The Reunion (29 page)

‘Go on.’

She took a deep breath and puffed her cheeks out. ‘OK. This sounds ridiculous. And it’s kind of embarrassing…’

‘Come on,’ he said, poking her toes with his own, a jolt of electricity bolting right up his spine at the merest physical contact. ‘You can tell me.’

Another deep breath. ‘Right. Well, you know I’ve been with Conor since I was sixteen years old, right? That’s one third of my life. One third! And the thing is…’ she tailed off. The hint of a blush in her pale cheeks deepened. She looked perfect, she
was
perfect – he had to look away, he had to sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching out to touch her.

‘The thing is, what?’ He could almost feel them drifting into uncharted conversational waters, dangerous waters. ‘You can tell me,’ he said again. ‘You can tell me anything.’

She laughed. ‘It’s nothing.’ She wrapped her arms around her knees, bent her head down to hide her face. ‘It’s just that, if we stay together, if we get married, like everybody’s always thought we would, then he’s going to be it for me. And me for him. There’s never going to be anyone else.’

Her voice was muffled, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. Was she really saying this, was she really talking about being with someone else? He laughed, nervously. ‘I, uh, didn’t think girls worried about things like that,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well, we do.’ She was still hiding from him, but after a moment, she looked up, her face bright red. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a good thing, to only ever be with one person. It’s a good thing to only ever want one person, isn’t it?’

‘Well…’ They both started laughing.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m being so stupid. I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I’ve had way too much to drink.’ She got to her feet and went into the kitchen, carrying their empty wine glasses with her.

He didn’t let himself think about what he was doing, he just got to his feet and followed her. She put the glasses down and turned around, looking up at him, and he knew she wanted him to kiss her, so he did. She didn’t pull away at first, not right away, but when she did her eyes were lowered, she wasn’t looking at him, and she placed her hand against his chest and pushed him, gently, away from her.

‘Dan,’ she said, her voice low, husky, ‘don’t.’

She didn’t say another word, just smiled at him and shook her head, then she went upstairs and he heard the bedroom door close.

He thought about leaving, about calling a taxi and going to the station, but it was after midnight and there wouldn’t be a train until morning. He wasn’t even sure if Liverpool Street was open all night. He turned off all the lights and sat in the darkness, looking out at the almost full moon in the night sky, knowing that there was no possibility of sleep, not tonight. He doubted he would ever sleep again, he’d just lie in bed replaying that kiss, and that hand against his chest, and her saying his name, her telling him no.

It must have been half an hour later when he heard a creaking sound, and then the squeak of a door handle. He held his breath. He heard a footfall on the stairs; she was coming back down. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest.

‘Dan?’

‘I’m here,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She was standing in front of him, wearing a vest and little shorts, her pale legs pressed against his knees. She reached out to him and took his hand, she pulled him to his feet and led him into the spare room. It was real, he wasn’t imagining it, her lips on his, her hands pulling at his T-shirt, lifting it over his head, her body pressed against his, the smell of her, citrus and vanilla. She was really there, and he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t send her away.

THERE WAS A
moth in the room, batting against the inside of the window pane, behind the curtain. She rubbed her eyes. The curtain was pale, a yellowing kind of beige. The light streaming in. What was wrong? It came to her and she gave a little gasp, audible, something like shock, or panic. She closed her eyes tightly. She wished for it not to be real, a dream. Please, let it be a dream. But if it wasn’t real, why was the curtain that yellowing sort of beige? That was the colour of the curtain in the spare room, not the dark blue in her and Conor’s room. She knew then that when she opened her eyes again and looked under the cover, that on the inside of the wrist of the arm flung around her waist, she would see a tattoo. A small dark Arabic character, an ill-advised purchase on a holiday to Marrakech. Not Conor’s pale, untouched flesh. She didn’t want to look. She scarcely allowed herself to breathe. She opened her eyes. Her robe was on the floor. She pushed Dan’s arm away, slipped out of bed, grabbed the robe and pulled it around her shoulders. She left the room as quickly and quietly as she could, closing the door behind her, not once looking back.

She ran upstairs and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her, and sat down on the loo. She wanted to cry, she wanted to be sick, she wanted to hurt herself, to cut herself with something, to feel something other than this disgust with herself, this awful shame. The tears didn’t come, the nausea didn’t subside, but she didn’t actually throw up. She just sat there, holding herself, digging her fingernails into the tops of her arms until she drew blood.

When she’d gone downstairs last night, what she was doing hadn’t seemed so wrong. She knew she was being reckless, but somehow she’d managed to convince herself that it wasn’t so terrible, one night spent with a friend to whom she had this powerful, undeniable attraction, a man who in different circumstances might have been so much more to her. She’d persuaded herself that in some way she owed it to herself, this moment of recklessness: it would set her mind at rest, she wouldn’t worry so much that she was missing out. She persuaded herself that in the end it would strengthen her relationship with Conor.

Thinking about that almost made her gag – she’d somehow managed to tell herself that Conor would be better off as a result of this betrayal. She was stupid and hateful. She’d ruined everything. How could she look at Conor again knowing what she’d done last night? How could she touch him, how could she sleep with him without him feeling it, without tasting treachery in every kiss. She dug her fingernails in harder, squeezed her eyes shut until, finally, tears came, sobs sticking in her throat, choking her.

