The Night That Changed Everything (21 page)

I freeze.

It was the sound of a door closing somewhere in the building. I listen for four, five, six seconds. It's a Victorian house, and though the staircase would have been added when the place was converted into flats, it's still old enough for every third stair to creak. But I can't hear anything now. It must have been Angus or Tasha from the flat below, or Carl on the ground floor.

I examine the laptop again while a hundred different thoughts ricochet around my head. Almost all of them warn me not to do it.

I hold a lungful of air for as long as I can take, starving my brain of the things it needs to think, and finally I let go.

I flick open the screen, and what I see is so unexpected that I laugh.

A dating website?

It's open on some fella's profile but I'm too stunned to look properly.

Rebecca wouldn't do that, would she? It's not her, and Jesus, I've only been gone a month. I know she's not the type to hole herself up with a box of tissues listening to Adele songs on repeat, but surely she hasn't moved on this quickly?

I close the laptop and breathe, trying to think of some other explanation, but my imagination is overwriting everything, and it seems to have upgraded to HD, because it's like they're here with me in the room, Rebecca and this Pilot_Dan twat. He's pouring her a whisky from the decanter but for once she doesn't want whisky. She grabs him by his tie and yanks him on to the couch – our couch – and afterwards they watch an episode of
The Killing
.

With my fists bunched I survey the couch to see if it has moved across the wooden floor since I was last here. The idea of her falling for someone new, that I won't be important to her any more, makes me want to throw up.

I sling my right foot against the wall, but the release doesn't help, it just makes my big toe – one of the few parts of me that wasn't hurting like hell – hurt like hell.

I need to get out of here.

I unhook the signed Man City shirt from the wall in the spare room and shove as much of my stuff as I can into bin bags. I don't have a lot, clothes mainly, but I want her to see that it's gone; I want her to feel how I'm feeling.

Yes, I went home with Natalie, but I was pissed, and I couldn't do anything because all I could think about was Rebecca, but this, this is premeditated shit, and it makes me wonder whether the whole thing with Danielle played into her hands. Whether this was what she wanted all along, for us to be over?

I can't face going back to Jamie's yet, and I'll have to call a taxi with all this stuff anyway, so I rest my bike against a bench on the green behind the flat. I sit with my head in my hands, and the frustration and disbelief and longing of the last few weeks is turning into something new.

Anger. It bubbles inside of me, causing my legs to shake.

My phone starts to ring, and my first thought is that Rebecca has arrived home; she's seen the empty spaces where my belongings were, and now she is calling, distraught.

I look up to the flat but the lights are still off.

Dejected, I pull the phone from my pocket, and if it was anyone else's name on the screen I wouldn't answer, but some primal instinct takes over, an instinct that says this could be the one person who might be able to make me feel better.

‘Hello, darling,' says Mum. ‘Is now a good time?'

I was stupid thinking it might be anyone else. Mum calls at the same time every week. That's what thirty-five years working in a school does for you. Her time is divided and punctuated by the rings of a bell.

‘Well, I wasn't expecting you, but . . .'

‘Very funny, darling,'

It's the same joke I make every week, and there is something calming now about the routine of our conversation, her telling me about some new hobby of Dad's (car boot sales is the latest), me asking about work. She's saying something about her role changing, from secretary to administrator, or something, but I'm finding it difficult to focus.

‘How's your work?' she asks.

‘Same old.'

‘Oh, well . . .'

One thing about Mum is that her words quite often don't correspond to her intended meaning. Over the years I've developed my own version of Google Translate in my head, so I can copy and paste anything she says, press return and find out what she's really getting at. In this case
Oh, well . . .
means,
Do you really think I've enjoyed being a school secretary all these years?
Which is funny really, because I know for a fact she
has
enjoyed it, as she loves nothing more than organizing and telling people what to do.

‘And how's Rebecca?' says Mum.

I knew it was coming, and I'd planned to answer in the same way I have for the past few weeks. Rebecca is fine, I've told her, because honestly, I thought we'd sort this out.

