by Lily Morton
And for a whole month that was the case. Complete radio silence. Then he turned up again. My mind tries to shy away from the memory of that meeting. It was painful in a way I don’t like to remember, but I can’t help it.
I see him as I walk along the towpath to the boat. At first, he’s just a dark shadow, and I jerk back in caution, but then the light falls on his face, and I stiffen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, proud of my cold, even tone. I’m less proud of the way my eyes must be visibly eating him up, but one out of two isn’t bad.
He’s dressed in jeans and a grey jumper, the outfit looking as expensive as ever, but something seems off about him. He’s thinner, the hollows in his cheeks visible, and his eyes have dark circles under them.
Must be terrible to know the love of your life is happily married to someone else, I think savagely.
I try to feel sympathy, but I can’t manage it because I’m still angry. I’m so mad at him, and it’s intensified because I know I shouldn’t really be. Yes, he didn’t tell me the truth about Ivo, but why should he? We were only shagging, and he was very careful never to give me anything else. He never led me on. It was his natural kindness and charm that snuck under my walls, and it isn’t his fault that I mistook it for something else.
My mental pep talk doesn’t do any good because I’m utterly embarrassed at the way I misinterpreted everything. Embarrassment mixed with the anger creates bad results. All I want to do is punch him.
“I wanted to see you,” he says, coming closer.
I inhale the sweet, warm scent of sandalwood and close my eyes involuntarily. When I open them, he’s staring hungrily at me. If he were anyone else, I’d say he looks desperately glad to see me. However, it’s Max, so my body language antennae are probably on the blink.
“Why?” I ask bluntly.
He winces. “Do I need a reason?” He’s trying for lightness, but I’m not in the mood.
“Yes,” I say coldly. “You do. What do you want, Max?”
I want to shout that it’s been a month and he hasn’t felt the need to see me before. I spent four weeks missing him so desperately it was as if I’d had a limb amputated. Even now, after being on a date with Carl, I can feel the old insane pull towards Max—the desire to step into his arms and let him shut my mind down. But I remind myself that while I’ve been feeling all these awful feelings, he… hasn’t. I haven’t heard a jot from him. Not one text. Not one phone call. And my anger rises further.
“I’m tired,” I say shortly, walking past him. I’m much too aware of the exact moment that he turns and follows me, his arm brushing against my own and sending sparks down into my fingers. I stop and turn to him. “Tell me what you want.”
“And then leave?” he asks softly. His mouth lifts slightly at the corner like the sad smile of a clown.
I fold my arms across my chest. “That about sums it up.”
His hands come up as if he wants to touch me. I glare at him, and he thrusts his hands into his pockets. “I needed to see you,” he says. “I’ve been by a few times, but you were never in.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He winces. “Yes, I–” He clears his throat. “I went to see Charlie tonight, and he told me that you were dating again.”
“Why on earth would you go and see one of my friends?”
“Because Zeb wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“And you couldn’t pick up the phone?” I snap. I’ve been waiting for him to ring all bloody month. “Why would you want to know what I was doing anyway? You never displayed that much of a desire to do that unless…” I pause and feel rage sear through me. “Unless you fancied a shag and wanted to see if I was still available,” I say slowly.
“No,” he says urgently. “I wanted to see you because I need you to—”
“Oh my God,” I say interrupting him, wanting to hurt him so badly. “It was for that! You fucking wanker. Are there no men in London that will do for a quick shag? I mean I knew my arse was golden, Max, but this is fucking ridiculous.”
“No,” he says, grabbing my arms. “I need to tell you that I—”
I wrench away from him. “You need to stop fucking talking right now. Whatever you have to say to me, I’m not bloody interested anymore.”
He flinches. “But, Felix, please. If you would just listen to me, I need to tell you that I—”
“No. I was a twat for you, Max, but I’m not making a habit of it.” My anger settles into coldness. “I don’t think my new boyfriend will be too keen on that anyway,” I say deliberately.
He goes pale, and the hand he runs through his hair is shaking. I wonder if he’s been drinking. “So, it’s true, then?”
“Yes,” I say coldly and with relish. “His name is Carl. He’s lovely. He's a teacher, and he really likes me. He takes care of me. I’m very happy.” Take that, I think viciously.
He flinches back as if I’ve hit him, and suddenly like a curtain falling, all my anger drops away to be replaced by regret and sadness. Whatever happened to us; whatever he did to me, I still don’t want to hurt him. That’s not me, and it never will be.
“Max,” I say softly, but he shakes his head.
“No, it’s fine, Felix,” he says hoarsely. I wish it were light enough under the tree to see his expression because his body language is saying a lot of things that can’t be true. “I’m glad you have someone.” He runs his hand through his hair again. These nervous gestures don’t belong with the Max I knew.
“You should have someone,” he says, suddenly fierce. He grabs my hand, and I gasp as he drops a kiss on my palm, folding my fingers over it and watching the movement as if in a dream. He looks up at me. “You’re amazing, Felix. The best person I know and you deserve everything. I wish you joy.” He drops my hand and backs up a few steps. “You need joy,” he says earnestly.
