In over four years, and excepting nights when they’d been watching films, this was probably the longest they’d gone in one another’s company without talking. The silence between them felt heavy and uncomfortable, now Rachel was awake enough to think about it. This was a strained, awkward sort of quiet that wasn’t natural for her and Tom, and both of them knew it.
Just as Rachel had made up her mind to apologise for jumping him, Tom put his book down on the table – facing down so he wouldn’t lose his page.
‘Rach,’ he said, softly. ‘About last night …’
Rachel buried her face in her hands, unable to look at him.
‘I want to apologise,’ Tom said.
She peered at him though interlaced fingers. What? His eyes were as regretful as his voice.
He carried on: ‘I played my part a little too well, I think. Took the performance too far. I should never even have thought about kissing you. That was … not okay. Not okay at all.’
Rachel gaped at him. He was blaming himself for the fact that she’d tried to put her tongue in his mouth? Some ember inside her glowed at the memory, and she stamped on it.
This was typical Tom: gallant, thoughtful and kind. Rather than letting her apologise for trying to cop off with him, he was shouldering all the blame for the meeting of their mouths. To spare Rachel’s blushes, he was apologising to her – when surely they both knew it should be the other way around.
‘It’s … It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’
‘It isn’t,’ Tom insisted. ‘You’re my friend, you’re important to me and you’d had far too much to drink for anyone to be kissing you – either for real, or as part of some act. I think I got carried away winding up Jack – who, by the way, I don’t like any better for having finally met. I crossed a line, though, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’
Rachel just nodded her head, not sure what to say to any of this. In a single stroke, Tom had confirmed her theory that the kiss was for Jack’s benefit – that it hadn’t arisen from some other, deeper desire. At the same time he’d taken full responsibility for it, firmly sidestepping any potential discussion of why Rachel reacted so strongly.
She could only assume this was Tom’s characteristically gentle way of making it clear to her that, if she harboured any more-than-friendly feelings for him, it was best for her to extinguish them.
Up until yesterday, it had never occurred to her that such feelings might exist. But when she looked at him now, all spectacles and tousled hair and yesterday’s creased clothes, something deep inside her ached. The idea of killing it made her want to cry.
‘Please don’t apologise,’ Rachel finally said. ‘Honestly, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. If anything it should be me apologising – I should never have involved you in my stupid lie in the first place.’
‘All right,’ Tom said. ‘Let’s agree that you shouldn’t have lied and I should never have kissed you. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ She nodded – but it felt like a bad bargain.
Tom appeared satisfied, though, and picked up his book again.
Tom had known Rachel for a little over four years, and for at least three and a half of them he’d been thinking, with increasing regularity, about kissing her. Last night she’d turned up looking lovelier than ever, and she’d painted her lips with some raspberry-coloured stuff that he’d immediately wished he could taste. It was torturous.
He should have known better than to keep touching her – should have realised that being so close to her all night, hugging her and holding her hand, would make trying to kiss her irresistible in the end.
Now, of course, he felt like a total shit. He was stomping home from Rachel and Anna’s flat, cursing his own idiocy. Agreeing to be Rachel’s fake date in the first place had been stupid – selfish and exploitative, as well as excruciatingly painful. It was just … Some part of him had hoped it might help her see him differently.
Of course, she probably did see him differently this morning – just not in the way he’d intended. Most likely, despite her reassurances, she now saw Tom as someone who’d tried to snog her when she’d had a skinful – as if they were fourteen and behind the school bike sheds. As if the #metoo movement hadn’t happened.
Tom hated lies. He hated manipulation and mind games. Yet he’d thought that playing along with this game might be to his advantage. He’d kidded himself that he could circumvent the rules.
The trouble was that he’d meant everything he was supposed to be faking: every touch, every gesture, every word. And then the kiss …
He’d put his lips on Rachel’s out of wild frustration, mostly with himself. It was as if he wanted to purge himself of the need to do it – as if he thought that kissing her once might fix him; render him disinclined to do it ever again.
