Chapter Thirteen She’s Lost Control #2
The tea went cold. Aisling was as warm as if she were in the direct, beaming glow of the sun.
She’d never been so happy in all her life.
She pinched Julian hard on the arm until he looked up, pouting, his red-rimmed eyes full of betrayal.
Then she’d kissed him. It had been a sloppy affair, with too much wetness and too many teeth, but it had been the best kiss of her life.
Because she loved him so, so terribly much.
And he loved her. And she’d been a right twit, thinking he cared for her about as much as the kebab man.
They made love that night and that too was a rather sloppy affair, as it became clear fairly early on that Julian was quite inexperienced.
But he was very open about it and didn’t seem at all embarrassed.
If anything, he was eager to learn and let Aisling show him precisely everything she liked.
As inelegant and clumsy and messy as it was, it too was the best she’d ever had.
Because it was Julian. Because he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
Because it was finally happening and she had it all.
After that night, they were an official item and were once again inseparable, this time in a decidedly more mutual manner.
Any friends she’d made who couldn’t accept Julian’s marvellous eccentricities were chucked in short order, and the bloke she’d been faffing about with was just as ruthlessly disposed of.
Julian matriculated a year later and, uninspired by her studies and finding little to keep her there, Aisling dropped out.
She moved back in with her parents who lived not far from the flat Julian got himself in Hoxton close to his nan’s old record shop.
She almost asked to move in with him, but then she’d seen his flat, a dingy basement affair with only a sink and hot plate to call a kitchen and a bathroom no larger than a wardrobe.
So she instead waited in the hopes that one day, when they were both better off financially, they would find a flat together.
A nice above-ground flat, in a neighbourhood not overrun by tramps or gangs or dubious curry vendors, with fresh white walls and large, modern windows.
Yes. They’d move in together one day, she had thought. They would get married one day, too.
They had been blissfully happy… for all of three months until Julian’s childhood best friend, Rahul Chaand, moved back down from up North.
It might be unfair to blame Rahul for all of their relationship problems, but they had been perfectly fine together until that big lout showed up and suddenly they were fighting and breaking up, making up, breaking up, making up, breaking up.
Aisling was no scientist, but she knew cause and effect when she saw it.
Now here she was. Having broken into her boyfriend’s flat and torn it apart looking for evidence of his indiscretions.
She didn’t recognize the person she had become any more than she recognized the woman she saw in the mirror.
What did she think she was doing? What did she think she was going to accomplish here?
Was this really how far she had fallen? Was this the natural conclusion of the unhealthy, schoolgirl obsession she had developed with Julian all those years ago?
How had she gone from not seeing a single flaw in him to being unable to see anything but? What was she doing? What was she doing?
She sat down hard on the cold, tile floor of the grimy bathroom.
She sat there for quite some time. How long, she couldn’t say.
Long enough for her arse to go numb and legs to prickle with fire ants when she stretched them.
After an interminable amount of time that she assumed was hundreds, if not thousands, of years, she tore off a wad of loo roll, blew her snotty nose, and got to her feet.
She washed her face with cold water from the tap and scrubbed away the streaky makeup.
Feeling much refreshed if not much better, she tipped the Kate Bush records out of their box and went around the flat in a neat, methodical way which belied her earlier pandemonium, rounding up the belongings of hers she had left there. It wasn’t much, incidentally.
She made sure everything was back in order, or at least back in the state of disorder to which Julian was accustomed, before leaving the flat with a final, bone-weary look around, then locking the door behind herself.
She slid the key -- her key -- under the weather-worn mat.
He probably wouldn’t find it there, but there was something of a ritual in leaving it behind, as if she were freeing herself of him.
The word “unshackling” came to mind. She picked up her box of possessions and turned to go up the stairs.
Then she screamed.
Only a little. She had been startled. She hadn’t expected to see a man standing at the top of the stairs.
She almost began to say she was sorry, that very ingrained British response to apologise for existing, but stopped herself.
He bloody well ought to be the one to apologise.
Who did he think he was creeping up on unsuspecting women?
Even if he was quite handsome and tall and blond, with very modern and fashionable glasses.
Instead of apologising, however, the man said in a clipped, posh voice, “What are you doing here?”
Aisling was quite taken aback by the sheer rudeness and took a few moments to gather herself enough to speak. “What am I… What do you mean what am I doing here? Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t live here. You shouldn’t be going through people’s homes when they’re not present.”
“I’ll have you know it’s my boyfriend who lives here, you tosser.” She was growing more irate by the minute. Just who did this wanker think he was? And he’d ignored her questions altogether.
“That entitles you to take things from his home, does it?” He took a single step forward, foot falling interminably down from the pavement to the next step. Within the space of lifting his foot and setting it down, Aisling’s mood swung dizzyingly from outrage to fear.