‘Evie, are you all right?!’ shouts Gareth dramatically as he helps me up.
‘Fine,’ I tell him, brushing myself down. Nothing is broken–except my pride–although as Jack is getting the next round of drinks in at the bar, at least he didn’t appear to see my fall.
‘You were amazing,’ Gareth breathes.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ I say, thinking I’d have preferred him to have tried to break my fall instead of trying to flatter me now.
‘Evie, you were,’ he insists, and I notice that the rash he had last time I saw him has spread faster than a fire in an oil refinery.
‘Your voice is a real classic,’ he goes on. ‘Very Geri Halliwell.’
‘Oh, er, well, thanks,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I must run.’
‘I’ve been meaning to give you a ring,’ he continues.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Why’s that?”
‘Because I’ve been thinking a lot…about us.’
Oh God.
‘Gareth, you were thinking a lot–about us–the last time I saw you,’ I say. ‘All this thinking will make your nose bleed if you’re not careful.’
‘Well, anyway,’ he says, ignoring this, ‘I know we talked about this commitment problem you have…’
Not any more I don’t.
‘And how I feel I can help you get over it…’
No, thanks.
‘And, well, I know what you said last time…’
I couldn’t have been clearer, as I remember.
‘But the upshot is…’
‘Yes, Gareth?’ I ask politely, trying not to reveal that I’m starting to find this as irritating as chronic athlete’s foot.
‘Evie,’ he says generously, ‘I’m willing to give you a second chance.’
Chapter 81
There is a slight pause as I try to work out whether I have heard Gareth correctly.
‘You’re what?’ I ask finally.
‘I said I’m willing to give you a second chance,’ he repeats, looking immensely pleased with himself. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that nobody is perfect and that your emotional detachment from just about anything or anyone is something we can work through as a couple.’
I don’t know whether to lose my temper with him or run for my life. Aware that Jack is on the other side of the room, however, I do neither, and keep my voice on a level as I say, ‘Gareth, we no longer are a couple.’
He pulls a face. ‘Evie, I know that. And there’s no need to speak to me like I’m some sort of psycho, either. I’m not. I’m just a normal guy who likes you and wants to make a go of it with you.’
‘I know you’re not a psycho,’ I say, although now he mentions it, Norman Bates does seem like a more attractive proposition at the moment.
‘Gareth, look,’ I continue, aware that I’ve got to get back to Jack. ‘I know it may look like I keep trying to avoid you, but I’m truly not. I just really have got to go.’
He lets out a long sigh.
‘I tell you what,’ I add, thinking of the only thing that might appease him, ‘I’ll give you a ring next week and we can talk about it then, okay?’
‘I’d like that, Evie,’ he says, nodding.
‘I’ll see you then,’ I say, about to finally make my exit.
He grabs me by the arm. ‘Before you go,’ he says, ‘I want you to have something.’
‘What?’ My mind flashes back to the last parcel he decided to give me in public.
‘Don’t look so suspicious,’ he chides me. ‘Just take it, please. As a present. From me.’
He hands me a little box wrapped up in silver paper and a shocking pink ribbon. I start shaking my head. I have no idea what this is, but accepting any gifts from Gareth at the moment feels dodgier than a cupboard full of porn in a Church of England vicar’s garage.
‘I can’t accept this,’ I say, and I have never meant anything more in my life.
‘You can, Evie. Please,’ he says. ‘It’s the earrings you wanted. You saw them when we were out together once and I remember you saying how much you liked them. I was going to buy them for you for Grace’s wedding, but then you dumped me.’
I feel a stab of guilt.
‘Gareth, that really is lovely of you,’ I say, ‘but I mean it, I just don’t think it’s…appropriate.’
‘You can be so cold,’ he says, narrowing his eyes.
For someone supposedly in love with me, Gareth is very good at his put-downs.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t want this.’ Feeling terrible, I hand the box back.
But he doesn’t take it from me; he just turns around and starts walking away.