There was a gentle tap at the door.

‘Jen?’

‘Please go away.’

‘It’s OK. It’ll be OK. I’m sorry, Jen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…’

‘Just leave me alone, Dan, please.’ He was in their room. The man she’d slept with last night was at that very moment standing outside the door, in
their
bedroom. ‘Go away!’

She listened to his footsteps retreat and felt even worse. How could she let him apologise to her? It was all her fault. How could she shout at him, tell him to go away when he tried to offer her kindness? She got up and splashed water on her face, trying not to focus on how bloody awful she looked, her face red and blotchy from crying, shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, her lips still stained dark red from last night’s wine. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. She took a deep breath and unlocked the door.

Downstairs, Dan was in the kitchen, spooning coffee into the cafetière. When he heard her behind him, he turned and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the temple.

‘It’s OK, Jen.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s not OK. It’ll never be OK.’ She was stiff as a board, her hands by her side, balled into fists. She wished that she couldn’t feel the muscles in his arms, she wished she couldn’t smell him, feel the warmth of his skin. She had the strongest memory of the night before, how it had felt to be with him, how good it had felt, how much better than anything she’d ever felt before. Her stomach flipped, she could feel her colour, her temperature rising.

‘You have to go,’ she said softly. ‘Please. I’m sorry, but you have to go. I don’t… I can’t even talk about it. I can’t be here with you, I can’t. I can’t.’

‘Can I have a cup of coffee first?’ he asked.

They stood side by side in the kitchenette, sipping their coffee. His hand was on the counter, next to hers, they were almost touching. If she stretched out her little finger, she could loop it over his. The silence grew, it expanded until it filled the room, filled the flat, the silence was everything.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Jen said, when she couldn’t bear it a second longer. ‘That was horrible of me, my reaction. It’s not… you know. It’s not that I regret it. I mean, I do regret it, but not because it wasn’t, you know, good or anything. It was good. I thought, anyway.’

Dan smiled. ‘Jen, it was amazing.’ He put his coffee down, he turned to face her. He placed his hand on her cheek, he let it slip slowly down, to her jaw, to her neck. He traced the tip of his thumb across her collarbone. ‘I don’t know what to think. I mean, I know how I feel, but I also know that we shouldn’t have.’ His breathing was quick and shallow. ‘I’m finding it hard to regret it, though.’ He was speaking softly, moving closer to her, their bodies almost touching. He slipped his arms around her waist, placed his hands on her lower back, pulled her closer, gently tugging at the fabric of her robe. She drew back a little, raised her head, and kissed him, feeling again the rush she’d felt the night before. They moved into the living room, onto the sofa, her robe was on the floor, she couldn’t stop this, she didn’t want to stop it.

The phone started ringing.

‘Leave it,’ he said, ‘please.’

And then the voicemail clicked in and the second before she heard his voice she knew who it was going to be.

‘Jen? You there? I’m starting to worry now. Can you pick up?’

‘Fuck,’ Dan said. ‘Oh, fuck.’

Jen picked up her robe.

‘I’ll go,’ Dan was saying. ‘I’ll go now.’

For a long time after Dan left, Jen sat on the sofa, watching the light on the answering machine blink. She needed to call Conor back. She needed to do it now, he was worried about her. But she couldn’t do it, she was so afraid. He would know, the second he heard her voice, he would know what she’d done, what she’d been doing when he dialled their number, when he said her name.

He didn’t, of course. He didn’t sound hurt, or outraged or betrayed. He sounded annoyed.

‘Jesus, Jen. I was really worried. I called you at work, they said you were ill, I called the house a dozen times, no answer, I left you messages, I called Nat, I called Lilah…’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ It was all she could say.

‘Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you call me back?’

‘I went out,’ she said stupidly.

‘You went out?’

‘Yes, I…’ the lies just wouldn’t come fast enough, why wouldn’t they come? ‘I called in sick, and then I just… wandered around by myself. I went to the cinema by myself. Then I came back and went to bed, I didn’t even check the messages…’

She tailed off, waiting for him to say something. Eventually, he did.

‘You didn’t check the messages? You didn’t think I might have called you, that I might have wanted to talk to you? You didn’t want to talk to me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry,’ and the tears came.

‘I’ve got to go, Jen,’ he said wearily. He hated listening to her cry, she knew that. ‘I hope you’re OK.’

She stripped the bed in the spare room and put the sheets in the washing machine. She cleaned the flat more thoroughly than it had ever been cleaned during their occupancy: she scrubbed every surface, she vacuumed under the beds and tables and wardrobes, she mopped and dusted, she even cleaned the windows, as though trying to rid the place of every trace of her betrayal. But still, she couldn’t stop the images from the night before that appalled and thrilled her. The noise of the vacuum cleaner couldn’t stop her hearing the things Dan had said to her. And nothing could stop her replaying the scene that morning; she and Dan with their hands all over each other and Conor’s voice as soundtrack.

April 1996

ANDREW HAD NEVER
seen Conor like this before. Conor was the most relentlessly cheerful person he’d ever met, his tendency to look on the bright side bordering on the irritating. He had self-confidence in abundance, he knew his place in the world. To see him now, so unsure, so uneasy, was disheartening.