ELLIE
Once upon a time, Saturdays were the best day of the week. A full day of doing whatever I wanted, without a care in the world.
I could go shopping, get my nails done, lounge in my pyjamas all day watching crap TV … but that was before I grew up, got a job and bought a car.
And since things aren’t going so great with my job today, it makes sense that my car would crumble too in the tune of a flat tyre.
The deflated remains of my passenger side wheel would look comical if it wasn’t for the fact that this is the least amusing thing I’ve come across since finding that old bit of paper.
And since I have no tears left in the tank, I burst into hysterical laughter for a few moments before it teeters off into an awkward silence as I consider my options.
I could call my parents, but I can hear my mother now, ‘Why don’t you call your breakdown service?’ but that would mean having a breakdown service to call. It’s just one of the things I had to carve away from my expenditure when I bought my house.
I could call Kathryn and Greg, but I can hear the exasperated huffs from my sister as she’s inconvenienced, because even though she’d send Greg, it’d be my fault for ruining their evening.
Or, I could call Jessica and wait for her to drive here, which probably isn’t ideal, seeing as it’s creeping closer to eight o’clock.
I pop the boot of my car and lift the cover to reveal the space-saver tyre, staring at the polystyrene tray where the jack and the locking wheel nut live.
It can’t be that difficult, can it ?
It takes me a full hour to realise that jacking up the car is the easy part; it’s loosening the wheel-nuts that proves to be the problem. I can’t budge two out of five, nor can the only person who offered to help.
I’m tired, cold and it’s late. And all I want to do is crawl into bed and forget about this—at least until tomorrow anyway.
I use the last of my energy to pile everything back into my boot after lowering my car, figuring I’ll have to call a taxi to get home. But then I remember there’s a bottle of wine in the back room of the salon; a Christmas gift from a client that I can use to drown my sorrows.
I open the shutters enough to squeeze underneath, unlocking the door and disarming the alarm at a speed of someone who’s done this a lot. Then I make my way to the back room to find the wine.
My mouth feels like cotton wool; the taste of cheap wine on my breath. And there’s a vibrating on my chest that persists for a few moments before I realise it’s my phone. I don’t even check the screen; I slide to accept the call before pressing my phone to my ear, croaking out a greeting.
“Ellie?” a voice says.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to swallow. “Who’s this?”
“Hey, it’s Bettsy,” the voice says.
“Huh?”
“It’s Mike Betts. This is … Ellie Kitchener, right?”
I rub my eyes, trying to process the words that float into my ear.
“Yeah, this is she,” I say.
“Can we talk?” he says.
Talk? What the?—
“Sorry, who is this?”
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, fine, but—” Then there’s a laugh. A laugh I recognise almost straight away; it hits me, rousing me from the hazy veil that settled. “Mike? ”
“Yeah. Like I said—it’s Bettsy. Sorry to call you out of the blue, but I was hoping we could talk.”
I sit up, swivelling my body so I can put my feet on the floor, trying to ground myself.
I take a minute to work out where I am: the backroom of the salon, on the sofa with my coat as a blanket.
“Talk? I’m sorry, what?” I say.
“I’ve been thinking—the way we left things last time, I mean?—”
“Look, I’ve had the literal day from hell—I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.
“Please? Just ten minutes—I mean, I’m back home. I had a game here tonight, so I figured it’d be a good time to talk. I’m at your salon right now so I can come and meet you somewhere,” he says.
I swear to God my heart stops for a beat, then I hesitate for a moment, because the last thing I need is Mike turning up here and seeing the absolute state that is my life. Despite not wanting to care what he of all people thinks, I do. And it sucks.
“How do you know—right, your mam. Well, can’t sorry. I’m busy,” I say.
“Five minutes, then? You owe me that.”
“I owe you nothing,” I snap, letting the pitch of my voice elevate. “If anyone owes anyone anything … it’s you. You’re a dick and I have nothing more to say to you.”
There’s a pause, then Mike’s voice, now full of sarcasm, comes down the line again. “Aww—look at us, bickering like an ol?—”
“Stop it, Mike.”
