by Lee, Mandy
‘She’s a stunner, isn’t she?’ Claudine asks.
Yes, she is. I can’t deny it. And I’d love to slap her stunning little face into the middle of next week.
‘Looks like he’s moved on.’ She studies me closely. ‘A friend of mine was at the same party. Apparently, he was all over this woman, barely able to control himself. But then again, I suppose it’s to be expected. He’s gone a while without a shag.’
Don’t believe it, I tell myself.
Breathing quickly, on the verge of panic, I examine the photographs one more time, deciding that they’re just too convincing.
Whatever you see. Whatever you hear about me. Don’t believe it.
‘Now you know how I felt. I always thought he’d come back to me, but he didn’t.’
‘Don’t even think you’re on the same level,’ I sneer, shifting my attention to the opening of the article. My vision’s already blurred with tears and shock. I can’t read a word of it. ‘You were never in a relationship with him.’
‘Not the way you’d define it. But to have him, and then to have him reject you, well, that’s painful, isn’t it?’
I need to get away from here. I need some time to think, and I can’t do that with Claudine’s words digging into my brain.
‘They’re quite a match. Very much in love.’
Whatever you see. Whatever you hear about me.
‘We’re in the same club now, the I’ve-been-fucked-and-fucked-over-by-Daniel-Foster Society.’
Don’t believe it.
‘Would you like a handkerchief?’
‘Not from you.’
She shrugs.
‘So now you finally see what a bastard he is. You meant nothing to him. He used you.’
Don’t believe …
‘Whatever he said, all those wonderful words, they were just lies. Because that’s what he does. He lies.’ Still watching me, she bites her bottom lip, her eyes gleaming. ‘Did he tell you he loved you?’
I open my mouth, temporarily unguarded, and she catches the answer in my expression.
‘Did he tell you he’d be there for you … forever? Did he tell you he’d wait for you?’
She’s digging again, rummaging for information. And just in case Boyd has sent her, I need to protect myself.
‘Nobody’s waiting for anyone,’ I say crisply, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. ‘It’s over. It’s been over since the accident, and you know that. Now take your poison and fuck off.’
A black Bentley draws up next to us. Instinctively, I move away from the kerb. It’s become a habit in recent weeks.
‘Oh, just in time,’ Claudine chirps. ‘Here’s Isaac.’
The driver’s window rolls down and Isaac’s droopy face appears, his lips struggling to raise themselves beneath the handlebar moustache.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ he smiles.
‘Yes,’ Claudine replies breezily, turning back to face me. ‘I wanted you to paint a picture for me, Maya. I wasn’t lying. And you did. A lovely picture. A real work of art. Thank you. I enjoyed it very much.’
I’m on automatic pilot. Dropping into Slaters to retrieve my handbag, I dump the magazine in the bin and make my excuses for the day. I spend a while wandering aimlessly through Soho, pretending to study the shop windows for a good hour or so before I take a seat in the Square and pretend to study the mock Tudor pagoda instead. Eventually, I wander up to Tottenham Court Road, and navigate the maze of tunnels to the Northern Line. It’s a short tube ride to Waterloo. Emerging from the station, I walk along the embankment, finally reaching my target – fifteen floors of darkened glass, the headquarters of Fosters Construction.
Lost in a swarm of bodies, I look up at the top floor. He’s up there right now, and in all probability, he’ll be fully aware that I’m lurking outside. So, is he looking back down at me? And if he is, what’s on his mind? Perhaps, like me, he’s paralysed with longing. Or perhaps, if Claudine’s right, he’s simply wishing I’d vanish. After all, this break’s given us both thinking time and while it’s only confirmed my need for him, maybe he’s come to a different conclusion. Maybe I’m too much of a liability, not that special, utterly replaceable.