‘Sorry, Evie,’ he says, with an expression about as genuine as a runner-up at the Oscars. ‘I’ve really, really got to go now.’
And before I know it, he’s gone. Buggered off before I get a chance to say or do anything.
Cheeky sod. That’s my trick.
Chapter 82
‘Are you sure everything’s okay?’ asks Jack as we jump into the back of a taxi.
‘Fine. Honestly, I think I’ve just had a bit too much,’ I say, crossing my eyes to emphasize how drunk I am and immediately realising how completely and utterly unsexy I must look.
‘Lightweight,’ he grins. ‘Well, I thought you were incredibly brave anyway, getting up to sing like that.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’d have to be either brave or stupid to get up and give a performance like that.’
‘Seriously,’ he goes on. ‘I mean, there is no way in a million years you’d ever get me up to do it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. People think it’s a tom cat fighting when I sing. I’ve never even done karaoke. In fact, I mime the hymns at weddings.’
‘Ah, well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?’ I say. ‘I’m always at the front with a bouquet in my hand. Anyway, you should try it one day–you might enjoy it.’
‘Evie, I may like you enough to be persuaded to do a lot of things by you, but you will never, ever get me to sing in public.’
‘What a spoilsport,’ I sigh. ‘And after I’ve just been through all that.’
His hand suddenly finds mine and he looks into my eyes as he slowly pulls me closer towards him. His face is an inch away from mine and I can feel his soft breath on my skin. Our lips meet, and as we begin to kiss in the darkness of the taxi, it almost takes my breath away.
Grace once told me that she and Patrick almost had sex in the back of a taxi. What constitutes ‘almost’, I’m not exactly sure, but I bet it’s not something they get up to very often these days. The thought has popped into my head because our kissing, somewhere along the way, becomes rather more passionate than might be considered fitting under these circumstances.
Our bodies are pressing against each other’s, and the fact that this is going on as quietly as possible so as not to attract the attention of the driver is only serving to make my pulse beat even faster.
Jack’s hand is on my leg, and as he moves it slowly upwards, my skirt begins to gather on my thigh. I can tell from the way his kissing has slowed down that he is trying to work out whether I’m happy about it or not. So I kiss him in a way that leaves him in no doubt.
‘Is it quicker going around the park?’ the driver shouts into the back, and Jack and I jump apart.
‘Er, yeah, that’s probably the best way,’ says Jack. We look at each other and smile conspiratorially.
The taxi trundles along for a couple of seconds, before Jack moves towards me again so I can just see his features lit up by the orange flicker of streetlights. His lips brush against my ear and send a shiver of electricity through me.
‘Only someone I had in the back last week wanted me to go down the Dock Road,’ says the taxi driver, and we jump apart again, stifling giggles.
‘I think you’re definitely right on that one,’ says Jack.
‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ says the driver. ‘I get all sorts in the back of here, you wouldn’t believe it.�
�
He proceeds to tell us a story about a woman whose King Charles spaniel went into labour in the back of his cab while he was trying to struggle through a mile and a half of roadworks on Smithdown Road. Jack leans over again, but not to kiss me this time. Holding my hand, he puts his mouth next to my ear.
‘You haven’t got away that easily,’ he whispers.
I turn and kiss him briefly on the lips.
‘Good,’ I whisper back.
Chapter 83
Green’s Gym, Liverpool, 13 May
‘Hey, Charlotte!’ someone shouts as we’re heading into the gym.
Charlotte and I turn around and one of the instructors is jogging towards us, clutching a pile of leaflets. He’s one of those annoyingly athletic people who never seem to just walk, but instead move from place to place with a permanent Anneka Rice-style skip.
‘Oh, hello, Shaun,’ says Charlotte brightly.
Six months ago, the idea of Charlotte being on first-name terms with a gym instructor would have been unthinkable. Now they’re all practically her best friends.
‘I tried to catch up with you yesterday but couldn’t find you,’ he says. ‘You’re not slipping, are you?’
