Chapter 24
Damilola’s flat is almost the polar opposite of Angie’s house.
It’s a small, cozy loft conversion full of homey knickknacks and contrasting patterns.
It’s warm and sweet, like she is. Climbing the stairs to her hallway, I’m filled with affection, until we enter the living room and I see the huge TV that’s too big for the space, with every single gaming console imaginable piled underneath, the exercise bike blocking the bookshelf, and the dartboard ruining her wall.
The presence of Phil’s out-of-place things marring Dami’s snug lounge always bothers me.
I sit down on her squishy green sofa in my usual corner.
Dami sits next to me and looks at me kindly, stroking my hair from the side of my face.
Every muscle in my body relaxes and it’s like I suddenly feel just how exhausted I am.
I fall forward onto her chest. She puts her arms around me and squeezes and we sit like that for a long time.
Eventually I sit back and we cross our legs and face each other, like we’re twelve-year-old girls at a slumber party.
“Talk to me, Becky,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“I know.” She gives me an understanding smile and reaches for my hand.
I don’t say that I didn’t mean what I said in the letter, because we both know that I did. But I am sorry for upsetting her.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I know I bang on about my job and I’m always late and distracted because of my overflowing inbox and that’s so boring, when you’re twiddling your thumbs waiting for me.
And I’m sorry that Angie and I got carried away talking about my wedding.
I know it’s dull and probably feels lonely when you’re not dating anybody.
And I’m sorry for talking so much about houses and cars and .
. . fridges. We should have been more mindful. ”
I feel myself welling up. It’s so freeing to hear Dami acknowledge how I might have felt over the past few years.
So much that I could sit here all night and talk about Phil’s new panini maker with fifteen different settings if she wanted to.
I realize, hearing her apologize, maybe it’s not that I find those things as dull as I thought I did, but I just needed recognition from them that they understand that’s not where I am.
“I mean, you can’t not talk about your job just because I hate mine,” I say. “Those things are your life. And they’re important. I do want to hear about them, I promise. Maybe just . . .”
“Maybe just not spending half an hour explaining our new compulsory cybersecurity training?” Dami laughs awkwardly.
“Well, maybe,” I admit. It was actually over half an hour. I timed it.
“Look, I’m genuinely sorry about how preoccupied I’ve been.
” Dami squeezes my hand. “I didn’t even realize how out of control it had gotten.
But then I showed your letter to Phil, expecting him to disagree with you, and I could just see from the look on his face that he thought you had a point.
I think he was too scared to bring it up with me himself.
We talked and . . . well . . . I know that things need to change.
I’m going to really try to stop checking emails constantly and be more present.
So all in all, wording aside, I don’t think your letter ended up being a terrible thing. ”
I smile. Dami’s sweet to let me off the hook so easily. I’m pleasantly surprised to hear that Phil agrees with me on this and that he was afraid to broach it with her. Phil’s so loud, I assumed he always made his opinions known.
“Becky.” She rubs my fingers with her thumb. “I can agree to cut back on how much I talk about all kinds of things . . .” She pauses, looking uncomfortable. I sense that she has something she wants to say to me and is struggling to get the words out. She finds confrontation more hellish than I do.
“But?” I encourage her. “It’s OK. You can tell me.”
Her voice practically drops to a whisper, as if the low volume will soften the blow of her oncoming reality check.
“But sometimes, well, sometimes it’s hard to know what you do want to talk about.
It feels like you stopped sharing anything with me and Angie a long time ago.
We ask you about how things are going and get a monosyllabic answer .
. . or you stuff your face full of potato and nod.
Sometimes it’s like you show up physically but you’re not really there. It feels like you cut us out.”
I’m horrified. Do they really feel like I cut them out? “No,” I say. “No, it’s not that at all. It’s . . .”
Dami waits eagerly for my explanation. I can tell from her face that this is a sensitive subject. I can’t quite believe that my not wanting to talk about anything has actually been hurting her feelings. I thought they didn’t want to hear about my life. I feel terrible.
“Nothing in my life changes,” I mumble, burning with familiar shame.
“There’s only so long you can bitch about hating your job without leaving it.
Or be in love with an unavailable person before everyone loses sympathy.
” I realize that’s the first time I’ve ever described Max as unavailable, which is ironic, given that we just kissed.
