To Have and Hate

by Alam, Donna

  ‘All that I owe you was written into the contract. Into the prenup. There’s nothing else to say.’

  I feel like I’m going to be sick because he can’t mean that. He can’t be so cold. Can he? And now I know why my arms are banded across my chest. It’s because it hurts to breathe.

  ‘I know what I said. And I said six months. But now I don’t need you anymore.’

  More words are said. Something about the house. The lawyers. Being served. I don’t take any of it in, not as he steps closer and the morning light hits him just right. He looks perfect. And he’s perfectly fucked up.

  ‘Olivia. Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘You’re a coward,’ I whisper, unable to look at him. He presses his lips to my head as though he agreed, and then he’s gone.

  I feel everything in the coming days. The wind is too cold, the sound of the traffic too loud, and the three flights of stairs to get to my front door enough are to make me stay up there. I feign a case of flu and croak down the phone on Monday morning to tell Mir I won’t be in. Turns out crying until you literally have no more tears to secrete is a really good way to make you sound like you’ve been ill.

  Is grief a kind of illness?

  I hang on to the knowledge that heartbreak turns to anger, not that I’ve ever experienced a breakup like this. In fact, I wonder if anyone else in the world ever has. Because on top of feeling like utter shit I’m also balancing the weight of the knowledge that I only have myself to blame for this. Yes, he’s a total twat for the way he handled things, but the state I’m in is my own fault. I shouldn’t have fallen in love with him—I shouldn’t be feeling anything because it was all supposed to be pretend. I mean, he did kind of forced me into the marriage for his own reasons, and yes, the choice was mine to agree or not, but he’d still gotten to me by wicked means.

  I should be furious.

  Why aren’t I?

  Where is my damn angry stage?

  Breakups are the pits. Sadness is debilitating. And painful. And the ache in my heart weighs me down, like the muscle has been filled to the brim with concrete.

  By Tuesday I’ve stopped crying, though I still look like I’ve been sick. Puffy eyes. Red nose. Pallid skin. When I get to work, the crew avoid me like I’m a plague carrying rat, which means they leave me in peace, and I get to do the stoic thing of throwing myself into my work like a tragic artist. But you can only pretend to be recovering from illness for so long. Or not, as the case may be, because as the weekend rolls around, the Evening News is out with the E-Volve speed dating article with images in all its CMYK glory. The pictures of the Lust Island guys along with a candid shot of Beckett hugging me like he’s trying to absorb me.

  I don’t spend the weekend in bed, but I do spend it staring at the article and remembering. Remembering everything. The way he’d watch me in the morning as I dressed, his gaze possessive, and how in the darkness his soft words and kisses had slid over my skin.

  I also remember how he said he didn’t need me anymore.

  That I need to remember more than anything.

  The blame is squarely on my shoulders. Just as I’d accepted the blame for the state I’d gotten my business in. I’d known from the beginning what to expect. Beckett hadn’t sold me lies. I’d just lied to myself—he’d even given me a timeline.

  Angry. I need angry. Why isn’t that stage here yet!

  ‘We haven’t seen Beckett around for a while.’ Mir places a latte on my desk. A latte from the bean-to-cup machine Beckett had just arrived with one day at the office. As much as I want not to drink it on principle, it would be ridiculously churlish.

  ‘Thanks.’ My eyes flick up from my laptop for the briefest of moments, her expression expectant. Oh, she asked me a question, didn’t she? ‘He’s been busy.’ Busy being anywhere but with me. He packed a bag. I bet the bastard went on vacation just to get away from me. I go back to hammering the keys in an attempt to stave off more tears. Maybe I really should have insurance on my laptop, like Jorge suggested. I’m not ready to talk about Beckett yet. Not ready for the knowing looks, sympathetic murmurs and banal comments.

  He’s not worth it. It’s his loss. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.

  Maybe if I repeat these enough, I’ll start to believe.

  But it’s been ten days, and he’s not the only one that’s a coward.

  ‘Ols, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look like a bag of bones.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you’ve been ill, Mir. You can’t keep anything down, so you lose weight.’ I shouldn’t be using this tone on her, and I feel especially awful as she slides a chocolate cookie next to my coffee. She didn’t do anything wrong, so why am I taking it out on her?

