Chapter 22
On the train journey I am a mess. I’m so hyped and jumpy that I buy food and I can barely eat any of it.
I just pick at my bread roll until it looks like it’s been ravaged by a bird.
When the guy comes around with the bin I avoid looking him in the eye, lest he remember my face as one who wastes pasta.
Later on, I spill my water all over myself. I try to read a book but my eyes are just scanning the page. I try listening to music but everything is too noisy. In the end, I just stare out the window.
I try to calm down by telling myself that I’m reading too much into it.
That this is just a friend visit, that of course Max hasn’t broken up with Fran, that he just feels bad for me and didn’t want to impose on Fran and he felt less weird inviting me to hang out than offering to pay for me to stay somewhere alone.
Maybe we’ll just have a normal evening getting pissed in the bar, except we’ll be in France rather than England.
Really, it’s not THAT far. And everyone speaks English anyway.
It’s basically like going to Birmingham.
Oh God. Or what if he wants to tell me he’s thought about it and it’s Fran that he wants?
That he’s sorry but he thinks we should have some distance?
Maybe he wants to be noble by telling me to my face or something?
This sort of situation is precisely why I should have been squashed under some poorly constructed scaffolding by now.
Except, deep down I know something has shifted. I know that hug meant something. If he didn’t want me he wouldn’t have held me like that. If he was going to reject me then it would make no sense to invite me to a different country to tell me.
Whatever happens, by sending those letters I’ve laid my cards out on the table and changed everything. We can’t go back.
I’m still nervous when I step off the train, but I’m instantly swept away by the city waiting for me outside.
It’s not a world away from London—a big, gray European city, beautiful buildings, busy Parisians and tourists hurrying past—but the atmosphere in the air is something else.
There’s a man playing the accordion right outside the station.
I’m probably imagining it but I feel like I can smell crepes.
I hear an old couple shouting at each other in French and smile.
I begin the walk to Max’s hotel along the Seine and it’s so, so pretty. I stop for a moment, gazing across the river, breathing in the crisp, night air and letting the unfamiliar beauty of a different city settle over me.
I haven’t left the country in years. I don’t remember the last time I traveled with friends.
Angie, Dami, and I used to go somewhere exciting on the cheap every year until we were in our mid-twenties, and then the trips dropped off.
Angie and Dami started saving for other things: houses, cars, weddings.
If they were going to have a trip somewhere, they’d prioritize going away with their partners rather than me.
Traveling alone never even occurred to me until Bali.
I let the lack of having someone to see the world with stop me from seeing it.
After paying London rent, it was difficult to afford it anyway.
Then, when I moved back in with Mum, I was supposed to be saving for a flat .
. . even though that felt like it was never going to happen, and probably, I might as well have spent my money on an experience that meant something to me instead of trying to keep up with my bougie friends.
I make a promise to myself, there on the Seine, that even though Bali didn’t work out, I’ll make other plans.
I drag my suitcase along the dark, cobbled streets.
It’s nearly two in the morning. This whole thing is surreal.
I imagine what Angie and Dami would say if they could see me.
If Max hasn’t broken up with Fran, then they’d probably shake their heads in pity that I went all the way to France for a reminder of my friend-zone status.
If he has broken up with Fran, Dami would probably say it was “romantic but unhinged” and Angie would deem it “a laborious booty call” and say that “I must be hard up if I’m willing to do international travel for sex.
” I can’t help but feel that, either way, they’d both have encouraged me to stay in the UK, but I quickly bury that thought. I’m here now.
Max’s hotel is cute. It’s white with rows of traditional Parisian shutters. There’s an archway with a revolving door surrounded by planters and lanterns. Instead of going in to ask for Max at reception I loiter on the corner calling him.
“Hello?” Max answers.
“Max. I’m outside.”
He laughs. “Ah, sweet. Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughs again. “It’s the second floor, room twenty-four. See you in a sec.”
