by Beth O'Leary
Her dress shows every curve. The desire hits me a few seconds after the envy, and as I watch her laugh, the lights catching the sheen of make-up on her cheekbones, I feel devastatingly out of her league. What kind of moron dosses around in Bali when he could be here with a woman like that? How could I be so stupid? Whatever misery has been gripping me over the past few months – the thick black dread, waiting for me every morning when I woke – feels more ridiculous than ever now that it’s cleared and I’m here, watching her. What was I doing?
‘I did warn you,’ Deb says, at my shoulder.
I messaged Deb last week to say I wanted to surprise Addie on Fireworks Night – she’d mentioned that she and Deb were excited for a night out. Well, it’ll definitely surprise her, Deb said. I think she’s pretty much given up on you ever coming home, to be honest.
‘I’m such a tit,’ I say, rubbing my face. ‘I thought . . .’
‘She’d wait for you for ever?’
‘She’s still waiting, right?’ I say, watching worriedly. ‘She’s not . . . seeing someone else?’
We’ve never talked about being exclusive. We fast-forwarded past that, right through to I love you – I assumed it was unnecessary. Now I’m recapping every Skype call, scanning through every word I can remember for a male name, that hot lick of jealousy working its way down my spine.
‘Of course she’s not seeing someone else.’ Deb folds her arms. ‘What were you doing?’
Hiding. Running away. Sinking. Drowning.
‘Trying to figure things out,’ I say weakly. ‘I thought . . . Addie said to come home to her when I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And then I kept staying, and kept not figuring it out, and coming home felt even, you know, even harder.’
Deb frowns. ‘That wasn’t very sensible.’
‘Yeah. I’m getting that.’
The man beside Addie ducks his head to speak to her and I want to whimper.
‘Can’t we tell her I’m here now? Please?’
Deb looks at me in an evaluating sort of way.
‘Do you really love her?’
‘I really do.’
‘Then why did you stay away for so long?’
I grind my teeth in frustration. I can’t tell her about the dread, the lethargy, the terror, and even if I could bring myself to share the shame of that, deep down I don’t believe it’s an excuse. That thick dread has hit me before, once, when I was a teenager, and back then my father made it very clear that it was nothing but weakness.
‘I don’t know. OK? I don’t know. Marcus kept saying I should stay, and my dad was on at me to come back and start work at his business, and Addie has this whole new life here and I wasn’t sure . . . how I’d fit in it.’
‘So you opted out?’
‘So I waited. Until I was, you know, the man she’d want.’
Deb looks me up and down. ‘And you’re that now?’
I sag. ‘Well, not really, no.’
‘No. You look pretty much the same, aside from the tan.’
‘Please, Deb,’ I beg, as Addie laughs again, lifting a hand to her hair to smooth it back. ‘I messed up. Let me fix it.’
‘All right,’ Deb says. ‘Fine. But don’t keep messing up, will you? You made her happy for a few days in France, I’ll give you that – but since then you’ve made her bloody miserable. Now go hide and I’ll lure her back to our table with alcohol so you can surprise her. If you’re going to do this, you had better do it properly. I want to see my sister smiling again.’
Addie
‘Addie,’ he says.
We’re at the table, pouring out cava from the bottle Deb conjured up from somewhere. I look at my sister before I turn around. She grins at me. She knew he was coming.
‘I missed that happy face, Ads,’ she says, as I turn in my seat, already beaming, and look at Dylan.
He’s swept me up out of my chair before I can say anything.
‘Christ,’ he says, ‘Addie Gilbert, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?’
I mean, I don’t, really. He said I miss you plenty on Skype, but he always sounded so flat. If he missed me, why didn’t he come back? But the thought evaporates the moment he presses his lips to mine. This is my Dylan. A flop of brown hair, startling green eyes. Ridiculous as it sounds, he seems to smell of sunshine and vineyards even here in this sticky club. We kiss for so long everything melts away, music pounding around us. We break apart eventually, and he laughs, smoothing his thumbs across my cheekbones.
