which was partially induced by the marijuana she’d just eaten, but was also induced by the atmosphere her friends had created for her. She was glad she was out with them. They cursed, they let her get rowdy, and then they told jokes. It was a lad’s night out, and she’d so desperately needed it after the morning she had.

Never had she imagined that Harry would talk to her like that. When he accused her of shagging and sucking off Callum, her broken heart was trampled on and she’d wanted nothing more than to burst into tears, but she’d held face, she’d told him off, and gotten out of there with her self respect still in tact. Of course, a part of her, a very large part of her that wished that Harry would’ve gone after her. That he would’ve called her name and demanded that she just stand there and listen to him. Sadly, he didn’t do any of that. He’d let her walk away, and in a way that was what hurt most. He didn’t even try to put up a real fight to convince her to stay. He’d given her a half assed apology, and nothing more. But she should’ve known better than to expect anything more from him. From the very start, he’d told her that he wasn’t charming, that was all an act he put on, but she’d thought that that couldn’t be true. He was a Prince, there had to be some honor to him, some grace and elegance, and compassion and kindness. It turned out she was wrong. He wasn’t chivalrous. He wasn’t what she’d always imagined a Prince to be.

And so, seeking to escape him, she immersed herself in her favorite film adaptations of Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë novels. She pined after Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, Mr. Knightley, and Edward Rochester. They were literary men to whom her heart belonged, to whom, despite their flaws, she loved wholeheartedly. Their presence subdued some of the heartache, but then she made the terrible mistake of watching Sense and Sensibility, and she found herself in a worse emotional state than when she’d started the film marathon earlier that week.

Since it was the last adaptation that had yet to be seen, she thought it was perfect for a quiet Thursday morning. Her previous days had been filmed with long adaptations, a six hour Pride and Prejudice, a four hour Jane Eyre, so she thought that a two hour Sense and Sensibility would be quite alright. But her heart had been so full of Edward Ferrars and Colonel Brandon, that she’d completely forgotten about that scoundrel Willoughby, and when he came to the screen, when he began to woo the young Miss. Marianne Dashwood, she became all to aware of the similarities between Harry and Willoughby.

“Don’t let that asshole take your curls!” she yelled at Marianne, her vision blurred by tears. “He’s just gonna break your heart! He’ll make you believe that he loves you! That he’s mad about you, but he’ll leave! And when you see him again, he’s, gonna be a fucking prick . . . he’s gonna be a fucking . . .” it was then that her tears got the best of her and she was left a sobbing mess on the couch.

She should’ve stopped watching the movie, that would’ve been the reasonable thing to do, but she wasn’t being reasonable, she hadn’t been in days. So she watched the whole thing. She cried for most of it, yelled at the television when Willoughby left Marianne, she threw a pillow when he greeted her with cold civility at a ball, and then, at the end when he watched Marianne marry from a distance, she cried the hardest. Because in her mind . . . well, in her mind that meant Willoughby did love Marianne, that had the circumstances been different, had he not been accustomed to a certain life he would’ve stayed with her. They would’ve been happy. And she, in her stoned mind, thought the same rang true for her and Harry. Had only things been different, had only he not gone away to Africa and made a spectacle of himself with Miss Davy, they would’ve been happy. But things happened for a reason, and as she took the DVD out of the player, she whispered to herself that she was bound to find a Colonel Brandon of her own, she’d just have to sulk for awhile before that happened.

No longer in the mood to continue her week long movie marathon, she decided it was time to do some baking. She hadn’t had a proper meal since Friday night, which was unnatural considering that she’d spent most of the week stoned, but now she wanted a fruit tart, and so she spent most of her Thursday afternoon making several. She engrossed herself in the process, completely forgetting there was a world out there, ignoring her phones ringing, and the voices coming through the intercom. It wasn’t until she’d finished the last one that she realized someone was knocking on her door.

“Paulin, do ya hear us love?” asked Olivia, softly. “Look, if you can here us, we just wanted to say we miss you. We’ve not seen you in ages and we rant into Terry at the market today and he told us that . . . well, he told us what happened and we’ve been trying to check up on you, but ya haven’t answered us, so can you please let us in? We just want to see you, is all . . . we miss you.”

She stood motionless in the kitchen, contemplating whether or not to open the door. A part of her knew it was best to just let them in. Olivia wasn’t going to leave until she saw her, that was just Olivia was, but another part really didn’t want to have any company. Her apartment was an absolute mess; there were dirty clothes spilling out of the hamper, the floor hadn’t been swept since Friday, and although she’d bathed that morning, she wasn’t fit to be seen by others.

