One Step Too Far (23 page)

“Would you like some breakfast?” he asks. “I’ve been out and got eggs, bacon, sausage, muffins, the works.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.

“Why not?” he says. “I was bored at that party anyway, it's not really my scene, and then I didn’t want to put you in some dodgy cab on your own, you obviously weren’t well, and when you passed out on my couch I could hardly throw you out, could I?” He smiled. “And then I thought you might feel better if you went to bed for a while, and now I’m hungry so I’m going to make breakfast. What’s so nice about that?”

What’s so nice about
that
? I can’t think what to say, so stick to safe territory.

“Would you mind if I have a shower first?”

“Of course. D’you want to borrow some clothes?” Robbie crosses the room and opens a door into a separate dressing room, and all his clothes are arranged neatly, colour coded. He pulls out some jeans and a couple of shirts for me to choose from, and gives me the biggest softest bath towel ever.

The shower is vast and fierce and as I stand under the deluge the last vestiges of my headache travel down my spine, through my limbs and pour down the plughole. As I wrap the towel around me I feel a pang of fear that this is all too good to be true, something’s not right, I don’t deserve this. I still haven’t called Angel to let her know I’m safe, but when I check my bag my phone’s dead and I don’t know her number, and my disquiet deepens.

I dress in Robbie’s jeans and a pale pink polo shirt, pull my fingers through my wet streaky hair, and join him in the kitchen, where the smells of frying tomato and smoked bacon mingle and make me realise I’m ravenous again. I sit timidly on one of the mushroom stools and I’m too high up, don’t know what to do with my feet, and I fidget like a toddler.

Robbie smiles and gets plates from the cupboard. He goes to the fridge and takes out two pale blue eggs and cracks them into the bacon fat and the hissing fills the silence. He cooks confidently and when he serves up my breakfast it’s beautifully executed, like in a restaurant. We sit side by side at the counter and eat politely, silently. The attraction I feel to him is tight, like a rubber band. Outside it’s muggy and what with the fug from the cooking I start to feel heady again.

“Would you like to go in the lounge?” asks Robbie when we’ve finished. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

“OK,” I say, squirming down from the stool and padding back to the living room. As I sink into the sofa there’s a loud crack of thunder but I must have missed the lightning, and then rain is galloping down the windows, thrashing on the roof, and the air temperature drops. Robbie comes in with two mugs of milky frothy coffee, sets them down on the table, then goes over to his iPod and puts on Eva Cassidy. He sits next to me on the enveloping couch and finally we look into each other’s eyes and I feel lust and despair and, yes,
love
, tender pure love for this man I’ve just met. There’s something strange about all this, but I cannot work out what it is, and despite my worrying about Angel worrying about me, about where I’ve got to (now there’s a laugh, there’s only half a dozen people in Manchester who’ve been doing that for months) I decide to go with it and the moment feels special, rarified, still. I never want it to end, I want time to stop right here, before it all goes bad again. I stare deep into Robbie’s eyes and it’s like looking at Ben, but the Ben who was innocent still, the
before
Ben. Eva’s tones and the beating rain make my heart stop and I can’t breathe properly, and after at least a song and a half of this Robbie finally moves towards me, slowly, gently, and when he kisses me his taste is warmly of coffee and bacon and his mouth is tender, unhurried, genuine.

I look at my watch and it’s nearly lunchtime. I try to move but I want to stay. “I really should get out of your way soon,” I say and as I speak my lips move against his. “I’m sure you must have plans."

“You know what, I’ve had a bit of a full-on week,” says Robbie. “And it’s a revolting day – so what I’d really like better than anything right now is to sit here and listen to music and maybe watch a movie later and just shut the world out.” He pauses. “And if you could stay and do it with me that would be even nicer.”

I hesitate. I try not to think of the real Ben and Charlie and where they are, what they’re doing. I worry about Angel worrying about me. And then I make my decision. I pull away and take his hand and kiss it all the way along where the palm meets the fingers and I look at him, not shy any more, and say, “You know what? That sounds just perfect.”