I check my phone. Just after five. No wonder the Embankment’s filling up. On top of the droves of tourists, rush hour’s throwing an endless stream of workers into the mix. Without a clue what I’m doing, I leave the Embankment and begin to wander the back streets. Before long, I find myself in a lane behind Fosters, pinned down by inertia, leaning against the corner of an office block.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I whisper to myself, answering my own question immediately. ‘Stalking, you bloody idiot. You’re a stalker.’
I should go. I know I should. But I stay in position. A need to see him has dragged me here, and now it won’t let me leave. And logic must have given a helping hand, because he might have made a good recovery, but I’m willing to bet a long walk home’s still out of the question. He won’t be using the revolving doors at the other side of the building. He’ll either emerge from the garage, driving himself, or he’ll be chauffeured home. As I settle in for the wait, palpitations flutter through my chest. I have no idea how long I stand rooted to the spot, fixated on the doorway across the street, but I’m about to call it a day when a car pulls up at the rear entrance. I withdraw slightly, peering round the edge of the building.
And then, he appears.
I get my first view of Dan in almost three months and immediately, I’m a quivering, quaking mess. Good God, I’m pathetic. Like some crazed teenager, spying on her latest crush. Relieved there’s no limp, no obvious sign of his injuries, I watch as he walks toward the car. He hands his briefcase to the driver, stands by the open rear door and without any warning, looks my way.
Yes. He definitely knows I’m here.
My pulse races. I’m frozen to the spot.
Move, I tell myself. Just bloody well move.
But I can’t. Even from this distance, he’s got me mesmerised. I need a sign, one little sign that everything’s okay. But there’s no smile, no warmth in those eyes, just a hard edge of nothing. Finally, he turns away, speaks to the driver and manoeuvres himself into the back of the car.
I’m released from his hold.
Reeling back against the wall, I begin to shake.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
If he really is moving on, he’ll hate me now. I am a liability. A bloody big one.
It’s a couple of minutes before I manage to get my body back under control, and then I make my way back to the embankment. In a blur, I negotiate a path through the evening crowds, heading for Gabriel’s Wharf, where I finally come to a halt in a tiny coffee shop. I place my order, settle myself at a metal table in the courtyard and with my cappuccino delivered, take a few absent-minded sips, staring at the shops, the mural, the South Bank Tower.
And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, I realise I’ve come back to where it all began. Before he went to Edinburgh, he brought me here and warned me to ignore the gossip. But should I ignore it this time round? He’s given up on Slaters, apparently given up on selling Fosters, and now there’s a distinct possibility he’s given up on me. Overwhelmed by frustration, blind faith isn’t enough any more. The time has come for something concrete. I need proof.
I take my mobile out of my pocket. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Lily. Tapping in her contact, I wait impatiently, wondering if I’m about to throw up. It’s a good few seconds before she answers.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Maya.’
There’s a long pause. When she speaks again her voice is different, brittle, almost hollow.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
Why have I just opened with that? I’m not fine at all. And that’s precisely why I’m calling.
‘It’s been a while.’
‘I know. But you said … you said to call if …’
‘You changed your mind.
’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you’re not fine at all.’
‘No,’ I admit, my voice cracking. ‘I need to contact him.’
I hear a dainty sigh.
‘Have you got his new number?’ I ask.
‘Of course I have.’
‘Can you let me have it?’
Another silence. She’s thinking.
‘I don’t think that’s the right thing to do.’
‘But you said you wanted to help.’
‘And it’s been a long time.’
‘I know, but I miss him,’ I blurt. ‘I really miss him. It’s taken me a while to realise. I was just so angry when he dumped me, but now … I just need to talk to him. I need to give it a try.’
‘Maya. You’re too late.’
I crash to a halt.
‘Why?’
‘He’s seeing someone.’
‘No.’ The word’s out of my mouth before I know what’s going on. And before I can get a grip on matters, more follow suit. ‘He’s not. Not really.’
‘He is,’ she insists. ‘I met her a few days ago.’
I let my head fall, rub my free hand over my face, remind myself that nothing gets past Lily Babbage. He must be putting on a damn good show … if it is a show.
‘Maya?’
What the hell. Why not let her in on the ruse?
