‘It wasn’t exactly a lie,’ I try.
‘Wasn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Okay, well, so it was. I had my reasons,’ I say. ‘But let’s not change the subject. I want to know how long this thing between you and Beth has been going on.’
He shakes his head. ‘There is no thing between me and Beth.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I say.
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, his eyes blazing.
‘Are these ridiculous accusations your way of splitting up with me?’ he asks. ‘Because we’ve been together for as long as eight weeks now? I presume from what I’ve heard that that must be what this is all about.’
‘Oh, they’re ridiculous, are they?’ I say, refusing to get drawn into anything other than the most important matter here.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘they are. But let me save you a job, Evie. You don’t have to split up with me. I’m happy to go quietly.’
And then he turns around and starts walking away.
‘So you expect me to believe that you and Beth aren’t an item, but you won’t even explain why she left her clothes at your flat?’ I shout after him.
‘I’ve got nothing to explain to you because I haven’t done anything wrong!’ he shouts back. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t expect me to shower you with jewellery like Gareth did now we’ve split up.’
Chapter 98
In a strange way, I feel like I did on the day I lost my virginity. I remember the sensation distinctly as I walked through town, idly looking in shop windows. I felt as if a fundamental part of me had changed for ever. And I couldn’t help getting an eerie, if illogical feeling that people could tell. From the shopkeeper who asked me if I had change of a twenty-pound note to the woman sitting next to me on the train reading an article about HRT, I felt as if they knew that something earth-shattering had just happened to me, that it must be written all over my face.
As I jump into the back of a taxi, I wonder whether the driver can tell that I’ve just been dumped by someone–someone I actually care about–for the first time in my life. I wonder if he realizes how this occurrence, so completely alien to me until now, has changed everything.
‘Have you been in a fight?’ he asks, studying my black eye in his mirror.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I mean no…no, my eye was just an accident.’ I stare out of the window, really not wanting to talk.
‘Have you come from that wedding down the road?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I mutter.
‘You’re the third one I’ve picked up from there,’ he says, and only then do I realize just how late it is. ‘Christ, I’ve seen some sights. The last one was wearing a poncho. Looked like she’d just stepped out of a Spaghetti Western.’
Okay, so maybe he doesn’t know.
My head spins as I lean back on the seat and block out the sound of his voice. Just take me home, I think. Just leave me alone.
My daze is suddenly broken as the taxi beeps and swerves around something, or somebody. As I look out of the window, I realize we’ve just narrowly missed Grace and Patrick as they walk down the middle of the road.
‘Can you stop a minute, please?’ I say to the driver, and as he pulls in I push the window down.
‘Do you want a lift?’ I ask.
They’re holding hands, but Patrick won’t look at me.
‘No, no,’ says Grace. ‘Honestly, we’re going in a completely different direction. We’ll flag our own one down. Is everything okay, Evie?’
I hesitate.
‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, okay?’ My voice is wobbling.
‘Sure,’ she says.
She huddles up to Patrick, but I can tell from his face that something still isn’t right. I don’t know what. And at this moment in time I don’t really care. Somehow I can’t bring myself to even think about Grace and Patrick’s problems any more.
As the journey continues, it strikes me how quickly my rage, the rage that was so forceful such a short time ago, turns into something else: a dull, rising ache which already feels far more potent, and far more painful, than plain old anger. Or the lingering effects of Valentina’s left hook, for that matter.
Tonight marks the end of something which, just four hours ago, I thought was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s the end that I, foolishly, never thought would come. The end of me and Jack. Jack and me. My one and only steady relationship. Almost.
The enormity of what has happened suddenly hits me and tears prick into my eyes. I try to swallow but a hard, bitter lump in my throat stops me from doing so. Instead, tears spill down my cheeks, cascading in a stream of misery.
I think of Jack tenderly kissing my swollen face earlier and telling me I was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. I think about how safe it made me feel. How special. How loved.
My face is soaking with tears but still they keep coming. I sit, crying, in a way I’ve never cried before. My chest gets tighter and tighter and it begins to feel as if someone has ripped out my heart and is wringing it, wringing it remorselessly, to squeeze out every tear.
I look out of the window but can’t focus on anything except an image of Jack’s face, that lovely face with its warm eyes and oh so soft mouth. It strikes me that I may never see that face again.
I put my head in my hands and, despite my attempts to hide the fact that I’m crying, a sob escapes from my lips.
‘You’re not going to be sick back there are you?’ says the driver, looking in his mirror. ‘’Cos it’s an extra twenty-five quid if you are.’
Chapter 99
My flat, Saturday, 9 June
I wake up with a hangover mouth, a throbbing eye and a very odd feeling about the night before. ‘Odd’ as in I know immediately that something is wrong, but it takes a half a second before I recall exactly what it is. When I do, my stomach lurches so hard it feels like I’ve been kicked by the hind legs of a donkey with a serious mood-swing problem.
I take a deep breath. In some ways, it’s no surprise I feel like this, given the amount of coffee I drank when I got back last night. On top of the alcohol I’d been drinking all day. On top of the painkillers I’d taken in the afternoon. On top of the smack in the head by Valentina’s sparkler.