‘I’m so sorry I took so long to come home. I’m a fool. Forgive me?’
He apologises so easily. I don’t know any other guys who do that. It’s like he’s not got that male ego thing, the pride that’s always getting wounded. I love that about him. But . . . I’m not sure it fixes things. Can you get rid of a mistake with one easy apology like that?
‘Oh, God, Addie, please,’ he says, pressing his lips to mine again. ‘Don’t be angry with me. I can’t stand it.’
‘Where’s Marcus?’ I ask.
Dylan looks surprised by the question – it surprised me a bit too. ‘Home,’ he says. ‘In Hampshire. I told him I wanted to come straight here to see you, so he went back to stay with his dad.’
I nuzzle into Dylan’s chest as my mind whirs. As the months have gone by, I’ve wondered about Marcus. Whether he’s the reason Dylan didn’t come home sooner. I can’t imagine he was in any rush to get Dylan back to me.
‘And . . . you’re here now?’ I ask him.
‘I’m here now. For good. In full knowledge that I should never have left your side.’
‘I’m drinking your cava!’ Deb yells at me. ‘You look busy.’
I laugh and give her a thumbs up, then drag Dylan to the dance floor as Deb knocks back my drink. Me and Dylan dance, pressed so close together every inch of us is touching. The strobes flash. My head’s spinning. I’m giddy with having him back.
‘You know,’ Dylan says, close to my ear so I can hear him over the music, ‘I’m beginning to think my life thus far has been one long string of poorly made decisions and very foolish mistakes, except for the day I knocked on your door.’ He presses his lips to my hair and I hide my smile against his chest. ‘I’m not leaving your side now.’
‘That’s going to be a bit tricky,’ I say, pulling on his hands to get him dancing again. He’s pretty good. I’m not sure why I assumed Dylan would be a bad dancer but this is a nice surprise.
‘Tricky?’
‘Your family live two hours away, don’t they?’
He doesn’t catch it. I repeat the words, my lips against his ear.
‘I’m not moving home,’ he says. He sounds triumphant. ‘I’m moving here.’
‘Here?’ That’s the grand plan he’s spent months coming up with? ‘Here, like, Chichester? What are you going to do for work?’
‘I’ll figure it out,’ he says, and there’s that shadow on his face again. ‘If Chichester will have me.’
The lights paint his hair yellow, green, yellow. The music’s so loud it’s more buzz than noise.
‘What, you’re going to rent a flat here?’
‘Or buy one. Dad’s always on at me to get on the property ladder.’
I gawp at him for so long he laughs a bit uneasily, pulling me closer again.
‘Or not, whatever. I just want to be here. I should have been here all along.’
Someone bashes into me, throwing me hard against his chest. I stay there, wrapping my arms around his waist. I’ve always believed everyone should get a second chance. And he’s sorry, and was it that bad, anyway, him staying away a bit longer than he said he would while he figured stuff out?
And . . . I still love him. So there’s that, too.
I sneak him into my room. The moment we click my bedroom door closed we’re breathless, literally
clawing each other’s clothes off. Dylan tears the neckline of my dress and pauses, seeming surprised at himself, which makes me laugh so much I have to cover my mouth with a hand to keep quiet.
His body is the same but different. The tan lines are clearer, the muscles a little firmer maybe, but it’s him, Dylan, home, and the feel of him against me is enough to send me quivering. We kiss hungrily, open-mouthed. I’m desperate. Aching. I’m so frantic I mess up the condom, and Dylan laughs, breathless, stilling my hands with his own.
‘We have time,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
He lays me down on the bed, moving on top of me. His arms bracket me. I lift my chin, demanding a kiss, and he presses his lips to mine, slow, soft. By the time he reaches for a second condom I’ve begged, literally begged him, and when at last he moves inside me we both cry out.
