by Dunn, Matt
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but, no, we didn’t!’
‘Maaate! Why ever not?’
Will sounded disappointed, which only served to make Simon even more angry. ‘It just . . . I mean, I . . .’
‘Maybe we can get the two of you together tomorrow. Have another go.’
Simon couldn’t believe his ears. Or ‘ear’, to be strictly accurate, since he had the phone pressed up against his left one. ‘Another go?!’
‘Yeah,’ said Will, then his voice adopted a more sympathetic tone. ‘What was it? The Alice thing again?’
‘The Alice thing?’ said Simon, exasperatedly. ‘No, I . . . I couldn’t go through with it. And then, when I explained why, she asked me to go.’
‘Shit, mate. Maybe you shouldn’t have told her. I did warn you that—’
‘Jesus, Will! What do you want me to do here? Carry this big secret around inside me, not tell anyone, or just refer to it like some minor event in my past – like, I don’t know, having my tonsils out when I was twelve, and how even two years later I can’t even comprehend the thought of trying to meet someone else so I have to be conned into it by my so-called friend who seems to thinks he knows what’s best for me, despite not having the faintest idea how I feel because nothing remotely like what happened to me has ever happened to him? Oh, and while I’m on the subject, thanks for setting me up with someone so emotionally fragile that the minute I try to tell her why I feel how I feel without going into what actually happened, and without sensationalising it or collapsing into a teary mess because that’s exactly what my therapist told me I should do, should be able to do, she’s virtually shoving me out through the bedroom door.’
Simon paused for a much-needed breath, and, after a moment, perhaps because he was waiting to make sure Simon had finished, Will’s voice came back on the line.
‘The bedroom door?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Si, when I asked you if you “did it”, I meant did you get the photos done? Not had you slept together.’
‘Ah. Right. Well, don’t worry. We got your precious photos.’
‘Excellent!’ Will’s tone had changed to one of relief. ‘But now you’ve brought it up . . . what were you doing in her bedroom?’
‘We, um, well, it’s a long story involving a wave and a cup of tea, and no trousers . . .’ Simon realised he’d gone the wrong way at the previous junction, so he turned back on himself, aiming for the High Street. ‘Suffice it to say, I couldn’t . . .’
‘Take it to the next level?’
‘Yeah. And yes, that was partly because of Alice. But also partly because of . . .’ Embarrassed, he lowered his voice a little. ‘Performance anxiety.’
‘That’s not surprising, after two years.’
Will had put even more emphasis than usual on those last couple of words, which only served to heighten Simon’s feeling that he’d done the right thing.
‘And when I told her I wanted sex to mean something . . .’
‘It should mean something. You’re right. Though sometimes all it means is that you fancy each other and want to . . . demonstrate that. And that’s fine.’
‘I know, but . . .’ Simon sighed. ‘It wasn’t just that, Will. I was worried Lisa wanted something I couldn’t give her.’
‘Maybe she only wanted the one thing you could give her. Did you think about that?’
‘Will . . .’
His friend chuckled. ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t know she’d react like that.’
‘Didn’t Jess warn you what she was like?’
‘Well, yeah. She said she used to be a bit . . .’
‘A bit what, exactly?’
Will let out a short laugh instead of an answer. ‘But apparently she’s on this new “see the good in everyone” Buddhist positivity kick.’
‘Yeah, well, perhaps she’s putting on a front. Some sort of defence mechanism. It’d be understandable. After all, she’s been hurt too. You can’t just decide you’re over someone. So maybe Jess should have filled her in beforehand. Checked she was okay meeting someone like me. Someone who’d lost . . .’ Simon swallowed hard, feeling all the fight go out of him. He’d done his best to hold it together over Alice so many times, had even practised on numerous occasions how to tell people if – or when, he now knew – the subject came up, so he wouldn’t get too choked up, wouldn’t have to force the story out between bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, as had happened the first dozen or so times. Now, his restraint seemed to have had the opposite effect – and was making him feel pretty lousy to boot. ‘I just wish . . . I mean, if I’d suggested we meet at a different restaurant, or even at a different time, maybe even just five minutes later, Alice wouldn’t have . . .’
