A Hundred Ways to Break Up (Let's Make This Thing Happen 2)

by Adams, PJ

  “Shit,” he said. “I need to have words with him. He gets carried away.”

  So it was fine to be angry if it had been her friend who had leaked to the press, but now Ray knew it had been Mo he was back-tracking. She bit back on saying that out loud, though. Now wasn’t the time to fight. They were both wound up. Both scared: this changed everything they had together. No more cloak and dagger, hiding in the shadows, feeling that they were out-smarting the world.

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Ray.

  He was really asking her? He normally had all the answers.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said. “I need to get home. Work out how I’m going to handle Thom.”

  He nodded. “Cool,” he said. “I’ll haul Mo in, find out exactly what he’s been saying.” Then, with that mischievous grin again: “We could always just slip away,” he said. “Get out of the heat until it all calms down. I have a place. A chateau in the Loire valley.”

  “A chateau?”

  “Well, yes,” he said. “Nothing too grand. It’s not quite Ronnie’s place.”

  “Ronnie’s place is a thirty-two bedroom mansion, Ray. On the scale of zero to impressive, there’s still plenty of room at the impressive end for a chateau that’s ‘not quite Ronnie’s place’...”

  Ray shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a rock star, babe. So how about it?”

  She let herself laugh. She couldn’t help it, with him standing there with that impish look on his face as he offered her a mere chateau to hide in. “No, Ray,” she finally said. “We can’t run away. You have an album to finish and I have the tatters of a life to sort out. Time to man up. Do you think they’ll be out the back, too?”

  The first time she’d come to Ray’s London house – she hadn’t even thought, but of course he must have others around the world – they’d entered through the back garden, where a door set into a high wall opened onto one of those pocket handkerchief London parks.

  “One way to find out,” he said. “You sure?”

  §

  They slipped through the back garden in darkness, the way lit only by the glow from Ray’s phone. At the door they paused. Ray turned and somehow his arms were around Emily and he was kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, the line of her jaw.

  She pressed against him, reveling in the thrill of a body against her that was still new to her. A man who had said–

  “I love you, Emily. We’ll get through this, okay?”

  She pulled away, nodded, then realized he probably couldn’t see in the gloom. “Yes,” she said. “We will.”

  He reached for the latch, and eased the door open a short way.

  There was no sign of anybody waiting out there, no sudden barrage of flashes.

  He took her hand, pulled the door open and led her out into the park. “Come on, babe,” he said. “Let’s get you into a cab.”

  12

  All the way home, she clung onto Ray’s advice. Her advice.

  It’s like you told me: you have to try to understand what you can control and learn to let go of what you can’t.

  The press were clearly after Ray. Mo had been building up the buzz about his comeback album, feeding them stories about unannounced gigs and his private life, and goodness knew what else. She didn’t know what details they had, but she couldn’t control any of that. What she could control was how much she knew, so she spent the train journey home checking websites and social media for anything new about Ray.

  There was nothing. Not even on the Angry Cans Facebook page, which would be where Mo would seed things. Had Ray got to him already and stopped him, or was the over-zealous publicist just biding his time?

  So nothing was out there yet. Surely that was good? Maybe Ray was being over-dramatic, and when the press found out she was a nobody they would lose interest.

  Or maybe the hacks were talking to Thom already, getting the slighted husband’s side before they published.

  §

  She felt sick.

  She didn’t want to get into her car, so she stood there like a fool in the station car park as if she had nowhere to go.

  She took her phone out and checked for messages, but there was nothing. She’d exchanged a couple with Ray on the way home. He was being solicitous, reassuring her, trying to make sure she was okay but with nothing really to offer to convince her that they would get through this.

  She pressed the button on her key fob and the car unlocked with a flickering of lights, taking her briefly back to the stutter of camera flashes when Ray had opened his front door.

  She climbed in and started the engine.

  Control what you can and let everything else go.

  That was all she could do.

  §

  She parked, let herself in, went through and the front room was in disarray, with cans, magazines, shoes, the remains of a takeaway dinner – all cluttering every available surface. And central to the disarray was Thom. He was occupying the sofa, his legs stretched out, feet on the coffee table amongst the beer cans. Shirt untucked, a yellow curry stain just below the collar. Another beer can in one hand, resting on the sofa beside him, an American cartoon show on the TV. Family Guy or South Park or something – she never knew the difference.

  He looked at her and she didn’t know what he was thinking, what he might know, but more than anything else, she wanted to know... “Where did you go, Thom? What happened? Why aren’t you the Thom I married?”

  She hadn’t planned to say anything. All she’d clung to was the possibility that she might just get upstairs without any kind of confrontation.

  He looked confused now. How do you answer questions like that? It would be hard to do even if you were sober.

  He didn’t know about her and Ray. Not yet. He wouldn’t be sitting there with that look on his face if he knew.

  She turned away. “I’m going to bed,” she said. She didn’t need to add that she was heading to the guest room again. That was just how things were now. She needed this over. Needed it to end. She remembered what Ray had said: this was her opportunity to get in first, tell Thom that their marriage was over and she was seeing someone else.