“We don’t want to pester you, we just want to see how you’re doing,” that time it was Alfred who spoke. “Can you let us in? Please? We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

“Give me a minute,” she told them, her voice hoarse from all the crying she’d been doing.

Alfred and Olivia exchanged a look of relief. They’d been worried she might have gotten alcohol poisoning or gotten hurt if she was stumbling about while drinking. That’s why they’d taken the trouble of sneaking into her building. They just needed to make sure she was alright.

Inside the apartment, Paulina proceeded to throw on some pants and put her hair into a messy updo. It wasn’t a drastic improvement, but she seemed a bit more put together than she did when her curls were wildly hanging about. She knew her eyes were bloodshot from the blunts she’d had earlier, so in order to clear them up she put some eye drops to deal with the redness, and then threw in a few mints to freshen her breath. Feeling like less of an eyesore, she trudged towards the door, ready to face her friends.

“Afternoon,” she greeted them, doing her best to muster a smile for them.

They didn’t respond, not immediately. They’d thought they were mentally prepared to see their beaten friend. Terry had told them all about the black eye and busted lip, so they were expecting her to look bad, but to see the damage in person was completely different from hearing about it, even though the bruising had somewhat subsided and the lip was on the mend.

Olivia was the first to react, she launched herself at Paulina and took her in a warm embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck as she scolded her bruised friendfor not having told her about what happened. She cried and cried, and Paulina awkwardly rubbed her back. Eventually, Olivia composed herself and pulled away, she stared at Paulina in silence, her heart aching when she saw the misery in her friend’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Olivia asked after a prolonged silence.

“Didn’t want to ruin the mood,” replied Paulina, honestly.

“To hell with the mood,” declared Alfred. “We’re your mates. Ya should’ve told us and we would’ve been there for ya like the lads were.”

“I didn’t tell the guys. They found out by Callum who found me when I got into a fight.” Paulina explained. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone, alright. I was gonna mind my own business, but then I got a little drunk and shit got out of hand, but don’t worry, I'm okay.” She saw her friend’s unconvinced faces. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a break up, not major surgery.”

“I still wish we would’ve known,” said Olivia. “Just look at the state of you, you needed someone to dote on you and make sure you were getting on well.”

“Don’t worry about that. What matters is that I'm alright. I mean, just look at my face, yeah it’s a little busted, but it’s on the mend. I bet it’ll be back to normal by early next week. Wish it’d get better sooner so my mom wouldn’t fuss, but this is what I get for being such a dumbass.” Paulina was desperately trying to make light of the situation. She didn’t want them to indulge her misery, because then she’d start crying again and there’d be no stopping her until her eyes grew sore. “I just finished making some fruit tarts. You guys want some?”

“Yeah, we’d love some.”

They followed her into the apartment. Olivia went with her to the kitchen while Alfred took a seat on the couch. He had to set aside the pillow and blanket that had made their home there, but he settled in quite well and sat in silence, observing the small flat. It always seemed so bright to him, one of the places where there was an infectious good mood, but there was no sun in that apartment, no joy. The films that were sprawled across the coffee table made it clear that she’d spent the entire week crying. They were nothing but romance dramas, nothing but films that were sure to make a person weep. His eyes went from film to film, taking in the various covers, but then, tucked between Jane Eyre and Persuasion, there was a photograph resting above a magazine. His hands instinctively went to it, and when his eyes landed on it, he grew short of breath.

There, atop the magazine was a picture of Henry and Paulina, and on the magazine’s cover, there was a picture of Prince Harry. In the dimly lit club, he hadn’t taken in Henry’s appearance all that well, the alcohol in his system and the lighting weren’t conducive to getting a clear shot of his face, but now that he saw the picture of Henry lying just above the picture of Prince Harry, he realized what had happened. She’d been dating him, and the day at the market, she’d learnt about Chelsy.

“Alfie?” spoke Olivia when she walked into the living room area with a piece of tart for him. “What have ya got there?”

“I . . . it’s . . .” he trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Paulina, following Olivia into the living room. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw him holding the magazine. “Oh no . . .”

“What’s goin’ on here?” asked Olivia. “What’s happened?”

Alfred ignored Olivia’s inquiries. “Was it truly him?” he asked Paulina, softly.

There was no use in lying. He’d seen the photographs. He knew.

“Yeah,” replied Paulina.

