I thought of that kiss, light as a snowflake. I thought of the words we’d exchanged – EMBRACE, CRUSH, EROS. I thought of the way I felt when I got a notification from the Scrabble app – that spark of excitement and happiness. And I felt a horrible, choking tentacle of shame and guilt unfurling inside me.
I wondered if, in a part of me that wouldn’t even allow myself to see, I’d expected – hoped, desired – that Archie had brought me here to do or say something entirely different from these awkward words that basically meant, ‘I’m ending it’, even though neither of us could acknowledge what ‘it’ even was.
And I wondered what, in the parallel universe where he’d said or done something quite different, my reaction would have been.
‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ he was saying.
‘Don’t be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong. We haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘But we could have done. I was starting to want to. And I feel appalling about it.’
So do I.
But there was no way I was going to let this become a mutual ‘aren’t we noble, acknowledging our feelings and deciding together not to act on them’ session. ‘An emotional wank-fest’, I could imagine Heather calling it.
I said, ‘Archie, this isn’t church and I’m not your confessor. If you want to talk about stuff that almost happened, or could have happened, I think you need to talk to Nat or a friend, not me. Because that’s more of the same, don’t you see? More creating a closeness that you say you don’t want. And I don’t, either. We’re friends – kind of. Our businesses are next door to each other – at least they are for now. I think it’s best we park it there, don’t you?’
He nodded. I’d kept my face composed, I hoped, but he looked every bit as miserable as I felt.
‘Thanks, Alice. Thanks for understanding, and for being you.’
This was dangerous ground. I felt the urge to cry welling up inside me, along with cold fury at myself and at him – and, overwhelming them both, that sick sense of guilt and panic over what I’d almost thrown away.
‘It’s not such a massive achievement, you know,’ I said lightly, ‘being me. I’m glad we spoke. Let’s leave it there. No more Scrabble, right?’
‘No more Scrabble,’ he agreed. ‘Although, you know, next round I was about to play NUBILE.’
‘Well, maybe it’s time you started playing Scrabble with Nat then. Night, Archie.’
I turned and walked back up the narrow street as fast as I could. I was trembling all over with cold and something else – shock, horror, relief? I wasn’t sure. I was sure of only one thing: I needed to get home – fast. I needed to get home to Joe and tell him what I’d been in danger of forgetting: how important he was, the most important thing in my life, someone I’d almost unconsciously let become eclipsed by other things, other people.
I didn’t go back to the Nag’s Head. I fired off a text to Shirley telling her I was done in and would see her in the morning. My coat could stay there overnight too. The longing for Joe and safety was so strong I almost ran the last couple of hundred yards down our road, and I was all out of breath when I fitted my key in the lock and flung open the door.
I nearly sent Joe flying. Joe and Zoë. I almost didn’t see her at first, because the two of them were locked so tightly together in each other’s arms, like Lego pieces that were made to fit together.
Twenty-Nine
‘So it looks like I won’t have to go into work today after all.’ Heather put her phone down on the table and took a sip of her coffee. We were in the communal area downstairs from Drew’s borrowed flat, at a table in the café next to the yoga studio. I’d never been in there before, and I could see why Drew hadn’t ever invited me. The tables were small and crowded together, the coffee was okay at best, and the carrot and date muffins Drew had bought us tasted like sawdust.
Although very possibly that was just me. That morning, nothing would have tasted good. My whole life, I reflected, tasted like sawdust.
But I still felt a rush of gratitude towards my brother. When I’d turned up, unannounced, and knocked on his door at half past midnight, he’d just asked if I was okay, accepted that I didn’t want to talk about it and given me his double bed to share with Heather while he slept on the floor next to us.
There couldn’t be many things worse, I knew, than having a tearful sister or friend turn up when you’re about to have amazing first-time sex. But neither Heather nor Drew had done anything to make me feel like the third wheel I knew I was. I’d have to go home, of course, sooner rather than later. I’d have to confront Joe and Zoë, find out what was going on, retrieve what scattered fragments I could of my life.
