Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  That night, I’d asked Kit to take me to Ivy’s parent’s house. I couldn’t face Natasha and June, not after I’d left them looking so hopeful, but I’d known Mac was home. What was unexpected was that he held me while I’d vomited emotion and bile. Held me while I’d cried. I’d eventually fallen asleep in his arms; I was sure I wouldn’t sleep, not without Rory—because of Rory—but must’ve dropped off sometime. When I’d woken, Ivy’s car was parked on the driveway, keys under the visor, and my holdall on the back seat.

  If I wasn’t yet sure of what the future held, one look at that bag and I knew.

  Rory, Beth and a baby made three.

  Mac drove me to London the same afternoon, dropping me off at Soraya’s Knightsbridge townhouse in the early hours. Ivy flew into Glasgow that weekend and caught a connection to Gatwick straight away. I’ll be forever grateful to my friends, and six months later, I feel like I’m finally finding my feet. That I’ve started running again is more to do with the change of season; it’s much easier pounding pavements secure in the knowledge that your nipples won’t freeze and snap off.

  Soraya’s contact came through, and I got the job. Event management is hardly rocket science and it’s a bit of a pretentious environment. I’m currently experiencing it from the opposite side of the fence, which is odd. Still, it pays my bills.

  So I work, I work out, eat better and sleep, though still with a little help. Pinot Grigio is my sedative of choice these days. I’m looking after myself, though I might listen to a little too much Taylor Swift, but I don’t view that as too destructive. I’m no longer broken, though not quite fixed, but at least I’m no longer hovering in the space where a slight breeze or a wrong look in my direction can reduce me to tears.

  I tell myself none of it matters, that at the end of the day, Rory and I weren’t the right fit. It was too much too soon. Too deep, too fast. All those kind of platitudes, despite what he did or didn’t do.

  After that night, I was a mess. Finding him with another woman was just too close to home. But the bottom line is, I didn’t stick around to find out exactly what it all meant, though I’ve thought about it plenty. Retrospectively obsessed. Beth had to have been an old girlfriend; it was obvious the news of her pregnancy had come as a shock, and not only to me. He said he was in love with me, though didn’t allow me to explain after Melody spewed her venom. And while the bitch may have made a few dollars by calling the newspapers, she’s no longer welcome in Ivy’s salon. And probably hiding from Nat.

  And when Rory didn’t attempt to find me after Beth’s reveal, I knew it was over between us. His choice was plain and my heart felt that truth.

  Despite the pain, I think our parting was for the best. I wasn’t truly in any condition to invite anyone into my life. I let passion overwhelm me and ultimately paid the price. And yet, I still feel a kind of affinity being here in the city he called home. Affinity with a little sickness sometimes; the excitement mingled with fear at the prospect of bumping into him. What would I do? What would he say? Would we both be sorry for what wasn’t to be? But these are just mad musings, because the reality is, in a city of more than eight and a half million, I’m likely never to see him again.

  I try not to judge. I’m all about that these days. He shared so much with me during breakfast that I still find it hard to believe he led me on, but none of it matters.

  Not anymore.

  As for Beth and the baby; I don’t know what happened and I try not to think about it for too long. The one thing I do know is when I last saw her, she couldn’t have looked less pregnant. Or more like a model. I like to think more Talbots than J.Crew.

  Eight and a half million people weren’t big enough odds in her case.

  I hadn’t truly gotten a good look at her that night, not after I’d stumbled away, but in my mind’s eye I can’t recall a baby bump. This would, in theory, make her heavily pregnant right about now. I may have done the math once or twice. And I didn’t recognise her, rather her voice, three weeks ago while at work. I’d rushed into an unscheduled meeting, apologising profusely for being five minutes late, when I’d discovered her there. Her dark hair was longer and she looked so . . . beautiful. Radiant. Though clearly not due to any pregnancy, confirmed by the flatness of her stomach in the confines of a tight dress. She was, however, the epitome of an excited bride-to-be, because in a cruel twist of fate, she’d contracted my employer to plan and execute her engagement party. A rush job. Mega bucks paid. A party to be planned and executed in under two weeks.

