by Laura Tait
Poor sleep combined with the mundane nature of friends’ statuses mean I’m yawning as I scroll, but then something catches my eye.
Ben tagged at Arch 13 by Russell MacDougall. There’s nothing surprising in that, and I’m really not expecting to find anything when I click through to Russ’s page. So when I see the photo at the top it jumps out at me like a clothes line in the face.
Ben, with a girl. And that’s not Arch 13 they’re in.
My coffee turns to acid in my throat as my eyes take in every detail of the picture, posted last night. Like how close they’re sitting and how intimate their conversation looks.
I look at Ben’s handsome, smiling face, and the girl resting her hand on his exposed forearm. She’s pretty. Pale and innocent-looking, with flushed cheeks and a feminine green dress. She looks petite, like a dancer. I can picture Ben gathering her in his arms, picking her up and spinning her round – something he’d have looked ridiculous doing to me.
Did they just meet last night, or were they out together? Did he go home with her? Is she still with him now?
Another photo shows him, Tom, Russ and Jamie, all grinning to the camera. I push down the feelings of betrayal that rise through me, and scroll to the next picture – Ben, about to neck a shot.
He’s having the time of his life. He must think this break-up is the best thing that could have happened. From nights on the sofa watching boxsets to clubbing with the lads, drinking shots and pulling girls.
Maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought.
There are no more pictures of the girl so I click back to Ben’s page to see if they’re Facebook friends. I’m less than halfway down his mile-long friend list, overfriendly bastard that he is, when I give up. This is ridiculous.
I’m ridiculous.
Even if I do find her, what exactly am I hoping to discover from her page? No good can come of Facebook stalking her.
Or him.
It only takes a second to make the decision, and I act on it before I change my mind. One click, and Ben and I are no longer friends.
Realizing I’m shaking, I look at the clock to make sure it’s gone midday – it has, just – and pour myself a whisky from the decanter. Then I sit on the chair nearest the window and press my forehead against the glass. The pavements are shiny with puddles but devoid of people.
It’s the kind of day when you don’t leave the house unless you have to, and I peer at the buildings around and wonder what’s going on inside them.
It dawns on me I don’t know anything about anyone that lives on my street. I know the couple downstairs with the new baby are the Kilgannons, but only from dividing up the post in the hall. Ben has told me their first names, but I always forget them. In fact, there’s not one door I could knock on right now, just to see if they fancy some company. Tears prick the back of my eyes but I refuse to let them fall, sipping my whisky to distract myself. The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow.
Then it’s like I float out of my body and see myself. Sitting here, on a Saturday, face pressed up against the window, staring at the rain, glassy-eyed and drinking whisky.
Could I be any more pathetic?
Why did I pretend to Jemma I had stuff to do tonight? Retrieving my phone from my bed, I tap out a text message and send it before I change my mind.
The pub in Soho is heaving when I arrive but I can’t spot anyone from work. I do a quick scan, then queue for a drink.
I’m just getting served when I feel someone pinch my bum.
‘Did you think you’d pulled?’ asks Jemma when I spin around.
‘You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the groin,’ I tell her. ‘Drink?’
While I get the round in, Jemma hovers by a table where a group are putting on their coats, then throws herself into a seat as soon as one of them stands up.
‘What did you do to your wrist?’ she asks as I lay the drinks down and shrug out of my wet coat.
It takes her about five minutes to stop laughing when I tell her, then when I pull down the back of my jeans a couple of inches to show her my bruise, she’s off again.
‘Thanks for your concern,’ I tell her as she snorts.
‘What are we laughing at?’
‘Nothing,’ I tell Eddie, who’s just appeared in front of us.
He checks we’re OK for drinks then heads to the bar, joined shortly after by two of the quantity surveyors, and one more guy in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, who I don’t identify until Eddie leans forward to talk to the barmaid.
