A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  But what could she do or say that would make one iota’s difference? Nothing. Nothing that had happened would un-happen once we’d talked about it. Nothing she said would make it any less awful. It sucked. Matt, Dani, Charlie, work, life. All of it sucked.

  Jules wandered in and brushed against my legs. I looked down at him. He waited there until I reached down and stroked him.

  “Yeah, okay,” I conceded. “You don’t suck.”

  * * *

  I arrived at Richmond station with no idea how I’d got there. Scary. Was I having a nervous breakdown?

  Maybe. Then again, if I really was, I wouldn’t know it, would I?

  Or—would I? Cripes, maybe I really was seriously unbalanced. Maybe my whole life was turning pear-shaped because I needed help. What sort of help, though? Drugs? Meditation? Therapy? It all sounded hellish expensive. Would alcohol do?

  But then I’d have to sit next to Jim at AA meetings. It seemed easier to just have the breakdown.

  Just ahead of me three deer ambled past, all dignity and grace. A rabbit sat up on its haunches to watch me, nose twitching, ears like antennae. It was a scene straight out of a fairy tale—minus the Prince.

  I walked into the park. An icy wind ripped through my jacket and I buried my chin deep in the collar—a futile move because my whole body was already snap-frozen. Not that I minded. Perhaps if I stayed cold enough long enough it would numb my heart as well.

  An elderly couple passed by, well-wrapped against the weather, arm-in-arm, heads close, happy. They epitomised everything Matt and I would never have and I hated them for it. But I hated me more. How could I have slept with anyone else when all I really wanted was Matt? How could I have thought, even for a moment, Charlie might be a better option? Workmate, schmurkmate. I so needed to get over my stupid past.

  You’re welcome to her.

  I stopped, stared straight ahead, saw nothing. My heart twisted.

  Matt didn’t love me. I’d been a one-night stand for him, nothing more.

  But it had felt like more. So much more.

  It still felt like so much more.

  My eyes burned. How could he? He’d used me for his freaking one-night stand and put my whole career on the line. He knew how much this job meant to me. And now—how could I ever return? How could I face Matt? His scorn? Worse, his pity? And my colleagues. How could I face their sniggers and snide looks, their whispers?

  But if I didn’t go back I’d never see him again. He was the man I loved; the man who’d saved my life, in more ways than one. How could I just walk away from that?

  I about-turned and trudged back the way I’d come. When had it started to rain? I pulled up my hood, but it was too late: I was already wet. And dumped.

  Seriously, how could Matt think, after what we’d just shared, I’d leap straight into another man’s arms?

  Bitter fury balled in my gut. What kind of woman did he think I was?

  Well, if that’s how little he thought of me I was well shot of him. I kicked at a frozen sod of earth. The sod won. My toe throbbed.

  Asshole.

  I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer and, actually, why try? Matt had caused me enough pain. I didn’t need a stomach ulcer as well.

  And Dani. How dare she be so . . . so Dani-ish? Everything always had to be about her. She never bloody changed.

  But she was my sister. I loved her. And now I’d lost her, just like I’d lost Matt. All for a one-night stand with Charlie. I didn’t even do one-night stands.

  Drizzle thickened into downpour, cold against my face. My teeth began to chatter.

  Pneumonia. That might work. Would Matt visit me in hospital, tell me it was all a big mistake? Plead with me to pull through so we could start over?

  You’re welcome to her. Not exactly a happy-ever-after.

  It never was, for me.

  I’d said I was over men, I’d promised Liz I meant it . . . but we both knew I craved that fairy tale ending. My brain knew the whole in-love-forever thing was make-believe, but my heart still pined for it.

  I needed a new dream. A me dream. A career / life / whatever dream that didn’t depend on Mr Perfect showing up. No more fantasies; I needed a dream I could believe in.

  It was as I left the park I heard the hwooh-hwooh of wings above me, unusually close.

  I ducked as a pigeon cruised past, way too low. Gaped. Look out! I waved my arms wildly, started running, but it was too late. Heart in throat, I watched as the pigeon flew arrow-straight and splattered itself head-first into a sign just ahead. My stomach heaved. The bird landed with a thud at my feet.