‘Hey!’ said Will, the sharpness of his tone making Simon jump. ‘What happened to Alice wasn’t your fault.’
‘Well, why does it feel like it was?’
‘It’s called grief, Si. It does strange things to people.’
‘How would you know?’ said Simon, dismissively.
‘Because I read up on it. After she died. In case you ever needed to talk about it. Not that you ever seem to want to.’
‘I . . . but . . . that’s . . .’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Will, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘Anyway. What are you up to now?’
‘Heading home. Finally!’
‘Do you want me to come and get you?’
Simon shook his head, then remembered he was on the phone. ‘I’ll be fine. I just . . .’ He sighed. ‘I know you’re right, Will. And I need to do this. But maybe I’m not ready yet – you know?’
‘Si, it’s been two years . . . Sorry. You don’t need me to tell you that again. But Alice . . .’
‘If you’re about to say “would have wanted you to see other people”, I’m going to come straight round to your flat and . . .’
‘Okay, okay.’ Will laughed nervously. ‘But she would have.’
‘Will . . .’ Simon rolled his eyes. He knew his friend was only trying to help. Though there were times like now that he really wished he wouldn’t. ‘Listen, I’m at my car now,’ he lied, ‘So . . .’
‘Right. Sorry, mate. That it didn’t work out. And I’m here, if you want to, you know . . .’
‘I know. Thanks.’
‘Oh, and Jess says there are plenty more girls who’ve written in, so—’
‘Bye, Will!’
Simon took a few breaths, the tightness in his throat as much from his friend’s compassionate admission as any guilt about Alice. He’d read up on it too – how grief was like walking through an alpine pass, where mountain after mountain loomed in front of you, and the only way to get through it was to climb up and over each one that appeared in your path. The trouble was, every time he got over a peak, another appeared, and it was often higher than the last. One day, he knew, he’d reach the final one. He just hoped that he’d have the strength left to climb it.
He checked his phone for messages, then strode towards the top of the High Street, where he’d parked his car. He was definitely over the limit, he reckoned, so there was no way he’d be driving it home, even if the alternative was a long and (given the late hour) slightly chilly walk back home. He could try to call a taxi – Margate didn’t do black cabs, or Uber – but it was Saturday night, and by the time it arrived he could probably be at his front door anyway. Besides, the walk – and the fresh air – would do him good. Help him sleep. After everything that had happened today, he’d probably need it.
Rounding the corner, he spotted his car, pleased to see it was still where he’d left it (this was Margate, not Mogadishu, and it was a Ford Focus and not a Ferrari, but you never knew), and patted his pockets to locate his keys, then his face fell. They’d been in his front pocket, right up until . . . well, up until he’d taken them out of there to put his jeans in the tumble dryer, and in his rush to get out of Lisa’s house he’d forgotten to pick them up.
He groaned, then lea
ned against the nearest lamp post, banging his head steadily against it, wondering what on earth to do, only stopping when an old lady walking her dog gave him a funny look from across the street. He could hardly march back to Lisa’s house, knock on the door and sweetly ask her to hand them over, but, equally, he wouldn’t be able to get back into his flat or collect his car in the morning if he didn’t. And while he could text her, perhaps ask her to leave them on the doormat for him to collect, he didn’t want to risk her throwing them at him when he appeared. Or flushing them down the toilet. Those remote fobs were expensive to replace.
He pulled out his phone, began dialling Lisa’s number, then cancelled the call just as quickly. Some things needed to be sorted out face to face. Besides, he couldn’t – and shouldn’t – leave things between the two of them like this.
With a sigh, followed by another, more pitiful one, Simon turned around and began retracing his steps.
Chapter 30
Lisa had polished off the rest of the Jaffa Cakes, and now she was standing in her kitchen, peering into her fridge, wondering whether it was too late to open the ‘emergency’ bottle of Chardonnay she kept in there for incidents like this. Well, for incidents full stop. Because, when she thought about it, she realised there hadn’t been many incidents like this.