“So, give me five minutes,” he says. “Where shall I meet you?”
“You can say what you’ve got to say over the phone,” I say.
Another pause.
“Do you know spoken communication allows for immediate clarification of misunderstandings? Trust me, this is a face-to-face thing, sweetheart.”
I growl. “You’re full of crap.”
“You used to love it,” he says. “Always said how funny I was.”
He’s talking like we spent twelve years together, not twelve hours. But, considering I’m running out of ways to say no and for him to actually hear me, I exhale sharply, and wriggle out from under my coat.
I make my way to the front area of the salon, where I spot Mike through the gaps in the shutter, standing on the pavement outside illumined by the streetlamps.
He’s wearing a suit. A freaking suit. And he has the audacity to pull it off, too. That nauseating feeling of disgust creeps in as I will myself to tap the glass.
He turns around, phone still pressed to his ear.
“Oh, hey honey,” he says, in a fake North American accent.
“Five minutes,” I hiss into my phone. “It starts now.”
“Aren’t you going to let me in? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
I’m pissed at him, but I’m not completely heartless, so I unlock the door and gesture for him to duck under the shutter.
“Do you live in your salon?” he asks before cutting the call and slipping his phone away.
He steps inside cautiously, closing the door behind him.
“No. By the way, you’re eating into your five minutes.”
He ignores me, opting to start a game of question time instead.
“So, what’re you doing here this late, then? It’s not that warm, Kitch. You’re going to freeze in here.”
“What does it matter to you?” I ask.
Mike frowns. “Give me a break, would you?”
Honestly, his expression has me feeling sorry for him for at least a second, then I see the shiner on his cheek and remember that he’s a big burly hockey player who can take it.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve had a terrible day and then I get woken up for a five-minute conversation I don’t really want to have—I guess I’m feeling a little tetchy about it.”
“Well, it’s hardly the middle of the night, but the rest is fair, I guess.
” He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing at his shoes briefly before looking me in the eye.
“I came to apologise. And set the record straight, I guess. You left before I could explain and I’ve been thinking about it all week, trying to figure out what’s real and what isn’t and I guess I concluded I have no idea.
I’ve seen several videos online and—I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know, Kitch.
“But what I do know, is I’d never lure you into doing something like that for the fun of it. I mean—why would I, huh? Why would I marry then ditch you? I know I don’t always think things through, but I’m not that much of an ass.”
I stare at him. Trying to take it all in.
My head is fuzzy, probably from the wine, but I guess I can see his logic: why would he do that? What would he gain from it?
Unease works its way through my bones. Because if he didn’t know.
And I didn’t know. Then … neither of us knew.
And if neither of us knew, then both of us are in this as equals.
Neither of us in this situation as a result of a conscious decision, which makes me feel a whole load worse because I have no one to blame.
No one except myself.
I swallow, trying to work out if the feeling in my chest is heartbreak or disappointment, but at least the five minutes is now up.
“Well, thanks for letting me know. Please, can you close the door on your way out?” I turn on my heel and head in the direction of the back room, but he calls my name and, as much as I want to ignore him, I don’t. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I’m glad I’m facing away from him because tears I didn’t realise I had left come, catching in my eyes and filling my vision with blurry wetness .
“You don’t—” I choke out, swallowing hard, but he cuts over me.
“No, I do. I am sorry. If I hadn’t invited you to spend the day with me, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault. And if you’re anything like either of my sisters, you’ve had this idea of what your wedding was going to be like since you were … I don’t know, a kid or something.”
There’s a shuffle of movement before he speaks again.
“Images of how you’d be proposed to … and what your ring would look like… and I took that away from you. I didn’t even give you a proper kiss.”
He exhales before he continues.
“I know most guys don’t care about that sort of stuff, but I’ve seen it firsthand that women care. Most women, anyway. So, forgive me if I’ve generalised but … anyway, I am really fucking sorry, and whatever you need to make it right, I’ll do it. You’ve got my number now, so … yeah.”
Then the yale-lock on the shop door clicks shut as he leaves.