A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 23

  Our boarding call came and people began to shepherd themselves into a queue. She gave my arm a gentle squeeze.

  “Take care, dear.” She stood. “Is someone meeting you?”

  “Oh. Um . . .” I looked down at Liz’s text message, still displayed on my phone. “No.” Then felt her concern and opted for the fib instead. “I mean, yes.”

  Reassured, she smiled her farewell and joined the queue. I studied the carpet.

  Dammit.

  Ugly orangey-blue swirls.

  Dammit. She was right. I needed someone there for me when I got off the plane. Someone familiar, someone who cared, someone who loved me, fucked-up life and all.

  Liz. But she was out of town. Who, then? Jim? No. Much as I adored him, he’d see it all so logically. I couldn’t do logical today.

  Which left Dani, who’d just poo-poo the whole Matt thing. I definitely couldn’t cope with that. Or . . . what if I didn’t mention Matt? What if I pretended I had the flu or something? Yes, that would work.

  Sorted. A quick text to Dani—Mt me @ LHR? Pls?—and I switched off my mobile. Time to go, I guess.

  I looked out the window again, losing myself in the rain’s silent rage. The final boarding call came and a few stragglers hurried past.

  I blinked, refocused. My fancy new lacy black g-string. Had I packed it? I’d tossed it towards my suitcase, that’s right. Seen it land to the left. Thought, “I’ll get it later”.

  Only I hadn’t. Fab. Great. Perfect. My chin quivered and my throat ached. I clenched my jaw rigor-mortis-tight. I would not cry over a measly scrap of lingerie.

  “Er, would you be on this flight, Ma’am?”

  I started, then stood, dazed. “Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

  “No problem, Ma’am. But we do need to hurry. The pilot’s waiting for you to board.”

  And so it was over.

  Goodbye, Dublin. Goodbye, Matt.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I emerged at Arrivals and stood for a moment, getting my bearings. Everything looked the same—but it felt so very, very different. Cold. Hard. Unfriendly.

  Somebody’s trolley bit into my heel. I moved out of the way. “Sorry.”

  Hang on, why should I apologise? I was the one who’d had a chunk taken out of their heel. I was too nice for my own good. Time to take a leaf from Dani’s book.

  Dani. Had she replied to my text? I switched on my mobile, but there were no messages, no voicemails, nothing.

  What now?

  I took a few deep breaths, stretched my lips into a semblance of a smile, and lugged my suitcase towards the underground. Then I spotted Dani striding my way across the glossy tiled floor. Relief surged through me, then gratitude. She’d come when I needed her.

  “Dani!” I stopped and, genuinely smiling now, waited for her.

  I pulled her gift-wrapped scarf from my bag. Would she like it? I hoped so.

  Look at the way she was turning heads. I felt a surge of big-sister pride. She’d been turning heads like that since we were kids.

  But something was wrong. My smile faltered. Something was badly wrong. She looked thunderous. Murderous, even. And—crap-a-roony, it looked like I might be her next victim.

  She stormed up to me, all avenging-angel-in-stiletto-suede-boots, and came to an abrupt halt only inches from my face, her features so twisted in anger she reminded me of a church gargoyle.

  “You,” she hissed, with such venom my insides wobbled.

  Crack! She slapped me, right in the face.

  I gasped and took an involuntary step back. Tears stung my eyes.

  “You bitch!” she said. “You scheming, self-serving bitch!”

  I brought a hand up to my cheek. “What—?”

  “How could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about,” she raged.

  “Er—” Would someone tell me what the hell was going on?

  “You deserve each other.” Her lip curled.

  I frowned. Me and who? Matt? But she didn’t even know him.

  Comprehension dawned like a cold, heavy stone in my belly. I broke out in a cold sweat. “Charlie?”

  “Charlie?” she mimicked. “You make me sick.”

  I felt sick, too. “Charlie’s your . . .”—I gulped painfully—“Ex?”

  “Thanks to you, yes.”

  I glanced around. Joy. Another audience. “What do you mean, thanks to me?”

  “What do you think I mean? You stole my man.”