It hadn’t worked, of course, but the way she’d reacted was devastating. Tom cringed again as he thought of Rachel stepping forward, trying to reach for him a second time. It had been so intense, so dramatic – as if she was determined to do this Hollywood-style, in the hope that her ex was watching.
That hurt, and it grossed Tom out a little. It hinted that she had stronger feelings for Jack Harper than he’d ever have believed possible – feelings that were inspiring behaviour he’d never thought Rachel was capable of. Surely she was smarter than this? Better than this?
Tom shook his head at himself as he marched past the Hope. He had no business being self-righteous. Yes, this whole thing was grim, but it was his own fault he’d got mixed up in it. That was undeniable.
How many times might he have just told Rachel that he liked her as more than a friend? How many opportunities to switch things up – to try to flirt a little more obviously with her – had he squandered?
Too many – especially since the exhibition had thrown them together.
Suddenly, Tom’s reasons for staying silent seemed thin and insubstantial: weak, childish and pathetic. It wouldn’t have taken a declaration of undying love to work out whether Rachel was interested in him. Maybe just the honest offer of a date would have been enough.
And if she’d said no? Well, they’d have got over it. It might have taken a few weeks – maybe even a few months. But they were good enough friends, Tom now realised, that a mismatch of romantic feeling wouldn’t have been the disaster he’d imagined.
If he’d been a little braver, they wouldn’t have ended up here – with him feeling like a cad, and Rachel pretending to fancy him for the sake of snaring some total twat from her uni days.
Tom realised he was running. He was still in his jeans, and pounding the pavement in these trainers would probably fuck his knees … But he felt better for it. He wasn’t slowing down, and he wasn’t going home.
Sprinting until his lungs were screaming – battering his body until he couldn’t think about anything apart from breathing – was exactly what he needed.
He kept going: past the flat, through Priory Park and up to Alexandra Palace.
When he finally collapsed on a grass verge, he was exhausted – and still madder with himself than he’d ever been before.
June
New Year’s Ongoing resolutions
1. Consider exercise an act with actual benefits – both mental and physical – not merely grim punishment for pizzas consumed. Have a proper go at Continue letting Greg drag me to yoga. provided he refrains from making snide comments re Jack/me and Jack. Give up trying to control subject matter discussed over dinner.
2. Also re-download Complete Couch to 5K running app and actually do the programme. Keep running at least twice per week – always being careful not to perv on anyone improper.
3. Apply for promotion at work at first chance. Move to bigger account and try to get pay rise. Avoid, if possible, further projects concerning dog biscuits, disinfectant, high-quality printer ink cartridges, ‘miracle’ grass seed, organic vegetables, etc.
3a. Try to hang on to job (and temper) despite presence of evil ex-boyfriend hideousness contro
l-freakery of certain clients.
3b. Ignore everyone who keeps banging on about how fit he Jack is.
3c. Ignore how fit he is.
3d. Ignore the fact he keeps trying to be friendly/nice/possibly quite flirtatious is openly trying to shag me.
3e. Ignore the fact he is getting divorced.
4. DO NOT agree to further dates with Laurence. Remember: it’s no use having a boyfriend who is good on paper if you do not actually fancy him.
4. Forget that Laurence even EXISTS (despite usefulness of overblown ‘romantic’ gestures for creating illusion of deeply devoted boyfriend. Try not to spin any more tales re ‘boyfriend’ though – don’t want story to get too complicated … ) – situation is already quite complicated enough.
5. Try to remember Mum means well, even during phone calls where she implies I am doomed to a lonely life of penury because I am thirty with no partner, hardly any savings and no mortgage insists on talking about the babies/breasts of people I went to school with.
6. HOWEVER, do not (!!!) speak to Mum when suffering PMT. Set phone alerts for likely spells based on period tracker intel.