‘Do you know yet if she's coming with you for Christmas?'

I rest my eyes for a few seconds, then look again at the kitchen window, and that's the moment when I finally realize what this is: the third phase I wasn't prepared for.

Post-Rebecca.

‘Actually, Mum, I'll be coming on my own.'

There is a short pause. ‘Are you OK, darling?'

‘Yes, it's just . . .' I try to swallow but my throat feels like it's been vacuum packed. ‘Rebecca and I have split up.'

Christmas Day

‘
Buongiorno!
' Stefan bowls into the kitchen, takes my face in his hands and kisses both cheeks. ‘Merry Christmas. What's going on?'

‘What's going on,' I explain, mixing the stuffing while Dad wraps pigs in blankets, ‘is we got so fed up waiting for you to turn up, we started prepping dinner. The turkey is in the oven.'

‘What's that?' He points at my bowl.

‘It's, um . . . a delicious combination of ciabatta crumbs, Italian sausage, turkey liver and herbs.' I try to pretend I'm not reading straight from the packet, which I chuck at his head when I see him smirk. ‘Cock off and chop the carrots.'

‘Discs or batons?'

‘Couldn't care less.'

‘On it.'

‘Good to see you, son,' Dad says, patting Stefan on the back.

‘You too, Marco.' Stefan double-kisses Dad. ‘Shall we just shove all this in the oven with the turkey and crack on with presents?'

So shove it in we do.

We're not one of those families who take it in turns to open our presents – we rip the paper off simultaneously, so the process starts at 12.03 p.m. and ends at ten past.

‘Last one,' sings Stefan, throwing me a red envelope. Inside is a card with a picture of a snowman with coal for his eyes and mouth and a carrot for his genitalia; and inside that are two tickets to see Erasure.

‘Amazing!' I grin. We both love Erasure – my brother had a battered old tape that stayed with us in every car in every country we lived in growing up. One of my earliest memories is us both singing along to it as we drove back from France to visit Granny for Christmas.

‘They're at The Roundhouse in April.'

‘Can't wait. Want me to leave your ticket here or should I keep them together?'

‘Oh, they're both for you. I got us two each as I'm taking someone and thought you could bring . . . someone.'

Ben. He was going to say Ben.

‘OK, cool.' I force a smile. ‘Thanks.'

Stefan and Dad exchange a look. My family have stopped asking how I'm feeling about Ben. Probably because my answer was always the same:
I'm fine
. Thing is, I'm not entirely sure any more that I am fine. It's nearly two months since we broke up. Isn't time supposed to be a healer? It feels more like a paper cut that has grown into a knife wound.

‘You hit the wine early today.' I can tell Dad is trying to sound casual as he glances at the glass I've just lifted. ‘You usually have your first with dinner.'

‘Neither of you interested in who I'm taking to the gig?' Stefan interrupts. Dad and I both look at him. ‘My boyfriend, Jonny.'

I swallow my wine and then, inexplicably, burst into tears.

The confusion on Dad's face is understandable – Stefan never has boyfriends and I never have tears. Even as a kid, if my brother was picking on me or I was upset that we had to move again, I'd either go off on my own and sulk or go into an angry rage. Stefan cried more than I did.

‘I'm just . . . so . . . happy for Stefan,' I manage to blurt out between sobs.

‘That's a bit weird, sis,' says Stefan, his eyebrows knotting.

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘What's wrong, love?'

‘Nothing,' I insist. ‘Tell us about Jonny, Stefan.'

‘Well, he works with me,' my brother begins, sounding uncharacteristically soppy.

I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I am happy for Stefan, but this isn't about that. I guess it's about Ben, and him seeing other people, and not even calling me on Christmas Day. He hasn't contacted me for weeks.

And it's about having a spare ticket to Erasure and not having anyone to invite, as Jamie is all I have left and he'll be at work.

I never really had close friends before I met Danielle and Jamie. It took me too long to open up to people and then we'd move somewhere else and the connection would be lost.