I start rolling my suitcase through the lobby toward the lift with my head down. I know I’m allowed to enter a hotel late at night with no questions asked and no one on reception knows who I am or cares, but somehow I feel like a teenager sneaking into a boy’s room and hiding from his parents.
When I get to Max’s room I take a huge breath and knock on the door. He predictably answers wearing a hotel dressing gown with a bottle of wine in hand.
“Becky, you made it!”
I instantly relax at the sight of him. The familiar in the unfamiliar.
“I did,” I say lamely.
“I’m impressed.” He welcomes me in. “I must say I had my doubts. Thought I’d probably lose you somewhere along the Channel.”
He’s trying to gently sound out whether I regret coming. Is he regretting asking me?
“That would have been difficult once I was on the train, given there were no stops. I guess I could have flung myself out the window.”
“It was that bad with Angie?” he jokes.
I wheel my suitcase inside and the door closes behind us.
The room is cute and cozy and we’re in pretty close proximity.
My eye flits over the bed. And the sofa, which looks pretty small.
Is he actually intending to sleep there?
He’d have to curl up into a ball. I perch on the edge of it and take off my jacket.
“It was that bad.”
“Well, I’m glad I could offer you refuge.” He sits down next to me, opens the wine, and takes a swig. Then he passes it to me. “What happened?”
“It was awful.” I take a huge gulp of wine. “You know I can’t handle confrontation. Remember how upset I was when Margaret accused me of taking her stapler?”
Max smiles. “You did take her stapler.”
“Yeah, and she should have done the normal, decent thing and pretended not to notice. Anyway, I’m traumatized for life.”
I’m making light of it, but I’m genuinely shaken by my fight with Angie. Every time I think about it I feel sick.
“What did she say?” Max puts his hand on my knee. It’s distracting.
“Uhhhh . . . ,” I say, unsubtly looking down at his hand. He doesn’t seem fazed.
“She . . .” I try to get my brain to connect with my mouth but it’s hard with the hand-on-knee situation. I can feel my vagina reacting. Thank God I’m not a man and he can’t tell. “She said that I think she’s boring because she likes kitchenware a lot.”
Max grins. “She got you there.”
“She said . . .” I swallow. My heart starts hammering as I think of all the things she said about Max and how to phrase them. “. . . That I don’t give the people I date a chance. That I’m subconsciously alone on purpose or something.”
“Are you?” Max stares at me intensely. I look away and take a very long drink from the bottle. When I look back he still hasn’t turned away.
He takes the bottle from my hand and leans over me to put it on the table behind us.
There’s tension. So much tension. It feels bizarre to be hanging out with Max in this way.
There’s always some kind of sexual tension when we’re together, obviously, but safe sexual tension hidden behind a very big wall that neither of us would ever climb.
Now the wall has come crashing down and I’m looking it right in the face.
If there was any doubt left in my mind that he read the letter, there’s no doubt now.
But this isn’t the outcome I expected. I expected him to awkwardly back off for a while.
We’d avoid each other until I was over it and maybe he’d got a pet with Fran and then we’d safely and respectfully become friends again when I could bear to look him in the eye.
I didn’t expect him to break up with his girlfriend and invite me to Paris.
How many times have I imagined sleeping with Max?
How many times has he thrown me down on a bed or onto the floor or over a table?
How many times has he followed me into some public toilets at an event because he can’t keep his hands off me?
How many times have we secretly done it with people in the next room?
How many times did he show up at We Work, You Win to strip naked in Margaret’s office and put on one of her camel fur hats? (As a joke, not because I’m into that.)
Now we’re in Paris. Alone. In a hotel room. And it isn’t in my head; it’s real.
Max leans in and kisses me. Muscle memory takes over and it is the strangest feeling, because I remember kissing him years ago.
The feel of his skin and the pressure of his lips all come rushing back and in one way it’s like no time has passed, yet everything’s changed, everything’s different, this is nothing like it was then.