And yet, I know that what I’m feeling isn’t just caused by that lot. Because nothing is making me feel more nauseous than the recollection of Jack’s words.
‘Evie, you don’t know what you’re saying. Are these accusations your way of splitting up with me? You don’t have to split up with me. I’m happy to go quietly.’
Just remembering them makes my head spin almost as much as my stomach, my thoughts being thrown this way and that in a desperate attempt to make some sense of what happened. He looked so sincere. Yet how could he be, given what Beth told me? God, I want to believe him–which can only make me a bloody fool. But what if he was telling the truth? Is it too late now anyway?
I look up at the ceiling and focus on an impressive cobweb cascading between my Ikea lampshade and the top of my curtains. I close my eyes and try to think about all this rationally.
As far as I can see, there are only two possible explanations for what happened:
A. Jack has been lying and two-timing me with Beth as I suspected. In which case, he’s been acting like a horrible, deceiving rat for months, with no regard for my feelings. And I’m an idiot.
Or
B. Jack hasn’t been lying or two-timing me with Beth. In which case, I publicly accused him of doing just that–immediately after he discovered, not just about my past, but also that I’ve been telling monumental fibs about it. And I’m an idiot.
Funny, but I’m struggling to find anything positive in either scenario.
Chapter 100
My flat, Thursday, 14 June
‘Jack, it’s Evie. We need to talk.’
No, no, no, that’s all wrong. I sound like someone from a bad daytime soap. I have now practised so many deep, meaningful and often pathetically tearful conver
sations with Jack–with everything from my shower head to my steering wheel–I’m starting to wonder if I need therapy.
The problem is, I just don’t know where to start. Because I have no idea whether or not he and Beth were getting it together, I just don’t know what approach to take here. Do I confront him again? Or do I beg for forgiveness?
There has also been something else nagging at the back of my mind and it’s this. It has now been five days since our fight and it’s not as if he’s banging down my door to try to patch things up. In fact, I haven’t heard a solitary word from him. And I am now absolutely sure that he hasn’t attempted to contact me as I have taken my mobile into Carphone Warehouse twice since Monday to check whether it needs servicing because it never seems to ring (or at least he doesn’t). Apparently my Nokia is in such rude health it is currently on course to out-survive me.
It’s been a weird few days. A numb, horrible, sick-to-my-stomach few days. And although I can’t deny I’ve had a continual stream of visitors–everyone from Charlotte to Valentina has turned up laden with Sex and the City DVDs and Maltesers–there’s something strange about the whole thing. I’ve never been surrounded by so many people. But I’ve never felt so alone.
Chapter 101
Liverpool city centre, Friday, 22 June
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offers as we find a table in a quiet part of the bar.
‘A glass of white wine would be great,’ I say.
‘Coming up,’ he replies.
When he returns to the table, he’s clutching an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne instead.
‘What’s all this about?’ I ask. ‘Have you won the Lottery? If you’d mentioned it earlier, I’d have agreed to go out with you ages ago.’
‘I just thought we ought to be celebrating,’ he says, smiling.
‘Oh?’ I reply. ‘Celebrating what?’
‘Celebrating the fact that two friends have been reunited,’ he says.
‘Were we friends?’ I ask. ‘I don’t remember it like that.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re right. Two lovers reunited.’
It’s nice being out with Seb. I know I told myself I wasn’t interested, but things have changed since then. And one thing’s for sure, I can’t spend another moment moping around my flat waiting for Jack Williamson to call, even if it has been good for my standards of household cleanliness.
It’s been almost two weeks now. Two weeks of moping, crying, hating myself, hating How Clean Is Your House. But enough’s enough now. He hasn’t phoned, he’s not interested and there’s only one thing for it. I’ve got to pick myself up and start again.
‘So, I know you work for a building society,’ I say, ‘but tell me again what your job involves exactly?’
‘Well,’ says Seb, and starts to tell me again.
I’m aware I already asked him about this at Georgia’s wedding. But when you’re in a profession like mine, where you’ve got something visible to show for your efforts at the end of the day–even if it is sometimes only three nibs about library opening hours–trying to get your head around a job which involves ‘determining regional strategy’ and ‘finding synergies to improve overall efficiency’ is a bit weird.
‘…so you see,’ he concludes, ‘it’s all quite straightforward really.’
I get a flashback of Jack telling me about his job when we first met, but push the thought out of my mind immediately. So what the hell if Jack helps impoverished families in famine-hit regions of Africa? Big deal. Determining regional strategy and finding synergies to improve…whatever it is Seb improves, is probably just as interesting–only in a different way.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘I was really gutted when you dumped me at uni.’
‘Sorry,’ I say jokingly. ‘I was an idiot.’
‘Nah,’ he says, ‘I’m sure I deserved it. You were probably too good for me anyway.’
I don’t let on how much it means to me, but it is genuinely nice to hear Seb saying this sort of thing. My self-esteem has never felt as battered and bruised as it has recently, and Seb being so lovely tonight has gone a long way to cheering me up.
