The Night That Changed Everything (17 page)

‘It wasn't either of those things.'

‘I know – there's a few more, like the Circumstantial Break-up and the First Love Break-up. Then, right at the end of the scale, there's the Blindside Break-up. The one you never saw coming.'

‘That's depressing,' I tell her. ‘It's not a real thing, though, is it?'

‘Yes, I read it in a real magazine.'

‘But hang on, I ended it so I did kind of see it coming. And what if he was also my first love? And it was also—'

‘I don't know, I didn't write the bloody thing.'

‘And will Ben take even longer to get over it because he Got Dumped?'

‘It's different for men – they're too self-involved.'

‘That's the thing, though,' I protest. ‘Ben isn't self-involved. He really isn't. He stayed in Malaysia for months as a volunteer building orphanages for children, for crying out loud.'

Jemma smiles sympathetically and nods. ‘Maybe he's a paedophile.'

I spit the wine I've just sipped all over the table, so Jemma chucks me my napkin.

‘Thoughtless, then?' she suggests.

I shake my head. ‘Ben's the most thoughtful man I've ever met.' That's one of the things I'm struggling with, because you don't see this sort of shit coming from guys who take you on surprise picnics to Beachy Head for your anniversary because you have a painting of it on your wall, or to Rome for your birthday because you've said you always wanted to see the Colosseum.

‘What the hell are you doing to that napkin?' asks Jemma.

‘Turning it into a chicken. Learnt it in Japan.'

‘Right.' She looks at it sceptically. ‘Anyway, don't be scared to fall apart a bit. I have this friend, Holly, who totally fell apart after this thing she had with her boss blew up big time.' She stabs a chunk of real chicken with her fork and scoops it into her mouth. ‘But she got over it. In fact, I'm off to her wedding next month.'

‘Good for Holly.' I smile. ‘But the last thing on my mind is meeting someone else.'

‘Can't hurt to have a dabble, though – take your mind off Ben.'

‘I don't even know where I'd meet someone,' I admit.

Maybe I'm not the sort of girl guys gravitate towards. Maybe they go for someone like Danielle, with her fluttering eyelashes and her pouty lips. I always thought it was only a certain type of guy who was drawn to that. Turns out it's every guy.

‘I think I just need some time, Jem,' I add. ‘I'm still trying to come to terms with me and Ben breaking up.'

‘Fair enough. And don't worry, I'm sure he'll get his comeuppance. They always do.'

‘I'm not interested in revenge,' I say. ‘I didn't break up with him to make him sorry. I just can't be with him any more. Knowing what he did and how he's lied about it, it's just . . .' I push food around with my fork, wondering why I'm attempting to articulate something I haven't got straight in my own head yet. ‘It's just changed something between us, and I don't know if I can ever change it back.'

‘You're a bigger person than me,' she says. ‘I'm all about the revenge. Once, a guy I was sleeping with got a call while we were having sex, and he stopped to answer it. Then he admitted he had a girlfriend and that was her, wondering where he was.'

‘No way. What did you do?'

‘Well, the idiot left in such a rush that he left his phone at mine, so I—'

‘Smashed it?'

‘No, I—'

‘Called his girlfriend and told her what he'd done?'

‘No, but these are great ideas – I wish I'd thought of them. I turned the language on his phone to Finnish before I couriered it to his office.'

‘That'll teach him.' I laugh again, and it feels good. Maybe it's the wine.

Jemma takes my napkin from me, her forehead creased. ‘Is this a vagina?'

‘No, I told you – it's a chicken.'

‘It looks like a vagina. Look, there's the—'

‘Why would I make my napkin into a vagina?'

‘Why would you make your napkin into a chicken?'

I go to grab it back but she holds it out of my reach.

‘Teach me to do it.'

‘Next time. You ready to head back?'

‘If we have to,' moans Jemma. She's about to say something else but then suddenly grins and sits up straight, her eyes focused over my shoulder.

‘Totally hot dude checking you out at two o'clock,' she stage whispers.

‘Eh?' I ask, looking at my watch again. ‘I don't—'

Jemma stares at me like I'm an idiot until I catch on.

