by Laura Tait
‘I’m sure we’ll get going again in a minute.’
She looks around the carriage again, pulling at the ends of her plaited hair.
‘There’s a disused station just the other side of these walls,’ I tell her. ‘It’s called Down Street. Churchill used it for secret meetings during the war. It’d take us about a minute to walk to, and we could go up to street level from there.’
The woman looks at me properly for the first time. ‘If it’s disused won’t it be locked up?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘And dark?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Perfect conditions for someone with claustrophobia, then.’
I go to apologize but she smiles to let me know she’s only teasing. She introduces herself as Sandra just as the train starts moving again, and we’re still chatting when we reach Hyde Park Corner. The whole exchange has me smiling up the escalators, and I make a mental note to tell Rebecca about it next time she moans about the—
Then I remember: the way things are going, I may never get to hear her whinge about the Tube, or anything, again. And the thought wipes the smile right off my face.
‘How did your pre-date phone call go, by the way?’ I ask Russ, because if anyone can make me feel better about my present situation, Russ can.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
There, easy.
I get on with my report on ticket office closures. I’m boring myself with the details of a required ninety-day consultation period when Russ pops up like a meerkat.
‘Why is dating so difficult?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?’
I stop what I’m doing and lean back in my chair.
‘You reckon it’s difficult these days?’ I say. ‘You’re lucky you never lived in medieval times. Back then, if you fancied a girl you’d have to write her a poem.’
‘Is that how you wooed Avril, Tom?’ says Russ.
Tom tears off a piece of his chickpea sandwich with his spindly fingers and places it into his mouth.
‘Actually, I drew a picture of her.’
I bloody love Tom.
‘What did she think?’ I ask.
I mean, here’s me, always saying HR is a stopgap without really knowing what I might do next, but Tom is an artist, with actual talent, and I know he’ll be out of here as soon as he catches a break.
‘She said I got her nose wrong.’
Russ and I laugh, but then an email appears at the bottom right of my screen that steals my attention. Seeing the name, I lean into the desk, excited, but the small bit of movement causes my faulty screen to flicker.
‘Bloody monitor!’ I say, losing the cursor just as I was about to open the email.
‘Language!’ says Russ. ‘There are ladies around.’
He gestures towards Tom while I stand on tiptoes, leaning over the screen to try to tighten the wires. Russ comes round.
‘Let me,’ he says, whacking the side of the monitor so that the flickering stops. ‘Voilá!’
I pull myself back towards the desk, gently this time, even though the techno beat is going again inside my chest.
‘Do you want to piss off now?’ I tell Russ, who’s just standing there.
He ignores me, squinting to try to read the email. I put my hand over the screen.
‘You should be pleased,’ he says, returning to his own desk. ‘Sounds like she wants to meet.’
I read the email for myself.
Are you free for a chat tonight? 6 pm at the flat?
Finally! I hit reply.
I’ll be there. I love you. Bx
Immediately my imagination starts to write a script of how the evening is going to play out, and it ends with me enveloping Rebecca in my arms, immersing myself in the scent of her, and whispering how sorry I am, and then, as she’s just about to tell me that all is forgiven, I hear a forced cough behind me.
Richardson.
‘I’m going to need you to stay late.’ He taps his left wrist, even though he isn’t wearing a watch. ‘The directors can’t get here until quarter past six so you’ll have to give your presentation then.’
‘Presentation? You never said anything about—’
Richardson’s mobile bleeps, and he pauses me with a raised finger before walking off to answer the call.
‘I’m not staying late,’ I tell Russ and Tom.
Russ withdraws his tongue from the gap between his front teeth. ‘Good luck with that.’
I return to Rebecca’s email, knowing I’m going to have to reply again telling her I’ll be late. For some reason I feel apprehensive.
‘We really should form a union,’ I say.
‘Not this again,’ says Russ.
‘Do you seriously think they’re going to stop at the ticket offices? Because they’re not.’
‘We’re HR,’ says Russ. ‘It’d be like Radioactive Man joining The Avengers. Unions are our nemesis.’
My screen starts to flicker again. ‘Do you use comic book analogies on your dates?’
‘Nah, you don’t reveal anything people can interpret as weird till at least date ten.’
Russ comes round again, and I presume he’s going to give the monitor another slap, but instead he goes to open my top drawer.
‘What do you want?’
‘A stapler,’ he says, looking perplexed. ‘Who locks their top drawer?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because people pinch my stapler.’
I take the key from my pocket and open the drawer only as far as is necessary to remove the stapler and give it to Russ.
‘I never had you down as a stationery fascist, buddy,’ he complains.
I wait for him to return to his desk before cautiously opening the rest of the drawer, pausing to check no one else is paying attention. Satisfied, I take the velvet box into my hand and open it. The ring is an antique with Rebecca’s birthstone – Tanzanite. It’s here because I haven’t yet established any hiding places of my own at the flat, but I guess I can stash it at Jamie’s now I’ve told him my plan.
