CHAPTER 3 #2
‘True,’ I agreed. Then, ‘I’m just going to have to apply to a load of other places,’ I went on, inwardly groaning at the thought of completing application forms and revamping my CV .
‘There’s always Scott,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Nice ass, right?’
I tried not to return the smile and failed.
Hestia squeezed my arm. ‘It’ll all work out. You like the actual marketing side of it, so maybe look out for a job in a more interesting industry? Become an influencer!’
She slapped the table as though some kind of epiphany had blasted through her thoughtful reverie.
‘Yes! Oh my God, Lots, I could SO see you doing that – you’re Insta perfect, you know what you’re doing, always immaculate . . . there’ll be a ton of brands that’ll want your face plugging their stuff. Do it!’
My heart lifted at her enthusiasm, her crooked grin and wide eyes.
‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, my voice almost lost under the music and the voices in the bar. ‘You’re the best.’
‘I know,’ she giggled, reaching over and kissing my cheek. ‘Why don’t you go over to Kyle’s place, get it off your chest and tell him you’ll be making millions by the summer flogging beauty products? Plus, you’ll very likely get laid too and frankly, you could do with it.’
I broke, dissolving into alcohol-giggles, leaning on her arm as I tried to stand.
‘Okay, okay, enough. I’ll do it.’
‘Atta girl,’ she replied, gripping me with equal fervour as we swayed over to the door. ‘He’s not my type but I’ve got eyes. I bet he looks even better with his suit off. Go enjoy yourself.’
We walked our separate ways, the impression of her warmth lingering as I attempted to keep a reasonably straight line down the road.
As the length of my journey to Kyle’s place in Battersea dawned on me, I turned and lifted my arm to hail a cab – then lowered it a second later. I was unemployed; time to act like it.
Back on the tube, I wound my way back west, gently numb thanks to the alcohol.
Vaguely I thought about food but dismissed it.
What I needed was support, arms to lean into and take the weight.
By the time I reached Kyle’s road, a solid twenty-minute walk from the station, my feet were on fire and the slow throb of a headache was beginning to pound behind my eyes.
The tall, Edwardian terrace glowed white in the amber lamplight, each house slightly different but all well kept.
Neatly trimmed trees and ornately tiled paths led up to every one, millions of pounds’ worth of cars lining either side of the road.
As I drew closer to Kyle’s house, a graduation gift from his grandparents, I craned my head to check for lights on inside. None.
Steeling myself, I opened the gate and walked to the front door, heart sinking. Shit. He was still out. Checking my phone and noting the time – 11.43 p.m. – I paused. He was always saying how he was useless after eleven anyway, and with work tomorrow, it wouldn’t be long until he was back.
Sighing, I lowered myself onto the steps by his front door and sat there in the shadows trying, for the millionth time, not to feel bitter or paranoid about my lack of key.
It was a small thing, but somehow it mattered more than I wanted to admit.
And now, alone in the creeping cold with my head and heart wrung out, it loomed over me: the memory of offering my key to him, feeling as vulnerable and small as it was possible to feel, the fleeting panic in his expression that he tried so desperately to hide.
He’d explained, reasoned it out, even become tearful about his own fears around commitment, the significance of giving me a key.
And somehow, for reasons now buried or unreachable in the back of my mind, I’d let it go.
He cared for me and that was enough; his gifts and gestures were relentless proof.
‘Christ, what did he do?’ was all Hestia could say when it began with the first designer handbag, then the ridiculously over-the-top bracelet from Boodles.
I’d rolled my eyes, both of us all too aware where Hestia’s deep-seated prejudices came from – a rocky upbringing, her mum bullied and coerced by Hestia’s stepfather.
It coloured her view of relationships, especially given her bisexuality.
As far as Hestia was concerned, women were far superior and many straight men were the lowest of the low, to be trusted only in exceptional circumstances.
Stifling a jaw-cracking yawn, I pulled my knees in and rested my chin on them.
So much had shifted in the last twenty-four hours.
Kyle would be home soon, he might even be in a cab right now.
As my eyelids drifted shut, the sound of sirens in the distance and strains of music from the pub at the end of the road lulled my consciousness into sleep.
The laugh was bright, a peal of bells in the silence. My tiredness fought it, but the chilled night air prickled my skin, forcing my eyes open. A jolt of pain through my neck, the product of my awkward slump against the wall, yanked me into reality.
Swearing to myself, I checked my phone.
2.45 a.m.
I frowned, blinking at the screen, holding it closer as though the numbers would suddenly make sense. How the hell was it almost 3 a.m. and he wasn’t home?
A second, deeper laugh sent an entirely new sensation across my skin, hairs rising as my eyes widened.
I tried to stand, legs wobbling as I rose. Reaching out to place my hand against the wall, I craned my head to see down the street.
There, walking towards the house, was Kyle.
