I couldn’t have felt worse about myself if I’d grown facial warts, packed on twenty kilos and my leg went all gammy and I was forced to limp on crutches for the rest of my life.

I was devastated in that Gothic-writing, angsty-poetry, threatening-to-self-harm, shooting-up-with-Heroin, burning-black-morbid-candles and not-washing-their-hair kind of way. My days of unemployment also gave me way too much time to think.

How, what, why, when, how long, where?

But trying to make sense of the whole thing was driving me mad and some days I felt like I was one step away from a straight jacket, a frontal lobotomy and drastic electric shock therapy.

It’s bad enough breaking up with someone, but to walk in on them having kinky sex with someone else just adds a whole new layer to the detestation. It makes you doubt just about everything, especially your bedroom ability. I was stuck in a tumble dryer spin-cycle thought pattern; was I bad in bed? Was that why he went looking for it somewhere else? Did he not enjoy our sex life? Was I too boring for him? And so it went on until I was physically exhausted and a little bit dizzy.

And when I wasn’t making myself mad, other people were doing it for me by stuffing an endless stream of clichés down my throat until I was practically choking on them. My friends meant well of course, but if I had to hear one of them say, “Everything happens for a reason” one more time, I might have puked. And when they had exhausted that phrase, they moved on to “Time heals a broken heart”.

My only friend that wasn’t plying me with horse manure was Bee. She was one of those hard hitting, call a spade a fucking spade types. As soon as I’d told her what had happened, she hadn’t rushed to soothe me, rather she simply said, “I knew it would happen eventually.”

She had been very vocal when I’d gotten together with Trev. She had thrown around words like ‘arrogant’ and ‘asshole’. But I was blinded, as one is in those early intoxicating days. Through the misty haze of Dopamine and lots of sex-induced endorphins I couldn’t see any of the things she was saying. In fact, it had caused our friendship to take a bit of a wobble.

With Trev it had been that ‘love at first sight’ thing, although he seemed to be everything I never knew I wanted in a guy. Prior to him I had dated arty types, the types who look like they need a sandwich and a tan. And being at Design College there were many to choose from, considering we shared the same campus with graphic designers and fine artists. Of course there was just that one problem of working out which team they batted for. All the guys studying fashion design were gay (that was a given), but most of the fine art students, and all of the graphic design ones were actually straight. My personal preference lay with the fine arts lads; with their knitted scarves, scruffy paint-stained jeans and hair that looked like it needed a good brushing. But after a few years of dating guys like that it was like the novelty just kind of wore off. I was no longer into dating guys that seemed more sensitive and emotional than me. A strange longing for a real man – whatever that meant – took hold of me.

So, one night when I was out drinking with my friends at some fancy place we could ill afford –I saw him. It was all because my friend Gina’s brother was having a party at an expensive bar in the side of town we never ventured into. We were all still sipping the same drink from over an hour ago in an attempt to make it last longer, when Trev went striding past. I smelt him before I saw him. I’ll never forget; he smelt of sandalwood and tropical rain – a strangely intoxicating combination. And in that moment he must have seen me looking at him (gawking perhaps), because a few minutes later he was at our table.

“Can I offer you ladies a drink?” He was so gentlemanly, something I was  completely unaccustomed to. I was also unaccustomed to a man who wielded a shiny credit card with the power to buy cocktails for everyone – usually my dates would be scrounging for coins in their jean pockets and cursing because they had forgotten that this pair had the holes.

“Sure. Since none of us can afford to buy a glass of water here,” I said, which made him laugh. And by that I mean he really laughed, as if I was some kind of stand-up comedian. So several drinks – and three hours of conversation – later, I made the decision that he was exactly what I needed. I remember convincing myself that it must have been fate. There I was longing for change – and just like that a man like him came falling into my lap! And he was into me – real, unashamed, snorting laughter into me. Perhaps it was because he admired me as if I was some strange, exotic species – something he had never seen before and was utterly fascinated by. I certainly wasn’t anything like the women he usually hung around with – and there were several of those lurking there that night, in their pinstriped pantsuits and tight ponytails. I was currently in my more, how shall I put this, experimental fashion stage where I did a lot of draping and ironic pleating.

I liked the fact that he was a bit cocky and sure of himself. That he was confident and even slightly arrogant – it was very appealing. All the qualities that Bee had pointed out to me as possible shortcomings were actually the qualities that I found most appealing. And he was terribly good looking, in that total model slash actor way. Generic good looking, the kind of good looking that has universal appeal. Perhaps I should have known he was too good looking.

After ‘Nipple-Gate’, that's what Jenny and I affectionately called the incident, my dearest sister took me under her wing. I moved in with her and my brother-in-law Eric for about a month – but then the baby arrived. After that it was like the house felt too small. Too chaotic. Littered with way too many dirty diapers, vomit-tinged receiving blankets and breast pumps. Of course my sister had insisted I stay longer – secretly I think she hoped I would start lactating in sympathy and help out with the night feeds. And getting to know my beautiful little niece almost made me want to stay. Sophie’s arrival was probably the best – and the only good thing that happened to me that year. I remember the first time I held her in my arms and she opened her little eyes and looked up at me, it was love and pride at first sight. But I knew I needed to go.