  Tell him before the world did.

  Not now, though. He was drunk, and he had that lairy look about him, as if he was just waiting to pick a fight with her.

  She went upstairs, quickly washed, and then went to the guest room, shut the door and checked her phone, but there was nothing new. She texted Ray to tell him she was home and all was fine.

  She started to unbutton her blouse, starting at the top. With two buttons to go, and her top hanging open, the bedroom door burst open, banging hard against the bedside cabinet.

  He stood there, the beer can still in his grip as if it were glued to the palm of his hand.

  Emily swallowed, and tried not to look scared.

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” he said, his voice a deep grumble. “It’s you. You’re the one who left. You’re the one who’s too good now.”

  She felt almost sad for him, that he kept coming back to the same old thing. That she was too good for him, that she was doing too well. So much was wrong, and yet he had to focus on the fact that she had a better job than him.

  She tried not to feel vulnerable, standing there with her top hanging open and his drunken eyes wandering down her body.

  “I haven’t left anywhere yet,” she said. He flinched at that last word as if she’d struck him.

  “So are you going to tell me where you’ve been all day?”

  “You know where I’ve been. I went to see Kayleigh and Uncle Bill. And anyway, I don’t have to report my movements to you. It’s not as if you’ve shown any sign of actually caring, after all. Not for the longest time.” She kept biting back, kept stopping herself because she knew that if she let loose now there was so much that would come spilling out and this wasn’t the time. Not with him like this.

  He nodded, as if accepting something that was an obvious truth. Then, his
eyes traveling up and down her body once more, he added, “You’ve put on weight.”

  He took a swig from his can, then turned and walked away. Across the landing, down the stairs without even a glance back at the open doorway of the guest room, heading back down to the pigsty he’d made of the front room.

  She went across and pushed the door closed again. There was a dent in the wooden panel where it had struck the bedside cabinet. She held the door shut for a few seconds, as if he might try to come back, and if he did, as if she might actually be able to stop him.

  Then she undressed and climbed into bed with her phone.

  She would tell him in the morning. This had to end. She needed all this to be over.

  §

  Sunday morning after a long, sleepless night.

  She’d heard him on the stairs again, an hour or two later. Shuffling, stumbling footsteps. He’d paused by the guest room and for a heart-stopping moment she’d waited for the door to open, not knowing what he might do after that. In the light from her phone and the streetlight outside, she’d looked across at the dark mark on the door where he’d slammed it open earlier.

  Thom wasn’t a good drunk. It didn’t make him giggly or funny, or even just relaxed. It only ever emphasized all the bad traits that had emerged in the last few years, the moodiness, the sullen resentment of the world.

  He’d moved on, banged his way into the bathroom and peed with the door open so she could hear the stream of liquid.

  She’d texted Ray then, just one last goodnight, one last reassurance that all was good.

  Barely eight o’clock now, and she was checking the web on her iPad. Still nothing. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or vaguely insulted that the story of her and Ray meant nothing to the world.

  A short time later she got dressed and went out to the village shop, loitering on the doorstep while Mr Kapel opened up. She went straight to the newspaper rack and started to skim the tabloids. There were lots of celebrity stories, but nothing about Ray.

  “Are you actually going to buy something, or are you merely using our facilities as a library?” asked Mr Kapel. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he was joking or cross. Probably somewhere between the two. She chose a couple of the papers, paid, and went home.

  Thom was up when she got back. Sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. His face was pale, his hair a mess, and when he peered up at Emily his eyes were narrowed as if he couldn’t quite handle the daylight.

  “Hung over much?”

  He grunted, then nodded at the papers. “Gone down-market, have we?” Another dig: Emily didn’t read these kinds of papers, even though Thom sometimes bought them for the sports news.

  She’d planned to take them out to the conservatory and check through closely for anything incriminating, but now... Now that just seemed so unnecessary.

  “I’m leaving,” she said softly. “All this... it’s over, Thom. I’m going. I need some distance. We can work out all the practical details later.”

  If she’d had time to consider how he might respond, she would have said he would just crumble. Presented with a fait accompli, he would fold back into his own miserable inadequacy and say nothing, just glower at her.

  She wouldn’t have expected–

  He stood, abruptly. His thighs came up hard against the kitchen table, lifting it, barging it so that it skidded loudly across the lino.

  He stabbed a finger in her direction and glared at her and she’d never seen a face so transformed, swept over with a sudden wash of anger.

  She stepped backwards, even though she knew that would send all the wrong signals: that she felt intimidated, that his anger was achieving something.

  “You...” he hissed. “You don’t get to walk out, just like that. After all I’ve done for you. You can’t just–”

  “I can. I am. It’s over.”

  One step was all it took. A single, long stride and he was there, in her face, spittle spraying, eyes mad and wide. “I know what you’re up to!” he yelled. “I know what you’re doing. You’re seeing someone, aren’t you? And you think I’m too stupid to see.”