I shove the ring in my pocket and slam the drawer shut, intending to fire off another email to Rebecca, but it will have to wait because the movement causes my screensaver – the photo of me and Rebecca outside the Colosseum – to flicker once more.
And then the flickering stops, and the image is gone completely.
Chapter Twelve
REBECCA
‘Rebecca!’ hollers Jemma as I get back from my site visit.
‘Hey, what’s up?’
I stop at reception.
‘Oh, the usual. Run off my feet doon here.’ She dips the brush into her nail varnish and sweeps the maroon lacquer on to the tip of her thumbnail. ‘Just wondered how things are with your man. Did you fix things?’
‘Not yet.’ I squirm. It feels weird talking to a near stranger about this. ‘But he’s coming over tonight.’
‘Think you’ll get back together?’
‘I don’t know.’
She looks up at me, fingers splayed. ‘Do you still love him?’
‘Yes.’ I shock myself with how quickly I say it. No hesitation at all.
‘Then what’s the problem? Did he cheat on you?’
‘No.’
‘Steal your money?’
‘Nope.’
She gasps. ‘Listen to jungle music?’
I shake my head, laughing.
‘Good.’ She dips the brush in the bottle and starts the second coat. ‘I’ve been in all those situations and I wouldn’t wish any of them on anyone.’
I sigh, propping my elbows on the reception desk, and rest my chin in my hands. ‘He did something – not deliberately or anything – but I didn’t think I could get over it. Now I’m thinking maybe I can but I don’t know if I should.’
She looks up from her nails and scrutinizes me. ‘You’re a rather proud little soul, aren’t you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘A bit.’
‘Would you rather—’
‘I know, I know,’ I mumble, biting my lip. ‘Would I rather keep my pride and be lonely or swallow it and be happy?’
‘Nope. I was going to ask if you’d rather have sex with a goat once and no one know about it or not have sex with a goat but everyone think you did.’ She shakes her hands about in an attempt to speed up the drying process. ‘Jesus, Rebecca, it’s always aboot you and your problems.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Argghh.’ Jemma jumps up as her finger clips the bottle and it topples, spilling varnish over the oak desk. ‘I need to get a cloth. Get back to me aboot the goat,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘Will do,’ I tell her, actually weighing it up as I walk to my desk. I acknowledge that it’s an OK day, as far as Post-Revelation days go.
It’s still early days but my initial plans for the cinema couldn’t be going any better. I stood outside it earlier, just picturing what the final building will look like – the grand foyer, high ceilings and sweeping staircase restored to their former glory of the cinema’s heyday, with state-of-the-art facilities to bring it up to date.
And maybe that’s how I need to approach my relationship. Just because it started crumbling doesn’t mean it can’t be saved. The foundation can be restored and we can build on the rest – maybe even make it into something that’s better and stronger than it was before.
Catching up on my emails, I find one from Danielle telling me she’s got an early finish and asking – with almost deliberate casualness – if I fancy meeting for a glass of wine. She works in advertising sales for a men’s magazine and gets to leave early if her team have beaten their target, and I finish early on Fridays anyway.
I realize that I don’t feel angry at her any more, or even betrayed. I just feel . . . maybe Jemma’s right. Proud. I tap out a reply telling her Ben is coming over. Should I add a kiss in case she thinks I’m just making excuses? I never do kisses so maybe it’ll be weirder if I do.
Another email pops up while I’m deliberating: Ben, something has come up at work – he won’t be at mine until 8 p.m.
I try not to feel exasperated at having to wait a couple more hours to see him. Now I’ve made up my mind what to do, I just want to put the shit storm behind me.
I drum my fingers on the surface of my keyboard while I think, then I scrap my email to Danielle and write a new reply.
What harm can one drink do?
It’s barely gone six o’clock when we get to Arch 13, but it’s already crammed with post-work revellers having thank-Crunchie-it’s-Friday drinks, a notion I’ve never fully appreciated in the past, but after the week I’ve had I’m right on board.
Jamie saved us a booth, where Danielle sits now, biting her manicured nails. I’ve only ever seen her do that when she was waiting to hear from Shane. She doesn’t notice me until I’m dropping my bag on the seat next to her.
‘Hi, love,’ she says, and I don’t have time to respond before she launches into a speech that she has clearly prepared. ‘Listen, Becs, I know you don’t like to talk about things, and that’s fine, but it’s driving me mental that I don’t know what you’re thinking. I know you’re upset about what happened between me and Ben, and I understand why.’ She takes her first breath. ‘But it really was just one meaningless, stupid incident and there’s never been anything between us since . . .’
While she talks, I take the wine from the cooler and pour it into the glass Danielle had ready for me, topping hers up too. It’s a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. That’s what Danielle always orders because she knows it’s my white wine of choice, even though she prefers Chardonnay. I’ve always been touched by that.
‘So, look,’ she’s saying, somewhat fiercely, ‘if you’re mad at me, shout at me. Get it off your chest. Tell me I’m a slag and a bad friend if that’s what you’re thinking, and then I can tell you how sorry I am and you can forgive me and then we can be OK again.’ The fierceness dissolves. ‘You’re my best friend – one of the only people in the world I actually trust, and I need us to be OK.’