‘I just had a dental appointment, that’s all,’ she explains. ‘I’ve been every day this week, apart from yesterday.’
‘Don’t worry, I was only kidding–I’ve seen how often you’re here,’ he replies. ‘And it’s obviously working. You look brilliant–a walking advert for this place. Anyway, the reason I was looking for you was that I’m organizing a charity challenge for next year. I’m trying to get a group of people together to do a bike ride across the Atlas Mountains.’
Charlotte is completely taken aback, but he misinterprets her look.
‘No, I didn’t know where they were either,’ he says. ‘Morocco, apparently. Anyway, the point is, it’ll be great fun and we can raise money for charity. Have a think about it, won’t you?’
‘Er, okay,’ she says. ‘I will.’
As Shaun and his impossibly toned legs skip off again into the men’s changing room, I turn to Charlotte.
‘Do I not exist or something?’ I say. ‘Don’t I look capable of cycling in the Atlas Mountains?’
She shrugs apologetically. ‘I think it might just be the regulars they’re asking to join them,’ she says.
‘Hmm. I suppose I haven’t been for a while, have I?’
She smiles. ‘I think that’s what happens when you find someone you want to spend every minute of the day with,’ she says.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I feel a flash of blissful Jack-induced happiness, combined with a very definite undercurrent of guilt. I know I’ve been neglecting Charlotte. And Grace, for that matter. Valentina I haven’t seen for ages–although she does have her own blossoming romance (for that read ‘shagathon’) with Edmund Barnett.
‘So, Charlotte,’ I say. ‘Bike riding across the Atlas Mountains. Are you going to do it?’
‘Do you know,’ she says, ‘I just might. It can’t be any harder than shifting all this weight.’
‘And, God, you’re doing that all right,’ I say.
In the ladies’ changing rooms just how much Charlotte is doing that becomes immediately apparent. As she gets undressed, this time, she no longer hides behind her big family-sized beach towels. She happily walks around in her underwear, which is now lacy and fashionable. In fact, it couldn’t look less like the granny pants she used to wear–pants I dare say she’d have burned by now except for the fire hazard all that polyester must represent.
It’s not just her underwear though. Charlotte now owns an item of clothing she has coveted for her entire life in the same way that other people covet Gucci jeans. A trouser suit from Next.
Okay, so it’s not exactly what Vogue is tipping as the fashion item of the season. But it represents something crucially important for Charlotte. Because, for the first time ever, she doesn’t have to go into one of those specialist outlets with euphemistic titles like Ladywear Plus or Big and Beautiful. She can just stroll down the high street, walk into any bog-standard store, and buy a suit–in a size 14. And a comfortable size 14 too.
‘How much did you lose this week?’ I ask.
‘Another five pounds,’ she says, glowing. ‘Everyone warned me that the weight loss would start slowing down soon, but that just hasn’t happened. It seems to be falling off now.’
It’s funny, but knowing that she’s another five pounds lighter makes Charlotte run faster on the treadmill. She presses the buttons until she gets to 9km an hour and is striding away on it, unafraid any more that the people behind are getting an eyeful of her backside.
As I look up into the mirror in front of me, a familiar face walks through the door and I turn to Charlotte in amazement.
‘Is that Jim who’s just come in?’ I whisper.
She nods. ‘He joined shortly after Georgia’s wedding,’ she says. ‘I recommended the place to him. He doesn’t come as often as I do though.’
‘No one does,’ I point out.
‘Hello, you two,’ says Jim, approaching us. ‘How are you, Evie?’
‘Brilliant,’ I say, still taken aback to see him. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, great,’ he says. ‘I’m starting to think you live here, Charlotte. You seem to be on that treadmill every time I walk through the door.’
She presses a couple of buttons on the machine and slows it down to a gentle walk.
‘I promise you I do go home at night,’ she says, breathless. ‘Although they have to throw me out sometimes.’
‘Well, you put me to shame, you really do,’ he says. ‘I tell myself every Sunday night I’ll come here a minimum of three times in the following week, but I’ve not hit that target once yet. I enjoy the pub after work too much.’