  Oops. I looked down at the bird. Gave it a prod with my right foot. There it lay, limp and lifeless, one beady little eye staring up at me. I shuddered. Poor little sucker. Dead as a dodo . . . er, pigeon. Hysterical laughter bubbled up.

  I gingerly scooped it up in my hands. And I thought I’d had a grim day. At least I was still alive.

  Yeah, but was I really living the life I wanted? Who was I? Who did I want to be?

  Little wonder I was miserable. Did I even know myself?

  I carried kamikaze pigeon to a sheltered hollow and covered it with leaves and dirt. Rubbed my hands down my jeans. Decided I needed to take control of my life.

  Forget Matt, forget Dani, forget it all. Real happiness came from within. And at thirty-one years of age it was high time I got to know the one person I had to live with forever—me.

  Chapter Thirty

  It didn’t take as long as I’d expected. When I’d finished, I looked around at what had been my room, my sanctuary, my own living space for the past three years and felt immensely sad it had come to this. Two packed bags, a laundry hamper, and a bunch of random trinkets bundled up in a sheet. My ex-bedroom looked skeletal, tatty. Every movement echoed. The room felt unloved.

  Just like me.

  Jules mrowled from the hallway, but it wasn’t a happy mrowl. I beckoned him in for a reassuring cuddle, but he stayed right where he was. I’d ruined his sanctuary as well, and he wasn’t impressed.

  I rang Liz. “I need a favour. Can I stay at your place a couple of nights?”

  “Sure. Why? Have you finally seen the light over Jim?”

  “No. I’m leaving London.”

  Silence.

  Then, “That’s nuts. Whatever’s happened, Becs, leaving is not the answer.”

  “It’s bad, Liz.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Real bad.”

  “Fine. Come and stay. You know you’re welcome. And we’ll work something out, something less extreme than leaving.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Liz.”

  “Then un-make it.”

  She paused. Her voice softened. “He’s not worth it, Becs.”

  My insides went all quivery.

  “What time will you be home?” I warbled.

  “I’ll finish up early. Is five-ish okay?”

  “Just work your normal hours, Liz. I’ll hang out in the café at the end of the street.”

  “What, and leave you waiting until nine? Hardly. I’ll finish early.”

  She really was the best friend ever.

  “I’ll come and get you,” she added.

  “No, you’re doing enough already.” And I didn’t want her to see my empty room. “I’ll taxi over. See you soon.”

  Through the wall Jim was singing off-key as he tap-tap-tapped at his computer. I’d better not interrupt him. He might try to convince me to stay, and he always put such a logical case. I didn’t want to change my mind. And what if he said he’d miss me? No—far easier to write what I had to say.

  I bent to pick Jules up for a final hug but he wasn’t having a bar of it. With an agitated tail-flick he stalked away from me and into Jim’s room. Traitorous—but clever. He knew I wouldn’t follow him there.

  I left my goodbye note on the top stair. What I didn’t expect was that Jim would emerge and find it before I’d even left.

  “You’ve got a hard neck, Becky Jordan.”
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br />   Adrenalin shot all the way down to my toes, leaving me shaky and short of breath. I stopped, hesitated, turned. He stood halfway down the stairs, the note clamped in one hand and a grim look on his face.

  “What do you mean?” I couldn’t take any more nasty scenes this week, and his tone had a distinct Nasty Scene ring to it.

  “Nine years—nine years—we’ve been flatting. And what? Not even a fucking goodbye?”

  I looked guiltily at the scrap of paper. “My note says goodbye.”

  “Your note,” he enunciated, “is a cop-out. A fucking cop-out. The least you could’ve done is told me to my face.”

  “But I was . . . I just thought . . .” I trailed off, belatedly wondering what on earth I had been thinking.

  “What? That it was easier not to?” He advanced down the stairs.

  “I just didn’t want a scene,” I muttered, my eyes skittering towards the door.