I sip my drink and pretend to think about it. ‘You’re not a slag,’ I say eventually.
She glances my way. ‘But I am a bad friend?’
‘The worst.’
‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘We’re OK?’
‘We’re OK. Just stop being soppy – it unnerves me.’
‘Absolutely.’ She salutes me.
Normality resumed, we catch up, and there are no more mentions of Ben until I realize he’ll be getting back to the flat about now.
‘You do know I don’t like him like that, don’t you?’ Danielle asks as she divides the rest of the wine between us. ‘I never have. I mean, he’s great and everything, but there were never any feelings involved.’
I nod. I do know.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I reply, trying to keep it light. ‘Just two people rubbing body parts together.’
‘Exactly.’ She sounds relieved. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Shane had just broken things off again and Ben had just been trying to comfort me, and it just . . .’
Even now she always looks the same when talking about Shane – a stoic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Every time he broke it off and disappeared from her life she insisted it was fine, that she didn’t care, and then she got hammered and slept with the first man she saw to try to make that true.
‘Honestly, Becs,’ she half-groans-half-laughs as she covers her face, ‘this time was spectacularly humiliating.’
‘Remind me.’ They’ve broken up so many times they all blend into one.
‘God, I’m cringing just thinking about it.’ She peers at me through her fingers. ‘He said something to me but there was a train going past right at that moment. I thought he said, I can’t live without you. And I thought, Finally! He’s realized we’re great together, and he doesn’t want to mess about any more, and all that talk about taking me to Ireland to meet his family was actually going to happen. So I said, You’ll never have to live without me, but he looked horrified, and went, No, no, no, I’M LEAVING WITHOUT YOU, really loudly, but by that time the train had passed and all the smokers standing outside turned to look at us.’
She laughs and I squeeze her arm, but something niggles me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. And also, I realize I haven’t heard this story before, and I wonder why.
‘Yet I still kept going back there until you made me delete his number. I mean, what was I thinking?’ she continues. ‘What did I ever find cool about some unemployed musician?’
‘He was focusing on his art,’ I quote Shane, though I’m distracted now. Whatever is bothering me feels just out of my grasp.
‘Christ,’ whines Danielle. ‘He really is basically a lying, sponging, opportunistic twat, isn’t he?’
‘You miss him?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Where were you exactly?’
Danielle stares at me. ‘What?’
‘I thought you and Ben met at the bar Jamie used to work at, but you said a train went past.’
Danielle picks up her wine glass and I notice her hand is shaking as she takes a sip.
‘Um . . .’ She shrugs, looking round the room like someone might save her.
Because that’s what’s been niggling me. The bar Jamie used to work in – where he worked when Ben and Danielle met the first time – was in town. Nowhere near a train station.
‘You’re talking about here,’ I say shakily. She’s about to protest but I can see her mind working and I know she’s realized she’s caught herself out. It’s in a railway arch – it’s the only place I know where the trains are so loud you could mishear someone.
‘But the night this place opened is the night Ben and I met,’ I continue. ‘And you and Shane split up that night. You didn’t want to talk about it.’
I remember her reaction when I to
ld her about Ben the next day, and now it’s all coming together like a cruel jigsaw puzzle; the whole picture in front of me in gruesome Technicolor.
I stand up and grab my bag and coat.
‘Rebecca, don’t,’ she says quickly, reaching out to touch my arm.
‘Get off me,’ I scream, shaking her away. She looks stunned, and I notice Jamie looking over from behind the bar. In fact, everyone is watching, I realize, but for once I don’t care. I need air.
‘Wait, please. I know you guys were chatting but it didn’t even occur to me it was the start of something until you texted me the next morning.’
‘Of course it didn’t,’ I practically spit. ‘How could he possibly be interested in me when you were around?’
‘Don’t twist things,’ she says firmly. ‘I meant I didn’t think you liked him. You never like anyone.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this the next day? Why did you let me go on about the guy whose bed you’d just frickin’ left?’
‘You were excited. I felt bad. I’d never seen you like that about anyone so I wanted you to have him.’
‘So you let me have him? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. Stop twisting my words.’
But I’m not twisting anything. It’s all so very clear.
Feeling sick, I hurry away. I hear Danielle, then Jamie, call my name, but I need to get out.
I see a black cab with its light on so I flag it and jump in. I don’t need it – I just don’t want Danielle to catch me up.
‘Where are we off to?’ asks the driver.
I give him my address.
‘Righteo.’ He clicks on the meter and pulls away, and as I glance at his mirror, I see Danielle running after us.
‘Hey, you,’ Ben greets me as I open the door, but he only has to look at my face to realize this isn’t the reunion he’d bargained on. ‘Rebecca, what’s up?’
‘When did you sleep with Danielle?’ I drop my keys on the coffee table and lean against the arm of the sofa, arms crossed.
He visibly pales. ‘Ages ago. Before you and I—’