But sadly, the rest of the year was pretty much all downhill. A steep, winding downhill where you could easily lose your footing or sprain an ankle, especially if you were wearing heels.

Lucky I wasn’t wearing heels, nor was I anywhere near a heel for that matter. Sonja had been right, I just couldn’t find another job in the fashion industry. Apparently no one wanted to employ a ‘ruiner of very expensive photo-shoots’ not to mention an attempted murderer. Yes, the incident had been completely blown out of all rational proportions. The gossipmongers had had a field day with it. Stretching, elaborating, exaggerating and milking it for all it was worth.

Of course the fact that no charges were ever brought against me was of no consequence to anyone. Why let facts ruin a perfectly good story, hey?

Several versions were in circulation. In one, I’d suffered a psychotic break and a voice had told me to pick up the knife. In the other, I’d hit him with the Louboutin, breaking the heel and causing him to need a glass eye (They really took that one to the nth degree), and in another one I was actually planning on committing a Lorena Bobbit (you might remember that story?).

Lorena – not unprovoked mind you – chopped off her husbands willy, took it for a little drive and tossed it out of the window. Some hailed her as mad, whilst others called her a hero.

At some stage I knew they would grow tired of me, the fashion industry is fickle that way, especially if a famous model admitted to having bulimia or a substance abuse problem.

I eventually managed to get a job at ‘Patel and Son’s Dressmakers’. A family-run business that did everything from shortening pants and sewing on buttons, to creating colorful Sari’s for weddings and other special occasions. Sometimes going into work felt like walking onto a set of a Bollywood film, and I was always waiting for someone to break into song or bust a move. It took me a few months to prove myself, so I was on tailoring duty, until such time as I graduated to actual dress- making. Some days the only thing that kept me going, while spending hours hemming, was imagining sewing Trev’s nut-sack to the wall. Other times, while listening to the whirr of the machine and watching the repetitive high-speed motion of the needle piercing the fabric, I wondered if Trev wouldn’t actually enjoy that?

A spot of pain. A poke with a sharp needle. What else was he into? The world was filled with bizarre fetishes after all, I Googled them: dressing up like fury animals, pretending to be pieces of furniture, squashing bugs and even the innocent popping of a balloon has been eroticized. God knows what else Tess and Trev did behind closed doors.

In retrospect, there’d been some signs that Trev’s bedroom proclivities stretched beyond the norm. One evening, while we were innocently cooking a chicken and mushroom casserole together, he’d taken out the spatula and spanked me on the ass – hard. Of course I was horrified, and very concerned that he’d left a greasy mark on my MaxMara’s. On another occasion he’d suggested hot wax – I just thought he was joking.  

Obviously I’d been mistaken.

But colourful daydreams aside, the best thing about my new job were the Patel’s themselves. They became like a surrogate family to me, especially Granny Padma. She often brought me left over curry, or a batch of Samosas (I never had the heart to tell her that Indian food gives me heart burn). We had long conversations about life, love and Bollywood movies.

“You know in my day, none of this nonsense would have happened,” She said one day in her thick Indian accent, “I was married at 19 years, and my parents chose my husband!”

“It was an arranged marriage?”

“I’d never met him. And look at us now, married 40 years, five sons and twelve grandchildren!”

“Were you in love?’ I asked, intrigued by this concept.

“Love!” She tisked loudly, ‘That’s what causes all the problems. We grew to love each other over time, but there was no fiery passion in the beginning. And that’s the problem with the youth of today. You all want fireworks and sparks – but that fades, and when it does, you throw in the towel, or in your case, he goes looking for it somewhere else.”

I thought about this for a moment. It made sense.

In the beginning, we’d been crazy about each other, barely able to keep our hands to ourselves. But a few years down the line, that had worn off and a distance had set in. I just hadn’t received the memo about it being a gaping chasm of lies, deceit and betrayal – or maybe it had gotten lost in the post? Mind you, I hadn’t received the memo about our sex life not being up to scratch either – again, bad post perhaps?  

The pay at Patel and Sons wasn’t great; it was barely enough to live off. But I managed to find myself a tiny garden cottage in the student/hippie suburb of Melville. My landlords were typical Melvillians, as we call them. Gunter ran a small business at home selling biofuel made from discarded vegetable oil that he collected from restaurants – a very messy affair – and Helena ran a small website selling eco-friendly products, like bamboo toothbrushes. It was a totally different world; for starters I was forced to recycle absolutely everything. On one occasion they’d found a Coke can in my dustbin and acted like I'd committed the ultimate crime against the Earth. I was instructed to recycle it immediately and given a book to read, called “Tears of blood; Mother Nature is dying a slow and painful death”. It wasn’t light reading!

But, like the Patels, I think they took pity on me. I was a regular dinner guest; Tofu and soya bean casserole, vegan lasagna and vegetables I’d never heard of. Although it was a welcome reprieve from my diet of cheap packets of Two Minute noodles and cracker bread.