‘We didn’t really split up.’
‘What?’
‘It’s all a pretence. There was somebody … somebody who made threats. I can’t tell you any more. He told Dan to keep his distance. This is just acting, Lily, until he’s dealt with this person. Dan said we’d just go through the motions.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘It’s true. God, don’t tell anyone.’
For a few seconds, I listen to her breathing. At last, she speaks again.
‘Are you thinking straight?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘It’s just … well, this is all a bit far-fetched.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I’ll talk to Dan about it.’
‘No.’ My heartbeat accelerates. ‘Don’t tell him. I’m not supposed to say a word.’
‘Then what am I to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
Suddenly, I seem to have no energy. I’m sick of it all. All the waiting and silence and frustration. And not one scrap of hope.
‘He’s with someone else now. He’s happy. I’m sorry, Maya, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be involved any more.’
‘No, Lily, you’ve got to believe me.’
‘Perhaps you should see a doctor,’ she cuts in quickly.
‘I’m not making this up.’
‘I’m just as upset as you are about the split, but I can’t force him to take you back. His feelings have obviously changed.’
‘But …’
‘Maya …’
‘He promised me, Lily. He was even selling the company.’
‘He’s not selling the company. He’d never sell Fosters. Listen to me. This story in your head … that’s all it is … a story. You’re kidding yourself. You need to let it go.’
The phone goes dead. I stare at it in desperation, then throw it into my handbag and gaze into space instead.
It can’t be true, not after everything we’ve been through. He’d never treat me this way. I pick up my coffee and take another shaky sip. He’ll know I’m here now, drinking the best coffee this side of the Thames, and waiting for him. He’ll know I’m upset and he won’t be able to help himself. If I sit here long enough, he’ll turn up and lock me in with those bright blue eyes, and they’ll soften with love, and then he’ll tell me everything’s going to be fine.
Putting down the mug, I gaze up at the trees, their bare branches scratching against the sky. Oh, don’t be a fool, I tell myself. Think about it. All the evidence stacks up. The article. The ice in his eyes. Lily’s words. You can sit here all night and he’ll never show, because he’s done with you. He just hasn’t got the balls to admit it. Wise up. Lily was right. You are kidding yourself. A tremor of shock erupts at the base of my chest, surging up through my throat. I swallow back as much as I can, but a sob manages to escape from my mouth. I shake my head and close my eyes.
I’m falling, crashing … and I need to go home.
Abandoning the coffee, I get up and head for the embankment wall. The evening crowds pass by, oblivious to the chaos in my head, the tears streaming down my cheeks. I lean over and stare at the Thames. Black and unforgiving, it moves on relentlessly, just like the rest of the world.
Any comfort I had unravels … completely and irrevocably.
Chapter Seven
Gusts of wind skitter down the road, catching the last of the autumn leaves, along with a few handfuls of litter, and casting the whole lot into spirals. I shiver, look down at the roses in my hands. Yet another bunch from Boyd. Stepping forward onto the pavement, I hurl them into the skip.
‘Are you going to pay for that?’
My neighbour scowls at me from his doorstep.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Well, it’s going next week. You’ll have to find somewhere else to dump your flowers.’
He slams the door, leaving me alone with my embarrassment. I’ve been caught red-handed, making unauthorised use of a skip. But worse than that, it’s five o’clock in the evening and I’m dressed in my pyjamas, probably looking dishevelled to say the least. After a restless night, I shied away from Slaters, telling Lucy I felt under the weather, and cocooned myself from the world. I’ve spent the entire day on the sofa, knocking back one mug of tea after another, flicking through an endless selection of daytime television crap, and relentlessly raking through the facts. Closing the front door, I head for the kitchen. Lucy’s due home soon. The least I can do is prepare dinner. I heat up the oven, pop in a frozen pizza, open a bottle of white wine and set the rickety table.
The front door opens and bangs shut.
‘Evening,’ Lucy grunts, dropping her handbag on the floor. ‘Friday night. Let’s get pissed.’
