by Ava Marsh
‘What the—’ Harry blurts, but shuts up when he sees the frown on Alex’s face. Even so, his features are rigid with excitement. He punches the air, belly fat wobbling with the force of the movement.
‘Fucking yessssss!’
Alex’s expression gives nothing away.
‘He did it,’ Harry exclaims loudly. ‘He actually fucking did it.’
‘Who?’ asks Elisa, looking from one to the other. ‘Did what?
Harry eyes her and sniggers. ‘We could tell you, darling, but then we’d have to kill you.’
Elisa smiles, but there’s frost in it. Harry doesn’t pay any attention.
‘I can’t believe the bastard didn’t say anything all evening. Not a fucking thing!’ He looks around and spots a half-empty bottle of whisky. Gets up and gathers together a collection of glasses. ‘Come on, girls, let’s party.’
Elisa and Janine both accept a Scotch. Janine downs hers with a wince – clearly she’s more of a champagne girl.
‘This calls for emergency supplies.’ Harry digs in his pocket and pulls out another bag of white powder. He offers it to Alex, who shakes his head. Janine does a line, then Rob. He waves it at Elisa and me.
I excuse myself. ‘Too much to do today.’
‘What?’ Harry snorts. ‘Get your fanny waxed?’
I let myself stare at him for an instant too long, but he’s too high to notice.
‘Well, I’m gonna get totally wankered.’ Harry wipes his nose and leans back into the sofa, a beatific smile across his lunar face. ‘Being as I’m now a damned sight richer than I was this time yesterday.’
He looks over at Alex. ‘And you, mate. What have you just made? Huh?’
Alex maintains his impassive expression.
‘Thought so,’ Harry grins.
Janine sits on the side of the sofa. She looks first at Harry, then Alex. ‘Sounds like you’re both very lucky boys.’
Alex’s mouth tics, as if repressing the impulse to say something snide.
‘Naughty boys, more like,’ drawls Harry with a snort of laughter. ‘We’re golden, darling, we can’t lose. We’re fucking untouchable.’
‘Untouchable?’ Janine leans towards him, giving him a premium view of her cleavage, while slipping a hand inside his dressing gown. ‘Surely not?’
‘You’ve no idea, sweetheart.’ Harry downs the rest of his Scotch and pulls her on to his lap. Yanking a breast from her corset, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
‘You’ve got no fucking idea at all.’
10
Friday, 13 February
As soon as Rachel walks in I realize I’ve made a mistake. Everything about the place – the central circular bar, the runway floor lighting, the clumps of live bamboo – seems silly and frivolous juxtaposed against her heavy brown mac and large practical handbag, the strap slung across her chest like a bandoleer.
Rachel takes in the crowd of twenty-something media types and City traders as she wriggles out from under her bag and coat, ignoring the hovering waitress, anxious to relegate them to the cloakroom. Underneath she wears a grey trouser suit, the jacket straining over the bust. Her cheeks have a ruddy glow untempered by make-up.
There’s a dip in the corner of her mouth that might be disapproval. Or disdain. She slings her things over the back of the chair and sits with a heavy sigh, leaning on the table and pressing the heel of her hands into her eyes.
‘Glad you could make it.’ I offer her a welcoming smile.
Rachel sniffs. ‘I couldn’t find it. I went round the block twice – in the end I had to go in and ask at the pizza place on the corner.’ She nods across at the plate-glass entrance to the restaurant. ‘Would it kill them to put up a sign? Or is that too unhip?’
She turns back and stares at the bamboo thicket a few feet away from us. ‘What’s today’s special? Panda steaks?’
‘We could go back to the pizza restaurant if you prefer.’
Her cheeks grow redder and she shakes her head. She picks up her menu and scans through the options. Another twitch of the mouth as she notes the prices.
‘It’s my treat,’ I insist.
She chews her lip. Doesn’t argue.
The waitress glides over. I order a glass of Prosecco then look at Rachel. ‘San Pellegrino.’
‘Prosecco for me too,’ she tells the waitress, then sees me frowning and laughs.