  I frowned, trying to work it all out. “But Dani, I had no idea. You never told me you were involved with Charlie. How was I to know?”

  “Oh please. It wasn’t rocket science. You knew I was upset with him.”

  “Well, yes, but I had no idea why. You weren’t exactly chatty about it. In fact, you never spoke about him at all.” I paused. How could I have missed something as big as this? “I didn’t even know you knew Charlie. Anyway, you’d already broken up with him. You told me loads of times it was over.”

  “Because he had a cute little wife at home, remember?”

  That’s what she’d thought, but she’d been wrong. Charlie’s wife was long gone, and ditto the Estepona villa. I opened my mouth to speak, but she barrelled on over the top of me.

  “And then I have you holding my hand, telling me there-there, I’m better off without him, and all along you’re sitting there smug as fuck ’cause hey-ho, you’re sleeping with him too.”

  “No! I wasn’t.”

  “That’s not what I heard.” Hands on hips, she glared at me.

  Bingo. Fred Tyler. I’d so known that would come back to bite me.

  The beginnings of anger stirred in my chest. How was I supposed to have known Charlie was in Dani’s life? Not once had she mentioned him. Ever. And I wasn’t telepathic.

  Anyway, she didn’t have a monopoly on the man—they’d broken up, for crying out loud.

  “Is that how much you really think of me?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “Give me some credit, Dani. As if I’d jump into bed with any boyfriend of yours.”

  She barked a harsh laugh. “No? What would you do, then? Take him to a seedy hotel and dance in his lap? Suck him off ’til he begs you to stop?”

  Her crass words hit their mark. I flinched.

  God, she was right. I’d slept with her man. Okay, her Ex, but that was just semantics to her.

  My self-respect shrivelled. If only I’d listened to my gut that Friday, refused Charlie’s invitation, and gone to work. I didn’t even do one-night stands. And look: a one-off fling, and this was the result. My lover hated me, my sister hated me . . . Come to think of it, I didn’t think much of me, either.

  Fuck. I’d slept with him. Slept with Charlie. How could I ever make it up to her?

  “Dani, I’m—”

  “I know, I know.” She looked me up and down, contempt all over her face. “You’re jealous of me.”

  “No. That’s—”

  “Yes you are. Don’t deny it. You want my man, you want my body, you want my life. Yeah.” She nodded, getting into her stride. “That’s what it is. You want to be me. Well, news flash.” She shoved her face close. “You’re not me. And Charlie’s just using you to get back at me. He doesn’t want you. What’s there to want?”

  “Hey,” I flared, “that’s a bit unfair.”

  “Why? You’re fat, frumpy and boring. Fuck!” She crowed triumphantly. “Your idea of excitement is a trip to Tesco’s.”

  “Is that right?”

  All my childhood resentment roared to the surface. It was always me who’d given my favourite toys and clothes to Dani, me who’d covered for her when she climbed out the window at night, me who’d stayed in the wings while Dani took centre-stage in bloody everything.

  “I may not be a high-powered pencil-thin rich bitch like you,” I blazed, “but I haven’t slept my way round Greater London, either.”

  “At least I don’t sleep with my sister’s man,�
� she screamed.

  I heard murmurs, the odd raised comment, laughter. Add a commercial break and we’d be the next episode of Days Of Our Lives.

  “If he’s your man, why’s it such a secret?”

  “You hate him. Why would I let you loose on him? And look what happened. We weren’t finished ’til you took off with him on a dirty weekend.” She lunged at me, hands clawing at my throat.

  I quickly backed up, holding her at arm’s length when she kept coming at me.

  “How could you?” she yelled at point-blank range, more frightening than any gargoyle. “You’re meant to be my sister. Not some sex-mad, self-centred bitch on heat.”

  She drew her arm back to slap me again but this time I was ready. As her hand swung at me I grabbed her wrist and flung it downwards.

  “Fuck you!” she shrieked.

  I sighed. “Whatever.” I belatedly remembered her gift, still clutched in my hand. “Here. I bought you this.”

  She flung it on the ground at my feet.

