A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 22

  “Get your hands off her.”

  “These?” Charlie inspected his hands closely, palm-up then palm-down. “Woss the plob-rem?”

  “Matt.” I stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. He—”

  “It’s okay?” He rounded on me. “It’s okay? Since when is it okay for him to maul you? Make a public display of you? Treat you like a cheap whore? He has no right!” He swung back to Charlie, shoved him in the chest. “No fucking right!”

  Charlie didn’t answer. He had enough to contend with, just staying on his feet.

  In my peripheral vision I noticed a growing gaggle of onlookers. Wonderful.

  “Matt, th-this is Charlie. An old friend of mine,” I added, as if that might make a difference. “Charlie, Matt.”

  Charlie wiped his right hand down his shirt then held it out. “Matt.” He gave a sombre nod, tripped, steadied himself.

  Matt looked at the proffered hand as if it repulsed him. Charlie’s hand jerked closer. Matt, after a considerable pause, clasped it in a handshake so forceful that Charlie, trapped on the end of it, staggered again.

  I took a shaky breath. A handshake. That was good . . . right?

  “So.” Matt’s expression was unreadable. “You two are friends?”

  Charlie’s arm snaked out and, before I could step out of reach, he pulled me to his side. Splayed his hand possessively over my hip. “Yeah.” He grinned. “Frens.”

  “We went to school together,” I hastily inserted, bringing my hand over his and prising it, limpet-like, from me.

  Matt’s eyes flashed as he watched. He said nothing.

  Charlie gave Matt an exaggerated wink. “Frens. Ha ha. Yeah. Used t’go behind th’ bike sheds.” He swayed on his feet. “But—”

  “Charlie,” I protested, with a gentle arm-slap, “stop it.”

  “. . . these days,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “we gedda room. More ci-li-vised.”

  Oh shut up. I should just rip out his tongue and be done with it. “Charlie, I don’t think—”

  “An’ jus’ ’tween you’n’me”—he leaned close to Matt, all whiskey breath and confidences—“she’s a bloody good shag.”

  I gasped, felt the blood drain from my face.

  Matt’s expression froze. A split-second later his fist connected with Charlie’s jaw. I felt like I’d been transported to a movie set, but the crunch sounded far too real.

  Charlie’s head snapped back. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. It blotted, ink-like, on his white designer shirt. His feet tap-danced this way and that, arms wind-milling in comic rhythm.

  Our audience, with audible delight, moved closer.

  Matt pulled his right arm back, fist clenched, muscles bunched, murderous rage all over his face.

  I watched with a disturbing mix of pleasure and horror—pleasure that he’d leapt to my defence, horror that he was going about it with such savagery.

  Should I stop him? Could I stop him? I clutched at my throat, undecided, knowing the next punch would knock Charlie out cold.

  And then, as abruptly as the beast had rampaged out of its cage, it was muzzled and back behind bars. Matt’s arm dropped to his side. He controlled his fury, steadied his breathing. Flexed his hand once, twice. Took a calculated step back.

  He kept his eyes trained on Charlie. His lip curled. “You’re not worth it.”

  Then, turning to me, his voice laden with loathing, “Neither are you.”

  I flinched as if I’d been struck.

  Charlie wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt, leaving a wide smear of red. He staggered a step or two towards Matt. “Fine yer own girlfren’. This one’s taken.”

  Matt looked me up and down, his eyes lifeless. “You’re welcome to her,” he said, each word a glittery shard of heartbreak.

  I reached for him. “Matt—”

  “Don’t bother.” He turned away. “I’ve met your type before.”

  My type? After all we’d shared I was just a type? A gulping sob escaped my throat.

  “Becky.” Charlie started towards me.

  No. Not now. Whatever he wanted to say, I didn’t want to hear it. I pushed my way through the crowd and raced to the lifts. Punched the ‘up’ button once, twice, three times. No response. Come on. Desperate, I watched the floor indicators. One lift was ambling up past the tenth floor and the other refused to budge off fifth. I gave the button another jab.

  A quick glance confirmed Charlie, miraculously upright, was now only ten feet away and closing in fast.

  I ran.

  “Becky, wait!”