My social life was also non-existent and I started seeing less and less of my friends in favour of my couch and Facebook stalking Trev and Tess. I knew I needed to stop it, because all it inevitably did was make me feel shit about myself and kept me fully trapped in the past. I was basically having a cyber relationship with them, they just didn’t know it. One night though, after cancelling on Bee yet again, she blasted into my house and forced me to block them. I did. I cried all night. It was like the final little death, the last nail in the coffin.

I was afraid to go out – afraid to show my face in public, worried that the fashionistas would whisper, the men would recoil for fear of mutilation and the others would look at me with pity, due to cheating boyfriend. I was also terrified of bumping into Trev and Tess, I just wasn’t strong enough for that. The highlight of my week was baby sitting on a Saturday, so Jen and Eric could go on date night. I also hung out with the Patels on Diwali and went to several family weddings. (They seemed to have an endless supply of cousins)

So, the end result was inevitably just me, at home, with only my TV or self-help books for company.  Yes, yes I know it reeks of woe is me, wallowing in the murky mire of self-pity and bottomless misery, served with a side of self-indulgent depression and washed down with a large glass of “My life is a miserable black hole of shit”.

When I wasn’t reading about journaling, gratitude and the need for a personal mission statement, I’d also started making bags. Nothing hip and happening. Nothing that would appear on the arm of the fashionable ilk, or the catwalks of the world, but bags I liked. Large, colourful shoppers and beach bags. In fact, the more colorful and bedazzled they were, the more therapeutic. I imagined Sonja’s face when she saw them; ‘Kitsch and nasty’ is what she would say. So with every colourful ribbon, shiny swathe of fabric, big bright button – I defied her, and everything she stood for. The more over-the-top the bag, the more I felt like I was driving a stake through the beating heart of the fashion industry I once loved and so desperately wanted to be a part of.

Take that Sonja (The click of the bedazzler)

Die bitch, die! (Glue on another kitsch sequin and slap on another coloured fucking feather for good measure)

It makes sense that I would find solace in bags – they were the reason I went into fashion after all. You see, when I was about ten, I had a life changing moment. I walked past a store and saw – all perfectly poised and elegant in the window – a Louis V. Big, lush, plump and sophisticated. It was a dark, rich chocolaty brown covered in that ever-iconic pattern. But that was not all. Right there in the front, catching your eye as it glints in the light, was a large gold LV embellishment holding the bag closed – and once opened,  the inside was bright, vibrant red suede. It was just so luxurious. I wanted one. But trying to convince your parents that Santa should bring you a genuine Louis Vuitton for Christmas when you’re just ten years old is not an easy task. So when I got Malibu Barbie instead, I vowed that one day I would own that handbag.

And now I did.

And now it was listed on eBay.

But my rent was two months late, and you can’t live in a handbag, as much as I’d like to! Plus, I already owed my sister so much money, I couldn’t ask for more. And then, more heartbreaking news.

Tess and Trev was officially a couple; that is to say that a mutual friend had had them around for dinner and Tess had been his plus one at another friend’s wedding. Needless to say I decided never to speak to our mutual ‘friends’ again, making my already shrinking social circle just that much tinier, plunging me into more isolation.

But what stung me more than the betrayal of my ex-friends (clearly I’d lost them in the break-up), was that I had somehow deluded myself into expecting an apology at some point. I was still waiting for the day that he might turn around and say “hey, I’m really sorry for what happened. I was a real shithead and that was a real shitty thing to do to you. Sorry.” But as the months went by, I had a sinking feeling I was never going to get it.

And so I sat in a kind of torturous limbo that dragged on and on until a whole year passed. It was painful. Which is why my sister’s suggestion of a tropical family holiday literally made me cry with excitement!

“Why don’t we all go to Mauritius for Christmas? We can lie in the sun, sip cocktails and sleep in late?” Jenny said mid-baby-burping.

"Sounds a bit expensive." I said faintly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll pay.” (This was the part that really made me shriek)

“Really?”

“Of course. What are best sister friends for? And what are husbands who earn crap loads of money for too?”

We laughed. Jenny often joked about poisoning Eric one day, getting her paws on all his money, then buying an island in the Caribbean and filling it with male models and Moet. But the truth is, she adores him. And he adores her.

He’s a bit older, and a wildly successful businessman. He owns a chain of electronics stores, so we always get the latest ipods, ipad’s and other gadgets beginning with ‘I’s’ for our birthdays and Christmases. Proudest moment of being a father so far – if you ask him – was the day his nine-month-old daughter started playing on her pink, customized i-pad.

“Are you sure?” I felt sheepish thinking of all the money I still owed her.

“Positive. We’ll have a blast. They have the best baby sisters at those resorts, so it'll be like old times. We can get outrageously tipsy on coconut cocktails and dance to cheesy ABBA at the local disco.”

“Sounds like the best thing that’s happened to me all year!” I said jumping up and down.