  “As if I’d accept anything from you. You’re no sister of mine. You slept with my man. You’re nothing but a cheap, second-grade slut!” Dani about-faced and stalked off through the crowd.

  I watched her go and felt suddenly jelly-like, as if a ramrod had been removed from my spine. My head, too heavy for my body, was a pressure-cooker of grief.

  Huddles of people still loitered nearby, propped against their trolleys, all focused on me, not one of them meeting my eyes. Someone’s video camera blinked red at me. Excellent. My fast-track to fame. YouTube footage of my sister disowning me.

  Vultures, the lot of them. What were they waiting for? A nervous breakdown? An end-of-scene bow?

  I stood stone still, her gift at my feet, my pride in tatters, our lives blown apart. I had never felt so alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I let myself into the flat and stood in the doorway, listening. No off-key whistling, no loud burps reverberating down the stairs, no annoying grasshopper’s click of fingers on keyboard. Good. Jim must be at work.

  I shut the door and slumped on the bottom stair. Gave myself permission to cry, then found I couldn’t. Stared dry-eyed at my suitcase, absorbing the grim reality of my life. Perhaps if I didn’t move a muscle, didn’t so much as breathe, it would all just go away.

  But none of it would, would it? I’d ruined everything and now I had to live with the consequences. A sigh shook itself loose, but still there were no tears. Maybe my tear-ducts had clogged from over-use. Pity my heart wouldn’t do the same.

  Hmm. I could take the easy way out and down a bottle of pills.

  Except I struggled to swallow even a couple of paracetamol.

  Did I have it in me to slash my wrists?

  It would hurt. Who was I kidding? I can’t stand pain. And the thought of all that blood . . . I shuddered.

  Sleep, then. I crawled into bed and cocooned myself in the duvet. So what if it was daytime? There was nothing worth staying conscious for. I’d sleep for a decade, wake up and start over.

  I dozed, dreaming Matt and Charlie were both in my bed, taking turns with me in a twisted parody of my fucked-up life. Both badgering me to hurry up, but how could I, with Jim in the background systematically tearing the flat apart? Just when it became clear I’d never be sexually fulfilled, dammit, I woke up in a sweaty tangle of duvet and realised someone really was clattering around downstairs.

  Typical. I wanted to wallow in self-pity, plot my suicide, that kind of thing, but no. I had to fend off a clumsy intruder instead.

  Armed with a can of hairspray, I crept downstairs towards the noise. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

  Jim looked up from his culinary efforts, jumped with surprise, and dropped his spoon on the floor. “Shit.”

  “Oh.” I sagged. “It’s you.”

  “So it is.” He picked up the spoon, licked it, and shoved it back in the pot.

  Eeeuww.

  “What are you doing home?” He smirked at my choice of weapon, raised his arms. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Ha fucking ha.” I put the hairspray on the bench and rubbed a weary hand over my eyes.

  “Jeez, Becs, am I really that scary?”

  “What? Hardly.”

  “You look like death.”

  I shot him an I-hate-you look.

  “No, really, you do. You’re white. Zombie white.” He cocked his head to one side. “About the colour my gran was when she’d been dead two days.”

  Insensitive ass. I couldn’t decide who should be more affronted, me or Gran. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I did a slow, silent count to ten.

  He peered closer. “Are you contagious?”

  I abandoned the count. “No, I’m not contagious. Or dead.” I elbowed past him and opened the fridge. At a pinch I could probably stuff him in.

  “Why aren’t you in Dublin?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I slammed the fridge door. “It wasn’t my scene, okay?”

  I noticed a nasty mess of something-or-other on the bench, grabbed the cloth and set to with ferocious energy.

  “It wasn’t your scene?” he parroted. “Wasn’t your scene? Hello!” He thumped his forehead. “Free booze, free food, paid to do nothing. What’s not-your-scene about that?”

  True. But he hadn’t mentioned the free boss and free humiliation.

  “Guess I just missed your Jamie Olliver skills.” Sarcasm, the lowest form of wit, usually worked a treat with Jim.

  “Ah.” He gave a sage nod. “Here’s my latest lesson. Take can opener. Extract beans, of baked variety. Place pot on stove. Add beans. Turn knob. Take spoon. Stir. The beans,” he clarified. “Eat.”