  She tried to stand her ground, tried to meet his look. Tried to make him feel small, just with the look in her eye.

  His right arm jerked back and then stabbed forward, the fist bunched.

  It was almost as if it were in slow motion. She saw the tensing of his arm, the tightening of the tendons in his neck, the way his eyes narrowed. Saw the knuckles turned white by how tight he held his fist.

  She slumped down, let her knees go. Felt something strike her temple, her ear. Not a full blow from the fist, but the side of his arm as he swung where her head had been an instant before.

  She staggered forward, as his momentum took him towards her, and they ended up with his arm across her shoulder, her face coming up hard against his chest, her shoulder in the softness under his ribs, so hard that the impact made him gasp.

  His arm came down, as he tried to catch himself, and all of a sudden they were in some kind of macabre embrace, clinging on to each other so as not to fall, a strange quick-step of clumsy violence.

  She pulled free of him and took two stumbling steps across the kitchen so that the corner of the table came between her and Thom.

  That coming together of bodies had only lasted an instant, but she could still smell him, the beer and sweat and the scent of Thom, an intimate, animal thing she knew so well.

  He stood there facing the wall, his body twisted so he could stare at her. He looked shocked. Appalled. “I...”

  “You will never fucking do that again.” She was surprised at how menacing her voice had become.

  Her brain was still racing to catch up.

  He’d hit her!

  She raised a hand to her ear. It felt hot, numb. If she hadn’t reacted so quickly it wouldn’t just be her ear hurting.

  She straightened, turned, and walked out of the kitchen, out of the front door to the car.

  She didn’t even think about what she was doing, it was all on autopilot.

  She sat in the driver’s seat, her heart racing, her breathing rapid – so rapid she thought shock might be kicking in, a delayed panic attack.

  She started the engine and pulled out into the roadway.

  She didn’t know where she was going, or what she was going to do, and all she had with her were her purse and those damned newspapers that somehow she had clung onto through all of that.

  But she was out. She’d done it: she’d told him, and she’d left. It was over. All finally over.

  13

  “So what are you going to do?”

  She’d gone to Marcia, of course. Driven into the city, parked on a dodgy side-street, and let herself into the apartment building with the key her friend had given her way back.

  Now, they sat on the balcony. Barely midday, but they’d cracked open a bottle of Rioja and a couple of packets of roasted peanuts and called it lunch.

  “What, you mean apart from cramping my best friend’s style by crashing on her sofa until I get myself sorted out?”

  “Yeah: apart from trivial details like that.”

  “I need to be practical,” said Emily. “I need to either go back there and get my stuff or go shopping for a few changes of clothes and essentials. I need to man up and deal with this.”

  “Have you told Ray?”

  Emily looked down into the dark pool of wine in the bottom of her glass. He’d texted a couple of times this morning. She’d answered the first one with an ‘everything’s fine’ because at that point it was. She hadn’t answered the second. How could she tell him what had happened when every message since she’d seen him the day before had claimed everything was fine?

  “Don’t you think he should know? Don’t you think he’ll want to help?”

  Maybe that’s what she was scared of, too: that this would force things in a certain direction. That Ray would feel responsible, and she would become a problem that ne
eded solving. She didn’t want to be his problem.

  “I just need a little breathing space,” she said.

  Marcia held her look for a moment, just to make the point that she knew bullshit when she heard it, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “You know you’re welcome here, for as long as you need.” Then she leaned forward, suddenly intense. “We’ll go shopping for you later, honey. But sometime soon you need to go back there and get your stuff. He can’t hold your belongings hostage. I’ll go with you. We’ll make a road trip of it.”

  Emily smiled. “I do need to get some things, actually. It’s Kayleigh’s wedding on Saturday. I need to get my dress, my shoes, the present... everything. It’s all there.”

  “We’ll do it. We’ll get you sorted. But you need to work out your next steps, too. Check the legal position. He’s still living there but you pay for that place, Emily. You pay for everything. He’s been leaching off you for the longest time.”

  “You never were his number one fan.”

  Marcia shook her head, slowly. “He’s been taking you for a ride, Emily. He’s always done his best to hold you back.”

  “He never did like a woman on top.”

  She’d expected Marcia to at least smile at her feeble attempt at humor, but there was nothing. Just something about her expression... a tightening. Almost a grimace.

  It was an expression that hinted at far more.

  “What is it?”

  “Like I say,” said Marcia, “he’s been taking you for a ride, Emily. Bastard throws a hissy fit when he thinks you’ve been having some fun, but he’s been sleeping around for years. I... I never said anything because I didn’t know how, and you can’t just butt into someone’s marriage like that, but he has, Emily. He really is a worthless waste of space.”

  Emily just stared.

  Marcia’s face was slim, long, her cheekbones high and angular. Her black hair was shaped around her face and cut in a bob at the back. She almost looked like a model out of a 1960s photo-shoot. Jean Shrimpton, or Twiggy.