The Presence of Peacocks, or How to Find Love and Write a Novel (extract)

Chapter 1: The Gazebo, Part 3

Over an al desko lunch at work the next day, I dutifully type out the relationship issues. Then I go back to the top of this absurdly long list and pose a single question to him: Am I the person you want to be with long term? That is the crux of it all. I hit ‘Send’ and realise that we are one of those sad couples you read about in magazine articles, who barely have sex and have resorted to communicating via email. This is not very reassuring at all.

Lawrence is braced and ready to talk when I get home. We sit on opposite sofas while the evening sun traces patterns on the walls, and we talk our way through my notes. With a quivering hand, I scribble down his answers so I don’t forget or misinterpret them, or make rash decisions based on something I thought I heard but didn’t actually. This feels horrid, heartless and cold.

We start with the question at the top of the page: Am I the person?

‘Law, I need to know that you definitely want to be with me, that you feel certain you have a future with me,’ I say.

He shuffles a little on the sofa, tugs at his sock.

‘Er, well, you see, it’s just that I’m…not sure,’ he says. He makes a face that says Sorry about that.

Not sure? About me?

All my hopes implode. How can I live the most fabulous life possible with a man who is not sure about me? This means I’ll have to move out, change all my plans, start again from scratch. How dreadfully exhausting. And I shall have to leave him – this lovely, funny, exuberant man who has been my partner and companion these past few years.

‘I love you,’ he adds, and I go to him to be held and hugged. As my heart swells, my logical mind tries to wrestle out a compromise, a way of staying that makes sense. He loves me; can’t I stay?

But then my true voice leans in and says, He’s not sure about you. He can’t commit. You know that will never be enough for you, Sabrina. And it’s the reason this relationship is dying a slow, painful death. Lawrence can’t open himself to intimacy, no matter how gorgeous and loving you are. It has nothing to do with you. Get it?

‘I’ll have to move out,’ I say.

‘What? Is this over?’ he asks in disbelief.

I nod slowly.

‘But, babe, what are you expecting?’ Lawrence protests gently. ‘Do you honestly think you’re going to find the perfect relationship? Don’t you think you’re expecting too much? You know, Sab, I look at my friends’ marriages and they aren’t that great, to be honest. They’re boring and mundane. But my friends are all pretty happy. Come on, this relationship isn’t so bad.’

‘Not so bad isn’t good enough for me,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Heavens, maybe he’s right. What if I never meet anyone again? What if I look back from lonely spinsterhood and realise Lawrence was the best there was, but I gave him up? His credentials are great on paper. Terrifying doubts start creeping in. This is a major decision that will alter the course of your life, a grave inner voice commands. Don’t screw it up. But suddenly, the person I think I’m destined to be chips in: Doesn’t this man know who I am inside? Who I’m going to be one day? Can’t he see that, despite the current confusion in my life, I am actually a famous novelist, visionary and billionaire? That my greatest wish is to write books that inspire, entertain and empower people around the globe? That I am here to experience this world to the max? How can he not see that?

‘Then I suppose it is a sensible idea for you to move out,’ he is saying with reluctance. ‘I will miss you, babe. A lot.’

‘Me too,’ I say. And I know I am about to embark on a time of emptiness no box of Godiva chocolates can fill.