‘Oh, great,’ I mutter to Jemma. ‘I didn’t know Adam would be here.’
‘Didn’t you?’
She eyeballs me.
‘Course not.’ It never even occurred to me, though I wonder why it didn’t – I know he’s friends with Eddie.
To be fair, Adam was great after my fall. He made sure I was OK, put me in a taxi to the hospital when I insisted there was no need for an ambulance and managed not to gloat once. I would almost have preferred it if he did – then I could have been irritated rather than embarrassed.
‘Don’t tell me you wouldnae bone him,’ Jemma says.
I stare at her, aghast. ‘I would not bone him.’
‘I had sex last night.’
‘Thanks for sharing. With who?’
‘A guy I met at my local. He’s the barman, actually. So I can never drink in my local again, but still, it was worth it.’
I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, and my face must give it away because she adds: ‘I thought you might like to live vicariously through me given that you aren’t getting any.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell her. ‘I’m good, though.’
‘It’s your own fault you’re not getting any,’ she continues. ‘You could get it all the time if you wanted to, but you refuse to go on dates and you scare anyone who chats you up with your ice-queen act.’
‘We’ve been through this. Online dating isn’t for me.’
‘You’ll never find a man with that defeatist attitude.’
‘I don’t need a man,’ I insist. ‘I’m working on the biggest project I’ve ever had – it’s good that I can focus all my energy into it.’
‘Tell that to your vagina,’ she says in disgust.
Before I can reply, the boys have joined us and are saying hello. They seem happy but surprised to see me here. Adam takes the seat opposite me.
One of the lads announces that he can’t get too drunk as his girlfriend drags him to church on Sundays, and she’ll throttle him if he’s hungover. Jemma responds by asking if he’d rather have a bell ringing every time he’s sexually aroused or a stabbing sensation in his side whenever anyone says his name.
Adam leans towards me while they all chat, and I expect him to ask me how I’m feeling.
‘I think we need to up our game a bit with the cinema,’ he says instead. ‘We’re way behind and there’re still a few issues we need to . . .’ He notices that my jaw has literally fallen. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You just told me I need to up my game!’
‘I said we.’
‘You meant me.’ I fold my arms, the bandaged one on top. ‘And I’m feeling fine, thanks for asking.’
He leans back in his seat, regarding me thoughtfully. ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’
I look at the others to see if they’re listening.
‘Exactly how loud would this bell be?’ Eddie is asking. Jemma starts donging loudly.
‘You don’t like me first,’ I accuse, turning my attention back to Adam. Christ, that doesn’t even make sense. He laughs slightly and rubs the dark blond stubble on his chin, but when his eyes meet mine, they’re serious.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You always give me a hard time.’ I shrug, feeling uncomfortable. ‘You bark orders at me, you call me by my surname, you don’t even attempt to be tactful when you question my work. You just have no respect for me. You don’t treat the other girls like that.’
; He sips his beer thoughtfully. ‘And why do you think that is?’
‘Because you don’t think I’m up to the job.’ The booze has made me brave enough to look Adam in the eye and say vindictively: ‘I guess you’re just more of a man’s man.’
He nearly spits out his drink. ‘So I don’t like you because I’m sexist? Rebecca, you just totally contradicted yourself. You think I don’t like you because I treat you the same as I treat guys, but you also think I treat you like that because you’re a woman?’
He sounds a little angry now, but keeps his voice down.
‘It’s because I respect you that I don’t treat you any differently from how I’d treat a bloke. I didn’t have you down for the sensitive type. If you must know, that’s why I like you.’
I open my mouth to say something cutting, but realize I have nothing. He’s right. I’m looking for things he does to be annoyed at. And did he just tell me he likes me?
Not that I care, but does he mean likes me, or likes me?
Adam’s stare is challenging me but just then Jemma stands up. ‘My round,’ she announces. ‘Give me a hand, would you, Rebecca?’
‘What was all that about?’ she asks when we get to the bar.
