Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  I-miss-him-I-miss-him.

  The train seems to echo the sentiment in its lulling sound. I push away my cold coffee and the rail company’s excuse for a cheese sandwich, which was so vile, while I consider the thoughts I usually hide from. I feel loss. And lost. I’d never allowed myself to feel sad after I left L.A. that first time. Back then, I’d channelled my energy into spite and hate. Into blame—how dare he assume I’d cheated on him. Why couldn’t he see the truth in my lie—the lie I told him. The lie I told for him? I’d turned my disappointment of his reaction into hate. Maybe I blamed his whole gender on behalf of him. But this second time? Yes, he was hurtful, and yes, his planned revenge was wrong, but somehow, being near him had opened up another part of me.

  Maybe it was a reminder. Of how we were. How we used to be.

  So yes, I miss him. And I’ve no one to share that with. It’s not just our partnership I grieve for or the way he loved me. It’s the little things. The presence of his hard body next to me in bed, the touch of his hands, and the way his arm would fall without thought to my hips whenever he stood near. It’s like I turned all my love into hate, and seeing him again, well, it thawed, melting away my rage and my blame.

  It made me remember the man.

  And I no longer worry that the choices I’ve made make me a bad person. My actions won’t define me. I’m not a bad person—I love my family and friends. I try to live my life without doing harm; Try being the operative word. But I’m not a bad person. I’m just a regular one, striving to be good, and sometimes getting it wrong.

  I’m not a bad person. Maybe just a stupid one.

  It’s not regret or remorse that keeps me awake some nights. Well, not always. It’s what comes next. Am I destined to live my life in Auchkeld? Is this it for me now? Will I remain alone? If what June says is right, we’re deserving of more than one great love in our life. While I don’t think she’s necessarily wrong, I find it hard to believe I’ll ever love anyone the way I loved Dylan.

  The way I love him still.

  Fin is waiting for me on the platform as I arrive, all hugs and beaming smile.

  ‘There’s my girl!’ she yells, pulling me from the train.

  ‘I thought the south was supposed to have milder weather. It’s bloody freezing out here,’ I complain as she loosens her hold on me.

  ‘London hasn’t quite agreed with the April calendar.’ She looks thinner and a little pinched around the edges. Brittle, maybe? Her smile fragile. ‘We can catch a cab?’

  ‘What?’ I pull the handle up on my weekend bag as I link my other arm through hers. ‘And forgo the big city experience? Take me to the tube!’ I demand. ‘I need to roll this baby over plenty of toes!’

  Twenty-five minutes and two damp, packed tubes later, we’re out in the cold London air again.

  ‘We could’ve done with some lube on that tube.’

  ‘Try riding them at peak times,’ Fin replies.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick to my little Fiat. I’m no longer a big city girl.’ Fin’s response is little more than a puff of white air. ‘What? It’s Auchkeld all the way for me now,’ I add, ruefully.

  ‘You’ll move on.’

  ‘Like you, you mean.’ Her eyes fall to the grey pavement at her feet, and I’m immediately sorry for opening my big, fat mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.’ Harsh. Definitely harsh. With a side serve of bitter, too. ‘I’m pleased you’re moving on even if I do miss you every day.’

  Her eyes are a little shiny once she lifts her head again. ‘It’s move or get trampled on. It’s a little like June says, I suppose. You survive. You get out of bed every morning and slide your knickers on because giving up isn’t an option.’

  ‘And we won’t give the twastards the satisfaction of anything else.’

  ‘True story,’ she says, squeezing my arm.

  ‘Oh, look. An offie.’ I point at the liquor store across the busy road. ‘I say we go get ourselves a bottle or three for before and after dinner.’

  Fin now lives on a tree-lined street just a few minutes’ walk from Waterloo Tube Station. She’d stayed at her friend Soraya’s place for the first couple of weeks but said the maid service was getting a little old. Soraya’s loaded, and her townhouse is more like Kensington Palace than an actual house, but that was where she was living last time I visited. This place—the flat she’s renting now—is almost perfect for her. I’d already had the grand tour last time. The only thing wrong, as far as I can tell, is the fact she has to share the space. Last time I visited, her roomie was away for the weekend, so I’m not sure what she’s—

  ‘Donkey kont!’

