Chapter Twenty-Four Bella
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bella
I push the door shut behind me and collapse on to the sofa, my shoulders still aching from the day’s tension.
Yesterday’s calm at my parents’ feels like a cruel joke now that Newbury’s is already under the tax inspector’s microscope.
They arrived right after my lunch with Reece, commandeering the back office and rifling through every spreadsheet and receipt.
I’ve been sick with panic all afternoon, not helped by the fact that I thought I’d lost my keys.
One of the auditors found them under my desk, which didn’t give a very good impression of my capability.
I keep replaying the woman’s cold expression as she handed them to me. I need a distraction.
I call Reece to see if he wants to go out this evening. I could do with a few drinks to calm down. He picks up after two rings, and I’m greeted by the roar of beer-soaked laughter.
‘Which pub are you at?’ I ask. ‘I can be there in ten.’
‘Sorry, Bells,’ he says, voice muffled by the pub crowd. ‘Last-minute outing with the boys this evening.’
‘Is there any way you could duck out? I’ve had a shit day, Newbury’s is having a tax audit and I’ve had this miserable pair of inspectors at the office all afternoon. Think they might be here for days. I could do with cheering up.’
‘Oh, shit, that’s annoying. But you’ll be okay, Bells.
You’re always on top of your paperwork. Just let them do their thing.
They’ll be out of your hair before you know it.
Why don’t you call Tori, see if she’s free to go out?
I would meet up, but we just found out it’s Rob’s birthday so we’re having a big night. ’
I take three measured breaths, counting each one, and try to convince myself that this is an entirely reasonable turn of events – that my boyfriend is not obliged to drop everything for a minor existential crisis, that Rob’s birthday isn’t some grand betrayal, that I shouldn’t expect anyone to anticipate my need for rescue.
It doesn’t work. The feeling of rejection burns, and worse, it’s not new, it’s familiar, like a bruise being pressed.
I want to hear Reece’s voice drop into that private register he saves for me, telling me not to worry, that he’ll pop round with a takeaway and a bottle of wine and distract me with a movie and sex until the dread ebbs away.
I want him to be the person who makes it easier.
I want to matter more than his friends, just this once.
‘No worries.’ I try not to let the bitterness seep into my voice. ‘Have a good night.’
‘Cheers, Bells. You too. We’ll do something tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Sounds good.’ I end the call, my fingers trembling with disappointment as I’m left in a silent flat rippling with emptiness.
Reece was so sweet last night at my parents’ house. The perfect, attentive boyfriend. But it always changes when we return to our real lives. We snap apart again.
I pace the living room, phone in hand, thumbs worrying the edges of the case until the silence becomes unbearable.
I open WhatsApp, flicking through my chats as if a solution might be embedded in a meme or a ten-word text from six months ago.
I hover over Tori’s name for a full minute.
If I call her, she’ll listen, but it’ll all be recounted later – ‘Bella was an absolute wreck last night, darling’ – and whatever comfort I get will be ruined in the aftermath of whispers.
On the next shelf of options – call Mum?
Immediately vetoed. For a start, I absolutely cannot tell her about the audit – she and Dad would fly into a panic.
Ditto for telling her about my other worries.
And if I’m vague and simply say I can’t sleep, she’ll just recommend drinking camomile tea and reading a good book.
No. I’ll have to fix my own mood. That’s the way it’s always been.
So, do I just crawl into bed? Face four walls and stew in dread? No. A plan seeds itself. Get out of the flat, get drunk, get back late enough that there’s no time left for spiralling. I can be hungover and penitent in the morning. For now, numb is the goal.
I stand in front of the bedroom mirror and stare at my face.
The day has etched new lines at the edges of my mouth and eyes, but a smear of lipstick and a bit of concealer should cheat the world into thinking I’m fresh as a daisy.
I swap my jumper for a black camisole with thin straps, layer on a jacket, and let my hair down.
It looks good enough, or at least not actively terrible.
I zip up my boots and head out into the chill. I can’t go into any of the bars round here – I know too many people, and besides, the tax inspectors are staying locally, and the last thing I need is for them to see me getting smashed in the pub.
I spend the whole walk to the station rehearsing an alternative version of the phone call with Reece, one where I say something cutting or clever enough to make him feel guilty.
In every scenario, he laughs it off and tells me to relax, which only makes me more annoyed.
I replay the conversation so many times, I nearly walk past the entrance to the station.
I head briskly towards the train platform, feeling the first tremor of anticipation. When you’re in a small town like this, escaping – even for a night – feels like you’ve pulled off a heist.
