by Lindsey Kelk
‘I actually think the people are really friendly,’ I said, turning my glass round on the spot. ‘And it’s not such a rush once you get into the rhythm.’
‘Or if you don’t get off the settee?’ He laughed again then tried to choke it off when he saw my face. As it happened, I spent a very healthy amount of time on the sofa, but he didn’t get to make a joke about it.
‘Well, New Yorkers can be as friendly on the sofa as English people are on the back seats of their cars,’ I said as calmly as I possibly could. Mark spluttered and spat a mouthful of beer out onto the pavement. ‘That’s quite friendly, isn’t it?’
‘Angela.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and remembered his stiff upper lip. ‘Do we have to?’
‘Oh God, you’re so English.’ I couldn’t help but laugh. It felt good. I sat up, leaning my elbows on the table and looked him in the eye. ‘Mark, I don’t care.’
‘I know it wasn’t ideal, the way it happened,’ he said, wiping stray spots of ale from his chin. ‘I never wanted it to work out that way, but things with me and you, they were—’
‘Seriously,’ I cut in before he said something he would regret. ‘Really. I don’t care.’
I wasn’t sure if it was true, but I certainly didn’t want to hear the excuses he’d been working on for two years. This, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time, was closure, not revenge or retribution. I didn’t need to hear his whining, I just needed to show up, look amazing and leave the bigger person. Not physically bigger, though; I had lost a bit of weight.
‘Good to know.’ He sipped at his beer again with caution. I let him finish a whole mouthful before I started talking again. Just in case. If he spat on my dress, I would have to kill him.
‘So, I’m engaged.’ I splayed my fingers out on the table and let the ring twinkle against the dark wood. ‘Not to you.’ I clarified.
‘I assumed we were officially off when I found your engagement ring in a bag of piss,’ he replied crisply. I looked up suddenly. Oh yeah. I did that. ‘So who’s the lucky chap?’
‘It’s a funny story,’ I started with suspicion. I knew Louisa and Tim must have mentioned Alex to him − there was no way it hadn’t come up in conversation over the past two years, even if they didn’t exactly hang out often these days. And he totally already knew I was engaged − his mum would have been on the phone to him faster than Gossip Girl when she found out. ‘You know that band Stills? We saw them at the Garage years ago.’
‘Don’t remember,’ he sniffed. Ha. I had him on the ropes.
‘Well, we saw them,’ I carried on, moving in for the KO. ‘Anyway, I met this guy in a coffee shop one day and he turned out to be the lead singer. And then he turned out to be my fiancé.’
‘You’re getting married to a bloke in a band?’ Mark did not look nearly as beaten as I would like. In fact, he was trying very hard to cover a very smug expression. ‘Really, Angela?’
‘Really, Mark.’ I was confused. ‘And that’s funny because?’
‘It’s just a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’ He started helping himself to my crisps. That shit wouldn’t fly when we were together and it certainly wasn’t going to fly now. I snatched the packet back. ‘You bugger off to New York with a cob on and shack up with a musician? What, do you think you’re Sid and Nancy?’
‘That’s an interesting way of looking at what happened,’ I sniffed. ‘Although I suppose I did have “a bit of a cob on” at the time. But I’m not just shacked up with a musician, I’m getting married. And hopefully not knifed to death in the Chelsea Hotel.’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m being an arsehole,’ he said, trying to reach across the table and cover my hand with his. ‘But I’m trying to make you see sense here. You can’t run off to New York and marry a rock star on the rebound. That’s not how life works.’
‘I’m not on the rebound,’ I screeched, entirely unconcerned about the old couple at the neighbouring table. ‘This didn’t happen yesterday. I’m not a sixteen-year-old groupie.’
‘Will you calm down?’ Mark hissed across the table. ‘I forget how long you’ve been gone. You’ve clearly spent far too long with the Americans.’
‘Or just enough time away from you,’ I countered. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.’
