‘I’m good. Really good – thank you,’ I manage. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you.’
He laughs. ‘Well, you are probably wondering why, after . . . I don’t know, twelve years . . . the guy you used to listen to Nirvana with in your little bedroom is phoning you up, out of the blue.’
My heart flutters in my chest. ‘That question had crossed my mind, yes.’
‘I’m not sure how much your mum told you, but I’ve moved back to the UK, to Manchester. I’ve got a job here.’
‘Oh God,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean . . . wow. What is it you do?’
‘I followed in Dad’s footsteps and became a civil engineer,’ he explains. ‘I thought I’d seen you in the Northern Quarter a few weeks ago. Well, I wasn’t sure – it might have been someone else.’ I decide to say nothing. ‘Anyway, it got me thinking about how nice it’d be to see what you were up to these days. You don’t mind me phoning, do you?’
‘Of course not. It’s really . . . actually, it’s amazing to hear from you,’ I say, unable to stop the truth spilling out of my mouth. ‘I’ve wondered over the years what became of you.’
‘Well, I looked you up on Facebook once – but you’re not on it, are you?’
‘I am actually, but my privacy settings mean I’m not easily found,’ I confess.
‘Woman of mystery,’ he teases. ‘Very you, Gems – I like it.’
Until this moment, I’d completely forgotten he called me Gems, especially when he was in a flirtatious mood. The thought makes my insides fizz.
‘So . . .’ my head spins as I attempt to think of an appropriate topic for small talk, ‘are you married?’ Oh no! I wince, realising I’m giving the impression I’ve spent twelve years pining by my window in the hope that he’ll ride up on a stallion and sweep me off for a small but intimate ceremony at Gretna Green.
He seems unfazed.
‘No. No significant others, I’m afraid.’ I wonder for a moment who the blonde was, but he doesn’t offer the information and I decide I’ve pried enough already.
Yet the conversation, from there, seems to feel a bit easier. I tell him about Dan and the house and my job. He tells me about Cape Town – where he’s lived for the last eight years – his job, and family, who are still in Kenya.
We speak for about ten minutes, though it could be more or less. I’m just starting to feel the tension in my shoulders let up when he asks a question I knew was coming, but it still doesn’t stop my pulse from trebling in speed.
‘Listen, would you like to grab a coffee at some point? I don’t know many people here and it’d just be great to say hello.’ I find myself smiling. Then he adds, ‘I’d love to meet Dan too.’
I am instantly silenced by this suggestion. Because, casual as it clearly is to Alex, the thought is horrifying to me.
Dan might be aware that I had a serious boyfriend when I was a teenager, but he certainly doesn’t know
how
serious – and I’ve never had the heart to correct him when he’s talked about mutual ‘first love’, as if it applies to me as well as him.
The thought of the two of them sitting together is enough to bring me out in a queasy sweat.
And it’s this train of thought that leads me to the next question: should I meet Alex at all? Wouldn’t it just be simpler to have this phone call and leave things be.
‘Sorry – if that’s difficult, don’t worry,’ Alex says, filling the silence.
‘Oh, it’s not difficult,’ I leap in. It would only be difficult if I had lingering feelings for Alex, and after twelve years, that would be ridiculous.
I want to tell him that, to spell it out. But I know I’d be protesting too much.
‘What do you say then?’ he asks. And suddenly, saying no to the coffee doesn’t feel like an option.
Chapter 33
Dan
I try to phone Sheila ahead of our meeting to check that she’s remembered it, but I know the likelihood of her answering is minimal. She treats her phone like a box of Milk Tray: to be dipped into only when she fancies it.
When I arrive at her house, she opens the door and gasps, ‘Were you due today, lad? Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see you, but I’d have tidied up first.’
She explodes into a savage cough and sucks on her inhaler as she shows me into the living room. It’s spotless. She’s become proud of the place, judging by the pink curtains and sparkly cushions that have appeared over the last few weeks. Photos of her sons and granddaughter line up along her mantelpiece and her shoes – all skyscraper high in retina-burning colours – are lined up neatly along the hearth.
She’s a model client in most ways, even if one element of her recovery isn’t quite happening.