‘Just Adam being a dick,’ I tell her, though I’m not entirely sure now that he was. Did I go over the top?
‘When I looked over you were both sitting there with your arms folded, staring at each other, like you were about to have a really aggressive game of chess.’
She orders the drinks then looks at me meaningfully. ‘Apparently mimicking someone’s body language is a sign of attraction.’
‘Drop it, Jem.’
‘Consider it dropped. Now let’s do a shot while we’re at the bar.’
Adam doesn’t mention the cinema again after we get back to the table and I feel my mood improve. Everyone is a little drunk, apart from Adam, who seems to be one of those people who manages to stay in control no matter how much he knocks back. People say that about me, but I’m not feeling very in control right now.
‘What’s on the agenda for the rest of the weekend?’ I ask Adam, determined to make an effort.
‘Rock-climbing in the morning.’
‘That’s random.’ But explains the muscly forearms.
He smiles. ‘Then I’ll probably do some work in the afternoon.’
‘You work too hard,’ I tell him, and instantly regret it. Ben used to say that to me and it made me pity him that he didn’t have a job he cared about enough to want to work too hard. I don’t want Adam to think I don’t care.
‘You should come out more often,’ Eddie tells me when Jemma and I get up to leave at the end of the night.
I don’t realize quite how drunk I am until the cold air hits me.
And Jemma’s just as bad. ‘Crap, I can’t find my door key,’ she moans, rummaging in her bag for a moment then just emptying all its contents into a doorway. ‘Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.’
She stands up and pats her jeans pockets. ‘Maybe it fell out in the pub.’
‘Go check,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get this.’
I start putting her stuff back in her bag when I see a pair of black Lacoste trainers in front of me.
‘You OK?’ says the voice attached to them.
‘Adam.’ I stand up. ‘Jemma’s lost her key – she’s just—’
‘Yes, I saw her on my way out.’
We look at each other for a moment, then both look away.
‘You off home?’ I ask.
‘Yep. Got to be up early.’
‘Course. Those rocks won’t climb themselves.’
‘It was nice to hang out with you tonight.’
‘You too,’ I tell him, and I think I mean it.
I don’t see what happens next coming, though. Him leaning forward, bringing his face to mine. I can smell his aftershave, and the warmth of his body, despite the chill in the air and the fact we’re not even touching. Yet.
But in the split second before we’re about to connect, Ben pops into my head. He’s leaning down, his lips closing in on the lips of the girl in the green dress.
‘I’m sorry.’ I pull away, shaking my head. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘It’s OK,’ says Adam, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair.
Jemma bursts out of the pub. ‘I can’t find it and my sodding flatmate is on a sodding hen weekend until tomorrow.’
In that moment, fat, black clouds explode, drenching us all instantly.
‘Fuck my life,’ yells Jemma into the rain.
‘You can stay at mine,’ I tell her, trying not to look at Adam.
As soon as a taxi with its light on appears, Adam holds out his arm.
‘Here you go, girls,’ he says when it pulls over.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
He nods, opening the door. ‘See you Monday.’
‘See you Monday,’ I repeat, grateful for Jemma’s presence so we don’t need to talk about what just happened.
Back at mine, I get out of my wet clothes and into my bathrobe, handing Jemma the one that Ben left behind.
‘You all right?’ Jemma asks as she puts down the kebabs we made the taxi stop for so she can get changed. ‘You were quiet in the cab.’
I force a smile. ‘I’m fine. Drink?’
‘Aye, go on.’ She pulls the robe around her and sits on the sofa, feet on the coffee table and kebab on her lap. ‘So, how’re you coping without Ben?’
‘Fine,’ I tell her, handing her a glass of red wine and a fork. It’s the first time she’s mentioned him this evening.
‘Fine?’
‘Yep.’
‘Yep?’
‘Sure.’
‘You really don’t like talking about it, do you?’