I sort of go through tiredness and out the other side. The alcohol probably helps with that. Dylan’s body clock is a mess anyway with all the travelling. So at eight a.m., after zero hours of sleep, sated and giddy and probably still drunk, I bring him downstairs to make bacon and egg sandwiches for breakfast.
My mum arrives a few minutes after we put the rashers under the grill. She pauses in the doorway to the kitchen in her favourite dressing gown. It was purple originally, but it’s a mushy sort of grey now.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I’m more surprised to see. A young man in my kitchen or my daughter making a fried breakfast at eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘Dylan,’ Dylan says, wiping his hands on the apron he insisted on wearing and stretching one out for Mum to shake. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Oh! Dylan!’
Mum gives me one of those significant looks that only parents do. As if, as soon as you have a kid, you lose the power of subtlety.
‘Yes, Mum, this is Dylan,’ I say, turning back to buttering bread and trying not to smile.
‘And he’s back now, is he?’
‘Absolutely,’ Dylan says. ‘And not going anywhere. Ever again. Ever.’
My smile widens.
‘Well. I’m pleased to hear that, Dylan,’ Mum says, and I can hear that she’s smiling too. ‘Now, brace yourself. If your father smells bacon he’ll be out of bed like a—’
‘Who’s cooking bacon?’ Dad yells down the stairs. ‘Is it for me?’
NOW
Dylan
Charnock Richard Service Station, highlight of the M6, is resolutely grimy and grey beneath a deep blue sky. We all squeeze ourselves out of the Mini like a bad joke in reverse.
Marcus stretches expansively, fists clenched, and with his hair blowing into his eyes he looks like the scrappy little boy he once was, swamped in a Winchester College blazer, small enough that the older kids thought he’d be easy to pick on, smart enough that he owned them all by the end of autumn term. He had two teachers he didn’t like fired; he somehow got Peter Wu kicked off the cricket team so he could play in his place; he soon had a reputation as a young man who made things happen.
I remember the day when a sixth former had thrown Luke into a wall and called him a dick-sucker. Marcus was a head shorter than Daniel Withers and half as broad, but as he approached the older boy there was an energy to Marcus, a wildness, like he was vicious and held on a very thin leash. I won’t fight you, Marcus told Daniel, as I cradled Luke’s bruised head against my shoulder. But I’ll end you. Slowly, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but a punchline to people around here. You know I can.
‘So are we going to try one of these aberrations, then?’ Marcus says, pointing to the sign advertising Greggs vegan sausage rolls.
‘I thought they went against your philosophy,’ I say, falling into step beside him.
He grins at me. ‘You ought to know I never stick to one philosophy for long.’ His smile drops as we enter the service station doors. ‘Dyl . . .’
He glances behind him; the others are still crossing the car park, Addie’s glasses glinting in the sun. She’s unfastened the top of her dungarees to cool off, so the top part hangs down, flapping at her waist; underneath she’s wearing a tight white crop top that clings to her skin and the ruched fabric of her bra.
‘You know your dad offered me a job?’
I turn back to Marcus, faltering mid step. ‘My dad?’
I watch him resist the urge to say something facetious – I can see the words on the tip of his tongue, then the thought that swallows them back.
‘Doing what?’ I ask.
‘Copy-writing for the company’s new site. It’s just a six-month thing, but, ah . . .’
It’s a job my father has offered me countless times: the best I can do for an English graduate who’s got no work experience. I’m sure offering it to Marcus is intended as a jab for me – why else would my father care to offer one of my friends a lifeline?
‘I really need it, Dyl. I’ve got no money coming in from Dad still, and a criminal record,’ Marcus says, pulling a face. Even Marcus – the man who makes things happen – could not get the police to drop the charges when he drunkenly smashed up the front of an estate agent’s office.
‘Well, then take it.’
‘I didn’t realise you two weren’t speaking.’
‘Luke has cut him out too. When he and Javier told Mum and Dad about their engagement, Dad said he wouldn’t come to their wedding. So . . .’
