BETTSY
One last look at her and I realise that no matter how shit things are, I’d rather cut off my dick and feed it to the pigeons than let Rochelle anywhere near me again.
I turn and head for the hotel exit, and the fresh air hits me, clearing my mind and reminding me I’ve done the right thing.
She doesn’t get the message.
I stride away, as fast as I can. Two streets later she’s still following me, randomly calling out insults as she walks.
Apparently, blocking her number wasn’t a nice thing to do. Nor was ignoring her at Liam’s stag do. Not that I really saw her—she tried to get into the VIP area in the club we ended up in, but Johnny cut off any chance of her worming her way inside.
Long live the captain.
As she trails behind me, through the empty side-streets, there’s no Johnny. It’s just me.
Just me and my resolve and what I need is for her to fuck off and leave me alone.
Maybe I can call Danny, get him to come and meet me and—where the fuck is my phone?
I dip my hand into my left pocket, but it’s not there. Nor is it in my right. Nor inside the jacket—which, I realise, is where I should have put it.
I come to an abrupt stop. Turning and facing the direction I came from to see Rochelle still trailing along behind me but with a phone that looks familiarly like my own, clutched in her hands.
When the hell did she take my phone? How could I not have noticed ?
“She hung up on me,” Rochelle says, looking down at the screen in disgust.
“What the hell are you playing at?” I say. “Why do you have my phone?” I stride forward and she moves away, holding my phone a little out of reach so I’m forced to close in.
“Talk. To. Me,” she fires. “If you want your phone back. Talk to me first.”
And I’m reminded of the turmoil, the demands, the controlling attitude.
But I’m done.
Done with her shit.
“Give me my phone back. Here, this is me, talking to you,” I snap.
“Oh, lighten up, Bettsy. I’m only having a laugh,” Rochelle says.
I make a quick dash, catching her off guard as I rip my phone from her hands. She wobbles on a strappy heel but keeps her balance.
“I just wanted to see who’s keeping you so busy. I’m sorry, but there’s no way you’d turn me down unless there was someone else—” She freezes mid-sentence. Her eyes looking down at my hand. “—what are you wearing?” she says. “On your finger. Why are you wearing a wedding ring?”
I don’t want to entertain her with an answer. I turn around and hurry away, checking over my messages, grateful I keep my phone locked because there’s no way she wouldn’t rifle through my messages.
Speaking of which … there are several unread in the group chat.
Then calls from Danny, Johnny, Vicky, and Ellie .
Ellie.
Ellie called me.
Has she changed her mind? Has she?—
“Bettsy,” Rochelle screams, the sound of her heels clicking against the pavement as she hurries in my direction. “Don’t you walk away from me.”
“Fuck off,” I snap. “Honestly. Leave me alone or I’ll?—”
“Or you’ll what?” she says.
And we both know I’ve got nothing. I can’t hit her—no, I won’t hit her. No matter how vexed she gets me. And I don’t have anything on her to return the social slander favour…
“God, you’re pathetic,” she says. “Wearing a wedding ring … are you that desperate, Bettsy?”
“Fuck. Off,” I say again, slow words … each enunciated.
I’m not interested in Rochelle. Not now—not anymore. I pick up pace, hitting re-dial and pressing my phone to my ear as it rings out.
Brr-brr.
Brr-brr.
Brr-brr.
It rings and rings, eventually cutting off.
Fuck.
I’ve blown it.
I’ve—
“Bettsy,” Rochelle calls.
And it hits me. This is all her fault.
“You,” I say, turning and pointing a finger at Rochelle. “This is your fault.” It’s clicks together—Ellie must have been the one to hang up on Rochelle.
She stares at me, a blank expression on her overly made-up face. “What?—”
“Why can’t you leave me the fuck alone? Why can’t you just fuck off?”
“Is that really what you want?” she says.
I laugh. “Of course, that’s what I fucking want. You’ve been harassing me for months. All the crap you’ve written on the forums and?—”
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I fumble to answer it, almost sending it three feet into the air but steadying my grip before spotting the name on the screen.
Danny.
“Yeah?”
“Where the hell are you, Betts? Ellie showed up and now Vicky’s here for photos and?—”
“Is she still there?” I say, cutting him off. I swallow hard, pushing down the bile that’s rising as I wait for him to reply.
“Vicky? Yeah, she’s?—”
“No,” I say.
He blows out a breath down the line. “Nah, mate. She’s gone.”
I stare ahead, not hearing anything else he’s telling me, trying to work out what the hell I do next.
What do I do? How the fuck do I fix this?
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket, not giving Rochelle any of the attention she’s craving as I walk past her, towards the direction of the railway station. They’ll have cabs. I can jump in a taxi and go straight to Ellie’s … try to straighten this out.
But Rochelle has other ideas.
“Bettsy?” she calls after me. “You know I left Matt for you, right? You know I gave up everything I had with him for you and this is how you thank me? You’re pathetic. And you know what?” There’s a pause, like she’s waiting for me to answer before she adds, “you’re not even that good in bed.”
I snort. Because I’ve never cared less about what anyone thinks of me. I keep walking, long strides to out-step her in my desperation to get away.
But she’s sort of running along on the pavement after me, heels clipping the concrete as she moves.
“Bettsy? Will you stop? ”
I feel a hand on my arm, then it’s gone, then there’s a pull on the sleeve of my jacket. But her hand slips away as she loses her grip. And as I turn, things sort of happen in slow motion.
She stumbles forward, toppling over herself as her face hits the ground—the heel of her shoe caught in a crack of the pavement.
I freeze.
She’s face down, splayed across the pavement, ragged breaths—then she lifts her head up, pulling herself onto her hands and knees.
Then she screams.
It’s a scream that goes right to my bones.
There’s blood everywhere.
Her face, her hair, her neck—everywhere.
I wait for the horror to hit me … for me to feel something… for me to panic and hurry to her aid, but I don’t.
All I can do is stand here.