  I’m not sure what she’s like.

  As the front door clicks closed, another closes somewhere deeper inside the flat, reaching its frame at speed with a bang! Muffled now, the angry female voice still carries through the walls.

  ‘The roomie?’

  Fin laughs, chucking her keys on a console table. ‘That’s Bea. She’s fine. Except when she’s arguing with her long-distance boyfriend. Not that I see her often. She spends most of the week at the hospital.’ Bea is a doctor, I recall Fin saying. ‘She must work eighty hours a week, and the rest of them are spent dead to the world in her bed or arguing with said long-distance boyfriend.’

  ‘And was that what I think it was? What she said?’

  ‘Swearing?’ Fin nods. ‘In Afrikaans. They argue so often I think I’m picking the language up.’

  ‘That didn’t need the help of a translator. Donkey kont. Sounds . . . charming.’

  ‘You know, you’re swearing now,’ she taunts. ‘Cursing in other languages still counts. But Nat tells me you’ve a potty mouth these days. Maybe I should instigate a swear jar, too? It might fund my next holiday.’

  Bloody Nat. ‘I’m not that bad,’ I grumble. ‘She caught me swearing once.’ Or maybe twice, but Fin doesn’t answer as the door to the living area swings open.

  ‘Ladies,’ announces the dramatic, willowy blonde I assume is Bea. ‘I’ve just been dumped!’

  We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a week working and the train journey down, I’m more than happy to stay in and veg out. Bea has something bluesy playing quietly on a Bose stereo in the corner, and little boxes of Tanzanian food stand half empty on the low table in the middle of the room. I’m nursing a coffee with a slug of amaretto, trying hard to stay awake, while Fin and Bea are halfway through their second bottle of Pinot noir.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be back,’ says the leggy blonde in response to Fin. ‘This is how we are, yar?’ As the evening has progressed, Bea’s South African accent has deepened.

  ‘You sure fight plenty.’ Fin smiles as she brings the glass to her mouth. ‘What’s the deal with that?’

  ‘The story, it’s old,’ Bea responds enigmatically.

  ‘Yeah, but the night is young. Okay, maybe not too young.’ She squints at the watch on her wrist. ‘Lord, am I getting old? Ten o’clock used to be the beginning of a good night, not the end,’ she groans.

  ‘We’re all getting older. Believe me; it’s better than the alternative.’ Bea pauses a moment before stretching like the cat that’s snagged the cream. ‘And you’re never too old to make up. And we make up a lot, he and I. Long distance does have its perks.’ It takes me a moment to decipher her statement, her accent rendering perk some other word. ‘The sex is explosive, and we make time to meet in places we might not ever visit otherwise.’

  ‘Yeah, like an airport bathroom,’ Fin says, sniggering.

  ‘One time!’ Bea says though a ferocious blush. ‘And for your information, we’re meeting in Barcelona next week.’

  ‘I like your positivity.’

  ‘He’ll be there because I, my friends, am playing the long game.’

  ‘While he’s playing your fuck boy?’

  ‘Only in the bedroom,’ she responds, lightning quick.

  ‘Is he a doctor as well?’ I pipe up, keen to move on from sex talk before it
descends into something more . . . communal; not that Fin and I currently have anything to share. At least, I know I don’t.

  ‘Pilot,’ Bea responds, gaze flicking to her wristwatch. ‘Anyone mind if I catch the evening news.’

  From her position on the floor, Fin tilts her head in my direction. ‘She breaks out in hives if she doesn’t get to see any sort of news or current affairs programme before bed.’

  Chuckling good-naturedly, Bea protests. ‘You try spending as many hours as I do at work—essentially a large concrete box filled with artificial lighting—and not need some connection to the greater world.’

  She points the remote at the TV set into a recess on the wall, and the TV springs to life, the background music dimming now.

  So we watch the news; the good and the bad going on in the world, though mainly the bad, and I suddenly feel sad. So, so sad. Story after story of murder, theft, and hate. A refugee crisis. A child’s unnecessary death. The murder of a policeman.