  “Well, you’ve got one now, haven’t you?” He stood in front of me, feet apart, arms folded. “Since when did I become the asshole?”

  “What? You didn’t. I—”

  “Then would someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  I looked at him mutely. He looked mega-angry. I’d never seen him so angry.

  “Fuck’s sake, Becky. Nine years is longer than some people are married. And now you’re gonna—what?” He flung out an arm. “Just up and leave? No discussion, no notice, no thanks-for-the-good-times?” His face reddened. “Who do you think you are? The god-damn freaking Queen?”

  I felt chastened and ashamed.

  He crumpled the note and threw it at the bin. “Go on, then. Tell me to my face.”

  I gulped. “There’s nothing much to say.”

  “Nothing to say? Fuck! There’s plenty. For starters, what’s fucked you up so much you can’t even tell me you’re fucking leaving? I might not like it, but at least give me a fucking chance to say so.” I started to count the fucks. “And so what if you don’t want to hear it? After nine years you fucking owe it to me to listen.”

  “I—”

  “And what’s got into you,” he didn’t even pause for breath, “that you fuck off and go AWOL when you’re meant to be at the junket of the fucking year? Are you fucked in the head or what? And what’s with the fifty fucking phone calls from some Charlie fucker? Good job you’re leaving ’cause I’m sick of being your fucking secretary.”

  Eleven fucks. That was bad.

  “Jim, I’m sorry.” And I was. Sorry the bloody taxi hadn’t turned up. “I should’ve told you I was leaving.”

  He scowled at me. “Fu—”

  “You deserved better.”

  He humpfed. But no more fucks.

  “Look, I’ve been in a really bad space this past week. And when I got back from Dublin . . . well, you just turned everything into a joke, and—”

  “Hey, if you’d bothered to share . . .”

  I looked longingly at the door. Pinched my eyes shut for a second. “Yes, okay, point taken. I—I didn’t know where to start.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Hey,” I snapped, “a lot happened, okay? I already felt revolting, and then you went all necrophilia on me.”

  His hackles stood to attention. “That was a joke and you know it. Take a feckin’ chill pill.”

  “It’s hard to chill when you’ve just been bitch-slapped by your sister the minute you step off the plane.”

  “Yeah?” His hackles settled as curiosity took over. “What did you do to deserve that?”

  “That’s right.” My jaw, rock-hard with tension, began to ache. “Take Dani’s side, why don’t you?”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”

  “You just did.”

  “I—”

  “Hey,” I interrupted, “nobody deserves to be attacked, okay? Just ’cause she’s my sister doesn’t make it okay. And it’s not okay for you to think it’s okay. Okay?”

  “Er—”

  “I don’t care how much you want to get in her pants. She’s a witch. A manipulative, conniving witch. And how dare she call me frumpy? Or fat? My body may not be a perfect ten, but I have feelings, too, you know.” I fixed him with an accusing stare. “And you took her side, just like that. Just because you think she’s hot.”

  “I—”

  “How could you take her side? It’s not like she’ll ever sleep with you.”

  I regretted the words as soon as I saw his expression, but the ‘sorry’ stuck in my throat.

  “Cheers for that.” He hunched on the bottom stair.

  Then he shook his head as if to clear his mind of rubbish. “Christ! This is exactly why women do my head in.” Gangly arms flapped. “Everything’s such a drama. You make it all so complicated.” He exhaled, scratched at his scalp, collapsed full-length against the stairs then, agitated, leaned forward again. “What’s the big deal, here? So your sister’s drop-dead gorgeous. So I want to shag her into next week.”

  I opened my mouth then closed it again.

  “So what? I’m a bloke. What do you expect?”

  I squirmed uncomfortably. “Do we really need to have this conversation?”

  He shot me a wild-eyed look. “Apparently, yes. God knows why.”

  I looked at my watch. Where was that blasted cab?

  “Look, Becky, let’s get something straight. Dani is Dani and you are you. Believe it or not, I get that. Dani’s sex on a stick, and you’re . . .”

