by Jill Mansell
“Oooh!” Appearing in the restaurant doorway with Mae in her arms, Tamsin surveyed them with amusement. “All of a sudden there’s an awkward silence. Should my ears be burning?” Then, as her gaze settled on Ginny, her smile broadened. “Except if they were, they couldn’t possibly be redder than your face.”
Ginny wished she could sink down through the floor. It was the comment about not having to buy the cow that had done it. Finn, sensing her discomfort—or possibly feeling as if he were standing next to a furnace, on account of the heat emanating from her cheeks—said, “We were talking about work. Did you want something?”
“Just came to say good-bye.”
This pronouncement caused Evie’s eyebrows to shoot up into her hairline, and Ginny’s hopes to rise in similar fashion. Tamsin, swaying over to Finn, said cheerfully, “We’re off into Portsilver to buy Mae some new clothes and have a play on the beach. Back by three, OK?” She proffered Mae for a kiss. “Say bye-bye.”
Beaming, Mae gave Finn a kiss on the cheek and said, “Ghaaaa.”
Finn softened and stroked her silky dark hair. “Ghaaaa to you too. Have fun.”
“Look at them.” Clearly reveling in the sight of Finn and Mae together, Tamsin said with pride, “Look at her face. She’s crazy about him!”
Ginny swallowed disappointment and thought, me too.
***
To make up for the hour she’d taken off to go to the doctor’s office, Carla had been forced to work until eight. Now she click-clacked her way down Hudson Street and stopped outside Perry’s front door. Ringing the doorbell, she experienced a thrill of anticipation. If last night had been a night to remember, this evening was going to be even better.
And there were his footsteps on the stairs…
She was taken aback when the door opened to reveal Ally the dim Goth who worked in the shop.
“Hi, Perry’s expecting me.”
Ally blinked at her through a curtain of dyed-black hair. “Yeah, he said you might drop round. Come on up then.”
It wasn’t until they reached the living room that Carla realized there was definitely something not quite right going on here. For a start, there were disgusting incense candles smoldering in holders on the window sill. And there was a small mountain of assorted shopping bags stuffed with God knows what piled up on the sofa.
More to the point, there was no sign of Perry.
“Where is he?”
“Hmm? Oh, gone away.” Peering round the room, Ally said vaguely, “Hang on, it’s around here somewhere.”
“Gone away?” Carla’s stomach did an incredulous swallow dive. “Where?”
“No idea, he didn’t say. Just told me he needed a break and put me in charge of the shop. Bloody long hours, but he said I could move in here while he’s gone, so that makes up for it. Living with my mum’s been doing my head in, you know?” Ally pulled a face, inviting sympathy, her blue lipsticked mouth turning down at the corners. “So I was well up for moving in here instead. Ah, here it is.” She found the envelope she’d been searching for amid a pile of clutter on the coffee table and handed it to Carla.
How could Perry have gone away? In the space of… what? Eleven hours? He’d been fine when she’d left here this morning. Carla ripped open the envelope, turning away from Ally and her curious magenta-lined eyes in order to read the note.
Carla,
I loved you but you’ve scared me. I don’t want kids now and I never will. I’m going away for a while to think things through. Don’t bother trying to phone me—I won’t pick up. I thought you were my ideal woman but now it’s all spoiled. Your spare clothes are in the bedroom—take them with you when you leave.
Sorry, not much good at this. In future I’d better stick to women who’ve had hysterectomies!
Best, Perry.
Carla crumpled the letter in her fist and squeezed until her knuckles clicked. Best, Perry. Best, Perry. Yesterday he’d loved her but now it was over, in the past, switched off like a tap.
“Everything all right?” Ally tipped the contents of one of the bags—a lurid tangle of socks and knickers—onto the floor.
“Fine. Couldn’t be better.” Carla shoved the scrunched-up note into her bag and wondered if there was an extra-sharp knife in the kitchen drawer. Half of her wanted to slash her wrists but the other half—actually by far the bigger half—wanted to slash Perry’s.
And maybe slice off another treasured appendage while she was about it.
If only she knew where he was.