  ‘God, the human race is so shitty.’ I don’t realise I’ve spoken until both women turn their heads. It’s about then that I also realise my cheeks are wet. I’m crying . . . at the plight of someone I don’t know in a place I’ve never been.

  ‘You okay?’ Fin asks. She knows tears are a rare outbreak for me.

  ‘I think I must be hormonal or something.’ Tears continue to course down my face, faster than I can wipe them with the back of my hand.

  Fin hands me a box of man-sized tissues, and I immediately bury my face in a handful.

  ‘Oh—happier news! My new favourite actor, don’t you know. Last weekend, I insisted Fin and I Flixnet and chilled.’

  ‘There was no chilling in this connotation,’ returns a laughing Fin. From her position on the floor, she reaches up to pat my knee. ‘If I were that way inclined, I’d be batting for my girl here’s team.’

  ‘Thanks, I think.’ My words come out weak and watery. ‘Actually, no, not thanks. You’ve had your hands down my brother’s pants, and I’m sure that makes it incest or something.’

  ‘Ew!’

  ‘Now, that is someone whose Carlos I’d like to get my hands on,’ says an awestruck Bea.

  Fin begins to explain. ‘Bea has a kind of strange habit of, er, identifying certain parts of the male anatomy with different names. For a brainiac,’ she says, pointing at her roomie, ‘you’re pretty stinkin’ cute. I really hope I’m behind you the day you accidentally request a scan or catheter for a patient’s Carlos Wang.’ Fin barely gets the final words out before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Not that I’m not paying attention because as I emerge from the almost pillowcase sized tissues, the TV and the entertainment news takes my whole focus.

  My God. Dylan.

  I still find it surreal to see him on any sort of media, partly because I make a point to avoid anything that might have even the barest whiff of him. But God, he was made for the screen. And as he stands there on the red carpet, waving at fans and posing for the paparazzi, I can’t help but stare at him in all his perfection. His flawless smile, his dark, shining hair. The way he wears his tuxedo like it’s something sexual. Only, he isn’t perfect. Not even aesthetically. Though not that anyone from this perspective could tell. From his slightly sharp bicuspid on his left side to the tiny scar adorning his strong jawline, he’s not perfect. Yet he absolutely is.

  The newscaster mentions the name of the movie—it’s not one he’s starred in, but the woman on his arm? That’s a different story. Georgia Reynould. We’ve met. All one-hundred pounds of her. And most of those pounds are attributed to her blonde hair. It’s a good job she’s light on personality. A little mean, certainly, or maybe she was just asserting her star status when we met. She was his co-star—love interests, in fact—in Trauma, the movie he’d just finished filming before we broke up. The wrap party I left early, drunk and crying and with another man. The same woman who’d made the belittling just a hairdresser comment. She of the condescending manner and superior attitude. A superior attitude that no one out of the business gets to see. Because that’s not going to sell her vegan recipe book or her line in yoga wear. And there she is, the fake snake, with her hand on the arm of my man.

  He’s mine on a technicality; at least, until our divorce comes through.

  ‘She looks like a coat hanger wearing a dress and a wig.’ Bea’s words bring me from my bitter recollections. While Hollywood thin, she’s actually quite beautiful. Outside, at least.

  ‘They’re hair extensions,’ I say quietly. ‘Not that you can tell.’

  ‘Ivy used to work in Hollywood. Sometimes on movies,’ Fin offers in explanation.

  ‘I remember you telling me. This Georgia, is she as horrid as I’d like her to be?’

  I shrug noncommittally. ‘There are plenty worse.’

  ‘True. The world is full of horrible, horrible assholes.’

  ‘And he’s fucked a lot of them, apparently.’ Dylan’s words fall from my mouth, pulling tears from my lids.

  ‘He does have a colourful love life,’ agrees Fin. She’s not looking at me, so she doesn’t realise I’m currently balanced on a sharp emotional edge.

  ‘My God—did you guys see his sex tape?’ Bea interjects. ‘It’s not surprising he gets so much action. The man is hung like an elephant!’