  It’s his fault.

  Or it’s my own.

  Depending on which way the wind blows, it seems.

  My phone rings as I’m leaving the office today. It’s Sunday. I slide it from my pocket and look at the screen because I’m screening my calls these days. When Reggie called yesterday, I ignored it, texting her immediate to say I had laryngitis, just to give me a few more days to pluck up the courage to speak to her. Explain. Maybe I’ll even tell her the truth.

  But this call? For the first time in a long time, I answer it.

  ‘Luke.’

  ‘Hey, Ols. You answered!’

  ‘I did.’ I lean back against the window of the coffee shop next door to the office, preferring not to walk and take this call, especially if the talk turns to Beckett. I wonder how long it took him to tell the folks in his office about us.

  ‘How are you?’ That’s not a careful enquiry, more a casual one.

  ‘Oh, you know. Busy.’

  ‘I heard that matches.com are sniffing around.’

  This is true. In the absence of Beckett sitting in on our haphazard board meetings, he’d sent his proxy. Bob. An older man who sits on a few company boards, apparently. Anyway, he has a contact who has spoken to his contact, and now were waiting for that contact to patch us through.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re one hundred percent right there. Let’s just say that things are looking good.’

  ‘Excellent! I always knew E-volve had legs.’ Legs he tried to kick out from under me. Maybe. It’s not a line of enquiry I’ve had much time to think on. ‘Hey, I just called to say I’m at Greens. I wondered if you’d like to meet me for a drink.’

  I move the phone from my face and sigh. I’d rather spend time with Hannibal Lecter.

  ‘Come on. Just a drink. We didn’t get time to talk when I saw you the other day. And the stuff you said? Well, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.’

  ‘Listen, Luke, I’m really tired. I was just heading home.’ I don’t have the energy to wade through any more shit. ‘Can we just do this another day?’

  ‘Please, Ols. We need to talk about this. Clear the air. I won’t lose you as a friend. I can’t—I need you.’

  I sigh again, not hiding it this time. Maybe this is bigger than just Beckett said/Luke said. Maybe I ought to give him the chance to explain before I wipe him from my life.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ I answer wearily. ‘But I’m only staying for one drink.’

  Greens, as it turns out, is situated at the Shoreditch end of Hoxton, so it takes me a longer than I’d imagined it would to get there. I find Luke sitting outside under an awning strung with lights. The floor is covered with fake grass and the furniture is wooden. But the rustic décor seems to have brought all the hipsters to the yard because the place is buzzing.

  Luke stands as I approach the table, though wisely senses I’m in no mood for a hug.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ he says pushing a large glass of white wine my way. A pint of larger stands in front of him.

  ‘Like I said, I can’t stay long.’ I sit and busy myself with my purse so as not to look at him. It looks like I can manage to muster anger at someone. ‘What is it you wanted to talk about?’ I bring the glass to my mouth for a
sip. It tastes metallic, but it’s not the wine, it’s me. Everything tastes wrong lately. Feels wrong, too.

  ‘About the other day, before you rushed off, I wanted to apologise. I was wrong to say those things. I’d had a few beers, and that’s a crap excuse, I know, but I was angry. I didn’t mean to make it sound as though I wasn’t happy for you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I murmur, my gaze sliding to a nearby table of girls, at least one of which seems to be interested in Luke. I narrow my eyes in their direction, sure I recognise one or two of them.

  ‘I was trying to be happy for you.’ As he says this, he strokes the condensation from his glass with his thumb, his eyes captivated by the motion. ‘I suppose I was jealous. Angry, too. Angry at the world. Anna and I are never going to be anything to each other. And I fucked up my chance with you.’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ I offer lamely, and I wasn’t going to do this, but what the fuck. ‘Beckett told me Mark had no intention of investing in E-Volve.’

  ‘What?’ Luke’s head comes up, his gaze hitting mine hard. ‘How would he know that?’

  ‘Because Mark told him, apparently.’

  ‘Well, I know nothing about that,’ he blusters, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Honestly, Ols. My part was over as soon as I got you in through the door. I don’t even work there anymore. And that’s Beckett’s fault.’ That sounds like deflecting to me. ‘He hasn’t been in the office lately, I heard.’