‘Then don’t behave like one,’ he snapped back. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Do you really think this man is going to marry you? He’ll probably have moved when you get back or your keys won’t work and all your stuff will be on the street.’
‘Given that he’s here with me and we’re getting married on Saturday, that seems unlikely,’ I said triumphantly.
Mark gave a quick demo of his famous goldfish impression, with bonus opening and closing. I swept a stray piece of hair out of my face and folded my arms. Ah-ha. Have that, you bastard.
‘You’re getting married on Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s why you’re home?’
‘Yes.’ Well, sort of.
‘Were you going to tell me?’ He had suddenly gone very pale. ‘If I hadn’t called?’
‘Would it matter?’ I felt myself flush opposite him. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it would matter,’ he mumbled, pushing crisps around in the open packet. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Stop calling me stupid.’ I was losing my temper incredibly quickly and that was not part of my be the bigger man plan. ‘You don’t know me. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yeah, I do know you Angela,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘I’ve known you since you were sixteen. I know your mum, I know your dad, I know you’re allergic to penicillin, I know you put two sugars in your tea even though you tell people you only have one, I know you love reading those crappy celebrity magazines in the bath for hours on end, I know you won’t go out in flip-flops until you’ve painted your toenails.’
He paused for breath and turned down the volume slightly.
‘I know you would go out and buy me Lemsip at the first sign of a cold. I know the smell of mushy peas makes you yak but you never complain about me having them. I know Watership Down makes you cry. I know that you were my first and I was yours and this is just the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’
I didn’t know who was more stunned − me or the old couple beside us.
‘Does he know all that?’ Mark pressed his lips together in a thin, tight line. ‘This Alex?’
‘He knows I get easily upset at the death of cartoon rabbits and that I’m thoughtful enough to buy cold medicine when needed, yes,’ I replied in a low voice. ‘But I don’t think he’s terribly concerned as to who I lost my virginity to.’
Mark stood up with a start. ‘I meant you were my first love. But whatever.’
He clambered out of the table, kicking it as he went and spilling his unfinished beer everywhere.
‘Oh, I say.’ The old man beside us winked at his wife.
‘Drama,’ she replied, lifting her gin and bitter lemon.
‘Oh, bloody hell.’ I snaffled a handful of crisps and legged it across the road after him.
‘And I’m the one who got all American and dramatic?’ I ran up behind Mark and gave him a good hard push in the back. ‘What was that all about, you woman?’
He carried on walking in silence until he was right in front of the car and then turned around with a face like thunder.
‘You’re an idiot,’ he said in a perfectly calm voice. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘As it happens, I do,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t know what that’s got to do with you.’
He huffed and puffed for a moment, looking left and right before grabbing my shoulders and shoving me roughly against the car.
‘What the—’ But I wasn’t given a chance to finish my question because Mark had his tongue so far down my throat, I was pretty sure he could feel my liver. It was hardly the most romantic moment of my life, but for a couple of seconds, it was my life again. M
y old life. He smelled the same, he felt the same − it was too much.
‘What are you doing?’ I pushed him away and hit him with my satchel. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘What are you talking about?’ He covered his head with his arms and cowered behind the bonnet of the car. ‘I thought you wanted me to!’
‘Why would I want you to kiss me?’ I continued to beat him for fear of another attack of the lips. I paused to wave my left hand in his terrified face. ‘I’m getting married on Saturday, you fool.’
‘And you come out with me, all dressed up, with bloody make-up on.’ He spat out the word and waved a hand around in the general vicinity of his face. ‘And I’m supposed to think you don’t want me to kiss you?’
This was tricky territory. Because I did want him to want to kiss me, but I didn’t want him to follow through with it. I wanted him to think about it, then go home and have a little cry in the bath. Now he had created all kinds of fun problems. Now I had to tell Alex. Now I had to tell my mum. Now I had to pick up all the tampons and lip balms that had fallen out of my handbag. Who needed seven lip balms and only three tampons? Me, apparently.