‘He's a hunk,' she says urgently. ‘Take a look!'

‘No, I don't—'

‘Look,' she insists.

I follow the direction of her eyes and inadvertently make eye contact with the suited, bearded man on the table behind me.

‘Stop staring,' Jemma hisses.

‘But you said—'

‘I know what I said but you could have been more subtle. What do you think?'

‘About what?' I say, matching her hushed tones.

‘About the hairy dude.'

I shrug. ‘He's all right.'

‘Talk to him.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' I tell her, standing up to put my coat on. ‘Come on, let's get back.'

As bad luck would have it, beardy man and his companion – a thin, bald man also in a suit – are standing up to leave too. I'm careful not to look his way but he reaches the door at the same time as me.

‘After you,' he says and smiles, holding it open.

‘No, that's OK, you go,' I reply.

‘No, go on.' He waves me through.

‘No, honestly – you go,' I insist with a similar gesture.

He hesitates, then goes through, rubbing his hands together outside.

‘Looks like it might rain,' he says, while we wait for Jemma, who has stopped just before the door. She is rummaging in her bag to check she has everything, and beardy man's friend is hovering patiently behind her.

‘Yep, it's pretty dismal,' I reply, pushing the door that's swung shut back open. ‘Come on, Jemma!'

Beardy man and his friend head in one direction and us in the other. Jemma waits until we're a few metres away before she asks me: ‘What the hell was that? He was totally flirting with you and you totally blew him out.'

‘I did not. He was making small talk while I was waiting for you.'

‘That wasn't small talk. That was the flirtation equivalent of him wondering if you come here often and trying to get your phone number.'

‘Rubbish. Anyway, I was perfectly polite to him.'

‘Polite? That was the flirtation equivalent of telling him to go forth and multiply.' I stare at her blankly. ‘You basically just told him to fuck off,' she explains.

Really? Bloody hell, how do people know this? I'm glad I'm not . . . Oh. Yes, I am.

Single.

Beardy guy was right – it's pouring by the time I head off to the cinema so I leave my bike and take the Underground; a decision I live to regret twenty minutes later when we sit at the platform for ten minutes while the doors open and shut repeatedly and the driver tells us wearingly over the loudspeaker that we're not going anywhere until whoever is blocking the doorway moves.

When I arrive on site, Adam Larsson is already there chatting to Ravi and Bobby, the building contractors.

I hurry towards them, shaking my damp hair out of its high ponytail so I can fit my hard hat on. Adam says something I can't hear and the three of them laugh.

‘Hi there,' he says louder, glancing at his watch.

‘I know, I'm late. Sorry – Tube problems.' I hope this doesn't get back to Jake – I already blamed Tube problems after I slept in last week.

‘No worries, girl,' says Bobby. ‘Better late than never. White, two sugars for me, please.'

Adam and Ravi both laugh.

‘I'm truly sorry to have missed out on all this bantz,' I tell them with thinly veiled sarcasm, making Bobby and Ravi frown, and Adam smile.

‘Let's make a start, shall we?' I mutter, stomping off.

‘Careful,' Adam calls, laughter still in his voice. ‘The floors are wet.'

I ignore him. I'm wearing boots with a good grip – I'm not an idiot.

‘I was just joshing,' Bobby says, catching up with me. ‘I didn't mean anything by it.'

‘Oh, I know.' I make myself smile at him warmly. I've worked with Bobby before – he's a good guy. ‘Public transport just tends to make me want to kill someone, and you're the first people I've seen. Let's talk shop. How's it all going?'

Bobby talks us through everything. It's all on schedule, despite the place looking like a bombsite.

That's what happens, though. It gets worse before it gets better. You have to pull things down and rip things out before you can start fixing them. You can't just pave over the cracks.

‘It'll be gorgeous when it's done,' Ravi concludes, snapping his folder closed. ‘Such beautiful designs.' He's sucking up to me in case he offended me earlier.

‘Beautiful,' Adam agrees. ‘If slightly impractical.'