  ‘You still keep in contact with the office?’ I swallow thickly. Does he know about us? Beckett has no incentive to keep things secret, but on the other hand, he isn’t the gossiping kind. Or even the sharing kind. And he’s definitely not the fishing kind, like the man in front of me.

  ‘Yeah, I do. I made good friends at JBW. I’d worked there since leaving uni, after all. But my new job is pretty cool, too,’ he adds a touch defensively.

  ‘That’s good. I’m happy for you.’ And I’ll be even happier for this afternoon to be over.

  ‘I know it’s not like senior partners are in the office nine to five anyway. Mark never was,’ he adds with an unimpressed snort, he reaches for his pint, taking a deep drink, somehow leaving a foamy white trail under his nose. ‘But Beckett’s apparently there even less than him.’

  ‘But he’s still there?’ I hate how this comes out as a question and not an answer. Hate that I’m desperate for information.

  ‘Yeah, I just wondered what’s going on with him.’

  Me and you. ‘You could always ask him,’ I reply instead.

  ‘Ask the bloke who fired me?’

  ‘I thought you said you got a golden handshake?’ Or a fuck off one, as he’d called it.

  ‘I did, but he still got rid of me,’ he answers defensively. ‘I loved working at JBW—I didn’t want to leave.’

  ‘So why did he make you?’ Why indeed.

  ‘Because of Mark. He had it in for me.’

  Or maybe because Beckett was right. Maybe Luke is a manipulator, too. A narcissist? I can’t see it. But did he have a hand in any of the other stuff? And do I really care right now? What I do care for is a trip to the bathroom. Too much coffee and my bladder is threatening a revolt.

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ I ask as I stand.

  ‘Yeah, cheers. That’s be great.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I’m in the bathroom stall when I hear the outer door swing open, the noise of the bar carrying in then shutting off again. Heels totter and girls giggle, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m digging in the bottom of my bag for a tampon because the universe is picking on me.

  ‘Where did you disappear to?’ I still at the sound of her voice. I know this voice. This is the squeaky deep-throater from the speed dating night. What’s her name again? ‘You didn’t look to score, did you?’ That’s it—the incongruously named Prudence!

  ‘It depends what you mean by score,’ the second voice answers smugly.

  ‘Like, as in charlie.’ Jesus, does everyone in London do cocaine?

  ‘Nah. I’ve got someone hooking me up later.’

  ‘So, where’ve you been?’ Prudence asks as I return to my tampon quest. I’ll hide in here for as long as it takes because I’m in no hurry to speak to either of them. Plus, I’m not exactly looking Instagram perfect right now. Important since I seem to have become the face of the brand.

  ‘I’ve been inside, having a drink with Marnie.’

  ‘No, before that,’ Prudence asks. ‘We couldn’t find you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, babe.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Hey, don’t go stealing my lines! Anyways, I was like, in a totally skeevy supply cupboard, full of mops and cleaning stuff.’ The girl giggles.

  ‘What or who were you doing in there.?’

  ‘Who, definitely.’

  ‘It was that guy from the speed dating thing the other night, wasn’t it?’ At this I still. Wasn’t Luke sitting with the girls right before our altercation? ‘You totally shagged him, didn’t you?’ she squeals.

  I do not need to hear this. Or maybe I do. Maybe I need to hear it all.

  ‘Strike when the iron is hot and all that.’ She pauses for a beat and I almost hear her sigh. ‘I’ve had better, though.’

  ‘Ooh, shame,’ Prudence replies, absolutely gloating.

  ‘It really is. He’s a looker, and we were vibing and we had chemistry and all that the other night, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, for sure.’

  ‘Anyway, I saw him in here earlier.’

  ‘In the ladies?’

  ‘No, you idiot. Out in the bar. We had a drink and a chat. And we snuck off to do the dirty deed. You know how horny wine makes me.’

  ‘I know how horny city boys make you,’ her friend answers snidely. ‘Lawyers and traders and stuff.’

  ‘Totally. I’m a slut for a man with a big . . . bankbook.’ The pair break out into dirty sniggering giggles. ‘Sadly, that was the only big thing about him. Apart from his ego.’