“Who are you lot talking about? I’ve no idea and its getting to be really annoying – bloody hell!” she exclaimed when Alfred thrust the images in front of her. “It’s –”

“Prince Harry.” Paulina finished Olivia’s sentence. “Yeah, it’s him. Well, it was him.”

“You’re why no one knew where he was,” whispered Olivia, astonished. “You were his . . .” tears flooded Olivia’s blue eyes when she remembered the excitement with which she’d shown Paulina the picture of Harry and Chelsy kissing. “I'm so sorry, Paulin, I'm so dreadfully sorry. If I knew that you were with him, I would’ve never gone on about him and Chelsy. I'm so sorry. I'm such a horrible friend! I was – oh fuck! I'm awful. The absolute worst!” she exclaimed, mortified.

“Hey, calm down, you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“But I kept going on about them,” whispered Olivia. “I kept shoving the damn paper in your face! That’s why you ran off to the loo. Wasn’t it? To not have to listen to my stupid arse going on,” she buried her face in her hands, to embarrassed, to look her friend in the eyes.

A heavy sigh passed through Paulina’s lips. She’d known that Olivia would blame herself if she were to ever find out about Harry. Her friend was too in touch with emotions, and while that was for the most part a good thing, it could also be a pain, such as it was in the present. Olivia blamed herself for Paulina’s misery. She felt responsible for having brought it about, and so she wept in anger, in sorrow.

“Let me see your face, Via.” Paulina ordered. “Come on, look at me. Look at me.”

Olivia lowered her hands.

“It’s not your fault. Do you hear me? I would’ve found out one way or another, so don’t blame yourself. Okay?”

“But I –”

“I don’t hate you for shoving that magazine in my face,” interjected Paulina. “Was I a little pissed off at first? Yeah, of course I was. You wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it, but then I realized that I didn’t have a right to be mad at you, because you didn’t know about Prince Harry and me, you didn’t know we were going out, so you didn’t do anything wrong. Got that? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I feel horrible.”

“Well, don’t. Just don’t feel bad about it. You didn’t know and that’s that.” Paulina reached out for Olivia’s hand. “It’s alright, Olivia. Please stop crying, because if you keep crying, then I'm gonna cry and I'm tired of crying. I just spent the entire morning sobbing during Sense and Sensibility. I need a fucking break from that. So stop crying, please.”

Olivia meekly nodded her head.

“Now give me a smile,” requested Paulina. “One of those pretty ones that you’re so good at giving, awe, come on, we can’t both be sulking. You have to smile so I can sulk all I want.”

The last thing Olivia wanted to do was smile. She felt awful about having been the bearer of bad news. If only she’d known about Paulina’s relationship with Harry, she would’ve gone about things differently. But she hadn’t. She’d shoved a picture of her friend’s cheating boyfriend (or whatever it was that Harry was) in Paulina’s face, and gone on about how glad she was to see him back with Chelsy. She’d been an absolute ass, and the anger she felt towards herself moved her to tears, but those tears had to be held back. Paulina didn’t want to see her cry, she wanted to see her smile, and at that moment, Olivia would’ve done anything Paulina asked of her.

“Much better,” whispered Paulina when Olivia finally smiled.

“Sorry,” mumbled Olivia. She was the one that should’ve been making Paulina smile, not the other way around. “I lost it for a bit.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that. I’ve been losing it all week.”

“If I’d known . . .” she began to say.

“But you didn’t know, so don’t be angry. You weren’t the one that kissed her. That was him.” Paulina’s voice welled with emotion, her eyes watered.

“He’s a fool.” Alfred joined the conversation, “The sort of fool that one rarely crosses paths with. And one of these days, he’ll realize what a bastard he’s been, and miss you terribly.”

“I know he will, but that’s not much comfort.” She met Alfred’s gaze. “I already miss him. Sometimes I miss him so much I can hardly breathe. And I hate him for that. Oh, I fucking hate him for breaking my heart, but my stupid heart still loves him.”

In three swift steps, Alfred made his way towards her. He took a seat to her right and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a strong embrace. She felt safe in his arms, she felt as if Luis or Rafa or Adrian were holding her, and that feeling of home brought on a fresh wave of tears. And she wept, she wept into his shirt, drenching the fabric with her salty tears. Alfred rested his cheek atop her head and rubbed her back soothingly.

“I miss the way things were,” she told them when she pulled away and her tears subsided. “I miss being with him, and laughing and him resting his head on my lap, and him wrapping his arms around my waist while I cooked. I just miss him. I miss the way we were.”