49

After the success of the Highlands, the new year came and the winter months dragged listlessly by. Then before Ben knew it, it was nearly May and he was forced to confront the biggest milestone of all, the anniversary of the day his life had changed forever. For this he found he wanted to be completely alone – he couldn’t face having even Charlie with him, not without Emily there, so he left him with his parents and drove into the Peak District. He parked the car and walked – in as straight a line as he could, although he didn’t know why – for hours and hours, veering off paths, beating through brambles, crossing fenced-in fields, hauling himself over rough rocky terrain. He’d originally thought about climbing Kinder Scout, where he’d proposed to Emily (and she’d laughed at him for getting down on one knee, before getting down herself and saying yes please) but he couldn’t face being up there without her, and besides he didn’t want to risk seeing anyone. His walking was relentless, meditative, and he almost forgot the time, forgot where he was – he even forgot Emily for blissful brief seconds, what they’d had and what they’d lost. He knew Charlie had sensed the date too, although Ben couldn't tell him of course, he wouldn’t understand, but he seemed upset when Ben dropped him off, not howling exactly but crying pitifully, which in a way was worse. Ben carried a small tent on his back and when it was late and almost dark he stopped and pitched it beside a gently-flowing river where there were no sounds besides the burbling water and the occasional shriek of an unknown bird. He lay awake half the night and
almost
enjoyed the feeling of being all alone in the world out there, of having the time and space to grieve and breathe, and when he awoke he felt oddly refreshed, relieved that he’d got through the day and arrived on the other side, as sane and intact as he could be.

50

Robbie doesn’t ask me any questions about myself and I don’t like to ask him anything either, although I’m curious at how he seems so young and can afford such a swanky place, how he’s such a good cook, such a gentleman. We find we like the same music and we lie together on the couch and listen to the Doves and Panics and Libertines, to Oasis and even Johnny Cash, but when he puts on Radiohead I cringe and tell him I don’t like them. Robbie says nothing, he seems to understand, and he puts on a playlist instead and after a while that song from The Wannadies comes on, and as the chorus kicks in he looks straight into my eyes and doesn’t flinch and I feel like my heart is going to break. The rain hasn’t stopped and the temperature has dropped further, but we don’t care as we gaze at each other and cuddle and snog the afternoon away like a pair of teenagers. Robbie seems happy for us to stay on the couch, to stay dressed, and the desire in us builds and crunches through our clothes, but neither of us has the inclination to take it any further right now, and so we don’t.

51

Ben asked his parents if they’d mind having Charlie the next night too, the Saturday night, as it had taken him ages to find his way back to his car, and by the time he’d arrived home with scratched-up legs and feet covered in blisters he’d been too exhausted and wrung out to cope with looking after anyone, even Charlie. He closed the curtains and ordered a curry and settled down to Saturday night telly – something he used to claim he hated, but which Emily had always loved and insisted they watch, and secretly he’d quite enjoyed it too, not that he would ever admit it of course.

It wasn’t the same watching on his own, without laughing at the tears pouring down Emily’s cheeks and her telling him to shut up, she couldn’t hear what the judges were saying. He found himself wondering where she was right now, what she was doing – and without Charlie there to restrain him, make him put on a show, he felt the same thumping grief as on the day he’d looked under the bed and realised their leather holdall was gone, that she was gone.

The doorbell rang. Shit, it must be his curry, he needed to get a grip. He swiped at his eyes and grabbed his wallet.

As he opened the door he stopped, staring at his visitor like he couldn’t believe it, his mouth hanging open, foolish almost. What was going on? Where was his curry?
Had she come back?
His heart leapt as if he’d been shot, and then it crashed, like he was on the floor dying.

“Oh,” he said.

“Can I come in?” said Caroline. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but I tried you last night too, and I just needed to see you, to say sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” said Ben, and he knew he was being rude.

“Please let me in, Ben. You’re not the only one who’s suffering, maybe we can help each other.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, but he stood aside and she walked in anyway. He followed her into the living room and as she took off her coat the doorbell went again, and this time it was his curry, but his hands still shook as he paid the delivery boy. In the kitchen he divided the food onto two plates and there was plenty for them both, he’d ordered much too much as usual. He grabbed himself a beer, and then hesitated – maybe he shouldn’t drink it in front of Caroline, wasn’t that a bit taunting, but then he thought, fuck it, and he poured her an orange juice, that’s all he had in the way of soft drinks.