Marcus winces. ‘Fuck. I . . . I didn’t know. Luke must be . . .’
‘Yeah. It’s been tough. But he deserves more than half-recognition from his father. For what it’s worth, I think cutting Dad off has been much healthier for Luke than seeing him and never being able to bring Javier home.’
‘I should call Luke. I’ve been – I need to call him.’
We walk on in silence. Luke forgave Marcus long before me, but then, it’s easier to forgive when it wasn’t your life that was ruined – and living thousands of miles away in the States can’t hurt, either.
‘If . . . if you don’t want me to take the job . . .’ Marcus’s eyes are pleading.
For a swift moment I’m tempted to say, No, don’t take it, and see how much his loyalty to me will stretch, but I don’t. I’m not that man. And I suspect he may well have already accepted.
‘Of course you should take it. It’s a good opportunity.’
We’ve wandered into Waitrose, drawn by the cool blast of the fridges; Marcus opens the door to the milk and makes a show of trying to climb in, and despite myself, I laugh.
‘Remember when you made me down four pints of milk after a night out at Wahoo?’ he says, rubbing his back against the cool glass like a bear against a tree.
Wahoo was one of the Oxford nightclubs – actually a sports bar that transformed itself for students at night. It always smelled of sweetcorn and inexplicably played the shopping channel on its TV screens while the DJ blasted out something by Flo Rida.
‘I did not make you down four pints of milk,’ I say, glancing at the tills. A young woman in a Waitrose uniform gives us an uncertain look; she is presumably trying to work out which rule Marcus is breaking by attempting to insert himself into the milk fridge.
‘You definitely did,’ Marcus says. ‘Why else would I have done it?’ He flashes me a grin that says he knows what I’m going to tell him.
‘Because you’re a senseless hedonist,’ I say, and his grin widens. ‘Come on, get out of there, the woman behind the till is trying to work out if she needs to section you.’
I flinch at my choice of words, but Marcus doesn’t clock it; he throws the woman at the till a look.
‘Eh, she’s harmless,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t call security even if I pinched a two-pinter. Which I won’t,’ he says, rolling his eyes as my smile drops. ‘Christ, what will it take to convince you I don’t do that sort of thing any more?’
Addie, Rodney and De
b come into the shop and pause as they catch sight of Marcus trying to pull the fridge door closed with him inside. I give him a pointed look as he registers their expressions.
‘Well, if you were hoping for a full personality transplant, you might as well give up on me now,’ he says, and he’s not grinning any longer. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll meet me halfway.’
‘Excuse me,’ says the lady at the till. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, would you?’ Marcus calls back. ‘I just need a foot up and a few milk cartons shifted and I reckon I can wriggle into the second shelf.’
‘I’m not . . . I don’t think you’re meant to be doing that,’ she says, perplexed.
To my surprise, I can hear Deb and Addie laughing. I glance at them and the sight of Addie hiding her giggle behind a hand, her bracelets sliding down her arm, sets off something warm deep in my stomach, like the moment hot water hits tea. That laugh sounds like comfort, easy pleasure, the delight of somebody you love loving you back. I’d forgotten the way her eyes narrow when she laughs.
Marcus is right, I think – I’m pushing him too hard, expecting too much, or perhaps expecting the wrong thing altogether. He’s Marcus. That’s not going to change. And, quite honestly, as I watch him reason with the bemused shop assistant, I realise I don’t want it to.
THEN
Addie
From the moment Dylan gets home, he barely leaves my side. Even on Christmas Day he drops around in the evening, making the drive all the way from his parents’ place in Wiltshire just to hand-deliver our presents and join us for microwaved mulled wine in front of Elf.
Once term restarts in January, he’s actually a really great support about work too, now he’s around to listen. He always seems to get things from the kids’ point of view. He was a delinquent at secondary school, apparently. Almost kicked out of the super-posh private school his parents chose for him. Though he claims that was mostly Marcus’s fault.