  He slurped a demonstrative spoonful into his mouth, then shoved the pot under my nose. “Want some?”

  I repressed a shudder and backed out of the kitchen. “No. I’ve got to go to work.”

  “What’s that got to do with—oh, I get it. The baked beans’ll super-size your farts.” He cupped his hand to his mouth, megaphone-style. “Building evacuated. Police on hunt for killer sphincter muscle.” He cackled, then lifted his leg and let rip a hearty fart.

  It hung between us with an almost physical presence. I gagged.

  He sniffed, his smile beatific. “Roses. Hang on.” He reached into a cupboard and extracted a paper bag. “Take this.”

  I regarded it suspiciously. He wanted me to bag the smell?

  “Oh. Sorry.” He gouged a couple of holes in the side and handed it to me again. “For your head. Otherwise your boss’ll take one look and whip you down to the embalmer’s.” He fell about laughing, like some demented madman.

  For a moment I watched my house-mate. Everything was one big joke to him. Me included. I hated him. “Just fuck off. Fuck. Off.”

  “That’d be necrophilia. Thanks, but no thanks.” He laughed so hard his face turned crimson.

  Did he not get it at all? That this was truly, utterly, the worst day of my life? That I couldn’t stomach talking to him, or anyone, let alone having a cosy chat about god-damn necrophilia? Suddenly my tear-ducts were working again with a vengeance.

  I dived out of the kitchen before he could see me in such a mess, and hurled myself up the stairs into my room. Slammed the door shut and leaned against it. Intermittent necrophilias drifted up the stairs, followed by fresh bouts of laughter. Bastard.

  I dashed away my tears and took a few deep breaths. Now what? Well . . . Work, like I’d said. Why not? I sat on the bed and stared at the floor. Work. It had just been an excuse to avoid Jim’s food, of course. I didn’t really need to go in. As far as Gary Silverton knew I was still in Dublin enjoying Conference Week.

  But if I stayed home I’d have Jim to contend with.

  Fine. Work, then. I stood and opened my wardrobe. Stared blankly at the contents. What to wear? I felt swamped, disoriented, as if someone had disconnected the wires in my brain.

  Who was I kidding? If I couldn’t even scrape together an o
utfit, there was no way I’d cope at work. I flopped back down on my bed but couldn’t settle. I watched the door nervously, expecting Jim to burst in any second.

  I needed to escape. But where?

  Immediately I thought of Mum and Dad. Whatever else I might think of their funny old ways, their door was always open and their love unconditional. I could catch the train to Reading and be there in no time at all.

  But then I’d have to face their questions. I’d have to give them some answers. And then they’d want to sit me down and talk it over. All of it. As if I were still fifteen. What I’d done, said, thought, wished . . . Every last detail. I’d get the ‘you silly girl’ comments, the ‘back in my day’ stuff, and loads of unwelcome puritanical advice.

  I couldn’t face it.

  Why, oh why, had Liz chosen today, of all the god-damn days, to work out of town? I just wanted to hear her voice.

  Which was why mobile phones had been invented.

  “Liz? Hi, it’s me.”

  “Becs.” Her affection warmed me. “How are you? You’re home, then?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “When are you back?”

  “Tomorrow. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I chewed on a fingernail. “It’ll be good to see you, that’s all.”

  “You’re not okay.”

  A ball of emotion clogged up my throat. I couldn’t speak.

  “I can come back tonight if you need me. Or—hey, why don’t you come down here? I’m in Brighton. It’s only a couple of hours by train. We can drive back together.”

  “Thanks, but no. You’re working. I’d just be in the way.”

  “You wouldn’t be.”

  She’d said that to make me feel better, of course. What a pal.

  “Thanks, Liz. No, it can wait. Are you there for the restructure?”

  “Yes. Just preliminary data collection for now.”

  Thank goodness. It was too close to Christmas for redundancies. Or heartbreak.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said. “Hang in there. I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed. A whole day to kill until she came back. How would I cope? What would I do? Twenty. Four. Hours. An eternity.