Just as he’d loaded up the trays Caroline teetered in on her heels and asked for a wine glass, and out of her handbag she produced a bottle of white wine wrapped in red paper, misting it was so cold. She must have bought it just now, the insensitive cow, from the off-licence at the end of their street, but as he was tired and uneasy he said nothing, he really couldn’t face a fight. They ate in silence in front of the TV, while a man ate golf balls and an old woman danced with her poodle, and Caroline’s skirt kept riding up as she balanced her tray on her naked thighs. By the next ad break she’d finished her wine although the glass she'd poured herself had been massive, and she asked him to get her another.

Something in Ben broke a little then and he got up and stormed into the kitchen, into the fridge, and he ripped open another beer and tipped up the can, poured the liquid down his throat, as fast as he could, why the fuck not? The fact she’d gone to
that
off-licence had made him so explosively angry he needed to obliterate the feeling, smash it to pieces, and as he gulped down the alcohol he realised he wasn’t even angry with her anymore, he was angry with the whole horrible world.

52

Much much later it has grown dark, but we still haven’t moved from the couch. We’ve half-watched two movies, we’ve kissed and groped through countless albums, and I’ve fallen more than a little bit in love with him, have fantasised just a teeny bit about a new life together, maybe one day us even getting married, becoming Mrs – who?

“What’s your surname, Robbie?” I say through my bruised pumped up lips.

Robbie looks uncomfortable for the first time. “Uh, it’s um, Brown,” he says.

I stare at him. “That’s my surname,” I say. “Wow, it’s fate,” and I laugh.

“I’m hungry,” he says quickly. “Do you fancy getting a takeaway?”

“There must be loads of places round here, what about going out for something?” I say.

“I’d rather stay in with you,” he says. “It’s raining outside, I’ve got some champagne, we can just chill – plus you won’t need to worry about what shoes to wear with that outfit.” He looks at me in his too-big jeans and shirt, and he has a point.

“OK,” I say, and I don’t mind, in fact I prefer it.

“Is curry all right?”

“Perfect,” I reply. “You choose, I like everything.” He rummages in a drawer for a leaflet, and when he orders he rattles it off as fast as he can and his voice sounds a bit weird, high-pitched for some reason.

He disappears for a moment, and comes back with a bottle of champagne and two tall glasses. The sight makes me think longingly of Angel’s pink silk purse, and I realise with a lurch that I never gave it back to her. I picture the pair of us last night in the toilets at the Dorchester, of how quickly I broke my promise to my boy, and then I think about how I turned my back on him anyway when he needed me most, so what difference does one little line make every now and again?

Although the need in me is expanding now, into every last crack in my messed-up mind, I worry about Robbie and what he’d say. Somehow he doesn’t seem the druggy type, and I’d hate him to think less of me, so I push the thought of the little purse away again, as far away as it will go.
If it wasn’t in my bag I’d be fine now. Just pretend it’s not there.
Robbie fills our flutes and toasts us, toasts the last 24 hours, kisses me again, and the thought of the drug drifts hazily away.

When the doorbell goes Robbie jumps up and says, “I’ll be back in a minute, would you mind getting that,” and he shoves a £50 note into my hand as heads to the bathroom. I buzz up the man smiling into the video screen, and he delivers aromatic food in smart cardboard boxes that I dish up onto white square plates in the gleaming kitchen. Robbie reappears and we take the food into the living room and sit back and stuff ourselves, it's like we’re starving, and as we eat we watch Britain's Got Talent, and it feels so nice, a proper Saturday night in, like I used to have with my husband. I find we laugh at the same jokes, make the same kinds of comments, and whenever I look at him, my stomach tingles and my pulse goes crazy, until I have to look away. Robbie opens another bottle and we lie down and the drink has had its effect now, and so eventually Robbie pulls me up and leads me to the bedroom and this time we don’t just lie and cuddle, we’re ready, it’s like we’ve known each other forever, and it’s fucking wonderful. It’s like Robbie is some amazing gift from God and being here in this moment, it all just feels right right right. The only thing missing is that extra buzz and when I finally give in and suggest the cocaine we’re both a bit drunk, on champagne and love. Robbie looks at me for a long while and then he says, “For you I’d do anything,” and I don’t know why but it doesn’t feel sordid with him, in his fancy apartment in Marylebone, it feels exciting and glamorous and mind-blowing. Hours later we finally fall asleep and when I wake up the dawn is peering through the half-opened shutters, and I am lying guilt-ridden and Robbie is lying dead.