  In an explosion of tears and motion, I jump from the sofa and dash into the bathroom.

  Chapter 20

  Ivy

  ‘Are you feeling any better this morning?’ In the kitchen, Bea turns from the double espresso boiler, looking fresh from the shower, tangles of wet hair making the back of her t-shirt damp.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I’m not usually so weepy. I don’t know what’s come over me these last few weeks.’ Though, I know fine well what came over me last night; an extra-large helping of remorse, faced with the sight of my happy husband. Happy without me.

  ‘Fin tells me you’ve just started a new business after moving back to Scotland.’ The words sound like a question, but not one that requires an answer of any sort. ‘Those are big changes for anyone. I’d know, about moving internationally, especially. Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ I add my thanks as she pours me a cup from the boiler, setting it down. I’ve made peace with the fact I’ve fallen off the coffee wagon. There are worse things I suppose. ‘Did Fin go out?’

  She nodded. ‘For her run. She said she wanted to get a head start on her calorie intake. You’re heading to Camden later, she said.’

  ‘The markets,’ I affirm. ‘More specifically, the food stalls.’ Street food, she’d said. ‘Then onto somewhere for an afternoon of gin-fuelled cocktails.’ I can hear how forced my bright tone sounds as I lay it on especially thick. What must this poor woman think of me? Will I be forever referred to as that friend you have—you know—the crying one? ‘I’m sorry about last night.’

  Bea laughs. Probably for politeness’ sake. ‘Don’t worry about it. How about some breakfast,’ she says in a swift change of topic I’m glad for. ‘I’m making eggs?’ She brandishes an egg slice and a carton of mushrooms as a shiver of revulsion slides down my throat. ‘But you barely touched the food last night,’ she says, noticing my shudder.

  ‘I wasn’t really hungry. Plus, I had a dodgy cheese sandwich on the train. It left me with an awful metallic taste in my mouth.’

  ‘A metallic taste,’ she muses, turning back to the stove.

  ‘Aye—I mean, yeah. Nasty, it was.’

  ‘And an overly emotional state.’

  She turns her head over her shoulder, half a smile evident. ‘You sure you’re not pregnant?’

  ‘Ah-ha. Ha. Ha.’

  Erm, no.

  No fucking way.

  When did I have my last period again?

  ‘What’s up with you today? You look like someone who lost a fiver and found a pound.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.’ I inhale a deep breath, pleased we’re out of sniffing distance of food now that we’re walking along the banks of the canal.
The weather’s warmer today; a quintessential spring day, and the canal side is busy with families enjoying the sunshine. Meaning lots of avoiding strollers and dogs, which hurts my heart. Not the kids, strangely enough. I miss my Nigel.

  ‘You looked like you were about to barf when I suggested Mexican.’

  I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. That’s all there is to it. Besides, I’m sure my last period was just after I got back from LA.

  As in, eight weeks ago.

  No. Noooo. I’m imagining things. This is all because of a cheese fucking sandwich.

  ‘Are you listening.’

  ‘Abso. Ears switched on.’ I make this weird motion with my hands, as though I’m actually switching my ears on. Why, I’ve no idea.

  ‘You’re really weird this weekend.’

  ‘I am. You’re right. Just . . . just got lots on my mind. And I’m a crap friend. Sorry.’ I squeeze her arm, dropping my hands just as quick. ‘How’s the new job?’

  Fin shrugs. ‘It’s okay, I suppose.’

  ‘And this mess with Marcus?’ Just his name makes me rage. ‘Is it over? Can I hang out the celebratory bunting yet?’

  ‘Sadly, no. But you can maybe buy it in preparation? Soraya’s on the case. Well, her legal team is. She seems to think she has the upper hand somehow.’

  If anyone can fix this, Soraya can. Her family has more money than God, and their arms are just as far reaching. ‘Good. Excellent. I hope her upper hand bitch slaps this good and fucking proper.’ I clap my hands together. Hard. ‘Ka-pow!’

  ‘I need to buy that swear jar,’ she replies . . . in a subtle change of topic.