Charlotte giggles and it suddenly strikes me that she hasn’t blushed at all since this conversation began. Okay, so she’s flushed from her run anyway so you probably wouldn’t be able to tell, but still…
‘Speaking of the pub,’ says Jim, ‘I don’t suppose…well, I don’t suppose I could tempt you to come with me one night, could I?’
She hesitates.
‘Oh, it doesn’t have to be the pub, it could be anywhere you like,’ he says. ‘The pictures, a restaurant–whatever you want, really.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That would definitely be nice.’
‘Great.’ He looks pleased.
I knew it. I bloody knew it. I was right all along. Charlotte and Jim, together at last. I feel like bursting with pride.
‘Only, I’m really busy over the next couple of weeks,’ continues Charlotte, as my smile suddenly dissolves. ‘What with the wedding and everything–there’s only three or four weeks to go until that. And I’ve got a lot on at work. But some time we’ll do it, yes. Definitely, some time.’
Jim smiles softly but he obviously knows what she’s trying to say.
‘I’m not trying to give you the brush-off,’ she adds.
But that’s exactly what she’s trying to do. And all three of us know it.
Chapter 84
Jack’s apartment, Friday, 18 May
A funny thing happened last night. Jack and I have been going out together an average of about five times a week since Georgia’s wedding and, while the general state of euphoria I’m in at the moment is in many ways priceless, it is not having a positive effect on my bank balance.
‘Let’s just stay in then,’ Jack said. ‘We can get a DVD out and cuddle up on the sofa. If you’re okay with that.’
‘Fantastic,’ I said. And, bizarrely, I meant it.
Before now, it was exactly this sort of thing which counted as one of my ‘triggers’: those little things which might seem perfectly innocuous to a bystander but were enough to make me start plotting my bid for freedom with all the determination of an Alcatraz prisoner.
I had loads of these triggers. From the sight of someone’s socks in my washing basket to the suggestion of dinner w
ith the parents, anything that could reasonably be deemed ‘coupley’ was enough to make me run for the hills. But apparently, as of last night, staying in to watch a DVD is a prospect I consider to be more exciting than a movie première with Brad Pitt on my arm.
Even more weirdly, it actually lived up to expectations. I loved eating the dinner Jack had cooked for me, I loved watching the crap film we’d rented, and I loved cuddling up on the sofa. No, I really loved cuddling up on the sofa.
There was, in fact, only one downer on the whole evening–something I can’t quite get out of my mind, even now. Jack went to the bathroom and while he was out of the room, his mobile started ringing. I was about to answer it for him, when I saw the name flashing up on the screen. Beth. My eyes widened in shock as I sat there, letting it ring, wondering what the hell to do. It rang off as he was walking back into the room.
‘Er, you just m-missed a call,’ I told him, stuttering.
‘Right,’ he said, looking at the phone’s screen. ‘Thanks.’
I scrutinized his expression, but he wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Aren’t you going to phone them back?’ I asked as casually as possible.
‘They’ll leave a message if it’s important,’ he shrugged, equally casually.
I was about to ask if it was anyone I knew–just to test whether he would try to pretend it was someone else–when I stopped myself. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation. In fact, I was sure there would be. So I couldn’t just go launching into a full-scale interrogation. Relationships are about trust, or so every magazine I’ve ever read in every hairdressers I’ve ever been to has told me. So I need to trust him. Definitely.
But what if he’s a complete and utter two-timing cad? And I’m falling for him? Oh God. Oh bugger. Argghhh!
In the event, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask any more questions. Partly to avoid Jack thinking I’m a jealous control freak who doesn’t want him even speaking to other women. But also because I didn’t want to know the answers.
Tonight, I ring the doorbell to Jack’s flat at seven having shaved my legs again (they haven’t been this smooth for such a sustained period since I was three months old) and put on just enough make-up to cover any blemishes but not so much that I look over the top for an evening in front of the telly.
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