Chapter 16 #3
‘Didn’t look like it from what I could see . . .’ she twinkled sweetly at him. ‘So, come on, Fran, who is she?’ She was also dying to add, and how old is she? but managed to gag herself just in time.
‘She seemed . . . very into you,’ she added instead.
‘Did you think so?’ He looked unmistakably pleased. Bugger, served her right for fishing.
‘Mm, definitely. So . . . where did you two meet?’
‘Ally, you’re very inquisitive.’
‘Of course I am, Fran. I have to make sure she’s good enough for you,’ she teased.
A shadow crossed his face as he contemplated his pint.
‘She’s very young . . . Do you think she’s very young?’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ said Ally, innocently. ‘What’s very young? She’d be . . . twenty . . . what?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘Aw, lovely.’ Not. ‘So you met her on—’
‘Tinder.’
‘Right . . . sure. That’d be the main one, wouldn’t it?’
Oh my God, she deserved a column in Angler’s World magazine for her fishing performance.
But wow, being replaced by someone ten years younger .
. . That was something. Still, apart from the dent in her pride, there was a niggling .
. . something. What exactly was a pretty twenty-four-year-old doing on Tinder, swiping on guys thirteen years older than herself?
It happened, she supposed. But still . . . How was she going to phrase this?
‘So, Fran . . . are you two . . . a thing?’
God, that was about as subtle as an approaching bin lorry.
He gazed towards the ceiling and huffed. ‘Naaa . . . naaa . . . We’re just, you know . . . It’s no big deal.’
Well, that sounded like a no . . . didn’t it?
‘So long as you’re happy.’ She smiled bravely. He might be all dressed up, but away from the Tadpole, he looked just like his old self. She felt a wave of affection for him, and the growing-up they’d done together. Shame it had finished when she was thirty-four.
‘I actually missed you a lot, you know,’ he blurted.
She hadn’t missed him . . . exactly – at least, not the monotonous routines and irregular vanilla sex. Although, being honest, Old Ally was pretty vanilla herself. They’d probably both needed a good shake-up.
‘So, here we are,’ he declared philosophically. Although he still hadn’t said where his new girlfriend was. She’d a sneaking unease that his description of their relationship didn’t exactly line up with what she’d observed that day in The Owl’s Nest – still, what else had she to go on?
They’d had two drinks and a pleasant conversation. Any more and, Ally’s good sense told her, they could become:
1) Maudlin
2) Recriminatory
3) Horny
Obviously, the right thing to do was to go home.
‘I’ll get us another,’ said Francis.
‘Lovely.’
‘So . . .’ He sat down and gazed at her across the table with his pale eyes and sandy fair hair that flipped outwards when it needed a trim.
‘Fran, your hair’s getting long.’
‘See, you’re the only one who reminds me of that,’ he said nostalgically. ‘Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d stayed together?’
She wondered briefly if he still had feelings for her but then had a sudden flashback of the Tadpole and reminded herself to cop on.
Though, in truth, she did still have feelings for him – warm feelings of familiarity and affection.
They’d never fought like other couples she knew.
They’d just sort of set . . . like jelly.
‘What do you think would’ve happened, Francis?’
‘I think we needed to split when we did,’ he mused.
‘Agreed, but maybe we’ve both had some time apart, time to reflect, and . . .’
‘You’ve never been to my flat, have you?’ he said innocently. ‘D’you fancy coming back to watch a movie, maybe grab a takeaway?’
Ally realised she was ravenous and hadn’t had much since breakfast.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Oh, come on . . .’
‘You know what? That sounds perfect.’
A few minutes later, they were standing in the queue at Abrakebabra. OK, it wasn’t fine dining but maybe that was the whole point. She and Francis could be real together, without any pretence or fuss.
They linked arms and wandered up Merrion Row with their paper bags, and turned left onto Fitzwilliam Street, where Francis’s place turned out to be a one-bedroom apartment in a renovated Georgian house.
The décor was entirely neutral – true to form, Francis had no taste whatsoever – so everything was purely functional.
But that in itself was familiar and kind of sweet.
So, this was where he’d been all along. It was funny – when you hadn’t visited an ex’s home, you’d no context in which to visualise them anymore.
The question still bobbing around in the back of her slightly fuggy brain was: where actually was the Tadpole? On the other hand, if it wasn’t bothering him, why should it bother her?
Francis flicked on the fifty-inch TV and settled down on the sofa, where she plumped down beside him as he suggested a new thriller he knew they’d both enjoy.
They leaned against each other like two cartoon cats and munched through their kebabs.
Honestly. She’d forgotten how comfortable having a boyfriend was.
The whole world could go ahead and do its own thing out there, because, in here, they were cosy.
At some point – it wasn’t a decision – Francis had turned and kissed her.
Electric shocks didn’t run through her, but she responded naturally and .
. . well, the bedroom felt a bit far, so he just hit pause and they stayed on the sofa.
She felt him touch her in a way that was .
. . nearly right . . . and she came . . .
almost – and faked the last bit, which worked out fine.
He looked happy as he un-paused the movie and put his arm around her.
‘Glass of water, Fran?’ she said, getting up. ‘It’d be good for us after the drinks.’
‘Sure,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the screen.
She wandered into the kitchenette, where everything looked like a perfect apartment fit-out, and then into the bathroom, which was modern and comfortable and had Francis’s navy bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
She secretly buried her face in it for his familiar smell but then drew back – there was something different in the scent.
It wasn’t the familiar Aramis scent that he’d been wearing for as long as she’d known him.
Her territorial instinct kicked in. She began to feel like a feral creature: there was an intruder in this burrow and she was going to sniff them out.