  I flung open the stairwell door. “No!” It came out as a strangled cry.

  “’S’all right.” His voice carried across to me. “He din’ hurt me.”

  Like I cared.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” I screamed, and took to the stairs like a marathon runner.

  “Wotcha mean?” He reached the base of the stairwell and looked up at me, lolling off the railing. “Y’want me to tell ’im t’f—”

  “No!” I flung down at him, sobbing openly now. “You’ve said plenty. Just leave me alone.”

  I soon discovered it was quite a challenge to cry, run up stairs, and breathe. By the time I emerged at the seventh floor my lungs were on fire and my legs were buckling with exhaustion. I staggered to my room, fumbled for the key, and fell inside. Leaned against the door until it clicked closed. Slumped there, defeated, trying to rein in my breathing. My heart, out of control, hammered against my ribcage. My head was a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings. My throat felt swollen and constricted.

  Matt.

  A high-pitched wail filled the room and I clamped a quick hand over my mouth. The last thing I needed was security showing up.

  The lift pinged and a voice—no, two—drew nearer. I pressed my hand more tightly to my mouth, breathing erratically as I stifled my sobs. Gentle murmurs, a masculine chuckle . . . closer . . .

  Please keep moving, just keep moving. The sobs built up, dam-like, in my throat.

  More laughter, gradually fading as they headed down the corridor.

  I sank to the carpet and stared into the darkness of the room. What now?

  Minutes passed. Long minutes of nothingness.

  Matt. Why?

  My tears fell, and the red dots of the bedside clock flashed in my peripheral vision, blink, blink. Precisely separating the hours from the minutes. Blink, blink.

  How could he? I’d let him into my soul. I loved him. And he damn-well knew it. Just like he knew there was nothing between Charlie and me.

  I sat up straighter. Wiped my eyes. Forced my tears back and watched the dots sharpen into focus. Blink, blink.

  I should find Matt. Explain. Set the story straight.

  And say what? That Charlie meant nothing to me? That I’d only slept with him the once? That I’d wished it were Matt? It sounded trite. Too trite. I flinched as I remembered Matt’s granite-hard eyes, his contempt.

  I stared at the dots until they turned fuzzy. He was right. I didn’t deserve his love.

  I dragged off my Miu Mius, stood and felt my way over to the curtained windows. Stubbed a toe on a bed-end, checked momentarily, continued. Pain was good. My brain understood pain. I pulled back a curtain and looked out over the grounds, so well-lit it could’ve been a carnival. A joyful sodding carnival.

  What had I expected? That Matt would accept Charlie with good grace? Hardly. Action and reaction, Becs.

  The garden lights winked up at me. I pressed my forehead against the window, barely breathing, barely existing. People came and went, some in twos, some in threes. Pantomiming good times. Laughing, happy, smiles all round.

  Numbness descended. Time passed. I pushed harder against the window. How much pressure could it withstand before it shattered? I stared down at the ground, tried to gauge the distance. Fifty metres? One hundred?

  Enough. With a brisk, back-to-my-senses face-rub I pus
hed away from the window and closed the curtain. Fumbled for the light switch then, head bowed against the glare, went to the bathroom in search of tissues.

  I caught sight of myself in the mirror. So much for looking my best. Clown-like mascara tracks, puffy red-rimmed eyes, smeared lipstick, messed-up hair. How many times would I have to look like this before I accepted the truth? Happy-ever-afters only existed in fairy tales. Reality involved heartache, loneliness and Charlie-ish screw-ups. Big, unpredictable screw-ups that tended to ruin your life.

  And now I’d lost Matt. Beautiful, perfect Matt.

  I blew my nose, then grabbed another tissue and scrubbed angrily at my mess of a face.

  Dammit, this wasn’t working. I scowled at my reflection. How could I remove make-up armed with only a tissue and self-hatred? Where were my god-damn cleansing wipes? Fuck it. It was all too hard. I tossed the tissue at the bin and slapped the light switch off. Unclasped my stupid dress and stepped out of it, leaving it where it fell.

  I crawled into bed and lay there, staring into darkness.

  What next?