‘People have been saying for ages,
We should really set you up with Jonny, you'll get on really well
,' Stefan is saying. ‘And I thought,
Why? Because we're both gay? That automatically means we'll fancy each other?
But it turns out we do fancy each other.'

I was set up once. Sally – the one girl from sixth form I stayed in touch with, because she went to the same university as me – set me up with her friend Tommy. It never went anywhere and then Sally and I stopped hanging out much. I think she felt stuck in the middle.

We still occasionally meet for a catch-up, though. I wonder if she likes Erasure?

This is so much easier for Ben, I think angrily, wiping away another stray tear. He's so natural at meeting people. Plus, he's already bagsied the bar for New Year's Eve, so he's the one that will get to see Jamie.

What am I meant to do for New Year? I want to stay in, get a takeaway and have an early night, but I can't bear that pity in people's faces when you reveal you've no plans.

‘Anyone smell burning?' asks Stefan, who has been throwing balled-up wrapping paper at the wicker bin in the corner the whole time he's been talking.

‘The turkey!' we all cry in unison, jumping up and running through.

The potatoes are as burnt as the turkey, the sprouts are soggy and the carrots and parsnips are still crunchy, but we congratulate each other on our efforts and eat every last mouthful, washing it down with lashings of red wine and finishing with shop-bought tiramisu, which Stefan brought. I'm grateful Dad and Stefan don't mention me getting upset earlier.

‘Let's play Trivial Pursuit,' Stefan says.

‘Or Cluedo?' I suggest.

‘Or cards?' he says.

‘Actually, I'm feeling a little stuffed.' Dad leans back and rubs his belly. ‘Think I'll go for a walk first. Anyone want to join me?'

‘Nah,' replies Stefan. ‘I'm wearing Converse – they're not waterproof.'

‘It's not raining,' Dad points out. ‘It's been dry all day.'

‘Really? Damn it. That was an excuse – I just don't want to go for a walk.'

Dad laughs. ‘Rebecca?'

‘Sure,' I say. I don't feel like it much either but the fresh air might help clear my head. ‘Stefan can load the dishwasher when we're gone.'

‘If you're at the beach, do check in on your snow house, won't you?' he tells me.

‘Bite me.'

He's still whistling ‘Walking in the Air' as Dad shuts the front door behind us.

‘Are you OK?' Dad asks gently, as we start our walk up the lane.

‘Yeah, Stefan and I were just kidding around.'

‘I know. I wasn't talking about Stefan.'

‘I'm fine.' I sigh, knowing my dad is the one person besides Jamie I can't fool. ‘Ben moved out.' He came and got his things one evening before I got home from work, just a couple of days after I saw him on Facebook with that girl. ‘I just feel a bit empty, you know?'

‘I know.' He nods. ‘But if you and Ben weren't right, then you did the right thing. A break-up is part of the painful process you have to go through to end up in a better and happier place.'

I never told Dad the actual reason we broke up. Close as we are, the details just seem a bit too personal to share with him.

‘But what if we were right for each other?'

At least when we first broke up, I was in control. If I'd have changed my mind, all I would have needed to do was say so.

But now? I've no idea if he's seeing the girl in his Facebook photos – I'm too scared to ask Jamie. Apart from being too scared to hear him confirm anything, I don't want to put Jamie in the middle. It'd be like Sally and Tommy all over again.

‘Only you can answer that,' Dad says, and we carry on walking in silence for a while.

‘It's not just about Ben,' I confess, as we take the path down to the beach. ‘I haven't been sleeping. Like, at all. So I'm tired all day.'

We stop at the foot of the pier and stare out into the sea, crashing loudly in the wind. I pull my coat tighter.

‘And I'm starting to feel overwhelmed with this work assignment,' I continue. ‘It's like I can feel everything start to slip from my control and I can see it happening but I can't do anything to stop it.'

‘Then take back control,' he says, like it's that easy.

I carry on staring out to sea. Maybe it is that easy. I link my arm through Dad's as we resume our walk. ‘Tell me about what you've been working on.'