One arm thrown casually around a woman’s shoulders, her long blonde hair spilling over his chest, his other hand reaching over to her smiling face, pulling her chin up towards him as he leant in to kiss her.
I forgot how to breathe, my fingers turning into claws against the cold bricks. Instinct propelled me forwards, away from the front door and down the side of the house, into the narrow passage between the wall and hedge. Deep shadows held me as my insides threatened to fall apart.
Their sounds mingled as they reached the path, the words and footsteps blurring together over the thundering of my heart. I let myself fall into a crouch, unable to draw enough breath to stay standing.
‘. . . I don’t know, oh God, maybe it’s in my other bag. I couldn’t bring it though, they’d know . . .’
Her voice was velvet, a silky American undertone with British pronunciation. Kyle laughed again.
‘Here it is,’ he said, a softness to his words that punched my gut.
Risking discovery but unable to stop myself, I peered around the house. They stood just off the street, using the nearby streetlight to look into her handbag. Smiling, eyebrow arched, Kyle drew out a key.
Her key.
To his house.
She shook her head as he kissed her nose, the intimacy of the moment yanking me back into the shadows with a ferocity that shocked me.
‘Thank you, baby,’ she whispered as they drew closer, their soles shuffling on the steps. Blankly I wondered if I’d left anything of mine in the house, whether they’d see it. Whether it would matter. ‘At least I left my pyjamas from last time, huh?’
‘No need for those,’ he growled as the scrape and click of her key pushed into the lock. ‘Completely superfluous.’
She giggled as the door opened, light from the hall lamp spilling out onto the path. I caught her perfume then, as recognizable as the need in his voice, the expression I knew he would be wearing. His fingers would brush her hips or waist, his eyes already making light work of any buttons.
Chanel N o 5.
The same scent his mother wore.
A savage urge to laugh overwhelmed me and I bit down on my fist to stop it. I pictured telling Hestia, forced her face into my mind instead, her reaction. That guy is such a fucking basic Freudian stereotype. Anything to not be here, the interloper in the dark, hiding like a frightened animal.
The door slammed shut, cutting it all off. The light, their words, her smell.
I kept my fist in my mouth as the tears fell freely, running across my fingers and pooling at my wrist.
My knees protested, their stress overwhelming the rest of me.
Pulling myself up, my fingernails digging into the brick, I realized I couldn’t feel the cold any more at least. But standing in the shadows, looking out at the street, a bigger realization threatened to make me feel everything all at once.
The sheer scale of rejection in only twenty-four hours.
‘No,’ I said to myself, jumping at the sound in the quiet. I refused to process all of this now.
New plan. More alcohol.
Maybe some fried chicken.
As I walked out of the shadows, across the path, I knew full well that Kyle would be way too busy to look out of the front windows and see me. I paused, turning onto the street, resisting one last look at the house I was never quite let into.
Icy-calm mode activated once again, I cut the shortest possible path to the nearest twenty-four-hour store, the only thing now open.
Their selection of alcohol was unbearably Kyle .
The wines I’d seen in his rack, Bollinger and Pol Roger behind the counter; even the small German beers he preferred.
So I chose the cheapest, least Kyle thing I could see: a small bottle of tequila.
Walking slowly down empty streets, sipping and wincing intermittently as the tequila scorched a path down my throat, my subconscious whispered words of warning.
Alone at this time of the morning, barely anyone around .
. . A bus stop came into view, the number of the bus that went right past my flat due to arrive.
Three women were perched on the plastic bench already, chatting and laughing.
I gave into the sensible half of my brain and walked up to it, keeping my head down and staying back.
Within seconds their noise had petered out.
‘You all right, babe?’
I looked up, just as the bus rolled into view. One of the women stepped towards me, her frown marring her immaculate make-up, a black silk bomber jacket over a denim jumpsuit. Her two friends hung back, concern on their faces too.
‘Umm, yeah,’ I mumbled, wondering if my mascara had run.
Quickly swiping my finger under my eyes, I realized my whole face was wet, that I had somehow been crying without realizing.
As the bus arrived, they went back to their conversation and we all boarded, finding seats as the driver pulled away.
Sitting a few rows in front of them, I felt their eyes on me between the snippets of their conversation as the bus looped through the south London streets, finally trundling along my road.
I pressed the bell to get off, risking a glance at the girls as I stood, the sway of my movements not entirely due to the bus.
A small smile was on the jumpsuit girl’s face. Not one of judgement, just concern.
I tried to smile back, but my face crumpled.
Tasting tears, I stepped off into the dark as the bus roared away, the warmth of the fumes dissipating into silence.
Crossing the road to my flat, I realized that it was likely the first kind gesture without motive that I’d experienced from anyone, other than Hestia, in weeks. Months.
The life I’d thought I’d built here no longer existed.
It was empty. Just like my heart.