And though she’d thought about it a lot since Simon had hightailed it out of her bedroom, Lisa still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. Okay, maybe getting him to kiss her hadn’t been strictly necessary (and had perhaps been a bit mischievous), but she’d just felt like it, and Cancún had taught her that life was all about going with your feelings, acting on impulse.
And then, when they’d kissed . . . It hadn’t been a spark that she’d felt, but more of a heat. A warmth. There had been something quite intoxicating, and yet – strangely – quite comforting about that.
So when Simon suggested they move to the bedroom, Lisa had thought Why not? – and so she’d led him along the hallway, and he’d allowed himself to be led (and he wasn’t the type to be easily led), then they’d kissed some more, and then . . . She had felt he wasn’t faking it. So why on earth had he stopped?
Lisa rested her forehead against the top of the fridge, appreciating the cool flow of air. All that ‘after Alice’ stuff, about wanting the fact that they’d slept together to mean something . . . Simon was a man, after all, and all men only wanted one thing, despite whatever backstory they might give you. Surely no dumping could be so severe that it would put someone off sex for two years? No . . . in her experience, no one – especially not a man – turned down sex. Unless the prospect of who you were about to have sex with was the reason.
She breathed into her cupped hand and smelled it, then laughed at herself. A bit of tea breath was hardly going to put someone off, even if they were a self-avowed coffee drinker. Besides, the tea wouldn’t have been called ‘Bedtime’ if it wasn’t supposed to . . .
Lisa didn’t need to see her reflection in a mirror to know she’d just gone pale. Simon hadn’t been suggesting they moved to the bedroom. He’d simply been telling her what her kisses tasted of. And – not for the first time – Lisa had misinterpreted, jumped the gun, jumped on him, and (to continue the gun metaphor) it had all backfired spectacularly.
She grabbed the bottle of wine from where it was lying on the fridge shelf, twisted the top off and took a large swig, not even bothering with a glass. This was why she was still single – or, rather, why she couldn’t find anyone prepared to commit to her. Because she was too gullible. Too eager to give men what they wanted – or what she thought they wanted.
What about what she wanted? Then again, she had wanted it. Wanted him . . .
A brief, tentative ring on the doorbell interrupted her thoughts, and Lisa’s heart leapt. Simon had come back! But of course he had. Understood what he’d been missing, probably. A bit of fresh air must have cleared his head, and he’d realised he’d made a mistake. Well, she wasn’t going to forgive him that easily. No – he’d have to work for it. She’d need some serious sweet-talking before she let him back in. Though Lisa already knew she’d sleep with him if he wanted to. It was unfinished business now.
She carefully set the bottle down on the kitchen table, wiped her mouth on a paper towel in case she’d been a little too overenthusiastic with the Jaffa Cakes, and rushed to the front door, then remembered she shouldn’t perhaps be too keen. She waited until the doorbell rang again, counted to ten, fixed a half-smile on her face and fastened the chain across the door. But when she opened it, and saw who was standing on the path, her face fell.
‘Chris?’
‘All right, Lise?’
Lisa stared at her ex, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her, then she shook her head in an attempt to clear it.
‘What are you doing here?’
Chris took a drag on the cigarette he was holding, and glanced nervously back over his shoulder, as if worried he’d been followed. ‘Can I come in?’
Dumbstruck, Lisa slid the chain off the door, then stood to one side to let him by, before she realised he hadn’t answered her question. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Do you have any idea what the time is?’
Chris looked at his watch. ‘Half ten,’ he said, flicking his cigarette out on to her lawn through the doorway, then he hesitated. ‘Is he here?’
‘Who?’
‘Your bloke.’
‘My . . . ?’ Lisa suddenly remembered the circumstances of their earlier meeting. ‘He’s not . . .’ Lisa stopped short of saying ‘my bloke’. ‘Why?’
Chris seemed visibly relieved. ‘Is it serious?’
