The List (29 page)

‘Oh for God's sake, what are
you
doing here? Following me now?' I snapped at him.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Hardly. I'm here with Rob. Remember Rob?' he asked, pointing at a drunken man in tight jeans propping up the bar. Bloody Rob, I had always disliked him. He was a music writer, a total snob who pretty much hated every band except Radiohead and would bore us all rigid, practically wanking over Thom Yorke. He only put up with me because I liked the Flaming Lips and he could ‘tolerate' them, like I should be grateful for his acceptance.

‘Sure, I remember Rob,' I replied with very little enthusiasm. ‘What do you want, Alex? I've already told you I'm not interested. I don't want your flowers or your emails, so what the hell do you want?'

He sat down in Barry's seat, or at least it would have been Barry's seat had he shown up. Damn him.

‘Just to talk, Phoebe. Just give me five minutes and then I'll go if you want me to.'

‘No.'

‘Please. Look, it'll pass the time until your friend gets here.'

Stupidly, I hesitated. Five minutes turned into three hours. We chatted, we argued, more drinks were bought, and Rob disappeared, no doubt up his own bottom.

‘Where is she, then? Your fiancée?' I asked, slurring my words, ‘Tits weighing her broomstick down?' He looked down at the table.

‘She's in Manchester on a hen night. Actually things aren't going—'

‘Oh, I bloody knew it!' I shouted triumphantly. ‘That's what all the emails have been about! What, she's not enough for you now?' I waited while he finished his pint.

‘It's not that … I mean, ever since I saw you in the shop that day. You're so different now. Look, Phoebs, I miss you. I was an idiot. I know I can't undo what I did, but if I could I would, and, well—'

I cut him off in mid-sentence. ‘Stop waffling, Alex. What's done is done. We've both moved on.'

‘Have you moved on, Phoebe?' he asked, looking me straight in the eye, ‘because I don't know if I have. Not really.'

He touched my hand and I didn't pull away. I wanted to cry. Partly because I was so very drunk and fucking starving, but there was another part of me that had
secretly hoped one day he'd miss me, just like he was claiming to now.

Of course, being me, this should end with me putting on some sunglasses, picking up a suitcase and declaring, ‘Sorry, Alex, I have to go. My country needs me,' before swanning off. Oh no, I did what any confused, pissed girl would do. We went to a hotel and I slept with him – hairy legs and all.

Sunday September 4th

I woke up next to Alex this morning. He was still peacefully asleep, facing away from me with one leg hanging out of the bed. I stared at the back of his head for ages. His brown hair was now much shorter, his shoulders still wide and freckled with a single annoying hair sticking out below a new tattoo. Some sort of Chinese writing. I went through possibilities of what it might say: ‘Warrior', ‘Peace', ‘Eater of souls' … ‘Susan?' I felt my stomach start to churn at the realization that I was now just like her.
I
was the other woman. My level of disgust for both of us overwhelmed me and I sat up.

‘Eurgh,' Alex groaned. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Get up,' I said sharply. ‘It's time to go.'

He reached down and picked up his watch from the floor. ‘We don't check out till eleven. It's only half eight. We have ages yet.'

‘Do what you like. I'm leaving now.'

I stood up and walked to the bathroom, stepping over last night's tangled clothing. Hazy flashbacks of him undressing me, kissing me, touching me, came creeping
into my head as I closed the door behind me and turned on the shower. There was a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Fancy some company?'

‘No.'

He strode in anyway and finally I understood Hazel's annoyance at not being able to shower in peace. He put his arms around my waist and whispered:

‘Last night was phenomenal.'

‘Was it? I was too drunk to recall.'

‘Well it was and I'm so glad you've finally forgiven me.'

I pushed his arms away. ‘I'm not sure I have. Last night was a result of too much alcohol. Now, can you let me shower, please?'

He pulled me in again, the shower running beside us. ‘Nah, last night is something we'll both remember for years to come.'

Again, I pulled away. ‘I don't want to remember this for years to come. I don't want any new memories of you! Do you know how hard it's been to deal with the old ones?'

