Chapter 64
Rob will cry. There is no question about it. And I’m dreading it.
As I drive over to his flat, my stomach in knots, all I can think is: I hate this, for more reasons than I can possibly list. I hate it because he’ll be excited about seeing me after days apart and, instead of a romantic reunion, he’ll get a big metaphorical slap across the face. I hate it because I don’t want to be a bad person, but feel like Darth Vader poised to slaughter Bambi with his light sabre. And finally I’ll hate it because, despite being sure I’m doing the right thing, there’s every chance I’ll regret it the second the words are out of my mouth.
I pad to his door and ring the bell, half wondering if he’s going to be expecting this. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? I’ve been on holiday with another man (about which I’ve admittedly spent a long time protesting the innocence) and haven’t even seen my own boyfriend since I returned. I don’t know how I can sleep at night.
He’s smiling as he answers the door, and the words going through my head are: ‘Rob, please don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry!’
His expression changes instantly.
‘Emma . . . why are you crying?’ As he guides me into the flat I realise fat, salty tears are sliding down my face, stinging my skin. ‘What is it?’ He wraps his arms round me as I try to form my words, to pull myself together. But all I can do is snivel fervently, while my nose heats up and my skin pebble-dashes with red.
‘Emma . . . what’s the matter with my gorgeous girl?’ He lifts up my chin. ‘What’s happened?’
We sit on the sofa and he hands me a tissue. When I blow my nose it feels like a lump of hot dough expanding in an airing cupboard.
Then I look into his eyes and know that this is it. The moment I’m going to do the awful deed, once and for all. All I can do is stay strong.
‘Emma, can I say something?’
‘Yes?’
He hesitates, searching my face. ‘You need to . . . um . . .’
‘What is it, Rob?’ I ask, emotion swelling up inside me.
‘You need to wipe your nose again. You’ve got a . . . a bogey.’
I grab another tissue and suffer the indignity of frantically removing stray snot from my face, uncertain, after the procedure is complete, whether or not I’ve even removed all traces.
‘That’s better.’ He smiles, leaning in to kiss me.
I pull back. ‘Rob, don’t.’
Suddenly, I don’t need to say anything. All the protestations I’d planned about what a wonderful guy he is and how I’m certain he’ll meet someone who’s right for him and I know I’ll miss him like mad . . . they’re about to become pointless.
Because he knows. I’m already breaking his heart for the second time. And I’ve never felt worse.
Chapter 65
I don’t stay at Rob’s for long afterwards. He’s upset, I’m upset, and there is little point in analysing something that isn’t going to change. The fact that he wants to stay friends is about the only consolation in a situation that makes me lie awake all night – thinking about him, then Matt, then me, the last of these being a person I really don’t like. Not tonight.
The following day continues in the same vein: staring at a redundant computer with intermittent Assam tea runs for Dee.
When I return to Liverpool that night and drive home from the station, I pull up to the house feeling like my brain has been turned inside out. Matt is outside, heading into his flat. When he spots me, he’s clearly about to come over. So I grab my mobile and start talking into it as I open the car door, pretending to be engaged in a conversation comparable in importance to the Middle East peace talks.
‘Oh absolutely!’ I whoop enthusiastically, as I step out and give Matt a cursory wave. ‘You’re so right. Totally. Hmmm.’ I nod a couple of times. ‘Gosh, that’s terrible. Oh I think so. I definitely think so.’
He watches as I head into the house, continuing my fictitious conflab, then I close the door.
My head feels swollen with thoughts as I slump on the sofa and lie down, shutting my eyes.
The darkness doesn’t help. It only sharpens my guilt about Rob and my misery about work tomorrow.
Then my mind drifts to thoughts of Iceland.
To my indecent desire as I gazed at Matt’s muscular back while he swam through the Blue Lagoon. To my thudding heart as he embraced me in bed. And to the pain in his eyes when he spoke about Allison . . .