She sits on the sofa and pulls a blanket over her legs while we discuss the usual pleasantries – what she’s reading (the Mothercare brochure), whether she’s seen baby Rose recently (sadly not), and if I’ve seen the bloody price of an electric breast pump (something I can’t say with any conviction that I have).
She is gripped by coughing fits throughout, so I wait until she’s finished before I casually raise the subject I really want to talk about.
‘Did you go to your Addaction meeting last week?’ I don’t look up, just flick through my notes.
I’ve become aware that she’s missed several doctor’s appointments and, although she began attending her sessions at the drugs counselling service, they’ve tailed off dramatically. This is far from uncommon, even with someone as apparently determined as Sheila.
‘Erm . . . I might have. I’m not sure.’ I look up at her. She pulls the blanket over her bony shoulders and refuses to make eye-contact. ‘I remember – I got up to go, but I got to the bus stop and realised I didn’t have any money. So I came back home and looked, but by the time I found some, it was too late.’
‘Sheila.’ I lean forward. ‘Do you still want a referral to the Kevin White Unit?’
‘You know I do!’ she protests, launching into another ferocious cough.
‘Then you have to go to these sessions. I’d be happy to go with you.’
‘I’d never miss them normally,’ she goes on, deaf to my offer. ‘People who do that are a disgrace. It’s no wonder the country is in such a state, all these time-wasters making appointments and then not bothering. Terrible.’
I nod. ‘So are you going this week?’
‘Definitely. I’ve just had loads on, that’s all,’ she responds, as if she’s Sheryl Sandberg. ‘I promise I’ll go to the one on Friday.’
‘Thursday.’
‘Sorry, Thursday. Don’t worry, lad. I won’t let you down.’
When I return to the office, I have a mountain of work to tackle, but Pete is intent on quizzing me about the intricacies of his love-life as if I’m a cross between Frasier Crane and a fourteen-year-old girl on a sleepover.
‘I’m starting to wonder if I’ve taken the wrong approach,’ he muses, polishing off a Gregg’s sausage roll. It’s not his first. ‘Casually mentioning going out could be too ambiguous.’
‘Hmm . . . I don’t know, Pete.’
‘So if I phone her, then there’s no way she could interpret that other than me actually, you know, making
an advance
.’
‘Hmm.’
Pete gives up. ‘When are you going to be in this new house then?’
‘Who knows? I’ll be honest, I was amazed they agreed to budge on the survey. I thought they were going to tell us to get stuffed.’
‘So the sellers are paying for
all
the work to be done? You don’t have to contribute anything to it?’
‘Nope. All Gemma had to agree to was £510 for the carpets and curtains.’
‘She must be one hell of a negotiator.’
‘You could never accuse Gemma of a lack of determination.’ I pick up the phone, when Pete interrupts.
‘You know, part of me wonders if she
does
know.’
‘Who?’
‘Jade.’
‘Know what?’
He looks at me like I’m failing to keep up with some crucial twist in the world’s most compelling soap opera. ‘My true feelings.’
‘It’s a possibility you need to consider, Pete. I mean, the amount of coffee you’ve taken her for . . .’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
I put down the phone. ‘Man plus woman plus romantic little coffee shop – it can only mean one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
I grin. ‘Lust is in the air, my friend.’
Chapter 34
Gemma
I’ve arranged to meet Alex for coffee in an Icelandic-themed café-bar in Manchester called Löngun, a name I discovered to my alarm afterwards translates as ‘desire’. It could have been worse, I suppose. At least it wasn’t the Italian for ‘come-hither eyes’ or Swedish for ‘sex on legs’.
Plus, the good things I’d heard about it seem warranted. It’s cool without being full of itself, with books slotted neatly into geometric shelves, the air thick with the scent of espresso and a nice selection of artisan sandwiches on the menu.
Not that I’m interested in the sandwiches. I haven’t eaten properly since last night, unless you count two bites of the near-calcified toast Belinda thoughtfully made me for breakfast.
He’s already there when I arrive. I knew he would be because he was always early, for absolutely everything. As I push open the door, he looks up and smiles. The familiarity of the gesture makes me relax, but it’s a momentary sensation that disintegrates entirely when he kisses me on the cheek and warmth spreads right through to my fingertips.