Bobby and Ravi glance at each other, some silent agreement taking place between them to start a conversation about cement trowels and wander off.

‘Wouldn't it be better to pull down the old staircase? It feels like it takes up a lot of room,' he continues, seemingly oblivious to my narrowed eyes. ‘You can add a stairwell here.' He runs his finger along the back section of my floor plan. ‘That way you can make efficient use of all the open space.'

I study the plan. Frustratingly, he has a point. But when I first walked into the building, imagining what the central staircase looked like in its heyday took my breath away.

‘I'll take your opinions on board,' I say noncommittally, stomping off again.

‘Hey, stop – that's really weak.'

‘How dare you,' I begin in disbelief, but by the time I realize he's not talking about my designs but the boards I have just stomped into, I'm already hurtling through the floor.

I never really understood the concept of daydreaming until four weeks ago. To me you were either present or not present, but these past few weeks I've discovered that place in between, when your body is there but your mind isn't.

Right now my body is in Arch 13 on a wet Friday night, but my mind is—

‘Ow,' I bawl, clutching my arm. ‘Pack it in, will you?'

Jamie strolls back to the bar as if nothing just happened.

‘It's his latest rule,' I explain to Tom and Russ, who look concerned, and to Avril, who looks like she'd rather be embalming herself than sitting here with us. ‘He reckons he's allowed to give me a dead arm every time my face looks like one of those miserable fish you see on David Attenborough shows.' I turn to ask Jamie what they're called but he's serving a customer.

‘Trout?' offers Russ, who's had his hair cut short at the sides like a Premier League footballer.

‘No, it begins with B.'

Russ looks diagonally to think. ‘I can't think of any fish beginning with B,' he says. ‘But I like the rule. We need to do something to stop my thirtieth turning into a damp squid.'

‘Damp squib,' Avril jumps in.

Russ loops his eyes. ‘I know, Avril – it was a joke because Jamie said Ben's face looks like a . . .'

He gives up.

‘Your birthday isn't until Sunday, anyway,' says Avril.

Russ and I share a look over the rim of our pint glasses.

I've always seen Avril as proof that love is blind, but over the past few weeks I've realized that, actually, love has 20/20 vision compared with
unrequited
love. Because, although I vaguely recall there were things about Rebecca that annoyed me, I couldn't tell you what they were. The Rebecca in my mind now is a flawless example of what God intended woman to be.

‘Bream?' says Russ.

‘No.'

Russ twists his lips, his face a picture of concentration until he spots the present leaning against Tom's stool. ‘Is that for me?'

An expression of gormless joy decorates his face as he tears the paper. He is confused at first, scrutinizing the comic-book version of his own face alongside that of a busty superheroine.

‘Tom drew it,' I say.

‘And Ben got it framed,' Tom adds.

Russ is overwhelmed.

‘You're not one of those comic nerds who has crushes on the female characters, are you?' Avril says.

Russ puts his elbow on the table and raises a finger as if he's about to make a serious point. ‘I'm glad you brought this up, Avril – and you two . . .' He admonishes me and Tom with a look. ‘. . . should have known better.'

Avril leans in to listen, though her expression remains tepid.

‘It has always irked me,' continues Russ, ‘right from when I was old enough to know about Emmeline Pankhurst and the feminist struggle, that the creators of comic books somehow believe that a female superhero can't be heroic without exposing cleavage and gusset.'

Avril angles her chin and nods, pleasantly surprised.

‘At least that's what I tell girls when I'm trying to get their numbers.'

I'm mid-sip, and the bubbles rise into my nose as I laugh. By the time I've composed myself Jamie has hung up his apron and joined us.

‘That's the first time I've seen him smile all week,' he says to the other three.

‘I told him earlier,' says Russ. ‘If the wind changes his face is going to stay like that.'

‘I think the wind changed a few weeks ago,' says Jamie. ‘My dead arms are starting to feel like domestic abuse.'

‘I used to say that to Rebecca,' I say. ‘About the wind changing – not domestic abuse.'

Jamie looks at me like I'm dog shit on his shoe. ‘Right, from now on you have to put your hand up before speaking.'