My eyes jerk open.
All I can do is put thoughts like that right out of my mind. I decide to try a relaxation technique, but only tense and release my muscles twice before the doorbell rings. I drag myself from the sofa and head to the door.
Even before I open it, I suspect it’ll be Matt, but I’m still not prepared for the dance my heart breaks into as I set eyes on his moonlit features.
‘You forgot something,’ he smiles, holding out my cardigan. ‘You left it behind in the hotel room – I presumed it wasn’t a gift for the maid.’
‘Ah, thanks.’
‘So, how’s the job?’
I scrunch up my nose.
‘You’re not enjoying it?’
‘I’m sure things will improve. Besides, that’s the least of my worries.’
He pauses, waiting for me to explain.
‘Rob and I have split up.’
He hesitates. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Emma. Are you okay?’
His dark eyes dart across my face, and I pray he doesn’t try to do something nice, like hug me. I can’t bear the thought of a friendly cuddle from him. I had a friendly cuddle that lasted all night when we were in Iceland and waking from that – unkissed – was not a good feeling.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply firmly. ‘Right, I’ve got loads to do before work tomorrow so . . .’
‘Of course.’ He takes a step backwards. ‘We’ll catch up at the weekend.’
‘Goodnight.’
He skips down the steps, brushing against the leaves on the birch tree and leaving them swishing in the cold air. The second I shut the door, I want him back, this man for whom my feelings are totally unrequited.
It is that thought – the horrible imbalance in our affections – that inflames the rims of my eyes with tears, reducing me to a mess again . . . just as the doorbell rings for the second time, a minute later.
I wipe my eyes and go back to the hall, returning to the spot where I stood only a moment ago. A volcano erupts inside me when it’s him again.
He is silent for a second. It is enough time for my heart to react to the sight of his parted lips under the soft rays of silver light.
‘I shouldn’t do this . . . you’ve only just split up with someone . . .’
‘What?’ I frown.
His eyes lock with mine. ‘I forgot something else, Emma.’
At first he doesn’t move; neither of us does. Then he steps forward, bending towards me slowly, sweeping his arm round my back. His mouth draws near as my eyelids dreamily flicker shut. We float into the kiss, brushing lips with a feather touch while my insides blaze and my blood feels like molten lava.
It’s a long, long kiss – as sweet as a first kiss, as strong as a last.
In my case, it’s neither.
It’s simply the best.
Chapter 66
A strange thing happens over the next few days. Technically, my life should be about as cheerful as an EastEnders Christmas special. It always has been when work isn’t going well. But very little dampens my mood.
Not Lulu telling me I won’t get internet access until I’ve reached a certain (unspecified) level of seniority. Not Dee asking me to refrain from eating an orange because being four feet from the zest irritates her sinuses. Not the anaesthetising boredom, the abominable rudeness of my colleagues, nor the fact that the closest I get to interior design involves buying batteries for the office smoke alarm.
Because something amazing has happened. His name is Matt.
When I’m at work, I spend h
ours thinking about him.
When I’m not at work, largely, I’m with him. We spend all weekend together. We go to the cinema together. We cook a huge family dinner on Saturday, followed by several games of Twister (both when the kids are there and – ahem – after they’re in bed).
In the five days following that blissful kiss, everything changes. Minor irritations go unnoticed, major catastrophes feel like no big deal.
Obviously, life on Planet Emma isn’t entirely perfect.
My guilt about Rob simmers underneath this euphoria, almost constantly. I keep wondering if he’ll make contact again – or indeed if I should text or call him. But I don’t want to give him hope when there is absolutely none.
I’m meeting Asha for a run on a cold Tuesday evening, and on the way one of the (many) wonders I’m pondering about this unexpected situation is how comfortable I feel around Matt’s sons. It’s a new and strange feeling, one that puts a smile on my face as I think about it.