  Hearing her voice, I must’ve sounded like I was choking, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Yet not an ounce of recognition clouded her perfect face. Too perfect, and on second glance, a face very familiar with contouring and the odd derma filler or two. It was a strange sensation, this feeling of invisibility; I’d felt slighted, almost. But then rage set in. Life is fucking unfair, and as she’d sat there, as sweet as fucking cheesecake, with that ridiculous voice, I’d hated her.

  The pain I’d worked so hard to overcome was no longer a dull ache, but fresh once again. It crowded my ribcage and crawled into my throat and it took every ounce of my strength to keep my eyes glued to the diary on my lap. I’ve never wanted to harm another person, but in that moment, I’d have gladly taken her out.

  I’d contributed nothing to the meeting—I couldn’t look at her. Not without seeing Rory leading a life with someone other than me. I’d held it together and afterwards, extricated myself citing a conflicting timetable. And that was all fine. Well, as fine as it could be considering I’d only truly just begun to see we were over. Maybe we never truly were. My acceptance was slow in coming, obviously, no matter what I’d previously told myself, because one sweet breakfast and a whole lot of sex does not a relationship make. No matter what was said that morning, it obviously wasn’t enough.

  In the office, whenever mention was made of the Maybury event—Maybury being Beth’s surname, and make no mistake, it was her event—I mentally removed myself. I didn’t look at mood boards or menus or the guest list. I wanted no part of it, involving myself in every project available but that one. It was a can of worms I was not opening, a can I forced to the back of my psyche to ignore. It’s a good job I work for a sizable company.

  So, even all these months later, it seemed I wasn’t really getting better. I was just kidding myself, but reality had to dawn at some point considering the company I worked for was essentially meant to be planning an engagement party for a man whom, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t manage to un-love.

  A man who told me he loved me, then left without looking back.

  Love sucks big hairy lady balls.

  Do you know what else sucks the afore mentioned dangly bits? Stomach flu. It hit the office three days ago with a frightening speed, wiping out half the team before moving on to infect every wait-staff temp agency within a ten-mile radius, it seems.

  And that little fact is how I find myself this evening, not only at the venue—the engagement venue—but also dressed like a waitress. I didn’t stand a chance when it became apparent at the end of the day that we were all expected to head straight from the office to the event.

  No choice, the owner had said, calling into the office to give us the rallying troops talk. All hands on deck, my line manager repeated, though I note she isn’t sporting a tray half-full of canapes.

  The tray feels slippery in my hands; sweat oozing from my pores due to my fingers’ death grip. I’d thought of everything—the sudden death of a relation, feigning flu myself—but it quickly became obvious if I wanted my job, I was expected to pitch in. And I not only want to keep my job, I need it.

  Divorce lawyers aren’t cheap.

  So far, I’ve managed to avoid seeing Rory, but for how long? As the future groom, he’ll be here somewhere. How will I feel when I see him? Probably a whole lot more ill than I feel right now. Anxiety begins to swell in my chest making it hard to breathe. With any luck, I’ll faint at the sight of him and won
’t need to put on a brave face. Poor, second best Fin.

  I push a finger into the neck of my shirt, pulling it away from my skin. I’m so hot, I feel like I’m rotating in one of the circles of hell. I know hell has its own place for me; a piece of floor space in the circle dedicated to the torment the souls of those whose lustful appetites overcame reason in life.

  That’s where I’ll be copping a squat in the afterlife.

  Fuck people who plan intimate gatherings for one hundred and fifty-seven close family and friends. And, for good measure, fuck people who live in swanky Highgate, both the venue and apparent home of the betrothed.

  Sweat trickles down my spine as I push myself and my now empty tray back into the kitchen.

  ‘I didn’t sign up for this shit,’ complains Jai, the person the event had eventually been assigned to. ‘I’ve got a master’s degree, for fuck’s sake.’

  I try to smile in answer, unable to speak. If I open my mouth to utter anything other than mackerel ceviche with an avocado sorbet and pink pickled radish, madam? I’m likely to scream or sob, and I don’t know which is worse. I guess my smile betrays at least a fraction of that as Jai steps closer, placing one hand against my shoulder, the other fingering his tiny black braid.