“It’s . . . embarrassing. I’m just so aware that I ran out of credits a long time ago. ”
Dami shakes her head emphatically. “Babe! You never run out of credits with us.”
I laugh bitterly. “I don’t know, I’m not sure Angie would say the same right now.”
Dami winces. “Well . . . she’ll forgive you. I’m sure of it. Maybe just . . . don’t send us any more letters, OK? If you have something to say, just say it.”
I smile regretfully, thinking of how differently I could have approached the situation to stop it reaching a boiling point like it did.
I could have set small boundaries and asked for what I wanted, instead of keeping everything to myself and letting resentments build and build until they exploded in a fit of anger.
I think of Angie’s choice of word. I hadn’t thought of the letters as angry up until now, but how obvious it seems now that they were.
Mostly with myself.
“I promise,” I say. “I will try to be much more honest in a far less aggressive manner in the future. And you must promise to call me out if I’m behaving like a sullen teenager.”
We both laugh. “Deal.” We shake hands.
“So, in the spirit of sharing . . . ,” I begin, thinking of everything that’s happened in the past week that I’ve been dying to tell her.
I talk about Leila showing up at my door, about begging for my job back, about being unable to avoid Fran for the first time in two years, about Paris, about Max.
Dami sits wide-eyed and open-mouthed for much of it and mostly says “Ooh” and “Wow, OK.” She probes me about how I’m feeling but doesn’t express any firm opinions, for which I am grateful, particularly when I get to the Max bit.
I squirm with how wretched I feel, but she listens to me attentively and she doesn’t seem to judge me at all.
I wonder why I had expected her to. It feels like the first proper conversation we’ve had in years and, with a stab of guilt, I realize clearly I’ve been more to blame for that than I thought.
It’s the middle of the night by the time we decide to turn in. Dami tiptoes in to join Phil, who fell asleep hours ago, while I tuck up in their comfy spare bed with a hot water bottle and a cup of hot chocolate. I get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in what feels like years.
Monday morning I’m woken by the sound of pans clanging and loud singing. Phil is doing his own version of “SexyBack” in opera-style baritone. It is way too early for this level of volume and enthusiasm.
I pad sheepishly into the kitchen, highly aware that I’m asking hospitality from people whose relationship I condemned a mere week ago.
“I’m bringing Sexy Beck . . . ,” Phil sings when he sees me. He winks and throws a tea towel over his shoulder.
I’m relieved it doesn’t seem like it will be awkward.
Phil is the kind of guy who will roar with laughter at something you said that isn’t very funny and tell long, rambling stories with no end point or talk in great detail about something you have zero interest in without caring that you’re not listening.
One time he slapped me on the back so enthusiastically I spilled my drink all down Angie’s dress.
He’s overly friendly and a lot to take, but today I’m grateful for it.
“Bacon?” Phil calls.
“Uh, yes, please.” I sit down next to Dami at the table, who I note happily is reading the paper instead of checking her emails. How she can read with this level of noise going on, God knows. Maybe long-term relationships are basically just mastering the art of tuning each other out.
“How did you sleep?” Dami puts her paper down and strokes my shoulder across the table.
“Like a cat,” I say. “Thank you so much for letting me stay.”
Damilola opens her mouth to reply but before she can say anything Phil calls, “Oh, don’t be silly, Becks, we love having you, don’t we, Dami.”
I can feel the familiar vexation flaring in my chest at his speaking over her. I try to hang on to all my goodwill from last night and remind myself Phil is letting me stay in his house after I insulted him.
Except that it’s Damilola’s house. And his noise and his belongings are crowding it.
“Gives me a chance to make my famous bacon sarnies,” he carries on. “You are getting the royal treatment this morning, ladies.”
Dami smiles. “I get the royal treatment every morning.”
Phil honks with laughter. “Yeah, not gonna lie, it’s true, it’s true.”
He sets the bacon sandwiches down on the table in front of us and leaves the room.
“Are you not having one, Phil?” I call after him.
“I’ll be having mine to go!” he hollers from next door. He reenters in his shoes and jacket and grabs one. He kisses Dami on the forehead. “Bye, babe. Bye, Becky!”
“God, are you off already?!” I ask. “It’s early!”