‘Bad day?’
‘Shit day. Gordon’s back. I had to go through the accounts with him. And yours?’
‘Had a bath. Watched telly. Cooked a pizza.’ And that reminds me. ‘Oh shit, the pizza.’
In a panic, I tug open the oven door, dismayed at the sight of a blackened disc in front of me.
‘Bugger.’
We stand together, staring at the burnt offering.
‘We’re crap,’ Lucy breathes. ‘It’s official.’
‘It is official.’ I switch off the oven. I really ought to get that slab of charcoal into the bin, but it’s still smoking. ‘I’ve had enough.’ And the devil inside wants to play. ‘No more moping, Lucy. No more feeling sorry for ourselves. We’re going out … on the pull.’
‘We are?’ she gawps. ‘But I thought you were ill.’
‘Not any more.’ I prod the pizza, burning my finger in the process. ‘I need to get back on my bike. And you need to get back on yours.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘But …’
‘What?’
She thinks for a moment, giving me one of her should-I-really-say-this looks. I don’t know why she bothers. She always says it in the end.
‘I saw the magazine,’ she ventures nervously. ‘The one you dumped in the bin. I saw the article.’ She swallows. ‘I knew you weren’t over him. You were like me, hoping he’d made some huge mistake, hoping he’d come back.’
In a strange moment of intimacy, I see it all in her eyes: the raw grief of losing Clive, her sadness for me. And I just can’t help myself. I throw my arms around her, pressing her into my chest and giving her the biggest hug of her life.
‘You’re a wonderful friend, Lucy. I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she mumbles into my breasts. ‘But please don’t hug me. This shit’s going to make us b
oth cry.’
I release her and step back, taking in a gulp of air and coughing it back out again. There’s a distinct taste of burning in the room.
‘You weren’t ill today, were you?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘I was brooding.’
‘It’s always the hardest part. When you find out they’ve moved on.’
A huge understatement if I’ve ever heard one. In fact, I never knew it was possible to feel this messed up. The inside of my head’s not a good place to be at the minute. A landscape of complete desolation, there’s nothing familiar left in place.
‘I know.’
‘So, tonight … maybe it’s not the best night to get back on your bike. Perhaps we should stay in.’
I smile at her. She may be a ditzy idiot, but my best friend’s definitely got my back. The trouble is, my back, along with the rest of me, just doesn’t want to stay in.
‘There’s never been a better night, Luce. Trust me.’
She stares at me, disbelief quickly giving way to mild excitement.
‘Well, if that’s the case, I know exactly where we’re going.’
‘Where?’
‘Back to Soho. The Mill. More bikes than the Tour de France.’
I stare at her blankly.
‘It’s a metaphor … I think. Anyway, Gordon’s seeing some friends there tonight. And we’re invited. I didn’t think you’d be interested, but …’ The excitement grows. ‘He wants to treat me for working so hard today.’ She pouts dramatically. ‘Free entry courtesy of the new boss. We’re on the guest list. No queueing. Straight in. VIP area. Complimentary bubbly.’
And Gordon. A man who seems to have a crush on me, which I wouldn’t normally mind, but when all’s said and done – and in spite of all my brave allusions to cycling – I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for any shenanigans. It’s going to take a good few months to shake the big kahuna out of my system. And besides, all I really want to do is get drunk, dance and lose myself in oblivion.
‘Come on, Maya. I’ll give you a make-over. Little black dress. You’re going to look the dog’s bollocks.’
Before I know it, I’m dragged from the kitchen into my bedroom and squeezed into the black dress I bought for my first exhibition at Slaters. Refusing point blank to let Lucy anywhere near me with her make-up bag, I apply eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara. Finally, I open my jewellery box and find myself gazing down at the sweet pea necklace and the matching earrings. Somehow, I still want to wear them. But I can’t. Instead, I opt for my grandmother’s Yorkshire jet and close the box, resolving to leave all thoughts of Dan behind.