But for now, my phone was turned off and I was grateful to be with these two people who wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t ask questions and, most importantly, wouldn’t offer the kind of gushing comfort that would only make me cry.
‘How so?’ Drew asked. Heather looked at him and I saw again what I’d seen in her face the previous night – the look of disbelieving wonder that someone as perfect as my brother was there, next to her, breathing the same air as her, his hand resting lightly on her denim-clad thigh. And there was a similar look on Drew’s face. Whatever had happened last night, whatever lightning-bolt of chemistry had struck my friend, it clearly hadn’t missed my brother.
In one way it was amazing to be with two people so newly smitten with each other. In another, it was bloody horrible.
‘The IPO’s gone pear-shaped,’ Heather said. ‘It seems the CEO of the company that was going to float on the stock exchange has been up to some seriously dodgy stuff. He was selling the freeholds to his properties on to a company he owns in the Cayman Islands to evade tax, and he’s probably going to be disqualified from being a company director. Obviously all the investors have got the jitters and are pulling out, and we’ve sacked him as a client. He owes us almost fifty grand, which I reckon there’s no chance we’ll ever see. The company was massively overvalued anyway – they reckoned the initial share offering would fetch more than a billion pounds, but that’s been downgraded to ten million. There was a story in the Financial Times today, and now my boss has emailed me to say it’s all off.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Do you think someone leaked the tax-dodging thing to an FT journalist, then?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘So you get to have your Sunday off?’ Drew asked.
Heather looked at him and they both smiled – a smile that was so full of pleasure and promise it made me want to cry.
‘I do indeed,’ she said.
‘What would you like to do? Proper Sunday roast somewhere? These muffins aren’t cutting it, are they? Or a walk? We could watch a movie? Join us, obviously, Alice, if you want.’
Once again, I felt that stab of bittersweet happiness for them, along with sadness for myself.
‘So tell me more about this dodgy CEO, Heath,’ I said, desperate for distraction. ‘It sounds like a totally bonkers situation.’
‘Bonkers is right,’ Heather said. ‘The guy’s built up a whole portfolio of companies and property, and it’s had a crazy value put on it when it’s all built on debt. The journalist who broke the story in the FT just tweeted that he was seen boarding a flight to San Francisco so I guess he’s decided to call it a day in London and go back to Silicon Valley.’
‘Blimey,’ Drew said. ‘What’s the bloke’s name?’
‘Fabian Flatley,’ Heather said.
Drew choked on his coffee and I almost spat out a bite of muffin, which would probably have been a better idea than swallowing it.
‘What?’ Heather said. ‘You know him?’
‘Technically, we’re his guests right now. Or customers, rather. He owns this place, and the freehold of the building – at least his offshore shell company does. Lauren bought her flat from him when he developed the property.’
‘And he wants to buy the Nag’s Head,’ I added, ‘and turn it into a co-living place as well. But I guess that
’s not going to happen any more.’
‘It seems unlikely,’ Heather said. ‘I mean, once the bank did their anti-money-laundering checks on him, who knows what they’d come up with.’
‘He was a cash buyer, though, Shirley said.’
‘I doubt he would be any more. All his creditors are calling in their loans now the company’s not this amazing unicorn any more, so he’ll be lucky if he’s got the cash to buy a pack of fags, never mind a London property.’
‘So the Nag’s Head might be safe after all?’ Drew said.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Shirley, and she’ll have to talk to the landlady, I guess. But there’s a much better chance that we could buy it as a co-operative, now there’s not an amazing cash offer on the table.’
‘I suppose I should tell Lauren.’ Drew took out his phone. ‘I mean, I doubt it’ll make much difference to her, because she owns her place, but she was talking about how the freehold was going to be sold on and their service charges would go through the roof. She’s quite worried about it, but she said she’d try and sort it out when she gets back. Which is tomorrow, by the way, so I guess I’ll be moving back in with Mum and Dad.’