  He faltered—clearly I wasn’t sex on a stick. “You’re . . .”

  He blew out his cheeks, avoiding my eyes. “. . . my house-mate.”

  “Ex,” I said tightly. “Ex-house-mate.”

  His features twisted. “And what the hell is that all about?” More arm-flapping.

  “Long story. You’d be bored.”

  “Try me.”

  I looked away.

  His face fell. “Or not.” He got to his feet and started up the stairs.

  “Jim, don’t.” I reached out and tugged on his arm. “I’m a bitch.”

  He looked down at me, his eyes dull.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t really about you.”

  “Then why leave?” he asked, and I felt his hurt as if it were my own.

  “Because I’m leaving London.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re what?”

  “I’m leaving London. Going up north.”

  “What? Why? That’s crazy!”

  “Probably,” I agreed, “but that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Fuck.” He blinked. Stared at me. Stuck a finger in one ear and vigorously scratched. “Fuck.”

  “I’ve only just decided or I’d have told you earlier.”

  He sank back down onto the stair, his goggly eyes even more goggly than usual. “What—just like that?”

  I nodded. “I’m leaving in a couple of days. I’ll stay with Liz until I finish up at work.”

  “But—”

  “Jim, please don’t try and change my mind,” I pleaded. “You’ll just make it harder than it already is.”

  “If it’s that hard, why do it?” Then, when I didn’t answer, “Come on, you’ve gotta give me something, here, Becs, ’cause I just don’t understand.”

  I sat on the bottom stair next to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “Guess that makes two of us,” I said on a sigh.

  And with his head touching mine I told him about Matt. The sleeps-with-boss-then-gets-heart-broken version.

  “This sounds a bit too Mickey for my liking,” he muttered.

  So I told him the rest of the story. The original, un-edited, includes-previously-deleted-scenes-with-Charlie-and-Dani version.

  “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not Mickey. It’s worse.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. Much worse.”

  “Becs, you’re like a broken fucking record. Why do you keep doing this?”

  I hugged my knees, staring at the carpet. “You can’t help who you
fall in love with.”

  After a pause he said a quiet, “I know.”

  Two words, two unassuming little words. But something in his tone made me glance up sharply. His eyes flickered away from mine. For the first time I could remember, the silence between us felt awkward.

  The silence lengthened. Great. Just when I’d thought things couldn’t get any worse.

  I made to stand and he spoke again. “You know the difference between you and me? I’m recovering from my addiction. You don’t even see yours.”

  “Hey, eight units a week is hardly addicted.”

  “See what I mean? You don’t even know what I’m talking about. It’s not alcohol with you. It’s men. Men who make you feel inferior.”

  I stood abruptly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It’s true. You’re always telling me it’s your fault it didn’t work out. You did something or said something or were too much of one thing or not enough of another or—”

  “No I—”

  “This time it was Matt.” He tallied it up on his fingers. “Before him there was Lord What’s-his-name who used you as paparazzi fodder while he—”

  “Yeah, okay, I remember.”

  “And Mickey. And before him, that dude who gambled your bank account dry. And what about that crackhead lecturer you shagged back in College?” He shook his head at me. “You’re addicted, man.”

  I climbed the stairs, just to put some distance between us.

  “What, to sex?” I tried for frivolous. “Ha! It’s just good fun.”

  “Yeah, alcoholism was just good fun for a while, too.”

  “Jeez, Jim.” I leaned over the banister. “You want me to join a nunnery?”

  He studied me, head to one side. “Nah. You wouldn’t look good in a habit. Stay here.”

  I gave him a flat-lining smile, one that didn’t even register on the Happy Scale. “Sorry.”

  “How am I supposed to stick to the programme if you’re not here, bullying me every step of the way?”

  “You will. Remember what we used to say? You can lead a drunk to water . . .”

  He joined in, “. . . but you can’t make him drink it.”

  This time my smile was genuine. I came back down the stairs, sat beside him and gave him a gentle shoulder-nudge. “Hey, I’m not the person who stops you drinking. You are.”