Still, I resolve not to be too cheerful when I meet Asha, who I know will have had a difficult week. Not least because breaking up with Toby coincided with a chaotic time at work – her only response to my text enquiring how it went was:
Up the wall right now – I’ll fill you in on Tuesday x
But as we set off for our run, it becomes apparent that there is little to fill me in on.
‘Let me get this straight, you haven’t dumped Toby?’
‘No. I haven’t,’ she replies defiantly, as if it was never on the agenda.
‘What happened to “I used to be a feminist”?’
She deliberately speeds up, and my thighs are on fire as I try to catch her.
She shakes her head. ‘If you just knew what it was like.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know what I said, Emma. Oh, you don’t understand.’
We run along in silence for a minute, before her phone rings and we stop as she takes it out of the holder on her running pants.
‘Hi.’ I can tell from the way she answers that it’s Toby. ‘Okay. Yep. I’ll phone at ten tomorrow. Speak to you then.’
As she slips the phone into its holder, something occurs to me. ‘Have you got a new phone?’
‘This is a temporary one. To phone Toby on,’ she confesses reluctantly.
‘What?’
She sighs. ‘Christina found his phone bill and started quizzing him about why my number appeared so many times. So he bought me this one.’ She glances at my expression. ‘Oh don’t look at me like that, Emma.’
I shake my head, too stunned to answer.
‘You don’t understand,’ she repeats.
And it strikes me that she might be right. I’ve been finding it increasingly hard to comprehend the situation the longer it’s gone on.
‘He’s like a drug to me. There’s no point in me trying to defend this. It’s indefensible. But I can’t keep away from him.’
‘Did you try to dump him?’
‘Yes,’ she huffs, her face crumpling. ‘I ended up sleeping with him.’
She pauses at the top of the hill, exhausted more by the conversation than the run, and leans forward with her hands on her knees as she catches her breath.
‘What a loser I am,’ she spits eventually, straightening up. ‘I know it. Go on, Emma. Tell me that’s what I am – I deserve it.’
‘Asha, I don’t think you’re a loser. I just don’t think this is good for you. In fact, I think it’s terrible for you – and everyone else involved. I want the best for you. That’s all.’
Tears gather in pools in her eyes and the self-hatred that consumes her breaks my heart.
‘Oh, Asha,’ I tut, reaching over to embrace her.
She squeezes me tightly and closes her eyes. ‘Thanks, Emma. You’re such a good friend. If it means anything . . . he really will do it eventually. I just have to be patient. Don’t you think?’
She starts to look up but I pull her gently towards me again, before answering in the only honest way I can: ‘I don’t know, Asha. I genuinely don’t know.’
Chapter 67
Watching crap telly has never been so stimulating. I am lying on my sofa on Wednesday night, my eyes fixed in the direction of the television, and every nerve ending in my body is buzzing.
The show is the kind of reality tripe that makes it hard to believe whoever devised it invested more than six minutes of their life and the back of a packet of Silk Cut.
I say this, of course, and I am still watching it. Although that’s largely because the only thing I’m concentrating on as I lie on Matt’s chest is the touch of his hand as he strokes my hair, twirling strands round his fingers as my heart thuds in my ears. I close my eyes and breathe in his neck – then the TV volume explodes.
‘WHOOOOAAAAAAAAH!’
I stiffen and focus on the source of the interruption – a woman leaping from a plane at twelve thousand feet. It prompts the sort of response in my stomach that most people would feel only as a consequence of a violent bout of gastroenteritis during a particularly hairy cross-Channel ferry trip.
‘That’s on my list,’ I mutter. ‘At least, it was.’
‘Oh yes – skydiving,’ Matt replies. ‘I remember you mentioning that. I didn’t think I’d seen it on the list pinned on your fridge, though.’
‘That would be because I cut it off the bottom.’
He bursts into laughter. ‘Why don’t you do it?’ he asks, as if we’re talking about something as straightforward as clipping my toenails.