  ‘How’s that, babe?’

  ‘Well, he’s blown me off for the next hour because he needs to deal with his ex. You remember that American who ran the speed dating thing we went to the other night?’

  That. Rat. Bastard.

  ‘Where you met him, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, apparently, they had a thing going on before she got married.’

  That fucker. That douche bag.

  ‘Oh! I saw that article in the papers this weekend. We looked fine in those photos, babe. I follow her on Insta; her wedding post was so cute!’

  ‘Unfollow her,’ she bites back. ‘She’s a total ho-bag. She’s already cheating on her husband with him.’

  ‘With Luke? I thought you were doing him?’

  ‘Just casual, babe. He’s hooking us up with coke later, yeah?’

  ‘Oh!’ Prudence gasps with delight. ‘She’s the one that got her claws into that tasty bit of stuff from JBW? The millionaire? We saw him there, remember? And they were in the papers!’

  ‘Beckett something or other; that’s him. They say he’s richer than a millionaire.’

  ‘What comes after a millionaire?’

  ‘Are you being serious?’ From Prudence there’s no reply. She can’t be a teacher, can she? ‘He comes from old money. Now, there’s a man I’d let take me anywhere, if you know what I mean. And I bet he doesn’t have a dick like a pencil.’

  ‘Oh, no. Luke took you in the cupboard and you didn’t even have fun?’ Prudence sounds thrilled, despite her faux-sad tone. This pair can’t be friends, surely?

  ‘He was all talk and no substance.’

  ‘Babe, little men need love, too.’

  ‘I know, she says with a resigned sigh. ‘I’m meeting him after she’s gone. I believe it’s good to keep your options open.’

  ‘You’re gonna see him after he blew you for his ex?’

  ‘He’s finishing with her as we speak. Besides, the bitch alread
y has her man.’

  Only, I don’t. And now I’m beginning to wonder if this is part of the reason, while also wondering if I’ll get away with killing him.

  ‘No!’ Prudence cries suddenly, as though she’s just heard her dog died. ‘I’ve just realised where I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘Who, Beckett?’

  ‘No, Luke. He fucked Amelia a couple of months ago. He even called later crying because his ex is pregnant. Her family are absolutely threatening to get out the shotguns. They’ve got to get married—her uncle is the Archbishop of Canterbury or something!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s something religious, anyway. I told Amelia; sounds like he’s just chasing a pity fuck. But you know what they say. If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.’

  ‘Good job we screwed standing up,’ she says with a snigger.

  ‘Where’d she meet him anyway?’

  ‘That dating app she’s just signed up for.’

  My stomach hits the floor. This is like some great big cosmic clusterfuck.

  ‘Was it E-Volve?’

  ‘Nah, it was that other one. The swipey one.’

  ‘Tinder?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  So much for sisterhood. So much for evolving. And so much for fucking romance!

  But at least my purse yields a squashed and very sorry looking tampon from the bottom of my bag as the pair of nitwit’s finish retouching their makeup. Once they’ve left, I wash my hands and stride out to the bar.

  Oops. I mustn’t forget Luke’s pint of beer. What the hell, I’m feeling generous. I’ll order him two.

  He looks up from his phone as I approach the table, he’s eyes merrily twinkling at the pint glass I carry in each hand.

  ‘Are you joining m—’ He doesn’t get any farther than that, unless you count a lot of yelled Jesus and fucks as he jumps from his seat. To be fair, I did order the really cold stuff. And I had the bartender put ice in.

  ‘What the fuck, Olivia!’ he yells, on his feet now and standing like a scarecrow, his head bowed, his arms held out and all of it dripping.

  ‘There.’ I place the glasses down on the table, before straightening and brushing away the beery splashes from my outfit. ‘You are the kind of man who give mankind a terrible name, Luke.’ I announce this rather loudly, the crowd around us beginning to jeer. ‘Ladies, take a good look at this pretty face,’ I announce. ‘Remember it, because behind it hides a liar and a cheat. And if you’re still tempted, if you just can’t resist a pretty face, you should know I have it on good authority,’ I add, point to the girls on the other table, ‘that he also has a pencil dick.’