‘Of course I didn’t want you to kiss me!’ I tried ever so hard to morph into the spitting dinosaur from Jurassic Park, but for some reason I couldn’t quite manage it. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘So what did you want?’ He smoothed out his shirt and shook out his shoulders a couple of times. ‘Apart from to mess with my head?’
It was all very Danny Zuko in Grease. I tried very hard not to shout, ‘You’re a fake and a phoney and I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.’
‘I wanted …’ My mind was completely empty. I couldn’t tell him I wanted closure. I couldn’t tell him I wanted him to feel stupid. I certainly couldn’t tell him I wanted him to go home and listen to whatever music boys listened to when they were sad and wish he’d never ever cheated on me. So I told him the biggest, stupidest lie I could think of.
‘I wanted to invite you to the wedding.’
‘I would love to,’ he replied through gritted teeth.
‘Wonderful.’ My eyes widened and my throat felt tight. Cockingtons. ‘I am so glad.’
‘Are you now?’ He smelled a rat. Or at least the busted bottle of Coco Mademoiselle that lay at my feet.
‘I would be honoured if you would attend,’ I said very slowly and clearly. ‘You and your lovely girlfriend.’
‘You want me to bring Katie?’ His eyebrows shot up so high it was a wonder they didn’t get caught in the engines of a passing plane. ‘To your wedding?’
‘Sod it, why not?’ I had already destroyed the happiest day of my life by inviting this bell end; I figured I may as well push it as far as possible. Besides, there was no way she’d come. Right? ‘The more the merrier. Please do tell her it’s a fancy occasion, though, so if she can keep her knickers on, that would be brilliant.’
‘I’m sure she’ll do her best.’ Mark continued to stare straight at me. ‘You really have changed, you know.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ I said, stooping to gather my belongings as gracefully as I could without flashing my gusset to the world. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’
My dignified exit and refusal of a lift home meant that I had to get the train back. And having to get the train meant I had to get a Starbucks. Soothed by the globally recognized menu, I sipped at my venti latte and texted Alex to tell him we needed to talk weddings when he got home. And then I texted Louisa to tell her I needed to talk to her as soon as. And then I texted Jenny to tell her we needed to do some more work on the seating plan.
This had not been my most successful day. I got home and changed into my pyjama shorts and one of Alex’s T-shirts, hoping his common-sense DNA might rub off on me, and settled down to sort through the boxes my mum had left in the back bedroom. Self-inflicted punishment of the worst kind − I was going to have to confront the ghosts of fashions passed. Thank God Jenny was out.
The first box was easy to deal with. Lots of H&M strappy dresses I’d worn with lots of little greying H&M T-shirts underneath. The odd Warehouse shift, a couple of pairs of worn-through leggings. I pulled a huge fluffy jumper out of the pile and put it to one side. It held many happy memories of cuddling up on the couch with Louisa and half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The second box was full of books. I made a mental note to have them shipped before we headed back to the States. The last box was less easily dealt with. Instead of finding a pile of sad clothes or a stack of classics, I found everything else I’d left behind. This box was full of me. My Little Mermaid, Bring It On and Buffy DVDs. A collection of Benefit make-up catalogues, so often lusted after and rarely used. Half a dozen theatre programmes, my scrapbook of tickets and flyers of all the gigs I’d gone to. And underneath them, three large blue suede photo albums. The collected volumes of Angela and Mark. It hadn’t occurred to me that he would have packed these up with my things. These weren’t my things, they were our things. And I didn’t want them. I pulled them out and rested all three in my lap for a moment. They were heavy.