‘It’s OK. I’ve stopped breastfeeding. Finally.’
Her phone bleeps from somewhere in her bag. She retrieves it and reads the message. Starts to text something back.
I glance around as I wait for her to finish. A man over by the bar catches my eye and smiles. I check him out briefly. Tall, slim build, but not really my type. I turn back to Rachel, who’s stashing her mobile away again, lips pursed in apology.
‘Sorry, just checking in with Tim.’
She squints at the other diners, running a self-conscious hand over her wind-blown hair.
‘So, how did it go?’ I prompt.
‘It nearly didn’t go at all. Therese has got a cold and couldn’t go to nursery, and by the time Tim arranged to work from home, I’d missed the train. I barely made the meeting.’
‘And?’
Rachel shrugs. ‘It went OK.’
‘You sure? You don’t sound very certain.’
‘Oh, they want me back all right. Even offered me more money.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
She groans. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to go back to work – I’m more than ready to do something other than trail after the kids all day. It’s just that I’m not sure I want to go back there.’
Rachel went into employment law thinking it would be a quiet backwater after the cut and thrust of the bar. Little realizing that hell hath no fury like an employee scorned.
‘But the money’s good,’ she sighs. ‘We need a bigger house now Theo’s growing up – they can’t share a room for ever, and you know Tim’s job is always hanging in the balance.’ She scratches the tip of her nose. ‘They made a second bloke in his department redundant last week.’
I give her a sympathetic look and for the first time since she arrived her features relax into a smile. The waitress returns with the wine and takes our order. Rachel seizes her glass, swallowing almost half in one go, then grunts in appreciation.
‘Christ, I’ve been dying for a drink for nearly three years.’
I eye the inch or so left. ‘I’ll get you another.’
‘Better not.’ She puts her glass back down. ‘It’ll go straight to my head, and I must catch the eight-thirty train.’
I dig my teeth into my lips, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d been hoping Rachel would keep the whole evening free – I can’t remember the last time we got to hang out together. But I know she’s making an effort as it is.
‘So, how’s things?’ She sits back, scrutinizes my face.
‘Fine. Good.’
Rachel stares at me a bit longer, then down at the tablecloth. I can see she’s struggling for something neutral to say. She loses the fight. ‘You’re still …’
I sigh. ‘Yes.’
She chews the inside of her lip. Raises her eyes back to mine. ‘Grace—’
‘Rachel, let’s not do this again, shall we? Let’s not go over this any more. I’m OK. Really.’
She fiddles with the stem of her glass, twirling it in her fingers so the little bubbles spin and swirl. ‘I know, Grace. But Jesus, I …’
I snort.
She looks at me quizzically. Almost offended.
‘We’re like some Victorian pastiche,’ I say. ‘The mother and the fallen woman. It seems you’re always trying to save me or something.’
Rachel’s smile is reluctant. ‘I’m not trying to save you, Grace. I’m simply trying to …’ She stops, as if she no longer knows what to say. ‘I just can’t believe you’re doing this. Not after everything …’ Her voice lapses into silence.
Not after every
thing.
I stare at my oldest friend, wondering how to respond. Wondering if it ever occurs to her that I’m doing this precisely because of everything. I consider trying to explain. How the way I am now is the only way I can live with what came before.
I close my eyes briefly, and there he is. Michael. The first time we met, the look he gave me – cocky, knowing, full of challenge. A smile that said there was nothing I could do for him, but I was welcome to try.
Christ, to think I imagined I could help. Hard to believe I was ever such a fool.
‘Grace?’
I lift my gaze back to my friend. See out of the corner of my eye that the man at the bar still has his head turned in my direction. ‘How’s Tim?’ I ask, pointedly changing the subject. ‘Finished his shed yet?’
Rachel grins, allowing me this one, the alcohol finally lifting her mood. ‘Nearly. Another few years and it’ll be great.’
‘Men and their caves, eh?’
‘You should come and have a look.’ Something a little off-hand in her tone.