‘In Reading?’ Heather looked alarmed.
Drew smiled. ‘In Reading. But don’t worry, it’s only half an hour from Paddington. It’s not the International Space Station.’
From the look on Heather’s face, I could tell she didn’t want to let Drew out of her sight for two minutes, never mind endure the yawning chasm of a half-hour train journey between them.
I said, ‘Look, I’d better go and tell Shirley what’s going on. Hopefully she’ll give me Cathy’s email address and I can fill her in on it, too. I guess her solicitor or the estate agent will be in touch with her and let her know her buyer’s absconded, but not on a Sunday.’
We stood up, and I put on the leather jacket Drew had lent me over my black dress. I was going to have to go home and change at some point, but not now. I wondered if Joe and Zoë were there together – together in our bed? If whatever was going on between them had been going on for a while, or if last night had been the first time. If, having come so close to losing Joe over my own stupidity with Archie, I was now going to lose him over Zoë.
I wondered if I should switch my phone on and see if there was a message from either of them, but I wasn’t brave enough to do that yet. As long as I didn’t know the truth, I could pretend there was a different reality – one where everything was okay between Joe and me.
Welcome to denial. Population: me.
‘I guess I’ll catch up with you guys later,’ I said.
‘Do you want us to come with you?’ Heather asked. ‘I could explain to Shirley what’s happened.’
‘We will if you want,’ Drew said. ‘And you know you can crash here again tonight, if… you know.’
If whatever’s gone so badly wrong with you and Joe is still wrong.
I looked at them standing there, holding hands as naturally as if they’d been doing it for years, identical worried expressions on their faces.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Promise. And if I need you, I’ll call. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ We pulled one another into an awkward group hug and, as I left, I saw Drew and Heather heading towards the stairs, back up to Drew’s tiny studio flat where there was space for little more than a double bed.
I paused for a moment before crossing the road. I could see the Nag’s Head, all lit up ready for Sunday lunch, the Christmas tree sparkling bravely in the window. I wondered whether any of the people who’d been at the poetry event would come again; whether there’d even be another one. I wondered whether Maurice had told Wesley about his plans and shown him the poem. I hoped he had, and that that public, written declaration of Maurice’s love for him gave him hope.
I knew that if anyone would put in the hard yards to get a compelling case for Wesley’s appeal together, Joe would. Thinking of him was like being punched in the stomach. I’d let myself lose sight of what a good person he was – of how good we were together. I remembered how patient and understanding he’d been when I’d told him I was leaving law to work in a pub. He must have thought I’d gone crazy, but he’d supported me as best he could.
And in return? I’d embarked on a stupid flirtation with Archie, neglecting our relationship, using lack of time together to excuse the fact that we weren’t communicating, weren’t connecting, weren’t having fun or dates or sex or any of the things that should have kept us close.
And because of that, he’d turned back to Zoë. His first love. He’d been honest with me about that – of course he had; Joe wasn’t a man who lied or hid things. So if he still had feelings for Zoë, or if – having faded years ago – they’d returned stronger than ever, why hadn’t he told me? It made no sense. It wasn’t like him at all.
I was the one who’d kept a horrible secret from him, all through our relationship.
If I was able to get a second chance, an opportunity to make things right between us, there’d be no more secrets. Not even that huge one. If not? If things had passed the point of no return with Joe and Zoë, which I’d stopped clear of with Archie? I’d be wounded and furious – of course I would. But I’d blame myself as much as them.
And if I couldn’t save my relationship, at least there was a small chance I could save my pub.
I hurried across the road and pushed open the door. As I did so, Zoë came out of the kitchen, wearing her chef’s white jacket. There was no way I could avoid her.
‘Alice! My God, I’ve been so worried about you! Where were you?’
The cheek of the woman. She hadn’t looked so worried when she was wrapped round my boyfriend like a flaming Band-Aid.