  Matt would be downstairs, whooping it up with Alyssa and congratulating himself on a narrow escape. Charlie would be passed out on a couch somewhere, sleeping it off. And I was up here. Faced with a whole pile of fall-out. Too many people had witnessed our little show-stopper. I’d be the talk of T&T, if not the conference.

  My stomach churned. Would I ever live it down? And if, somehow, I did—would I ever be able to face Matt again? Panicky tension rippled through me as I relived his derision, his frosty ‘You’re welcome to her’. He didn’t want me. In his eyes I was tarnished beyond redemption.

  I jammed a fist against my mouth. I couldn’t bear to have him look at me with such cold contempt. But, equally, I couldn’t bear to lose him.

  Too late. I already had. His love for me was gone, dissolved, forgotten the moment he saw Charlie.

  I curled up in a tiny ball and cried myself to sleep. I dozed fitfully, feeling like I wasn’t sleeping at all. But I must have managed a few minutes, because I woke to the sound of Amanda singing, “Wakey, wakey!” as she prodded my shoulder.

  “Go away.” I pulled my pillow over my head.

  “You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t hurry up.” She tried to lift the pillow.

  I held on for grim death. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You will be,” she chirped. “Come on, I’ll wait for you.”

  “Fuck. Off.”

  Silence.

  I felt guilty, but not guilty enough to remove the pillow. “Go down to breakfast, Amanda. I’ll get up soon.”

  “Fine.” The door clicked shut behind her.

  I leapt out of bed and raced around, feverishly doing what needed to be done while she was at breakfast.

  Because, as far as I was concerned, breakfast wasn’t on my agenda. In fact, Day Four wasn’t on my agenda. Conference Week, far from being the year’s social high, had grown horns and evolved into the worst week of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I needed to leave—now, before someone saw me. I grabbed my suitcase, ran for the lift, jiggled impatiently as it lumbered down to the foyer, and almost sent a porter flying as I tore out of the hotel.

  I emerged into driving rain. Perfect. No time to dig my umbrella out of my bag, though: here came a cab and, dammit, I was going to have it. I clattered my bag down the steps, stood in the downpour, and hailed the cab.

  “Excuse me, that’s my taxi,” said a snooty-voiced woman.

  No way. I was closer. I sprinted over, flung open the door, threw in my suitcase and threw myself in after it.

  “Dublin airport, please,” I said, slamming the door on the woman’s indignation.

  The driver gave a cursory nod and pulled away from the kerb.

  Good. I didn’t feel like talking, either.

  Rain ran off me in little rivulets, gathering in a puddle on the floor. My nervous energy ran with it, leaving me empty, a husk.

  I gazed out the window. What a waste. I’d always wanted to visit Dublin—now I just wanted to forget it.

  The airport came into view and I relaxed, as if I’d been expecting to be caught and cuffed before I could execute a getaway. I took a deep, rallying breath. Okay. All I had to do was get on the plane and this whole miserable mess would be over, finito, in the past.

  Had it really been only three days?

  I thanked the cabbie, handed him some notes, then hauled my reluctant suitcase up the kerb and into the breakfast-flight chaos. Joined the check-in queue with downcast eyes. Kept myself to myself, my head way too full of my own issues to cope with anyone else’s.

  The queue moved at a snail’s pace. Oh, come on.

  Irritation transmuted into uncertainty. Was this the cosmos telling me I shouldn’t be leaving?

  I glanced anxiously at my watch then looked around for the nearest exit. I could be back in time for the first workshop . . .

  Which Matt would also be attending.

  No! I gave myself a mental shake. Don’t be stupid. Of course I should be leaving. Why did a slow queue signify anything more than ‘it’s a full plane’? Why did one night of passion with Matt signify anything more than convenient sex?

  It didn’t. As Dani would be quick to point out.

  “So you had two men in the same month,” she’d summarise. “So what? You’re all adults. It’s sex. It’s not a crime.”

  But Matt didn’t see it like that. In his eyes I’d committed a huge crime. And, somehow, I felt like a cheap criminal.

  “You both need to get over yourselves,” she’d retort.