I pulled a hair-tie from around my wrist and twisted my hair up on top of my head before I opened up the first album. The first thing that hit me was how young I looked. And how terrible my hair was. I always thought I looked pretty good for twenty-eight − I stayed out of the sun, I wore sunscreen − but there was something in my face in these pictures that no amount of product could put back. I flicked through the pages, watching me and Louisa grow up. Dancing in the garden, dressing up as the Spice Girls, both of us on horses, Louisa on a horse and me standing beside one in a cast. And then the boys appeared. After a couple of pages, the pictures moved on to just me and Mark. Messing about for the camera at uni, our holiday in Seville where he proposed, the day we got the keys for our house. Slowly, as I moved on to the last album, I noticed that there were fewer and fewer photos that had been deemed album-worthy. The first few pages were crammed with photos of us with our cheeks pressed tightly together, arms thrown around each other like the world was ending. But by the end there were just one or two photos of us with strained smiles and no touching. This was what people meant when they said a picture spoke a thousand words. I just hadn’t been listening at the time.
Underneath the albums were stacks and stacks of cards. I leafed through them, occasionally flicking them open to see the faded inscriptions. It wasn’t until I felt the hot water dripping on to my knees that I realized I was crying. It wasn’t just the birthday and Christmas cards I’d collected over the years, it was everything. All the Valentine’s cards we had sent to each other. Every little love note. The anniversary cards, the postcards, the just-to-say-I-love-you cards. How did shared belongings automatically become possessions of the girl after a break-up? Why did we have to suffer the burden? I couldn’t believe he’d discarded all of this so easily. I’d spent hours writing out these notes, these love letters, and at the time they’d meant everything. I’d assumed they’d meant the same to him. Apparently not. Maybe Katie didn’t want them in her house. Or maybe Mark didn’t care to be reminded of his past mistakes. Either way, it was harsh.
I picked up a pale pink heart and stared at it. I didn’t need to open it to know what it said − I had the words memorized. This was the first Valentine’s card I’d ever sent. For a second, just a second, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t left England. If I hadn’t run away. Would we have worked things out? Would I have fought for Mark? Could we have been happy?
I piled the cards back in with the books and wiped away my tears with an unattractive sniff. Maybe inviting him to the wedding wasn’t a silly idea; maybe it was a downright stupid idea.
‘Hey girl.’ Alex knocked gently on the door and stood in front of me in last night’s rumpled clothes. ‘What’s up?’
I looked up, tears streaming down my face, grey traces of mascara staining the backs of my hands. ‘Hi.’ My voice was thick and sad, even though I was trying to smile.
‘You OK?
’ His face creased with concern and he was on his knees by my side in moments. ‘What’s wrong?’
I wanted to hold it all together and tell him I was fine. I wanted to be completely reassured by his presence, by the fact that we were getting married in mere days, by the knowledge that Alex would be by my side for the rest of my life, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t. Seeing Mark, reading these cards, looking at ten years gone by wrapped up in blue suede had stolen my voice. They had stolen my faith. All I could do was press my lips tightly together and let my eyes burn.
‘What are these?’ Alex took the card out of my hands and opened it up. He read it, looked at me and read it again. Then he closed it and put it back in the box. ‘You getting cold feet on me, Clark?’
I shook my head and smiled but I couldn’t quite form the words I needed to. Instead I pressed my head into his chest and let out the last couple of whimpers while he stroked my hair.
‘This is all your old stuff,’ he asked, poking the box with his foot. ‘Yours and Mark’s?’
I noticed an edge to his voice when he said Mark’s name − just a very slight crispness that never really made it into Alex’s approach to life. There was a chance my news wasn’t going to go down especially well.
‘Yeah,’ I whispered, clearing my throat. ‘Mum asked me to go through the boxes but I didn’t know what was in them. Sorry, I just got a bit, you know, sad.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry for being sad.’ He kept stroking my hair and holding me close. ‘It must be weird to see all this stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, scrunching up my face. I just had to bite the bullet. ‘And I saw Mark too.’
‘You did?’ The stroking stopped.
‘And I sort of invited him to the wedding.’
‘You did?’ Suddenly he wasn’t holding me quite so tightly.
‘It was stupid, it just came out.’ I pulled away and looked up at him but his expression was completely unreadable. ‘He called to see if we could catch up and I thought, you know, it’d be all right because we’ve both moved on and it would be good to see him and stuff.’