‘Gems. You look spectacular. Nothing less.’
‘If you say so,’ I mutter, reddening.
‘I do.’
I sit down and, hyper-aware that he’s looking at me – just
looking
– I start to talk. And talk. And talk a bit more.
‘So, this is a nice place, isn’t it? I know Liverpool a lot better than Manchester to be honest, apart from the Northern Quarter, which I like a lot. It’s a great city – you’ll love it, I’m sure. Not that I’m here all the time – just occasionally with work. What made you choose a job in Manchester? I’d always assumed you’d go off travelling the world somewhere and never come back to the UK again.’
I become aware halfway through this soliloquy that the
just looking
is still happening, so I continue for as long as I possibly can before coming up for air.
‘Gemma.’ He smiles. ‘Let me get you a drink, then I’ll fill you in – on everything.’
‘Oh! Sorry!’ I glance at the menu I appear to be clutching. ‘I’ll have a cappuccino. But I’ll get it, don’t worry.’ I grab my purse, but he puts his hand on mine. ‘It’s fine, let me.’
I look down, momentarily stunned by the feel of his fingertips on my skin. He withdraws his hand. ‘I insist,’ I say firmly, clambering up to head to the bar.
Only as I try to catch my breath and order the coffee, I realise that I used my last cash in the car park. Obviously, there is no way I’m going to go and bum some off Alex, not in the opening moments of a reunion (though to call it that makes me wince). So I hand over the first bit of plastic in my purse, my credit card.
‘Sorry, there’s a £5 minimum charge on all cards,’ the assistant tells me.
‘Oh . . . okay, I’ll take a cake as well,’ I reply reluctantly, eating being the last thing on my mind.
We then go through the charade of him cutting a piece of lemon drizzle cake the size of a house brick, before he announces that their card machine is on the blink and he’ll have to bring it back to me at my table once the payment has gone through.
I return to Alex and place the plate in front of him casually. ‘Would you like some cake?’
He laughs, his eyes sparkling as he catches mine. ‘Go on then, I’ll share it with you.’
‘Oh, I don’t want any,’ I fluster.
He smirks and holds my gaze. ‘What made you think
I
would?’ And for some reason, that mischievous look on his face makes me laugh too.
‘Maybe you just looked like a man in the mood for some sponge cake,’ I smile.
He picks up a fork. ‘Right then. You obviously haven’t forgotten that I
never
say no to cake.’
Actually, I had forgotten. But now he mentions it, the first summer when we were together, we’d always end up in the little patisserie over the road from where he lived, working our way through their jewel-coloured pastries. If he’d continued with this daily sugar rush, you’d never know it. I’d be a stone and a half heavier if I had – which is another one to add to the list of
good
things that came of our break-up.
‘In answer to your question, the move here wasn’t really planned,’ he tells me. ‘I’d worked on big building projects all over South Africa for a while, but I fancied a change of scene. Then this came up – the chance to work on a project in Manchester. It’s a six-month contract and they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’
He nestles his fork into the cake, cuts off a piece and, distractingly, brings it to his lips. I tear my eyes away and decide to keep talking. ‘It must feel strange being back in the UK.’
‘A lot’s changed in twelve years, but people are the same the world over – I’ve learned that much. Nice to see a familiar face though.’
I realise I’m smiling again. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Just under two months. Still re-acclimatising really.’
Having been a maelstrom of nerves before I arrived, this whole encounter suddenly feels astonishingly enjoyable.
I wouldn’t say it’s as if we’ve never been apart – there are moments when I feel like I don’t know him at all. But at other times, especially when we reminisce, it’s like putting on your most treasured pair of shoes and becoming aware that they still fit and have the ability to make your heart soar.
He’s still got that open, easy personality and mildly flirtatious sense of humour. He looks, essentially, like a grown-up version of himself, which I suppose is exactly what he is.
Yet this new history he’s accumulated – with different people and places from mine – is one I can’t get enough of. I tell him more about Dan and he tells me about his only other serious girlfriend, with whom he broke up two years ago. He’s now single: the woman I saw him with in the Northern Quarter was just a colleague.
I suspect we could fill an entire afternoon catching up if I didn’t have to get back to work.