Fury was uppermost but tears were threatening—which only made Carla more furious. Swallowing hard, she headed through to the bedroom and snatched up the pathetic pile of belongings he’d left for her to collect. One shirt, a spare pair of shoes, makeup remover pads, and a toothbrush. She stuffed them into her shoulder bag before checking quickly through Perry’s wardrobe and chest of drawers. He’d taken most of his clothes. Bastard.
“Off now? See ya!” sang Ally when she returned to the living room.
“Right.” Carla nodded, feeling like a city employee sacked without warning and ordered to vacate the building. Jerkily, she said, “See ya.”
***
Midnight and the pain had well and truly kicked in. In both senses of the word. The removal of the IUD had left Carla with griping cramps, requiring extra-strong painkillers, a hot water bottle pressed to her stomach, and a stiff Scotch. But it was nothing compared with the awful, aching emptiness in her heart. She’d lost Perry Kennedy, the love of her life. She had no one to blame but herself. And she couldn’t do anything about it, because unbearable though it was to imagine a future without him, she still wanted a baby. More than anything. It was like a compulsion, a force of nature that refused to be denied.
And come hell or high water, she would have one. Just not with the man she’d chosen to do it with.
Oh God, why did it have to hurt so much?
Carla’s head jerked up at the sound of a car pulling into the road and slowing to a halt. Her heart lolloping like a landed fish, she flung aside the hot water bottle and leaped—ooch—out of bed. Maybe it was Perry, come to his senses, turning up to smother her in kisses and beg her forgiveness.
Well, if this were a film it might have been Perry doing just that. Except it wasn’t. Lurking like a spy behind the protection of the drawn curtains, Carla peeped through the gap and saw that it was Ginny, back from her shift at Penhaligon’s. Dry-eyed, too hollow with misery even to cry, Carla watched as she climbed out of the car. Disappointment mingled with regret, because if anyone could comfort her now it would be Ginny. Her best friend. Ex-best friend. The best friend whose man she had stolen.
She shrank back from the curtains as her ex-best friend swung around and looked up, almost as if sensing her presence. For a split second Carla longed to throw open the window and call out to her, to shout out that she was sorry and beg her to come over. Ironically, no one would understand how she felt better than Ginny. And she would console her, know just what to say to make her feel less wretched.
Except she knew she couldn’t and it was too late anyway, Ginny had already disappeared into her house. The front door slammed behind her and the kitchen light came on. As Carla watched, she saw Ginny and Laurel chatting and laughing together in the kitchen. Who would have thought that Laurel could laugh? But she was doing it now.
I’m on my own, thought Carla, turning away and clutching her stomach as it was gripped by another spasm of pain. And it’s all my own fault. Ginny’s got a new best friend now.
Chapter 40
“Seven pints of Blackthorn, four white wines, and five Bacardi Breezers.” Having shoved his way through the crowd to the bar, Spider-Man added in a friendly fashion, “You all right?”
Jem looked up. Oh yes, she was just tickety-boo. The beer pumps were playing up tonight and best bitter was splattered across the front of her white shirt. It was also dripping from her elbows, a sensation she hated. But Spider-Man was the first member of the costume par
ty crew to say anything remotely friendly to her tonight, so she forced herself to smile.
“Great, thanks. Dry white?”
Spider-Man, aka Darren, grinned and said triumphantly, “I’d prefer wet.”
Hilarious. When it came to razor-sharp ripostes, Darren was no Jonathan Ross. Then again, at least he’d been invited to Alex and Karen’s party tonight, which was more than she had been. Jem got on with the business in hand, flipping the tops off the Breezers. All week she’d been hearing people chatting excitedly between lectures and tutorials about Alex and Karen’s costume party, deciding what they were going to wear. Everyone was going apart from her and Rupert, who had announced that he’d rather sieve his intestines through a colander.
Jem began pouring the Blackthorn into pint glasses, the familiar sense of abandonment nestling in her stomach. Earlier this evening Rupert had made love to her and she’d felt wonderful, special, the luckiest girl in Bristol. Then afterward, he had showered and changed and driven up to Cheltenham for the bachelor party of an old school friend’s brother, absently kissing her good-bye and telling her he’d be back sometime tomorrow.