It’s not like my memories and it’s not like any of the times in my head either. This is its own bizarre reality.
We keep kissing, getting used to each other’s movements.
Half the time I’m thinking more about what we’re doing than focusing on the action itself.
I’m kissing Max. This is happening right now.
Max is touching my arm. Max is unbuttoning my shirt.
It’s almost like I’m watching it happen rather than taking part in it.
I mentally shake myself. Stop it. It’s finally happening and you’re MISSING IT. Pay attention, Becky.
I’m topless now and so is Max. We break for breath, taking in each other’s bodies. He kisses me again. I am determined to stop overthinking and be present in every single second of this.
I close my eyes, running my hands up and down his back.
He presses his chest against mine and my arms are all full of him and then I’m lying back on the bed and he’s on top of me.
This is Max. Max. My Max. Max is mine. He’s always been mine.
This is right. This is good. This is the way it was always supposed to be.
What have the last five years been about anyway?
They were stupid, stupid years. Wasted years.
Years we will look back on and wonder what the hell we were doing.
He’s kissing my ear and biting the lobe. His hand is trailing down my stomach to my jeans. The button pops apart and he pulls on the zip, kissing down my neck. I wonder if he did that to Fran’s neck?
My eyes spring open.
Fran?
NO, FRAN. You are not welcome here! You are definitively not invited! Get out! Get out get out get out!!
I close my eyes again, trying to clear Fran from my mind, but suddenly she and her stupid overalls are imprinted on my eyelids.
What’s she doing right now, as her recent ex-boyfriend unbuttons my jeans?
Sitting at home in his flat, what had just become their flat, thinking about him?
Trying to read the latest Donna Tartt novel but feeling too upset? Maybe messaging her auntie?
This is all Leila’s fault for humanizing her.
I open my eyes again and send up a silent apology to her.
Look, I’m sorry, Fran, I really am. I feel bad that you were caught up between two people who belong together but because of stupid pride were playing games and dancing around each other for so long.
But you’ll meet someone else. Another charity worker or something.
Someone much nicer than Max. Max is not that good a person.
It never would have worked out between you anyway.
You were always too good for him. Max is kind of irresponsible and pretends to be poor when he’s privileged and makes fun of people and .
. . doesn’t seem that upset about breaking up with his long-term girlfriend?
My kisses become less fervent, my heart sinking as a horrible option that I hadn’t considered nudges its way into my consciousness. No. Don’t be stupid. Of course he did. He wouldn’t be doing this if he . . .
“What’s up, Becky?” Max sits up and looks at me with searching eyes. Shit. He noticed my head was elsewhere.
“I’m fine,” I say breathlessly.
“Are you sure? You seem distracted.”
I’m ruining it. I’m killing the mood. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. This is what I’ve wanted forever and I am officially fucking it up. Don’t fuck this up, Becky.
“I’m fine, honestly,” I promise. “Are you? You good?” “Yeah,” he says, sitting back. “I’m good.”
But he isn’t. He’s not looking at me and he’s pulled away.
“It’s just . . . I . . . Is this OK?” I ask. “You only just broke up with Fran.”
He’s silent and not making any eye contact. Through the window I hear the sound of some French people walking down the street laughing. And I know, then, that I have misunderstood. He didn’t break up with her.
“Oh” is all I can think to say.
“I am going to speak to her,” he replies quietly. “Obviously. I just haven’t, yet.”
He cheated on her.
No. That’s not fair. My mind scrambles to make his actions seem justifiable.
He’s not a cheater cheater. It’s not like he’d go out to a random bar and have sex with just anyone.
We’re best friends. We’re in love. We always have been.
It’s not proper cheating if it’s fate, right? He is going to speak to her.
But reality has set in. We’re now both thinking about Fran. Her name looms over the room unspoken, like Voldemort, and the moment has passed. I pick up my top—which is crumpled on the floor—and start getting dressed.
In the end, Max does sleep on the tiny sofa.