‘I will,’ I insist, at the same time knowing I’ve said this once too often for Rachel to take it seriously. I try to recall the last time I was there. Right after Therese was born. Over two years, I realize with a lurch of guilt.
The waitress appears with a plate in each hand, bending her knees as she places them in front of us. Rachel examines her salad.
‘Is that all you’re going to have?’ I ask.
She grimaces. ‘I’m trying to lose some weight. I can hardly get into my old work clothes and I can’t afford new stuff.’ She picks over the green leaves, flicking something to the side of her plate. ‘Christ, I hate fucking capers.’
I lean over, spear a couple with my fork and pop them in my mouth. Replace them with a few of my basil gnocchi.
Rachel looks sheepish but grateful. ‘Hang on …’ She fishes into her bag and pulls out an envelope. ‘Before I forget. I’ve got this for you.’
‘It’s a bit late for Christmas cards,’ I say, a subtle dig. She refused to send any this year – said it was a waste of paper.
‘Just open it.’
I slide a finger under the tab to break the seal and pull out a heavily embossed piece of white card.
‘She wasn’t sure where to send it so she gave it to me,’ Rachel says as I examine the elaborately curlicued script. An invitation to Jane’s wedding. Jane Transom – our old flatmate at university.
‘So Clive finally got round to asking her then?’
‘I think she ended up asking him,’ Rachel laughs. ‘After eight years living together, he had the good sense not to refuse.’
‘Are you going?’
Her mirth subsides into a frown. ‘Of course. We’re leaving the kids with Mum.’
I scan the invitation. A church in rural Hertfordshire with the reception at Shaldcott Manor. The full works, by the look of it. I check the date – only a few weeks away. ‘Not much notice, is it?’ I say.
Rachel’s cheeks flush and I read between the lines. Clearly Jane thought twice before inviting me. ‘I’m not sure I can …’ I begin, but no plausible excuse follows in its wake.
Rachel eyes me with a serious expression. ‘C’mon, Grace, you should come.’
I swallow. Picture all the people who’ll be there. Everyone who’ll know me and what … I pull my mind away.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ Rachel’s tone is more insistant. ‘Jane will be disappointed if you don’t. Really.’
She would? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Not after what happened. After all, no one except Rachel has bothered to keep in touch since our university days.
‘I’ll try.’ I put the card back into the envelope and slip it into my bag. Steer the conversation into safer waters. But the meal feels rushed, Rachel checking the time regularly. It seems no time at all before she stands and drags on her coat, reaching in her bag for her purse.
I shake my head. ‘Like I said. My treat.’
Rachel gives me a grateful smile. ‘And I meant what I said, Grace. Come and see us soon, get away from here for a few days. It’ll do you good.’ A meaningful look as she slings the strap of her bag over her head.
‘I promise,’ I say, trying to convince myself I mean it, and stand to give her a hug. She clutches me tightly then steps back. Raises a gloved hand to my face.
‘We still love you, you know.’
She holds her hand there for a moment. I lean forward and squeeze her to me again, blinking.
‘Take care,’ Rachel says with emphasis as she turns to leave.
I watch her retreat into the London night. Sit down and finish my glass, wondering why I feel so abandoned. The waitress approaches with the bill. I give her my credit card, and as she moves away I see the man from the bar hovering behind her.
‘I wanted to ask if you’d like to join me for a drink?’ His smile the right side of hopeful. Up close he looks more attractive, a faint stubble line lending an appealing ruggedness to his features.
I weigh up my options. A night alone in front of the telly – or accept his offer. Suddenly the siren call of the sofa doesn’t seem so sweet.
11
Saturday, 14 February
I’m there again. In that dismal flat, cold grey sky barely visible through naked windows. Beneath me the bare mattress, one spring digging into my shoulder as the weight of his body pins me down. The stale sour smell of the air in the room, the musky scent of skin and sweat as he pushes into me, hard and relentless, hurting, and I’m wondering how I can possibly be here again, after everything, how I could have repeated that mistake, and I’m crying with shame because I’m here again and it’s terrible, always so terrible, and now I know I’m never, ever going to be able to leave …
I wake with a gasp. Disorientated, my cheeks damp with tears. I raise my head and look around, heart racing.