‘I don’t think I could, Matt. Genuinely. I decided early on that that’s one I’ll be sitting out.’
‘Well, it’s not something anyone can be persuaded to do,’ he concedes. ‘You’ve got to really want to do it.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Have you done it?’
He nods. ‘I did it for charity a few years ago, just after Mum had breast cancer.’
‘I didn’t know she’d had cancer.’
‘She’s had the all-clear for a number of years now, although it was scary at the time. Anyway, I raised quite a lot of money. I loved it.’
‘Seriously?’
He laughs. ‘Is that such a surprise?’
‘I’m in awe, that’s all. The reason I cut it off the bottom of my list is because I know I’d get up in the plane and refuse to jump out.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ he tells me with total confidence. ‘No matter how tempted you are to bottle out, you’d go through with it.’
He shakes his head determinedly, then grins and switches it to a nod. ‘Very.’
I giggle as he pulls me towards him and brushes my lips with his, making me flutter with lust.
‘The boys aren’t coming this weekend. They’re visiting their grandparents in Worcester. I thought maybe, if you’re around, we could go for a drive in the country. Have lunch and maybe a walk afterwards.’
I try not to grin. ‘I’m around.’
He hesitates, gazing at me with hot eyes as he focuses on my lips. I reach up, just one degree, and kiss him, my insides swirling with desire. His tongue is gentle against mine at first, until the urgency in both of us takes over and I hunger for his hands on my body.
Matt pulls away momentarily to reach for the remote, mute the television and switch off the lamp on the table next to us.
He plants butterfly kisses on my collarbone, moving his hands to the buttons on my shirt as I throb with longing. I watch as he prises open each button, giggling as he grapples with the last one.
The shirt is discarded. My bra is next. And after slowly constructing a mountain of clothes, we make love for hours, our skin bathed in flickering celluloid light.
Chapter 68
The following evening I pop in to see Dad in the shop. He and Deb are staying late tonight to reorganise the riser-recliners or something – and I can’t resist asking for an update on how his date went last night. He was very optimistic, so certain it was going to go well, that I was half expecting to be introduced to my new stepmot
her by the end of the week. Which can only mean one thing.
‘She wasn’t really my cup of tea,’ he says apologetically.
‘What was the matter with her?’
He ponders for a second, vexed about the idea of saying something unpleasant. ‘She was terribly bossy. And mean to the waiters. And . . . well . . .’
‘Not her feet?’
He frowns, clearly disappointed with himself for reaching a verdict that’s anything other than kind. ‘She had a funny face.’
‘Funny?’
‘That sounds cruel, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to be. It’s just . . . follow me.’
We enter the back of the shop and he logs onto Facebook on his computer. He only has twenty-seven friends because he hardly uses it, except to randomly and inadvertently ‘poke’ everyone in his acquaintance each time he’s on.
I scrutinise his date’s profile pic and come to the conclusion that ‘funny’ barely covers it. She’s had more surgery than a run-over cat.
‘How old is she?’
He glances at me. ‘She said . . . forty-three.’
I start coughing. She looks closer to seventy-three, even after her skin’s been stretched tighter than a Latin American snare drum.
‘Here we go!’ announces Deb, appearing from the kitchen carrying two cups of tea.
Deb has the best legs of anyone I know – pale and shapely, with a slender ankle that she knows how to show off to spectacular effect. Today she’s wearing a wool dress that reaches just below the knee, with opaque tights. It’s perfectly nice by itself, but teamed with her red Wizard of Oz heels, it’s a show-stopper.
‘Emma – when did you arrive, love? Let me make you a cup too.’
‘Deb, don’t worry. I can’t stay long.’
She glances at the computer screen, then catches my eye.
‘I’ve told your dad he can do better than that. Lots of women out there’d snap him up. And he needs to change his username to GeorgeClooneyAlike. I checked on Match.com and it’s still available.’
The Wish List Page 23