I want so desperately to grab him, to hold onto him, to see if we could have something again. But then I remember his stumbling, drunken confession of love for Ivo, and my soft impulse hardens. I won’t be someone else’s second thought. I deserve more.
“Thank you,” I say calmly. “I’m sure I will be.” But when he turns to walk away, his hunched shoulders make me blink back tears. “You too.”
He turns back. “Me too, what?”
“You need joy.”
He shrugs. “Not sure if that’s in my cards.”
“Get another deck,” I advise him. For a second we smile at each other, and it’s so fucking right. But then I step back. “Goodbye, Max,” I say.
His face falls. I step onto the boat, and I don’t look back no matter how much I want to.
I tried to put that meeting out of my mind, but from that night onward, Max kept popping up in unexpected ways.
First there was the red string bracelet he sent me with a cryptic message. It had arrived in the post a couple of days after that meeting along with a note that said in his appalling handwriting, “Come freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.” Please accept this last thing from me, Felix. It’s a small token, but it’s supposed to keep the wearer safe, and I want that for you more than anything. Safety and sublime happiness.
Originally, I thought that the first bit was him making a crack about sex, but when I looked it up, I found it was a quote from Dracula, which left me more confused than ever. I don’t know why I still wear the bloody thing, but it seemed important to him, and I like the bracelet. It feels like it brings good luck.
Then there was the way he began to take up all of my boss’s time. Max started to drink heavily, and Zeb’s chief occupation for a while seemed to be picking him up from whatever hotel floor he’d ended up on, and getting rid of the ever-present bloke who Max had bedded that night. It would have been hypocritical of me to be angry at the endless procession of men as I’d moved on, but I can’t deny it hurt like a fucker.
And finally there was the annoying way Max began to make my friends like him. First it was thro
ugh Zeb and his boyfriend Jesse, and then even my cousin Misha and his boyfriend Charlie fell for his charm. It even extended to my aunts who adored him and fluttered over him whenever they saw him as if he was Tom Jones coming to tea. And so I started to find him at everything that happened - weddings, engagements, even just down the pub.
At the start, everyone had asked me whether it was okay with me, and my pride had refused to allow me to say that I didn’t want to see him. Well, pride and a desperate urge to actually see him and still have him near. I would affect disinterest whenever we met which ably covered my hungry eyes that coveted him wherever he was standing.
And slowly over the years, his magic has worked on me again. I maintained the distance for a while, but then we seemed to sink almost naturally into a sort of caustic flirty banter. It’s a very faint shadow of the humour we used to share, but it’s still addictive to be sassy or sarcastic with him and see that smile on his face. It’s as it always was - proud and fascinated - and it still works like a drug on me.
And I know it’s not healthy. I know it’s not wise. But I’m equally buggered as how to stop it. So, I do the best I can. I minimise contact with him. When he talks to me, I move away. I make sharp remarks about the endless procession of men that appear to run through his bed, and cooing comments about my latest man. I’m cold and calm around him, and I know he thinks me disinterested. But I know the truth. Nobody has ever stimulated my brain and body like Max.
My phone rings, and I reach for it eagerly, needing the distraction. But I groan when I see the name on display. Carl. My ex. Obviously, the universe has decided that it’s my turn to travel down the memory lane called “Shitty” today.
“Hello,” I say over-brightly. “How are you?”
There’s a long pause. “I’m fine,” he says coolly. “Just ringing to see if you’ve changed your mind about coming to my work do?”
I wince. “Oh no,” I say stumbling over the words. “I told you I couldn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”
I really don’t want to go, as his best friend Lally will be there, and she’s passive-aggressive on the best day and reserves me for her extra-special victim. The thought of sitting with the two of them while they itemise my transgressions is extremely tiring.
“Hmm,” he says in that carefully critical voice he’s always used around me. “I suppose you’ll be down the pub with Tim as usual, getting pissed and making fools of yourselves.”
“God willing,” I say brightly, rolling my eyes. Carl was never as happy as when he could criticise. I suppose I was a blessing in that respect, as I was never well-behaved and the perfect subject for his reforming tendencies.
“I wish you’d find other friends. Better friends,” he emphasises. “Tim is such a bitch.”
He's got a point, but Tim hates him with a passion. Says he’s a sanctimonious wanker who wanted to change me into a secretary monk. Oddly enough, Tim always loved Max and was more devastated when we split than anyone. Apart from me.
Carl and I exchange a few more pleasantries before he rings off. I wince as I put the phone down. He was truly not my finest moment. We went out for a while, and he fell in love with me, but it was too soon for me after Max, and I couldn’t reciprocate.
Who am I kidding? I couldn’t have returned Carl’s love if it had been twenty years since saying goodbye to Max. My heart is obviously a duckling; it imprinted on Max a long while ago and won’t totally let go. Ironically, I leapt from the Max disaster to a relationship with Carl where I was the one playing the Max role.