‘Are you?’
‘Sorry. It’s just that . . . Stephen?’
‘Simon,’ said Lisa, shutting the front door.
‘Sorry. I’m not very good with names.’
‘Yeah, you seemed to forget mine soon enough!’
‘Ha! Good one,’ said Chris, then he realised Lisa hadn’t been joking. ‘Sorry about that. But that’s kind of why I’m here.’ He glanced along the hallway. ‘You don’t have anything to drink, do you?’
Lisa looked at him for a moment, then she sighed. ‘In the kitchen. You remember where that is, I take it?’
‘Yeah. Cheers.’
She followed Chris through into the kitchen, still none the wiser as to what he could be doing at her house at this time of night. Though when he spotted the open bottle of wine on the kitchen table, he grinned.
‘Started without me?’
‘I had to do lots of things without you.’
‘Yeah. Well, like I said, that’s why I’m here. Glass?’
‘I wasn’t bothering, actually.’
‘For me?’
‘Oh.’ Lisa indicated vaguely towards the far wall. ‘In the cupboard.’
As Chris found himself a wine glass, she picked the Chardonnay up and took another swig directly from the bottle, to his evident horror.
‘You want some or not?’ she said.
‘Yeah. Please.’
Lisa splashed some wine into his glass, then took another swig, ignoring Chris’s widened eyes. ‘It’s been a long night,’ she said, suspecting it was about to get even longer.
‘Right. Cheers.’ Chris clinked his glass against the bottle, and took a deep breath. ‘So . . .’
‘So?’
‘So your Simon seems like a decent bloke. And he made me think that, maybe, when we were seeing each other, I wasn’t. Decent. And I know this might not sound like something you want to hear, but I felt like I owed you . . .’
‘An apology?’
‘An explanation. As to why, you know . . .’
‘You dumped me, and then five minutes later got engaged to someone who’s barely left school?’
Chris grinned, then seemed to realise perhaps he shouldn’t have. ‘Yeah,’ he said, gulping down a large mouthful of wine. ‘I mean, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with you.’
‘Thanks very much!’ said Lisa, pulling out a ch
air and collapsing heavily on to it.
‘It’s just, sometimes you need to go through something with someone to make you realise you’re looking for the exact opposite. Not in a bad way . . .’
Lisa glared at him. How could that not be in a bad way?
‘And sometimes . . .’ continued Chris, ‘. . . something like that helps make your mind up. When we split up I knew I wanted a . . . well, a Cat.’
Lisa tried not to laugh at the irony. That was almost exactly what she’d done. She’d even gone as far as visiting an animal rescue centre before realising it was her that needed rescuing.
‘And where is Cat? In bed already? It’s not a school night, is it?’
‘Ha ha. Yeah. Another good one!’ Chris let out a brief, forty-a-day rumble of a laugh. ‘But seriously, then I met her, and I knew I didn’t want to lose her.’ He was beaming widely, and Lisa felt pangs of both jealousy and resentment at how happy he seemed. ‘But I felt bad because it was so soon after me and you, plus I didn’t know how to tell you, didn’t know how you’d feel about it, so I thought not telling you made the most sense, and because I didn’t want to lie to you, I thought it was best if we didn’t speak at all. And I know that doesn’t sound like it makes much sense, but it made sense to me at the time.’
‘And does it now?’
He gazed off into the near distance, evidently replaying what he’d just said in his head. ‘Not a lot, no. But there you go.’
Lisa was conscious it was probably her turn to say something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what. Eventually, ‘Am I supposed to feel better now?’ was the best she could manage.
Chris shrugged. ‘I hope so. And it’s good that you’ve moved on. Great, even. I’m happy for you.’
‘Huh?’
‘With Simon. He’s obviously really into you.’
‘Huh?’ said Lisa, again, even more confused this time.
‘Course he is. I saw the way he was looking at you earlier. Made me feel a little jealous, to be honest. Just . . .’
Lisa narrowed her eyes. ‘Just what?’