  ‘You feeling okay? Oh, fuck!’ He jumps back with a squeal. ‘You’ve got the fucking lurgy, ain’t ya’!’

  ‘No,’ I say, swallowing, the tiny word like splintering glass in my throat. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ rasps Savannah, my bitch of a boss, coming up from behind. ‘That’s all I need.’ She huffs loudly, as though I’d contract cholera just to spite her, but it’s an idea . . . isn’t it? She doesn’t need to know I’m not ill. I open my mouth to protest, emitting a dry cough instead.

  She curses loudly, adding a rather terse, ‘I can’t spare you, Fin. Not tonight. The staff I have out there are barely a skeleton. Just . . . just stay away from the hors d’oeuvres. Stick to serving champagne. And for God’s sake, don’t cough on anyone.’ As she bestows her final command, she’s already gliding away.

  Fuck my life.

  ‘Yours and mine both, babe. And fuck her. And for good measure, fuck her and the bloke she rode to the top on.’

  ‘What?’ I belatedly look up from the pink tray in my hands. Pink flowers. Pink food. Maybe Rory’s baby was a girl? Maybe she’s already born? Of all the torturous thoughts—my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting.

  Could’ve. Would’ve. Should’ve. Might’ve been your life.

  ‘FML?’ says Jai. ‘And fuck Savannah. You know she was only promoted because she’s screwing the owner, right?’

  ‘I try to stay out of office politics.’ Deep breaths; in then out. Try not to cry. Try not to freak out.

  ‘Only ‘cos I haven’t broken you down. Yet. Have you met him, Pierce, I mean?’ Pedantic Pierce; that’s what Soraya calls him. Apparently, he used to live in Dubai, too. Keeping the tenuous connection to myself, I shake my head. ‘He’s got to be pushing sixty-five. Ancient. He’d defo need Viagra to get it up, unlike him out there.’ He gestures to the door from the commercial style kitchen leading into the main part of the house.

  I feel myself physically wince and bite my bottom lip as it begins to tremble.

  ‘Hard to believe both blokes were born in the same decade,’ Jai says, snagging a morsel from a passing pink tray.

  ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Jai flicks, what appears to be tapenade, from a tiny piece of pastry, wiping his fingers on his apron. ‘I wouldn’t shag Pierce and I’m not exactly discerning,’ he adds, pointing the canape at me.

  ‘No, I mean the age thing can’t be right.’

  ‘It was in The Guardian, in an interview. And Hello magazine in that spread on his country estate. You see it?’

  ‘Pierce, you mean?’

  ‘No, numpty. The fiancé. Jonathon Reeves, property magnate extraordinaire.’ Jai swallows the measly mouthful, grimacing. ‘Blurgh. I fucking hate olives.’ He gives a slightly camp though whole body shiver. ‘It gave his age and everything. And unlike Pierce, he’s a real silver fox. Him I’d do him, rich or not.’

  ‘The groom to be?’ My voice sounds high and reedy, my synapses sluggish and dull.

  ‘Yeah, the fiancé—keep up. You’re not usually this slow. Oh, fuck, you really are coming down with something. Here.’ Taking my elbow, he pushes me into a chair by the wall. ‘Ignore Savannah. If you give this lot the flu, there’ll be a shit storm. Tell her you fainted if she asks.’ Without waiting for my answer, he frowns and snatches the empty tray from my hands. ‘Lou,’ he calls further into the room. ‘This one’s ill. Don’t give her anything to do. She’s been quarantined.’

  Lou, the woman in charge of the kitchen this evening, begins cursing and banging what sounds like garbage lids, not that I care. I’m too busy processing.

  A silver fox. I imagine fatherhood is trying, but I can’t see Rory aging that quick. But what else can it mean? Are they not together? Is her fiancé—the older man—a rebound? Has she made the same mistakes as me—marrying a man after Rory used her, too? No, that’s not fair. That’s not what happened to me. My marriage is on no one but myself.

  Hands balled into fists, I try to swallow back the rising tide of emotions before I drown in the swell. Anger, pain, hurt—all down to my own childishness and stupidity, and here I go again. I didn’t need to be here this evening—to put myself through this. I should’ve just told Savannah. Told her I’d rather go to hell.