She flicked open the bathroom cabinet – just because she was being an inquisitive cow – and .
. . there it was: the bottle of Tom Ford Noir Extreme aftershave.
Classic Girlfriend Present. God, if there was any scent less suited to him .
. . That was for big growly alphas with chest hair, or men who did their own stunts like Tom Cruise.
This girl obviously didn’t know him for shit.
But then, when she pushed that aside . . . there it was, lurking at the back: an unopened pregnancy test.
The jolt in her chest felt like an electric shock.
You fool. What had she been thinking? He was totally serious about Fleur.
They were serious. Fleur was the real woman.
What sort of delusion had she allowed herself to drift into?
Did she really believe that her half-hearted enquiries and Francis’s careful avoidance would just make it all vanish?
He’d taken the chance for some ex-sex, and she’d handed it right to him. Suddenly, it was as though the air had gone out of her. She’d been prepared to ignore reality because she was lonely, and that was the sad truth. She snapped the cabinet shut and stumbled out of the room.
‘Fran, could you just . . . pause that a mo?’
‘Hmm . . . yeah, you OK?’ He’d clearly no notion whatsoever about the pregnancy test.
But where to even start? ‘Fran, I’m just wondering, where is Fleur this weekend?’
There was a very pregnant pause.
‘Why do we have to talk about that when we’ve just had such a nice evening?’
‘OK, well, my mood has just taken something of a dip as I’ve walked into a pregnancy test in your bathroom.’
Francis looked flustered. Deny it! she wanted to shout. Explain the exact reason, make me feel silly . . . make it all right.
But he was staring at her with his large, pale eyes, behind which she recognised the signs of him trying to come up with something fast.
‘She’s . . . er . . . She’s not here.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘She’s in Spain this week. Low fares, sun.’ For some reason he seemed to think that qualification would help. He was squirming in his comfy seat.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Ally. It was really nice spending time with you. A part of me will always love you.’
‘Yeah. I think I get which part. Well, thanks for the kebab. I think it’s time I went.’
‘Al, come on, don’t walk out like that . . .’
‘You know what, Francis, maybe I did need this – to show me we’re really over. It’s like people say: if they don’t see a body, they can’t believe someone’s really dead. Well, I see it now. Goodnight.’
With that, she gathered up her coat and bag and fled from the apartment.
She burst out onto Fitzwilliam Street and practically ran down the road to escape from the yucky feeling.
Fool. Fool. Big eejit. Francis had always managed to slide away from conflict and get the other person – namely her – to carry the bad feelings.
And now . . . here she was, responsible for him cheating on another woman, no matter how much she disliked her – and that didn’t feel good.
* * *
She burst through the door of her apartment and hurled her handbag as hard as she could at the wall, knocking off a chip of paint. Good! Serves it bloody right!
Harry and Sally seemed to be dreaming in their warm tank and barely moved until she snapped on the kitchen light, jolting them into wakefulness.
‘Sorry, guys, I know your dinner is late. I’ve been busy being a stupid bitch, and that’s not your fault.’
She sprinkled some food on the surface and felt so agitated that she didn’t know whether to sit down or pace around the room. It was too late to phone Rosemarie – anyway, she knew she’d get an earful, and rightly so.
‘I just wanted him to choose me over her. Even though if he had, I don’t know if I’d have wanted it. How fucked up is that?’
The fish were hungrily diving at the food and paying no attention whatsoever.
‘He’s moved on and I haven’t. So, what do I do?’
Cop on, she told herself. Tomorrow was Saturday and that meant only one thing: heading into The Owl’s Nest for her guilt shift. Not that she didn’t love working there.
It was just that since she’d essentially left Dave in the lurch, she no longer felt like one of the family – more like a blow-in. And that was painful. Still, it was the busiest day of the week and all she could do was pitch up and do her best.
* * *
The next morning she was sitting on the Luas, being lectured by Rosemarie.
‘Girl, don’t be soft. She planted that test for any woman to find.
She was marking out her territory . . . proof of ownership, like.
And he secretly loves it, even if he’s not letting on, and all he had to do was sit there and eat his kebab – and by the way, he is not a 7.
5 like you thought. That’s like ex-dysmorphia, where you think your ex is better than they really are.
He’s a 6.8 max. God, that whole act of hers is so passive-aggressive, I can’t deal with it.
I’m right now eating a sausage sandwich and I can’t even finish it, I’m too annoyed. ’
‘Yeah, but . . . Rosemarie, I walked into it with my eyes open. Listen . . .’ She tried to lower her voice. ‘It was ex-sex. I mean, is that really bad? How bad is that, actually?’
‘Five out of ten. Because it’s nothing you haven’t done before, so it’s not like you’re doing it with another person . . . but still, it’s kind of going backwards.’
‘I feel like such an eejit.’
‘Ah well, nothing ends tidily, does it?’ Rosemarie sighed then slurped her coffee.
‘Anyhow, I’m about to head into The Owl’s Nest after my big resignation.
What’s wrong with me? Pete hates me, Francis used me – but I was up for it, so that doesn’t really count – and William likes me because he basically thinks I’m somebody else, plus he has an uncomfortably exact knowledge of what I weigh.
Rosemarie, what am I doing that’s so wrong? ’
‘When’s your period due?’ demanded Rosemarie.
‘Erm, tomorrow.’
‘Pow! Knew it, you’re catastrophising. That’s what Psychologies mag says. You’re making things worse than they are. Get into work and stop thinking so much. See, that’s better, I’ll be able to carry on now and finish my sausage sandwich.’