7. Try to address ‘hardly any savings’ situation. (If promoted, set aside extra earnings for future house deposit instead of spaffing it all on ASOS.) (Do not spend entire pay rise on ‘cheer up’ treats to distract from heinous ex-boyfriend mess.) hot new outfits for work – see 3c.)
8. Try to eat my five-a-day. (Remember horrid rule that potatoes do not count.)
9. Start using proper night cream with retinol. SERIOUSLY. Regularly apply retinol cream purchased from Boots in pursuit of perfect, Dev-style skin.
10. Do the best possible job helping Tom with exhibition. Be supportive and discreet re Oscar. Avoid arguing with Tom about Jack.
11. Be a good friend (and bridesmaid) to Anna. Help with wedding organisation and keep selfish, sad worries about how much I’ll miss her to myself.
12. Find a way to end fake boyfriend pretence before it fucks up entire life.
28
The atmosphere between Anna and Rachel had been strained for several weeks now – ever since the night of Rachel’s birthday party.
On the hung-over Sunday that followed her fake date with Tom, Anna had been scathing of Rachel’s dishonesty and openly disappointed in her for lying to her work colleagues – especially Greg.
‘He isn’t just someone you share an office with,’ she’d said. ‘He’s your friend. And you’ve told him a gigantic fib for reasons I’m still struggling to fathom.’
Anna also seemed aware that something had happened between Rachel and Tom, though Rachel hadn’t offered any explanation for the tension between them. Whatever she was blaming it on, Anna had certainly noticed Rachel’s new and ongoing nervousness around Tom – as well as his reluctance to be left by himself with her, even just while washing up, queuing for drinks or waiting for someone else to come back from the bathroom.
Rachel and Anna had spent barely any time alone together lately. Anna was at Will’s a lot, or he – and sometimes Tom – were at their place.
Neither Rachel nor Anna had mentioned the distance between them, but something hostile hung in the space that had suddenly opened up. Disquiet followed them around like a rain cloud: a dark, heavy thing that threatened to burst with no warning.
Rachel was dreading this morning. It was Anna’s final wedding dress fitting and she was going along to see her in her gown, as well as look at the selection of bridesmaid dresses Zahra had sourced. It was going to feel weird sitting there, chatting about pretty clothes as though nothing had happened. As if nothing was wrong.
To make matters worse, Rachel knew she was overdue a (probably irate) phone call from her parents. She’d been dodging them for days, trying to avoid talking to them about when she’d be moving – when she’d need their help to shift her boxes, bed frame and the few bits of eBayed furniture she owned.
They wanted to know where she was moving to, but she didn’t know herself yet. Her mother seemed full of ideas on this front, but Rachel didn’t want to hear them. Apparently some Irish cousin was moving to London and needed a roommate, but Rachel hadn’t bothered to ask who, when or why.
Dad had sent her a text already, and it was only 8 a.m.
Dad: For the love of god, call your mother – she’s driving me to drink with moaning that she needs to talk to you. (Also we want to know you’re all right.) x
Rachel messaged back:
Rachel: Sorry Dad – busy Saturday. Wedding dress fitting with Anna and then the final exhibition photo shoot with Tom this afternoon. Will call tonight, PROMISE. And don’t worry – I’m fine x
An hour or so later Rachel was showered, dressed and had seen away two Weetabix and a banana.
‘Ready to go?’ Anna asked her, clipped and businesslike.
‘Yep. Just let me grab my bag.’
They made awkward small talk on the way up to Tempo, mostly about wedding stuff: Anna’s final choice of flowers, the table plan, the guest list and the annoying handful of friends who still hadn’t RSVP’d.
Rachel listened more than she talked. After all, what could she say? Anna still didn’t know Rachel was working for Lighthouse – she’d never found the right moment to mention it, and the longer she held back the weirder it would seem that she’d kept quiet. Nor did Anna know that Jack had made a play for Rachel … Or that Rachel felt like her insides turned to mush every time she remembered kissing Tom.