Déjà vu. First Scotland, then Rome, and now this.
Which left her, yet again, feeling like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Except the way things were going, she’d welcome a couple of burglars into the flat with open arms. At least they’d be company.
There was a burst of laughter from the crowd a short distance from the bar. Involuntarily glancing up from the cider pump, Jem saw Davy and Lucy dressed as a pair of New York gangsters in sharp suits and fedoras. Once upon a time Davy had been the ignored one, the geeky outsider. Now, unbelievably, Lucy had moved in with him and was busy dragging him by the scruff of his neck out of his shell. They were living with Davy’s mother—how sad was that?—yet, weirdly, appeared to be having a good time. Davy was beginning to be more generally accepted; somehow he was no longer regarded as the nerd on the sidelines. Lucy’s friendship had imbued him with cool. Jem had to admit he looked good tonight; gangster-style suited him. And it went without saying that it suited Lucy, who looked spectacular whatever she wore.
Neither of them had so much as glanced in her direction. She might as well be invisible for all the attention anyone else was paying her. Ugh, and now cider was dripping onto her jeans.
“Last orders,” bellowed the landlord, clanging the bell at ten to eleven.
Jem finished lining up the wines, the ciders, and the Breezers. She totaled the bill and took Spider-Man’s credit card, ready to slot it into the machine.
“So you’ll be finishing soon,” Darren said bouncily, his mask pushed up to his forehead and his manner jovial.
“As soon as everyone’s gone.”
“Are you coming along to the party, then?”
Was it Jem’s imagination or did the pub suddenly go a few decibels quieter? Either Clint Eastwood had just walked in, or Spider-Man had said the Wrong Thing.
She shook her head. “Um, no.”
Darren, not the brightest spark in the firework box, was oblivious to his faux pas. “Why not?”
Because nobody wants me there. Everyone hates me, haven’t you noticed? Jem didn’t say this out loud. She hurriedly pushed the credit card reader across the bar and said, “I’m fine. Just put your PIN in, please.”
“But that’s daft if you’re not doing anything else! Hey, Alex.” Darren turned and grabbed Alex by the shoulder. “I’ve just been telling Jem, she should come along to the party, yeah?”
Jem felt hot and sick. Alex was looking embarrassed now while the rest of them were nudging each other and smirking, loving every minute.
“Er… the thing is, it’s a costume party,” Alex mumbled.
“And I have to get home,” Jem blurted out, hideously aware of Davy and Lucy watching from a safe distance as the scene was played out for their entertainment. “But… um, thanks anyway.”
Thanks for not inviting me to your party, Alex, and thanks to you too, Darren, for so efficiently drawing this fact to the attention of everyone in this pub.
It’d probably be front page news in tomorrow’s Evening Post.
Ceris Morgan, whom Jem had never much liked and who she knew for a fact fancied Rupert, was dressed as a French maid. Unable to resist joining in, she adjusted her saucily low-cut top and said in a singsong voice, “We wouldn’t be rich enough. Jem isn’t interested in parties thrown by boring old ordinary people anymore. She’s got Rupert.”
Witch. Jem was sorely tempted to retort that Ceris too might stand a chance with someone like Rupert if only she didn’t have fat ankles and a silly, horsy face.
She’d have done it too if it wouldn’t have meant being sacked on the spot.
***
“Six pints of Blackthorn, four glasses of white wine, three Bloody Marys, and two Bacardi Breezers,” said Alex, flushed with triumph at having made it back to the pub. “Oh, and fifteen packets of cheese and onion crisps.”
It was Sunday lunchtime, and the bedraggled survivors of last night’s party, still in costume, were all set to carry on. By the sound of things it had been a resounding success. Jem, who hadn’t heard from Rupert, silently bent down and began pulling packets of crisps from the box under the counter. At least Davy and Lucy weren’t here, which would only have made things more stressful.
Sadly, Ceris was.
“Alex, I don’t want cheese and onion! Get me ready salted.” Her voice was louder than anyone else’s and ear-splittingly shrill.
“Did you hear that?” said Alex, peering over the bar. Jem murmured, “I think the whole of Clifton heard it.”
