I have long been obsessed with finding something beautiful and romantic about an ending. I’ve never warmed to nostalgia or what-ifs, but to be somewhere and know it’s for the last time, and to anticipate the feeling of loss, to miss the person you are at that exact moment and never will be again, it’s always appealed. It’s the final second of innocence before the curtain draws back; the very last moment of joy beforethe scales fall from your eyes.
I remember exactly the moment I started to feel this way. As a child growing up on a council estate, one of my favorite things to read were twee books about precocious middle-class white children and their extremely staid adventures. In the opening chapter of The Children of Willow Farm, the eponymous, entitled brats are to leave the house they grew up in London for a new life in the country. They are excited at what’s to come, but are already nostalgic for the good times they’ve had in their now empty London flat, running from room to room shouting their goodbyes, reliving everything that’d happened there and promising they’ll never forget. I recall being envious of them off to start somewhere anew, to have the luxury of saying goodbye to their childhood home. I knew if I was ever going to escape to the country, it’d have to be by my own hand – no rosy-cheeked relatives were going to rescue me.
So call me romantic or fatalist or a sadist whatever, but I quite enjoy that lurch in the tummy you get when you’re at the end of the road in some way. You know something is coming next, but you’re not sure what. You know you’ll look back on this moment as insignificant, a stepping stone, but right now it is everything, and huge, and you can’t picture life beyond it. The trouble with living in the moment is you think you’re as strong or as tall or as wise as you’re ever going to be. You have no idea.
Today something ended for me. A client, who I’ve been with for 7 years, has let me go. A combination of budget cuts, Brexit and new brooms sweeping right into every corner has meant that freelancers – for so long the invisible backbone in companies that worry about head counts and staff benefits – were to be cut, with immediate effect. Ordinarily, I’d have got a phone call and that would’ve been that. But I had tec to handover and wisdom to impart, plus I did not want to be denied my final moment. The very least someone can do when they’re telling you it’s over after 7 years – be it professionally or romantically – is look into your eyes one last time as they say it. I have always believed in doing the right thing, no matter how painful; I was determined to have it done to me. You can’t force a happy ending, but you can manage the severity of the blow of a sad one.
I don’t really know what I was expecting. Despite the feeling we live in an age now where we crave our soap opera ending, where there is no room for the flat or the mundane, I was not hoping for dramatics. I guess I was hoping to go out with dignity, perhaps even to make them see exactly what they were letting go. But go I would. If I’m honest, I was mainly interested in making sure they paid me what they owed me. I can’t eat a beautiful goodbye and my landlord does not recognize romantic endings as legal tender.
As soon as I got there, the never-agains started. Never again would winters lash my face or summers roast me as I trudged from the train station. Never again would I spell out my surname to the receptionist. Never again would the woman in the deli bar double-check it was definitely decaf I wanted. Never again would I roll my eyes at the appalling grammar of the ‘polite notices’ left in the bathrooms. Never again would I step into the lift and wait until the doors closed before turning to the mirror and checking my hair. Never again. There would be no next time.
What happened in the meeting should probably stay in it, but it was bright and respectful. They said I smelled nice. They were sad. I didn’t say too much. When you don’t know what to say and someone’s telling you it’s over, it’s best to keep quiet. It makes them talk; you hand them the rope. And they’re giving me the money. I controlled my moment. There was no drama.
Exits, however, should always be dramatic. Walking out of rooms doesn’t have to be loud or hysterical or bitter – but you don’t want to be forgotten, either. Sadly slow-motion is not available in real life, and incidental music plays only in your head, but after I shook their hands and looked warmly into their eyes, I turned and walked purposefully down their gleaming corridors – it seemed that time slowed, and the weary, swaggering opening of George Michael’s Praying For Time played in my head, my expression blank. As the music got louder I pushed open the doors and walked out into the murky cloudiness of day. I did not look back. I never do that, not even when someone calls my name. It was gorgeous.
And as I strode away, feeling majestic and victorious and invincible, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the security guard – I’d forgotten to hand in my entry pass. Typical. Denied my soap opera moment even to the very last second, I handed it over with the tiniest roll of my eyes, put my headphones back in and turned away again. The ending is a beginning. I am lighter. Free.
“Look around now,
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers.”
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