Where am I?
Dark curtains, the gap between revealing the faintest sliver of orange street light. Enough to see I’m in a double bed, half covered by the duvet. Beside me a man, asleep, face turned away.
Memory seeps in. The guy from the restaurant. Not Michael, I realize with a rush of relief, the dregs of my nightmare lingering in some recess of my mind. I slow my breathing.
Calm down, Grace. It’s not him, and you’re not there. It’s over.
Lifting my head again, I peer back towards the window. What time is it, I wonder. Not yet light, so five, maybe six? I calculate my hours of sleep – no more than four, at the most. Oh God.
I lie still, unmoving, letting the minutes slip by. Somewhere outside, I make out the faint sound of birdsong. The first rumble of traffic. Inside, closer, an intermittent clunking noise as the heating kicks in.
Not that early then. Seven, perhaps?
The man beside me stirs. Mutters something from a dream. I strain to remember his name; he must have told me. I wonder which one I gave him – Stella or Grace?
I lift the duvet carefully. I can only see his shoulders, the curve of the spine down to the dark cleft of his arse. For a moment I’m tempted to wake him, to have him embrace me, kiss away my morning breath. Let him run a hand between my thighs before slipping inside me and fucking all the bad thoughts out of my head.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake. How come men can always bloody sleep?
Christ, I need a cigarette.
I stare up at the ceiling, a tide of anxiety threatening to overwhelm me. I have to get up. I slide my legs over the side of the bed, but even the effort of sitting ignites my hangover, leaving me dizzy and nauseous.
Too much of everything, I acknowledge, flashing back to the night before. To the bar. To the club. The coke, the pot. The fumbled hasty sex when we finally tumbled into bed.
Too fucking much of everything. And always the price to pay in the morning.
Tears well again. I blink them away. No point, Grace, I tell myself as I rise unsteadily to my feet. No fucking point at all.
I don’t turn on th
e light in the bathroom, reluctant now to wake him. Unable yet to bear the strain of communication. Groping for the loo, I lower the seat and pee – there’s not much, probably beer-brown with dehydration. I daren’t flush afterwards. I pull on the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door and turn the tap on low. Splash water on my face, thankful it’s too dark to catch sight of myself in the mirror.
A heave in my stomach. I lean on the sink, breathing hard.
Oh, please, don’t let me be sick.
Gradually the nausea ebbs away. I locate the kitchen and close the door behind me. Switch on the light. The room is tiny – compact, an estate agent would say. A line of units, a fridge and a stove.
My spirits lift a little when I spot the expensive coffee maker. I open a few cupboards, find half a packet of ground arabica. Fill the machine and stand there, watching it dribble into the flask, its busy gurgling somehow a small shred of comfort. Pour myself a cup, then reconsider.
Give him a chance, Grace.
I fill a second mug and take it into the bedroom, placing it on his bedside table. The man whose name I still can’t remember blinks, opens his eyes. His complexion is blotchy, his stubble more pronounced. But he’s not bad, even in the harsh daylight now percolating into the room.
‘I made you some coffee.’
He mumbles thanks, pulls himself up into a semi-reclining position. Looks at me briefly before shutting his eyes again. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Thank you.’
I stand there for a few seconds. Graphic designer, I remember now. Recently broken up from a long-term relationship. My body recalls his mouth on my nipple, hot and eager. The feel of him inside me, the little gasp he made when he came.
‘You’re welcome to use the shower,’ he says, not opening his eyes.
My cue to leave.
I stare at him briefly, re-evaluating the night before. Definitely a rebound fuck.
I dress, not bothering with the shower. Find my bag in the living room, by the side of the sofa. Hunt through it, fingers groping into every corner of the lining. Please God. I turn up three ibuprofen. Go back into the kitchen and pour myself another inch of coffee and swallow them one by one.