She told herself she was just being silly – that she’d only ever thought of Tom as a friend and the mushiness meant nothing. Even if she did have some sort of crush on him, Rachel reasoned, there was nothing to be done about it. He’d made it painfully clear he wasn’t interested, so what was the point in agonising? Better to ignore it – push it down as deep as it would go, then hope it withered away.
If Zahra noticed something was off between Anna and Rachel when they got to her shop, she had the good sense not to acknowledge it. As on the first day they’d met, Zahra left them to look through the gowns she’d already set aside while she made three cups of tea.
‘What do you think, Rach?’ Anna asked, running her hand along the rail full of dresses.
‘They’re all nice,’ Rachel answered. ‘But it’s your wedding. I want you to make the final decision.’
Anna, with barely concealed irritation, said: ‘You’d better try them all, then.’
Rachel wasn’t sure what Anna was cross about. She was terrible at judging what looked good on herself, and even in normal situations deferred to Anna when she needed help deciding what to wear.
About forty minutes later, and with valuable input from Zahra, they’d narrowed the choices down to a plain green shift dress draped with soft chiffon, and a prom-style gown with a sweetheart neckline in the same shade of peach as the embroidery on Anna’s dress.
Either would work with the wedding colour scheme Anna had put together. The flowers – various shades of peach, orange and cream – would ‘really pop’ against the green gown, Zahra said. Anna could wear a piece of emerald jewellery, or even green shoes, to tie the two looks together.
Privately, Rachel felt happier in the green shift. Peach wasn’t a shade she’d ever choose for herself; it robbed her pale skin of warmth and clashed with her red hair. This particular gown made her look bloodless – positively unwell.
‘So …?’ Anna said. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘Whichever you’re happier with,’ Rachel said.
Anna eyed her, frustrated, and didn’t bother to try to hold in her answering sigh.
‘If you want my view, the green is the one,’ Zahra said. ‘The style of the dress works better with yours, Anna, and I think it’s a better colour on Rachel.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna said. ‘I’m glad someone around here is capable of telling the truth. Let’s go with it.’
Zahra looked momentarily uncomfortable, then took Anna over to her desk to discuss alterations and payment. Rachel felt desolate.<
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Then her phone began ringing from the bottom of her handbag. For fuck’s sake, she thought.
Rachel considered ignoring it, but wondered whether it might be Tom calling about this afternoon’s shoot. If there was a problem, or a change of time or location, he’d need to tell her about it.
She finally found her mobile buried beneath a paperback, this week’s Stylist magazine, her worse-for-wear wallet and several tinted lip balms. Mum calling, it said.
‘Arrghhhhh,’ she groaned out loud, just as Anna reappeared, ready to head back to the bus stop.
‘What’s up?’ Anna asked as they waved goodbye to Zahra and closed the shop door behind them. Her knitted eyebrows betrayed genuine concern, despite her earlier snappiness.
‘Nothing,’ Rachel said, though she suddenly felt close to tears. ‘My mum’s harassing me about what I’m doing, living-arrangements-wise, after the wedding. She and Dad keep demanding information: where will I live, who will I live with, blah blah blah. It’s driving me mad.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you that maybe they just care, Rachel?’ Anna said, whirling around to face her so fast that Rachel flattened her back against a wall. ‘Don’t you realise how fucking LUCKY you are that they give a shit about whether you’re safe, whether you’re happy … Whether you have some sort of life plan?’
A wave of guilt broke over Rachel’s head. She felt sick with contempt for herself – not to mention shocked by Anna’s uncharacteristic swearing.
Of course Anna was right. It was the height of insensitivity for Rachel to complain about her parents when Anna’s own mother had refused to come to her wedding.
Poor Anna had agonised over whether to contact Nicola – whether to open up and risk feeling, once again, like the dejected teenager whose mum wasn’t interested in her. When the wedding response card had come back last week with the No box ticked and no personal message or attempt at explanation, Anna had sobbed in Will’s arms and eaten a whole pot of Häagen-Dazs.
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