  Perhaps. But how? How could I get over that look he’d given me, as if I’d just thrust a knife hilt-deep in his heart? How could I get over his final words—cold, conclusive, more cutting than any blade?

  “Stop thinking and get on with it. Have more sex.” Typical Dani advice. She’d be dismissive. “He’s high maintenance. You can do better, Sis.”

  No, I couldn’t. I loved him. He was The One. But I wasn’t good enough for him; he’d already made that crystal clear.

  Stalemate.

  “Doesn’t taste stale to me.”

  I shot the guy a startled look.

  He looked from me to his half-eaten sandwich and back to me. Rats. Had I just spoken aloud? His eloquent are-you-all-there? expression confirmed it.

  I muttered, “Sorry,” then, unable to put any space between us, looked away and hummed a few notes. Realised I looked even more like a lunatic and went studiously mute, busying myself with the small-print on my ticket.

  My mind boomeranged back to Matt and the words blurred. I dashed away a tear. Oh, stop it. As Dani would say, forget him. Move on.

  Forget Dani, more like. Why would I even mention any of this to her? She had plenty to say but the empathy of a gnat. She wouldn’t get it. Nobody would. I wasn’t even sure I got it.

  The woman at the check-in counter certainly didn’t get it. Her disdainful look screamed that I’d dived off the end of the stupid scale. Anyone with half a brain knew you couldn’t just swan in and demand a seat to London two days earlier than your ticketed booking. She was downright unfriendly—rude, even—and certainly didn’t rate my chances of squeezing onto the next flight.

  Neither did I, given her attitude. She left me no option but to tell her about the tragic return of my cancer. Her face, at once stricken, told me my story had hit its mark. Maybe she had a heart, after all.

  “I’m sure we can squeeze you in,” she assured me in conciliatory tones. “We do, of course, keep a few seats reserved for just these types of emergencies.”

  And there I’d been, thinking my excuse was original.

  “Thank you so much,” I whimpered.

  She nodded and smiled, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she magicked up a seat for me.

  “Right, that should do it.” She printed my boarding pass. “I will personally see to it that you’re well looked after on the flight.”

&nb
sp; I wasn’t sure whether her direct line was with God or merely the pilot but, either way, it had to be good for me. I snatched up the boarding pass and scuttled off to the departure gate before she changed her mind.

  My euphoria at scoring a seat disintegrated as I waited in the departure lounge.

  I stared at my ticket, my cabin bag, my coat. How had it come to this? Yesterday I’d been walking on air, bursting with happiness, the luckiest girl alive. And now—now I didn’t want to even be alive. A swollen lump of grief rose in my throat, threatening to burst from my mouth and land with a splodge on the floor.

  I sent Liz a quick text message. Cumn hm. Life sux. Mt me @ LHR?

  Her reply—Sory, out of town. U ok? xx—set off an unstoppable stream of tears. I huddled in my seat, trying not to cry and trying not to sniff and failing miserably on both counts.

  “Here.” A hand offered me a tissue.

  I took it, avoiding eye contact with the hand’s owner, and cleared my throat. “Thanks.” Blew my nose, took a shuddery breath, wiped away the tears.

  The hand approached once more and rested briefly on my arm in a comforting gesture. A friendly, older hand. A strong, enduring, I’ve-seen-worse-than-this hand. A hand that spoke of scones and cosy fireside chats and Grandma’s unconditional love.

  More blasted tears.

  “Don’t hold back, dear,” she said. “Let it all out or you’ll make yourself ill.”

  Just what Grandma would have said. I smiled weakly, still unable to look at her. Screwed my tissue up into a tight little ball. Unscrewed it and blew my nose again. “Sorry.”

  She patted my arm. “Don’t be. Crying shows you have a heart.”

  Yeah, a stupid, foolish, broken heart.

  “It’s hard,” she said, “when someone close passes away.”

  I stilled. Passes away? The thought jammed in my brain. Why did she assume someone had died? I could be crying over my power bill! Silly old duck.

  Though perhaps not so silly. It had been a death of sorts. After a moment’s hesitation I nodded in silent agreement.

  “It gets easier with time,” she said.

  Did it? I couldn’t imagine how. I stared sightlessly at the rain battering against the window. The window was me.