He lowered the toilet seat and sat down. ‘Phoebe, we're good together. This past year has made me realize that I made a huge mistake – not just my affair – the fact that I didn't even try to work things out with you. I just never imagined just how much I'd miss you.'

And then he started to cry. He fucking cried, and I just stood in silence as the bathroom began to fill with steam, not knowing what to do. So I cried too.

I got home at twenty past twelve, feeling completely drained. I'd left Alex in the hotel, telling him I had to think things
over, and caught a taxi home. My phone had died during the night so I plugged it into charge and almost immediately it began to ring. It was Barry.

‘I'm so sorry, Phoebe. My sister went into labour and I had to take her to hospital because she's on her own. I forgot my phone and I feel terrible. I hope you didn't hang around for too long.'

‘No,' I lied. ‘I thought something must have come up, don't worry about it.'

‘You sure? I feel awful about this.'

I took a deep breath and said, ‘Of course. New baby, eh? How exciting!'

‘She did well. Listen, I'm just going back over with some clothes, but I'll call you later if that's OK? We can rearrange then.'

I used the last of my fake cheery voice to say, ‘No problem. Speak soon!' and then threw myself on to my bed. So while Barry was off helping to bring new life into the world I was trying to raise an old life from the dead, one I thought I'd left behind. I have no idea what I'm going to do.

Monday September 5th

I decided to have everyone over for a roast this evening. I made up an excuse about having some lamb I had to use up, but really I just didn't want to be on my own. Lucy was the first to arrive, with homemade dessert. She plonked it down on the kitchen worktop before searching my cupboard for a wine glass.

‘Voila! Lemon and beetroot pie. I got the recipe online. I
made it on Saturday – had a couple of unsuccessful attempts but I think this one worked.' It looked like someone had stepped on a lung then dusted it in icing sugar.

‘Wow,' I said. ‘Just wow.'

‘I know, right?'

Oliver and Hazel turned up just as I was basting the asparagus in butter. I impress myself sometimes. Oliver threw his jacket on my bed and plonked a second bottle of red wine on the table.

‘Phoebe, that smells amazing. I don't think I've ever had a roast on a Monday night.'

‘Me neither.' I laughed. ‘Sit down, everyone, and I'll bring it over.'

We began to eat, and any hopes I had of forgetting Alex for the evening were dashed when Hazel asked, ‘How did the date go? Barry, wasn't it? Was it fun?'

‘He couldn't make it. His sister gave birth and he had to help,' I spluttered. ‘I sat waiting on him for an hour like an idiot though, until … Never mind, I'm seeing him again on Wednesday, though.'

‘Until what?' grinned Oliver, pouring more wine. ‘What are you not telling us, girl?'

My face went red and I stood up. ‘Until Alex showed up and we shagged in a hotel.'

The room was silent. ‘HA!' laughed Lucy. ‘Nice one. What really happened then?'

The look on my face must have said it all.

‘Oh fucking hell, Phoebe!' cried Lucy. ‘What were you thinking? Where was his girlfriend?'

‘I wasn't thinking. I was drinking and I thought I'd been
stood up and he said he missed me and … I really don't want to talk about it.'

I ran into the kitchen, followed by Oliver. ‘You really make things hard for yourself, Phoebe, don't you?' he said, placing his glass on the worktop. ‘That guy turned you into a wreck, and what? You suddenly forget all that when he clicks his fingers? The man says “dance” and you start tappin'?'

‘It wasn't like that!' I insisted, thinking that it pretty much was exactly like that. ‘It was just a mistake. And anyway, why the hell do you care? You're not my boyfriend.'

He looked hurt. ‘No, I'm not, Phoebe, heaven fucking forbid. I don't get you. You're sleeping with me, trying to start something up with this Barry fella and now you're shagging Alex again? It's self-destructive and completely fucked up, even you must see that.'

I opened my mouth but couldn't think of a reply. He was right. He left the kitchen, briefly turning back to look at me.

‘We've been friends for a long time, Phoebe. Don't you
dare
ask me why I care. Just be really careful I don't stop.'

And with that I was left feeling about two centimetres tall and Oliver went home.