“And I don’t want white wine on its own. God, my brain, I’m just soooo dehydrated.” Clutching her head for dramatic effect Ceris shrieked, “Make mine a spritzer.”
Jem straightened back up.
“Ooh, what a night. You missed out big-time.” Ceris lit a Silk Cut and blew smoke through her horsy nostrils across the bar. “You really should have come along to the… oops, I forgot! You weren’t invited!”
Flushing, Alex the peacemaker said hastily, “It’s not that Jem wasn’t invited. She just didn’t have anything to wear.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ceris smirked. “She could have come as a two-faced bitch; that wouldn’t have needed any dressing up.”
Splooooooosh went the fountain of soda water as Jem’s finger squeezed the trigger on the mixer gun. Heavens, how had that happened?
“Aaaarrrgh!” Ceris let out a screech as piercing as nails down a blackboard, her maid’s uniform instantly drenched. Now that she’d started, Jem discovered she didn’t want to stop. Ceris was a spiteful bully who reveled in belittling others and deserved to be taken down a peg or two. And how better to do it than with a drenching? Feeling empowered and better already, Jem carried on aiming the gun at Ceris until every inch of her was dripping with bubbly, ice-cold soda water. An unexpected but welcome bonus was realizing that other people were stifling laughter, acknowledging that this was no more than Ceris deserved.
Jem smiled because last night she had heroically resisted the urge to insult her and now she was glad she had. This was way more fun.
“Stop it, STOP IT,” screamed Ceris, mascara sliding down her face as she struggled to dodge out of reach.
“No.” Jem was enjoying herself; this was better than the water-shooting gallery at the fair.
“Will someone stop her? She’s gone mad! It’s cold…”
“And you have fat ankles.” For good measure Jem added cheerily, “And a face like a horse.”
Oh well, if a job was worth losing, it was worth losing well.
“Put the gun down.” The pub landlord’s big hands closed over Jem’s, prying her away from her new favorite toy.
“You complete bitch!” Spitting with rage and shaking soda water out of her hair, Ceris bellowed, “My dad’s a lawyer; he’s going to sue you!”
“No, he isn’t.” The landlord fixed Ceris with a look of weary distaste. “You�
�re loud and you’re drunk.” Then he turned to Jem. “And you’re fired.”
At least she wasn’t being ignored anymore; the whole pub was, by this time, agog.
“Great,” said Jem, wiping her wet hands on a bar towel. “I’ve always wanted to go out with a splash.”
***
Who cared anyway? There were a million other pubs in Bristol. Although she was beginning to wonder if she wanted to do bar work anymore, what with the way it messed up her social life. As Jem trudged back to the flat, it occurred to her that she could always take out another loan and just enjoy herself instead. Then she and Rupert would be able to see more of each other and he wouldn’t go away so much. Wasn’t that a better idea? Loads of people did it and didn’t waste time worrying about being in debt. You just paid off what you owed at some stage in the distant future when it was more convenient. When you thought about it, a bigger loan made so much more sense.
Turning into Pembroke Road, Jem’s heart leaped at the sight of Rupert’s car parked outside the flat. Oh thank God, he was back. Her pace quickened. Rupert would roar with laughter when she told him what had happened and he’d tell her she’d done exactly the right thing. Best of all he would put his arms around her and make her feel loved, which after the last couple of days was exactly what she needed. To be cosseted and told she wasn’t the worst person in the world.
She hadn’t even told him yet about being called into her tutor’s office on Friday afternoon, the shame had been too great. Except there was no need to be ashamed in front of Rupert—he’d find that funny too.
Jem ran up the steps, fitted her key into the lock, and pushed open the front door.
“Rupert!” Too bad if he was sleeping; she’d wake him up. Right now she needed him too badly to care.
But he wasn’t asleep; she could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Just the thought of Rupert naked, lathering his tanned body with shower gel, produced a fizz of adrenaline and brought a smile to Jem’s face. She kicked off one boot and stealthily tested the door handle in case Rupert had changed the habit of a lifetime and locked it. No, he hadn’t. She levered off the second boot and peeled off her less than alluring purple socks. She’d never had sex in a shower before.