Chapter 22 #2
I whirled on Jamie. I hated him. I hated him more than anyone else in my entire life, and I always would.
I hated his privilege. His degree from Cambridge.
His RP accent. I hated that he was perfect for Ollie in every way I never would be.
“You’re a deceitful, nasty, little piece of shit, and I hope you die.
You homewrecking slut.” He jutted his chin out.
“Remember the old saying: when a man marries his mistress, it creates a job opportunity.”
I turned to Ollie, full of self-righteous rage. “As for you!” But I looked at him, his lip wobbling, his watery eyes and just felt … nothing. I paused. I took a deep breath. “You’re not worth it. You’re nothing to me.”
I felt, rather than saw, something out of the corner of my eye, and Simon’s arm arrived on mine. He gently chided me along to the door. “Come on, Arden. I’ve got our stuff. Let’s go home.”
“Arden!” Ollie called back to me. His footsteps followed us down the hall.
I turned to see him approach us, but Simon’s hand flew out and landed on Ollie’s chest, keeping him at a distance. “Not going to happen, mate.”
“Fuck off,” Ollie snapped and tried to surge forward, but Simon held him back.
I walked out to the stairs and took them two at a time.
After a few floors, I heard Simon’s footsteps behind me, and then we came to the main entrance, where I exploded through the doors into the baking sunshine.
The sky was a perfect blue, and already, London was hot enough to feel like your energy was being sapped from your body.
But of course, Jamie had probably walked several streets in this heat and still looked perfect when he’d arrived, whereas I’d have looked like a dishevelled mole rat.
As I’d gone down the stairs, I’d been too shocked to think, but the fresh air jump-started my brain, and before I knew it, I was calling Ollie Ross every name under the sun that I could think of.
“Fucking … piece of shit … lying … wanking … fucking tosspot … arsehole … cheating … two-faced … limp-dicked … wanker … arsemonger … bastard … fucking stupid, ugly, waste of space, cunty, narcissistic, shit-eating, fuckface, prima donna, wankstain, little, bollocking evil, hateful, Scottish, cock-sucking, miserly, micro-dicked, weak-chinned, knobhead, string of piss, dumbarse, fucking cunt.” I kept marching towards the car – or at least where I vaguely remembered Simon had parked the car – all the while my diatribe kept going.
I ran out of words in English, so reverted to Polish.
I reached a crescendo as I took a corner onto the street where I was ninety-nine per cent sure we’d parked – and scaring a mother with a child – I called Ollie a “horse-fucking cabbage sniffer” (it sounds better in Polish).
I reached Simon’s car as my anger hit boiling point and my muttering burst out of me. I swung my fist down on the bonnet of his truck as hard as I could.
“KURWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWA!” I screamed.
There was a long silence. I was panting – quite loudly.
“I’ll admit you lost me when you switched to Polish. I knew a couple of them, but that last one, well, that’s become universal,” Simon said.
I was still panting.
Simon nodded and put the bags inside. “In you get.” He opened the door, and after a few more seconds of huffing, I eventually slid into the seat and curled up in the corner. I didn’t want to look at Simon, I didn’t want to interact, and I definitely did not want to talk.
He seemed to understand this because, after a brief look at me, he put his sunglasses on and made his way out into the morning traffic. He switched on a playlist from his phone, and an upbeat techno song started playing.
We drove for about forty-five minutes. Simon began to slow down and took the exit to the motorway services.
“Why are we stopping?”
He looked at me. “Because we didn’t finish breakfast. All your histrionics got in the way, and I’m a growing boy.
” He pulled into a parking space and got out.
“Come on.” He jerked his head to the building that promised all sorts of delicious carbs.
I shook my head. I wanted to wallow. Wallowing was good.
“Suit yourself, I’ll bring you back something.”
I sat in the car and – as was my wont so often – felt ruinously sorry for myself. My phone buzzed in my hand. Another message from … him. I looked at the screen but didn’t open the message. I deleted it unread.
Simon was gone a long time. After twenty-five minutes, I started to wonder if he was coming back.
He’d taken the keys. I shrugged. Oh, well, the only way to make my day worse was to lock myself out of the car, so I did just that.
There was a pretty-ish copse of trees off to the side of the car park with a few ducks around.
Some picnic tables were scattered about, and all of them were empty.
I sat. I stared into the middle distance.