  ‘I’m not doing this.’ I stand so quickly the kitchen chair squeaks against the pale bamboo floor.

  I give up. Give in. What am I thinking even being in the same zip code? Even if Rory isn’t marrying Beth, I can’t be here. Can’t stay here. I begin to make my way through the kitchen, my feet moving faster and faster as I reach the back door. I pull the handle, telling myself I’ll text Savannah and say I vomited. Fainted. Caught the bubonic plague! Whether Rory’s single or not, I have to leave.

  Thirty-Nine

  Rory

  I have no idea what I’m doing here tonight. I wasn’t invited, that’s for sure. It’s not even like Kit is here. For the good of the business, he’d said, we politely decline. That she might not have been lying; that she might really have lost the baby. But he doesn’t know her like I do. She’s certifiable and only dropped her psychotic plans when it became obvious I wasn’t playing along.

  That night and many, many other times following, I’d told her I’d step up. That I’d father our child, but that would be the extent of our relationship. Next thing, she’s calling me from a fucking restaurant telling me the baby is no more. That’s it—not lost or terminated just, leave it Rory. You’re off the hook. What the hell am I supposed to make of that, other than she’s callous as well as fucked in the head?

  Then a couple weeks ago she announced her engagement to some other chump. She fucked me over. In more ways than one. Drove away the only woman I’ve ever loved, but I’m not here, skulking in her garden for revenge. That would make even less sense, because no way I want to be a target again. I just want . . . God, I don’t fucking know! Maybe I’m here to make her to suffer a little of what I did when she turned up at the house?

  I followed Fin, of course, ran after her, only to see Kit bundle her into his car. The bastard gave me a look as dark as the devil before climbing in himself. He refused to answer his phone and fucked off to London afterwards. He wouldn’t even say where he’d left her—refused to tell me for weeks—until it became obvious I was a mess. Fin’s face that night, I can’t get it out of my head; the anguish and betrayal. Do I want to make Beth’s fiancé feel the same? Kit may say a lot of things, and most of them to piss me off, but he was right about not coming here tonight. Whatever the fucked up reason, I shouldn’t be here. I think I’d rather have a root canal, or a prostate exam from a proctologist with huge great sausage fingers than ever see Beth again. In fact, I’d rather rim a fucking—


  ‘Oof.’ As I turn someone catches me right in the guts. The ball of something that’s partially winded me murmurs an apology, attempting to pull her elbow from my grasp. ‘Where’s the fire, hen?’

  Her reply is incomprehensible noise made through gulping breaths. The words might be garbled, but the voice? The voice I know.

  It can’t be, can it? It has to be my mind playing tricks on me again. It’s been weeks since I’ve chased her ghost through the street only to find some other girl’s elbow in my grasp. Why the fuck would she be here? It’s like some fucking conspiracy.

  ‘Please,’ she whimpers. ‘Let me go.’ Her voice brings me back to the moment, though I do the exact opposite holding that particular joint so tight I know it must hurt.

  ‘The fine fucking Finola.’ My words are more than merely hard edged and her body stiffens under my grasp.

  ‘Please.’

  She gasps as I drag her closer, pulling us both under the glow of some kind of garden light. Her hair is a little longer and a little darker, pulled tight to the nape of her neck, her once blunt fringe now pinned back. Other than these small differences, she looks the same—feels the same—other than maybe the paleness of her face.

  ‘So you do remember?’ Her expression morphs through shock and mortification to something angry and resolute.

  ‘I wished to God I didn’t.’ Full of piss and vinegar, the phrase jumps to mind. It’s a pity her voice doesn’t follow through. Because it’s reed thin.

  ‘Ah, there she is. My little viper.’ Someone choke me—choke the words right out of my fucking throat. I’m hurt, yes. I’ve hurt for months, but if I carry on like this, I’ll blow it for good.

  ‘I . . .’ Her chest begins to heave, her breaths matching my own. We’re both emotional—fuming—but I’ll take being fucked before I let her go this time. ‘Rory . . .’ To hear her call my name again. ‘Rory, I . . . I’m going to . . . barf.’

  She twists in my arms, a stream of vomit raining down and narrowly missing my shoes.