It was horrible, but it gave me the clarity I needed to let a lot of my bitterness go. After all, Max had been in love with Ivo for years, and he tried to behave well towards me. Max and I had an agreement, and I was the one who broke it. It wasn’t his fault that I fell in love with him. After being in the same situation, I know how fucking difficult it is to be with someone when your heart is elsewhere.
Despite this, the thought of that time is still painful enough to know I’m making this meeting with Max as brief as possible. Because even though I let most of the bitterness go, there’s still a kernel lodged in my heart that rages against the fact that he didn’t love me back.
“That’s a grumpy face,” Zeb says, coming into my office with a bundle of papers. “Do you not want to do this? Jesse and I could always take a day and drive up there and do it ourselves.”
“Don’t be silly,” I say, holding out my hand for the papers and putting them into a folder that I retrieve from my desk drawer. “You’re both busy, and it’s only a few miles away from where I’ll be. It won’t take long at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I am. Max means nothing to me. It’s fine.”
He nods, but his expression remains doubtful.
Chapter Ten
Felix
I look over the breakfast table at my companion on this supposedly dirty getaway.
“How are you feeling?” I ask loudly.
“Ouch! For fuck’s sake, Felix,” he hisses. “Can’t you keep your voice down?”
I give that idea some serious consideration. “No,” I say even louder and without a jot of sympathy.
Andrew raises his head from where it’s cradled in his hands. His eyes are bloodshot and his salt-and-pepper hair is dishevelled. He looks like a daddy, but not the sexy kind. More the kind that hasn’t had any sleep for three days and is slumped in the baby aisle of Tesco’s at three in the morning.
“Well, this is a lovely weekend,” I say brightly, stirring my tea and making sure my spoon hits every inch of the cup. He winces and my smile grows brighter. “You fell asleep on our first night here at seven o’clock. That was followed by what can only be termed a drinking binge the following evening which entailed you spending the night passed out under the chaise lounge in our room. Hardly the stuff of a young man’s sexual fantasies.”
“I said I was sorry,” he says testily. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re rather high maintenance, Felix, and I’m not entirely sure you’re worth the effort.”
I blink. “Maybe I am high maintenance,” I say in a tone of revelation. “Perchance that’s why my relationships have all withered and died. They were burnt out by my constant demands for sensate partners. Oh my God, you’ve really put your finger on it now. Which, incidentally, is what you should have been doing last night and the night before.”
“Give it a rest,” he advises me. “I’m feeling really ill. The least you can be is sympathetic, Felix. Why the hell aren’t you suffering too?”
“Because I stopped drinking after the fifth hour, as I had a sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t remember where the hotel was.”
I look at him and sigh. He picked me up in a club a few weeks ago by telling me he was an architect. To be fair, he could have told me he was a sewer cleaner and I’d still have shagged him, because he was so sexy with his lean body and grey-brown hair. However, this weekend would have been a disaster even if he hadn’t passed out. He’s patronising and has a habit of ruffling my hair like I’m one of the fucking Von Trapp children. If he starts eyeing up the curtains or using a whistle, I’m out of here. We also have zero in common, and it’s very apparent once we’re out of bed.
“Thank you for that,” he says grudgingly. Then he sighs. “Babe, I think you’re going to have to drive back.”
I choke on my mouthful of tea. “What?”
“I bet I’m still over the limit. Not to mention that I feel like utter shit.”
“You want me to drive on the motorway on a Sunday afternoon when the whole of England will be driving home?”
“You’ve passed your test, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “Although I’m really not sure how I did it, and I don’t want to test my abilities in the fire of the M40.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says dismissively. “You’ll be fine.”
He looks much happier now, I think sourly.
An hour later however, he’s l
ooking a lot less sanguine. “Oh Jesus,” he shouts from the passenger seat, pressing his foot down on fresh air. “Watch that old lady.”
“Pensioners really are like lemmings,” I marvel as I steer around the two old people who don’t seem to realise that there’s traffic on the roads these days rather than horses and carts. “Maybe the motorway won’t be so busy after they’ve all been flattened while shopping for antiques and eating cake.”
“Oh my God, brake,” he shouts.
I come to a juddering stop at the lights. “I did see them turn red,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do today than watch the road.”
“The light is on green,” he informs me.
I shoot him a killing glare and set off, but only after stalling the car and incurring the wrath of the motorist behind me who puts his hand on his horn and keeps it there for an obnoxiously long time.
“Go fuck yourself,” I shout out the window at him.
Andrew pulls me back in. “Not in the Cotswolds, Felix,” he says, sounding a lot like I imagine Barbra Streisand would if she’d been asked to sing a Cheeky Girls song. “You really are a shit driver. Did you learn to drive in an actual car?”
“No, Andrew,” I say in a sing-song voice. “It was a plane. Where the fuck did this road come from?”
I turn onto Chipping Campden high street and all sniping stops.
“This really is the prettiest village I’ve ever seen,” he says and I have to agree.
Golden-bricked houses and half-timbered buildings flank a narrow high street, their mullioned windows catching light in the sun. Every few steps there are pretty shops and delis or old pubs.
However, my attention is fully occupied by attempting not to hit people as the car crawls along. It’s like Need for Speed without the points system.