Eventually, I saw a red-haired man make his way out to the car holding a selection of baked goods in little white bags with blue logos on them.
He looked around when he saw the car was empty and seemed slightly panicked for a second.
I raised my hand and gave a wave, so he’d see me.
Odd to think about Simon being worried about me.
He came over to the table and laid his wares out in front of us. “I bring sustenance.” He opened a bag and bit into a sausage roll. After a few seconds of chewing, he looked in my direction and slid a cup of coffee towards me. “Food and drink is good. It’ll make you feel better.”
I did what I always did whenever someone was nice to me and burst into tears.
The wretchedness in me took over, and I sat there blubbing, sniffing, snot everywhere, and whining. “I thought he loved me. But he-he never r-really loved me, did he?” I put my head in my hands and fell apart. I was so tired of it all. I wanted a quiet life with a nice man. Why couldn’t I get that?
A shadow passed over me, and I felt a weight next to me on the seat. Simon’s arm came around my shoulders. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered.
“I’m such an idiot,” I said, trying to wipe my nose.
“No, you’re not. You loved him and he let you down,” Simon said. “If it makes you feel better, I think he’s a twat. Who has you and goes looking elsewhere?”
“It’s not like I’m any better. I slept with you, with Tarquin, with Errol. I’m as bad as he is, but I pretend I’m not.” The tears began to subside after a while, and I was able to eventually breathe and talk normally again. Simon offered me a napkin covered in sausage roll crumbs.
“First of all, that’s utter nonsense,” he said, shaking his head.
“You haven’t cheated on anyone. You’re single and can do what you like.
And secondly, we’ve all been there. If I had a fiver for every time that I’ve bawled into my pillow about some bloke who’d done me over, I’d … well, I’d be as rich as you are.”
I laughed because I couldn’t imagine Simon having his heart broken. I looked up at him. He was so close. I could see the ginger stubble on his chin, the bags under his eyes and his greasy hair. Those deep blue eyes. That were staring straight at me. “You look like shit,” I mumbled.
“So do you. Except you’re working with a higher quality canvas than me, so you’re still better off,” he said.
He reached up and pushed a piece of my fringe off my face.
“I know you still love him, Arden, and maybe you always will. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make you get over him for good, I really do.”
I gulped. And sniffled some more. “You’ll meet a nice guy, Arden. I promise you. And all the Ollies and Tarquins of the world will fade to the back of your mind. You’ll be happy, and eventually, you’ll have to stop and think to remember what their faces looked like.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.” He smiled and clapped me on my shoulder. “C’mon, eat. Stop letting that twat control your life and let’s get home.”
I know what you’re thinking, reader. That I’m a hypocrite. And, why couldn’t Ollie sleep with whoever he felt like? I had dumped him. He was single. He could do what he wanted.
But why had he made so many efforts to win me back if he was still seeing that … that piece of shit, Jamie. “Maybe Jamie sent the letter,” I muttered to myself as I got back in the truck.
“That’s the spirit, mate. Let’s frame the little wanker for murder,” Simon said, joking.
“Why can’t you be like this all the time?” I blurted out.
Simon frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nice! Why can’t you always be nice to me?
Why do we always have to wind each other up?
Why can’t we get along – we do when we try.
We could be really good friends. But we …
no, you said my self-esteem was too low, so fuck it, you – it’s you who always makes it awkward.
You always get in a huff with me about something.
But then you go and do nice things, and I don’t know where I am with you.
It’s exhausting. Either hate me or be my friend. ”
Simon was very quiet for a long time. And then he reached over and took my face in his big hands and kissed me.
Nigella gave me an odd look when I came to pick up Kennedy. Like she could tell I wasn’t quite all there. Was she like Verity and concerned I was acting manic? I ignored it.
“Was he well behaved?” I asked.
“An angel. Oh, and Sonia stayed over last night, too. Poor thing was a wreck. We concocted some plans to put her back together.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Full debrief over gin and tonics when I’ve had some sleep?” I asked.
“I’ve got a bottle of Tanqueray waiting for whenever you’re ready. Bring some lemons.”
Kennedy and I walked – slowly – home, and I fell into bed. I slept for hours and hours.
Correction. I slept for about four hours. I woke up in the late afternoon. It was blisteringly hot outside and even hotter in my room. I was drenched in sweat.