‘Anyway, I won’t hold it against you,’ he continues, with a teasing wink. ‘We’ve all grown up since then, haven’t we? Things change.’
He’s damn right about that one. A few months ago, the closest I’d ever got to commitment was deciding on a new colour for my living-room walls and sticking to it.
Darren Day’s romantic history looked modest compared with mine. But–and I say this in all seriousness–things are different now. I have come to the realization that the only way I’m ever going to end up in a serious relationship is by trying harder, criticizing less and being much more tolerant. Not that I need to be particularly tolerant when it comes to Seb, of course.
Chapter 102
We end up in a club of Seb’s choosing, a city centre haven of the beautiful, the evenly tanned and the expensively dressed. Okay, so some of the fashion ensembles in here are not always what you’d describe as understated style, but they definitely cost a packet. In fact, I suspect my mortgage wouldn’t cover the price of the average pair of shoes here.
As we pass the doormen, Seb nods in acknowledgment and I immediately get a sense of how Charlotte must have felt six months ago. Everyone in here seems to be so skinny I strongly suspect there are hundreds of regurgitated dinners swilling about somewhere in the lavatory system of this place.
‘I must remember to book in for some liposuction before my next visit,’ I mutter.
‘You’re gorgeous as it is, sweetheart,’ says Seb, putting a reassuring arm around me.
As we walk past the dance floor and Seb heads for the bar, I spot someone who, despite the regulation hot pants and strappy heels, makes me do a double-take.
‘Beth,’ I say, feeling very wobbly all of a sudden. ‘Er, hi.’
I might have known this would be the sort of place she’d come. Although she immediately looks as awkward to see me as I am to see her.
‘Hi, Evie,’ she says, flicking back her long dark hair.
I smile as naturally as possible, which I think in practice is about as convincing as someone on a particularly poor chewing-gum advert.
‘Sorry to hear about you and Jack,’ she says.
‘Right, yes,’ I say casually. ‘Georgia told you about it, did she?’
‘No, actually, it was J—’ she says, then immediately looks like she regrets it. ‘I mean, yeah. Yeah, Georgia told me about it.’
I narrow my eyes, my mind racing as I scrutinize her expression. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Georgia didn’t tell her at all. Which only leaves one other person. Jack. I feel a stab in my chest. So I was right all along.
‘Right–well, nice seeing you,’ I say, forcing myself to smile again, which is difficult now I know that they were–are–definitely seeing each other.
‘Yeah, you too,’ she says. And away we both go to separate ends of the dance floor.
As Seb and I start dancing, I give it my best but it’s hard to get in the mood under the circumstances. Besides that, dancing here just doesn’t feel as much fun as it used to, camping it up to ‘Native New Yorker’. Or even singing Ruby Turner as appallingly as I managed to. I push the thought out of my head and tell myself that now, more than ever, I’ve got to forget about Jack.
After a while, Seb somehow gets us into the VIP room and we sit in a booth and each order a cocktail from the waiter.
‘I’ll need something to wash this little beauty down with,’ he says, taking something out of his jacket pocket and putting it onto the table.
I watch in silent astonishment as he proceeds to chop and line up a pile of white powder with the side of his credit card and roll up a new £20 note. He then snorts it up in a movement accompanied by the sort of sound effects you’d expect from a warthog with a congestion problem.
Seb leans back with an unnerving smile on his face and powder stuck on the end of hi
s nose as if he’s dipped it in a sugar bowl.
‘Er, you’ve missed a bit,’ I whisper.
He brushes it off his nose with a finger and snorts that up too.
‘Here, let me set a line up for you,’ he says casually.
‘Oh, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Honestly, I’ll stick with my cocktail. Besides, aren’t you worried someone will see?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ he scoffs. ‘This is the VIP room. Everyone’s at it in here. Come on, I don’t want to party by myself.’
‘Really, I’d prefer not to,’ I say.
He looks at me as if he’s suddenly got Miss Jean Brodie sitting opposite him.
‘Come on, Evie,’ he says. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. It’ll help you loosen up.’
‘No. Honestly, Seb, I’m loose enough–really,’ I say, although I suddenly feel distinctly un-loose.
Mercifully, the waiter comes over to give us our cocktails and, despite his bravado, Seb puts his paraphernalia away. But over the next couple of hours, he proceeds to take his little packet of magic dust from his inside pocket to perform the same ritual three separate times.
‘Did you enjoy Georgia’s wedding?’ I ask, trying to ignore what he’s doing.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I did. It was good to see some of the old gang again. You in particular.’
I smile.
‘There were some pissed people on that dance floor by the end of the night though, weren’t there?’ he adds.
‘Aren’t there always at weddings?’ I say.
‘Yeah, but did you see that guy in the stripy jacket with his missus?’ he adds, shaking his head and smirking. ‘Those two looked like they needed locking up.’
I feel a surge of heat rising to my cheeks as I realize that the couple he’s referring to are Bob and my mother.
‘You’re talking about Bob,’ I say. ‘Bob and, er…’
‘Oh, do you know them?’ he says, before I get a chance to finish. ‘I hope I haven’t offended anyone.’
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