‘I stayed over at Drew’s.’
‘You turned your phone off.’
What did she expect me to have done? Bundled in for a group hug? Suggested cracking open a bottle of champagne?
‘I didn’t want—’
‘You didn’t want to talk to me. Or Joe. We’ve been calling and calling you.’
We? Were she and Joe a we again?
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t. I’m here to talk to Shirley. And to work my shift, obviously.’
‘Shirl’s not here. We ran out of milk for the Yorkshire pudding batter, so she popped out to Tesco.’
‘Well, I’ll wait until she gets back.’
‘Alice, please. Come in the kitchen and let me talk to you.’
She sounded a bit like she might be about to cry and, looking at her, I realised she looked like she had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark hollows under them. Her hair, normally a cascade of ringlets, was frizzy and dull, and there was an angry-looking spot next to her mouth.
She certainly didn’t look like a woman who’d reconnected with her first love. She looked knackered and sad.
‘Okay,’ I said.
Zoë pushed open the fire door to the kitchen and I followed her in. There was a smell of roasting meat in the air, richly savoury – pork today, I guessed. But instead of making my stomach rumble like it usually would, it made me want to throw up. On the stovetop, a pan of apple sauce was keeping warm, an occasional bubble breaking its surface with a soft blip. Two massive trays of potatoes, peeled and par-boiled, were waiting to go in the oven.
Eat your heart out, Aunt Bessie, I thought, your frozen roast accompaniments are about as welcome in this kitchen as I felt in my flat last night.
‘Last night,’ Zoë began. ‘Me and Joe. I’m really sorry you had to see that, but it wasn’t what you think. Joe didn’t do anything wrong.’
She looked up at me, then down at her hands. Her nails were bitten to the quick, and there was a blue plaster on one finger where she must have cut herself on one of her lethally sharp chef’s knives.
‘Joe told me that when you were together, it was really intense,’ I said. ‘He was in love with you, and you broke his heart when you ended it.’
‘I’m sorr
y. That can’t have been easy to hear.’
‘No. It wasn’t.’
But at the time, things had been different between Joe and me. There’d still been that closeness, that sense that everything was good between us – good enough even to withstand the return into his life of someone he’d cared about so deeply. That had changed, and changed because of me.
‘But it was stupid of me to mind so much. I mean, everyone has a past, don’t they? Everyone’s had their heart broken at some point.’
Except Heather, I remembered. I felt a pang of protective affection for my friend, remembering how happy – and how amazed by the experience of being in love – she’d looked that morning.
‘I guess,’ Zoë said. ‘The thing is…’
I waited.
‘I feel awful saying this, Alice. I’ve been a really shitty person, and I owe you an apology.’
‘So you and Joe, last night. Something did happen.’ The cold knot of dread was back in my stomach.
‘No! Honestly, not last night, and not ever. Well, not since we were together seven years ago.’
‘Then why are you apologising?’
‘Because I meant it to. I wanted it to.’
‘But you split up with him! You dumped him!’
‘Alice, I... I’ve behaved horribly, I know. But I didn’t set out to be shitty. Well, I kind of did. Please let me explain.’
‘I think you’d better.’
‘Joe and I. You know what it’s like when you’re that age. It was all really intense. We met at a gig and we went home together that same night and I never really left. I told him I loved him after, like, a week. And it was true. I did love him. It wasn’t just a daft infatuation.’
My mouth felt dry, and tasted sour from the coffee I’d drunk earlier. I poured a glass of water from the tap then, after a second’s hesitation, poured one for Zoë too.
‘So what happened? What went wrong?’ I sounded bitter. Bitter and angry, and I didn’t like myself one bit for it.
‘For a few months,’ Zoë continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘everything was wonderful. Perfect. We were in that smitten, loved-up stage where you just shag and shag all the time, and in between you lie on the bed together and gaze at each other like loons. You know.’
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 26