‘I just don’t think it helps to dwell on it.’ I unwrap my lamb shish.
‘Too right!’ Jemma sets her food aside and grabs my laptop from the coffee table, turning it on.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Signing you up for internet dating.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘What have you got to lose?’
‘I just don’t see the appeal of dedicating precious time to hanging out with strangers.’
‘And what about Ben?’ Jemma asks. ‘Do you really think he’s sitting around crying into his whisky?’ She nods towards the glass I left on the coffee table earlier.
‘Nope, I don’t suppose he is,’ I tell her through gritted teeth, thinking about the girl in the green dress.
‘Just take a look,’ Jemma coaxes, tapping a few keys while I top up our drinks. ‘Here!’ When I get back she swivels the screen towards me triumphantly. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t?’
‘Pilot underscore Dan,’ I read aloud, looking at the picture of a guy in sunglasses, sitting in what looks like a cockpit. ‘He’s good-looking,’ I admit.
‘Yes.’ She bounces back down next to me excitedly. ‘So we’re setting up your profile?’
‘Maybe another time,’ I tell her, snapping the computer shut. I’m not ready to date Pilot underscore Dan, or snog Adam, or do anything with anyone else.
And I can’t believe Ben is.
Chapter Nineteen
BEN
Monday, 1 December
I stand up at my desk.
‘I’m gonna shoot off,’ I tell Russ and Tom.
I hook my arms into my jacket, conscious of Russ checking the clock on his screen.
‘It’s not even three o’clock,’ he says.
‘Richardson’s in meetings for the rest of the day,’ I say.
I’m cooking a roast for Jamie tonight – my way of thanking him for everything he’s done for me this past month – so these few hours will give me a chance to get everything I need from the supermarket and prep the dinner.
‘But you still haven’t told us what happened with Natalie on Friday. It’s the code.’
‘What code?’
‘The man code.’ Russ opens his arms
like it’s self-explanatory. ‘The same code that says you can sack off your friends, even if it’s someone’s birthday . . .’ He clears his throat for emphasis here. ‘. . . if there’s a chance of sex. The code absolves you, Ben, but it also – and this is crucial – it also requires you to tell us everything.’
‘I don’t kiss and tell.’
Russ recoils, disgusted, but I’m out of there before he can protest further, wondering as I go whether the person who first said they don’t kiss and tell also cried in a stranger’s bed.
Jamie is on the phone when I get in so I unpack my ingredients, cursing when I realize I forgot dessert. When he finally hangs up I’m manoeuvring a hot lemon up a chicken’s backside.
He watches me, perplexed.
‘You pierce the lemon and the juices help cook the chicken from the inside,’ I explain. ‘That way it needs less time and stays moist.’
Jamie rubs his hands in anticipation.
‘Who was on the phone?’ I ask.
‘Danielle.’
Her name hangs in the air.
‘How’s she doing?’
Jamie pockets his hands as I shove the bird into the oven.
‘She can understand why Rebecca isn’t talking to her, but you . . .’
‘It’d wreck Rebecca’s head if she thought Danielle and I were hanging out after everything. I’m just trying to do the right thing.’
Jamie presses his fingers into his temples. ‘You’re probably right; I just wish . . .’ His sentence tapers out. ‘So have you heard from Natalie?’
I watch him trying to stifle his amusement.
‘Oh, get stuffed.’
‘I mean, I’ve had girls cry tears of joy in my bed before, but . . .’
I groan. ‘Talking of crying: do you remember my onion trick?’
‘Yep, you hold your breath.’
‘Good.’ I pull out a chopping board. ‘You’re making the gravy.’
‘I can’t make gravy.’
‘It’s got booze in – it’s practically a cocktail.’
I talk him through softening the onions and adding the carrot and celery to let them sweat, suddenly enjoying myself. He’s about to pour in the red wine when he stops and attends the chalkboard.
‘What now?’ I say.