As I swipe my company card for a ticket, guilt tugs at me – should my business funds be paying for this night out? I shove it aside, board the train, and find a seat.
The countryside slides by, dark fields and distant lights, but I can’t look away from my own blurred reflection.
I try to empty my mind – no spreadsheets, no stern auditors, no disappointments – but my thoughts keep bouncing around like pinballs.
I chastise myself – always so controlled, so proper.
Maybe that’s why I’m unravelling now. I can’t wait to sit in the corner of a bar and drink until my brain goes numb.
The train pulls into Southampton Central.
I bypass taxis in favour of a brisk ten-minute walk.
It’s dark and cold, but at least it’s not raining.
My body thrums with anxious energy. The city at night is a collage of streetlights and student laughter and, for a brief, heady moment, I feel younger than I am – twenty-one, maybe, with no obligations except to make it home in one piece.
I drift down the street, letting my feet choose a direction.
I pass two chain pubs, a chippy, and a kebab place, each brimming with cheerful people whose night has not yet turned.
I duck into a bar that’s halfway between a pub and a club – dark, with sticky floors and a soundtrack of forgettable pop.
A gaggle of teenagers shoulder past me on their way to a corner table.
‘Careful,’ I mutter. The girl who bumped me – definitely underage – turns and tells me to ‘piss off’ before catching up with her friends.
Guilt and irritation war inside me. I shouldn’t have snapped, but she shouldn’t have barged into me.
I shake my head and continue towards the bar, trying to place the song. It’s one I’ve heard recently on the radio, but I don’t know the name. I can’t believe I’ve reached a stage in my life where I no longer know band names and song titles. How did that happen?
‘Can I help you?’ A cute barman with dark curls and blue eyes comes straight over to me, ignoring the other punters at the bar and earning himself some dirty looks. I’m flattered. It feels nice to be noticed. ‘Two double vodka tonics please.’
He looks over my shoulder. ‘Who’s the other one for?’ he asks in a soft Irish accent.
I think about saying ‘You’, but I’m not quite brave enough. ‘Me,’ I reply instead.
He grins and reaches below the bar for two glasses, keeping eye contact. His attention stabs at the loneliness I’ve been swallowing all day.
I open my purse to get my credit card, but I can’t seem to locate it.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, just trying to . . . hang on.’ I rummage some more, but it’s just not here. What the hell? Where’s my credit card? My company one’s here, but not my personal one. Did I leave it at home? On my desk? Did I lose it? I steel myself and hand over the business card.
The evening passes quickly and hazily. I spend it knocking back vodkas, occasionally doing shots with the barman, whose name is Seamus.
He’s over from Cork, chasing dreams with the rest of his band.
I think he’s at least five years younger than me, but he’s sweet and I like him.
He feels like the kind of person I could talk to.
Be honest with. He seems kind. Or maybe it’s just that I’m hammered.
While he pours drinks for other people, I become a spectator to their messes.
A hen party in matching sequinned dresses; two men having a debate that devolves into a shouting match; a couple breaking up in real time, their faces flushed with rage and exhaustion.
I check my phone. Reece hasn’t texted. I consider messaging him something dramatic, but the thought exhausts me.
Instead, I scroll through social media until my vision blurs.
Seamus brings over another drink without being asked.
‘On the house. You look like you need it more than I do tonight.’
As the night deepens and the music gets louder, I return from the loos to see that the young girl who barged into me earlier has taken my place at the bar, and Seamus is giving her the same twinkling smile he was giving me a few moments ago.
A green-eyed spike of jealousy twists through me. But I have no right to feel it.
Time to go home.
I push through the door out into the cold night, and, for a surreal moment, I see someone on the opposite side of the street who looks exactly like me.
And I mean exactly. She’s coming out of Burger King, stuffing fries into her mouth.
What the hell? I must be super-drunk to be seeing visions of myself.
I take a few steps towards the figure and get a fright as a car honks its horn and swerves.
I realise I’ve stepped out on to the road.
Somewhere in the haze, I hear my gasp. By the time I recover my senses, the vision of me vanishes, and I stand alone on the pavement, shaken, almost sober again. I could have been killed.
Would that be so bad?
I step away from the kerb and walk a few steps.
My reflection flickers in a shop window – red-rimmed eyes, smudged mascara – and as I catch the washed-out image of myself, I realise I don’t want to go home.
Back to my office, to those auditors. Back to Lymington, where all my troubles are waiting for me.
I’m not equipped to face any of it, but I don’t have the courage to admit my fears and ask for help. Or to run away and start afresh.
I’m stuck.