This is a Love Story Read Online Free Page A

learned.
    After just six months of living with him in halls I realised that it wasn’t a competition, and that actually, he was a pretty cool guy. He even taught me how to talk to women without stuttering or spilling my drink all over them. He’s not the best-looking bloke I know, but he has this incredible confidence, which seems to take him everywhere he wants to go.
    Obviously I had to go to his stag do, even if it involved sitting in a pile of steaming horse manure for three days. This was Ross . . .
    Like I said, Ibiza – not a place I would have envisioned myself visiting these days. The prospect of packed nightclubs and vomit-inducing light sequences made me sweat just thinking about it.
    I protested, I did, but they had me by the short and curlies. The whole lot of them had worked out a response to every attempt I made at suggesting different locations. Eventually, the old ‘last chance to have fun before marriage’ guilt trip, combined with a bit of Googling and the promise of lots of hot girls, was enough to seal the deal.
    It was only a few days, I told myself, and if it was too dire I could always get lost in the historical Ibiza Town everyone bangs on about.
    Packing my suitcase wasn’t too hard: shorts, shorts, pants, more shorts and some shower gel. I wedged five books into my hand luggage; if they went missing en route I feared I might lose my only escape if things got bad.
    I was pleasantly surprised – something about the atmosphere got me in the mood to let my hair down as soon as we landed on the island. It was scorching hot and I needed to have some fun.
    After a pint or five too many I managed to tell Ross I loved him on more than one occasion, fall down a small flight of stairs one night, and tread on several girls’ sandaled feet in nightclubs – one of whom slapped me in the face. I felt nothing.
    It was bloody brilliant.
    Although I returned to London with the dreaded Ibiza flu everyone talks about. They should vaccinate for this shit. I’m afraid if I keep blowing my nose like this I may look down at the tissue and find the damn thing sitting there and looking at me from a bed of translucent snot.
    It seems that seven days of pouring various different beers and spirits down your throat like there’s a fire in your belly is not that good for you.
    In addition, I smoked a disgusting number of cigarettes and joints, leaving me wheezing like a broken chew-toy.
    I am a lightweight. It’s official. I had to have a week off sick, for God’s sake. Getting out of bed this morning was a joke – I’m surprised I managed not to drown in the puddle of drool next to my face let alone actually reach across to the alarm.
    But lurgy aside, returning to an OK job that I’ve been in for far too long feels like a big comedown. That combined with the fact that I’m twenty-seven.
    And single.
    Nor has Amelia flooded my doormat with letters documenting her shame and regret at leaving me for one of our colleagues, and I was pretty sure she would. I had fantasies of not being able to get into the house due to the sheer volume of letters she might have sent me.
    Toby Hunter, for God’s sake!
    Toby joined The Cube three years ago when I was a trainee designer and Amelia was a writer. He was the new company lawyer, a young guy for his position. He and his wife became friends of ours – they would come over for dinner and everything.
    I should have suspected something when Amelia kept going down with this bug and Toby would always get it too. I learned later that he was off sick on the same days. Both workstations empty at the same times. The idea was so preposterous that I just pushed it out of my mind. It was a surely not situation.
    This bug was so bad, she said, that she couldn’t get out of bed. And there I was, working away happily in the office when he was over there getting into it with her. It was Toby who quit work first. He said he’d got a new job at a blue-chip company. I believed him. Next