Lucy and Hazel didn't know where to look; they were both silent until Hazel finally asked, ‘So … was it good then?'

I sighed. ‘You have no idea how much I wish it had been crap. I mean it wasn't great but it didn't matter – it was Alex.'

I walked back into the living room and Lucy gave me a cuddle. ‘I hope you know what you're doing,' she said
quietly. So despite my culinary efforts, this evening was a massive flop. Lucy and Hazel went home at ten and I'm now sitting up in bed, trying to work through the million thoughts all whizzing around my head at the same time. I need to focus. At the start of the year I felt like I knew what I wanted and where I was going; now everything is fucked up and I've lost direction again. I have another date with Barry on Wednesday. God, at the moment I feel like cancelling and staying in bed forever. I hope tomorrow is a better day.

Tuesday September 6th

Lucy bought me a latte this morning and we had a quick chat before the morning meeting.

‘They didn't have any vanilla syrup so you've got caramel. How are you feeling?'

I shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. I'm supposed to have that date with Barry tomorrow. I think I'm going to cancel. I don't think that's what I need right now.'

Lucy laughed. ‘Oh, I think it's exactly what you need. He's a clean slate! You haven't slept with him, you have no history and, most importantly, he's never hurt you. I say you put this whole Alex business down to a momentary lapse in sanity; go out with Barry and see if he's one of the good guys. Christ, he's practically a saint already.'

‘Saint Barry?'

‘Well, maybe not, but I think it would be a shame not to see where this goes. Don't you?'

I pondered this all afternoon, but as usual she's right.
I'm going to approach this sensibly with an open mind. Anyway, it's only our second date. I should at least get to know him properly before I write him off.

Wednesday September 7th

My second date with Barry started positively as he actually turned up. We met at the Italian Kitchen on Ingram Street, a cosy little restaurant I've been to a million times before. We sat in the upper dining area, near the window, just far enough away from a sixtieth birthday party that already was in full swing.

I nursed a glass of wine, determined not to get tipsy before I'd even ordered, and glanced over the menu, already sure what I wanted: lobster ravioli followed by king-prawn linguine.

‘I never normally like Italian restaurants,' said Barry, signalling to the waiter that we were ready to order. ‘I always feel like I can throw a carbonara sauce over some tortellini at home, so why pay a tenner for it? But this place is divine. Their king-prawn linguine is outstanding.'

‘That's what I'm having!' I exclaimed excitedly. I was just grateful I was with someone who actually enjoyed eating. ‘I love seafood!'

‘Me too,' he laughed as the waiter reached our table. ‘Go ahead, you order first.'

We had a lovely dinner, and talked about everything, including his boring job and my dreadfully dull one.

‘So you call up companies and get them to place adverts?'

‘Yep. That's pretty much it.'

‘What if they say no?'

‘They usually do. I just move on to someone else. God, my job is dull. What about you? What exactly does a chartered engineer do?'

At this moment half the restaurant began to sing ‘Happy Birthday' to sixty-year-old Mary, who looked pissed as a fart.

‘Basically, I make tubing.'

‘What? Sorry, it's loud in here. You make tubas?'

‘Ha, no,
tubing
. Tubing to go round wires for planes, cars … that sort of thing. I'm not making it sound very interesting, am I?'

‘Is it interesting?'

‘No.'

‘So we both have dull jobs.' I smirked. ‘We should have some tiramisu to celebrate our terrible career choices.'

After the meal Barry helped me on with my coat and we had another glass of wine at a pub nearby, after which he walked me to my train and kissed me goodnight. Again, no invites back to his … nothing. But this is fine. THIS IS HEALTHY. This is part of the courting ritual – unlike Alex who I shagged on our second date – this is the proper way to do things. We've arranged to meet again on Friday. I texted Oliver earlier but he hasn't replied. He's always the one I think of speaking to first when I've had a nice evening, but it seems I've really pissed him off. More than usual, I mean.

Thursday September 8th

Lucy followed me into the toilets at work this morning, dying to know how things went on my date with Barry. I
barely had time to wash my hands before she bombarded me with questions.