‘That is ridiculous.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘That was it?’ Rachel yells. I flinch. Last night I drank a bottle of wine, panic-baked flapjack, and barely slept; I’m a little fragile for shouting.
We’re sitting in the ‘creative space’ at work – it’s like the other two Butterfingers Press meeting rooms, except annoyingly it doesn’t have a proper door (to convey a sense of openness), and there are whiteboards on the walls. Somebody used them once; now the notes from their creative session are ingrained in dried-out whiteboard marker, totally incomprehensible. Rachel has printed out the layouts we’re meeting to discuss, and they’re spread out across the table between us. It’s the bloody Make a Stir baking book, and you can really tell I was hungover and in a rush when I edited this the first-time around.
‘You’re telling me that you see Justin on a cruise ship and then he gives you an I want to fuck you stare and then you go on about your business and don’t see him again?’
‘I know,’ I say again, positively miserable.
‘Ridiculous! Why didn’t you go looking for him?’
‘I was busy with Katherin! Who, by the way, gave me an actual injury,’ I tell her, yanking my poncho out of the way to show her the angry red mark where Katherin pretty much stabbed my arm mid-demonstration.
Rachel gives it a cursory look. ‘I hope you brought her manuscript delivery date forward for that,’ she says. ‘Are you sure it was Justin? Not some other white guy with brown hair? I mean, I imagine a cruise ship is—’
‘Rachel, I know what Justin looks like.’
‘Right, well,’ she says, throwing her arms out wide and sending layouts sliding across the table. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s such an anticlimax. I really thought your story was going to end with sex in a cabin bunk! Or on the deck! Or, or, or in the middle of the ocean, on a dinghy!’
What actually happened was that I spent the rest of the session in paralysed, panicky suspense, desperately trying to look like I was listening to Katherin’s instructions – ‘Arms up, Tiffy!’ ‘Watch your hair, Tiffy!’ – and simultaneously keep my eyes on the back of the crowd. I did start to wonder if I’d imagined it. What the hell were the chances? I mean, I know the man likes a cruise, but this is a very large country. There are many cruise ships floating around the edge of it.
‘Tell me again,’ Rachel says, ‘about the look.’
‘Ughh, I can’t explain it,’ I tell her, laying my forehead down on the pages in front of me. ‘I just . . . I know that look from when we were together.’ My stomach twists. ‘It was so inappropriate. I mean – God – his girlfriend – I mean, his fiancée . . .’
‘He saw you across a crowded room, semi-unclothed, being gloriously you-like and pissing about with a middle-aged eccentric author . . . and he remembered why he used to fancy the pants off you,’ Rachel concludes. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘That’s not . . .’ But what did happen? Something, definitely. That look wasn’t nothing. I feel a little flutter of anxiety at the base of my ribs. Even after a whole night of thinking about this, I still can’t work out how I feel. One minute Justin appearing on a cruise ship and catching my eye seems like the most romantic, fateful moment, and then the next I find myself feeling a bit shivery and sick. I was all jittery on the journey home from the docks, too – it’s been a while since I’ve travelled outside London on my own to anywhere other than my parents’. Justin had a real thing about how I always ended up on the wrong train, and he was sweet about taking journeys with me just in case; as I waited alone in the darkness of Southampton station I felt categorically certain I’d end up taking a train to the Outer Hebrides or something.
I reach to check my phone – this ‘meeting’ with Rachel is only in the diary for half an hour, and then I really do need to edit Katherin’s first three chapters.
I have one new message.
So good to see you yesterday. I was there for work, and when I saw ‘Katherin Rosen and assistant’ on the programme, I thought, hey, that’s got to be Tiffy.
Only you could laugh your way through someone reading out your measurements – most girls would hate that. But I guess that’s what makes you special. J xx
Hands shaking, I stretch the phone out to show Rachel. She gasps, hands to mouth.
‘He loves you! That man is still in love with you!’
‘Calm down, Rachel,’ I tell her, though my heart is currently making an attempt at a getaway via my throat. I feel as if I’m choking and breathing too much all at the same time.
‘Can you text back and tell him that comments like that are the reason womankind cares so much about their measurements? And that by declaring that “most girls would hate that”, he is perpetuating the female body image problem, and setting women up against one another, which is one of the greatest problems feminism faces to this day?’
I narrow my eyes at her, and she flashes me a big grin. ‘Or you could just say, “Thanks, come over and show me how special I am all night long”?’
‘Ugh. I don’t know why I talk to you.’
‘It’s me or Martin,’ she points out, gathering up the layouts. ‘I’ll take in these changes. You go get your man back, all right?’
*
‘No,’ Gerty says immediately. ‘Do not text him that. He is scum of the earth who treated you like shit, tried to isolate you from your friends, and almost certainly cheated on you. He does not deserve a text of this niceness.’
There is a pause.
‘What made you want to reply with that message, Tiffy?’ Mo asks, as if he’s translating for Gerty.
‘I just . . . wanted to talk to him.’ My voice is very small. The tiredness is starting to eat away at me; I’m curled up on my beanbag with a hot chocolate, and Mo and Gerty are staring down at me from the sofa, their faces a picture of concern (actually, Gerty’s isn’t – she just looks angry).
Gerty reads my draft message out again. ‘Hi Justin. So good to hear from you. I’m just sorry we didn’t get to catch up properly, despite being on the same cruise ship! And then two kisses.’
‘He did two kisses,’ I say a little defensively.
‘The kisses are last on my list of things to change about that message,’ Gerty says.
‘Are you sure you want to start up contact with Justin again at all, Tiffy? You seem a lot better in yourself since you’ve moved out of his flat,’ Mo says. ‘I wonder if that might not be a coincidence.’ He sighs when I don’t say anything. ‘I know you find it hard to think badly of him, Tiffy, but whatever excuses you can give him for everything else, even you can’t ignore the fact that he left you for another woman.’
I flinch.
‘Sorry. But he did, and even if he’s left her, which we don’t have any evidence he has, he still went off with her. You can’t reason that away or convince yourself you’ve imagined it, because you’ve met Patricia. Look back at that Facebook message. Remember how it felt when he turned up with her at the flat.’
Ugh. Why do people keep saying things I don’t want to hear? I miss Rachel.
‘What do you think he’s doing, Tiffy?’ Mo asks. He’s pushing so hard all of a sudden – it’s making me squirm.
‘Being friendly. Trying to get in touch again.’
‘He’s not asked to meet up,’ Mo points out.
‘And the look he gave you was more than friendly, by the sounds of it,’ Gerty says.
‘I . . .’ It’s true. It wasn’t a hey, I’ve missed you so much, I wish we could talk again look. But it was . . . something. It’s true I can’t ignore the fiancée, but I can’t ignore that look either. What did it mean? If he wanted to – if he wanted to get back together . . .
‘Would you?’ Gerty asks.
‘Would I what?’ I ask, buying myself time.
She doesn’t answer. She knows my game.
I think about how miserable I’ve been these last few months, how bleak it was to say goodbye to his flat. How many times I’ve looked Patricia up on Facebook and cried on to my laptop keyboard until I got a bit worried about electrocution.
I was so lucky to have him. Justin was always so . . . fun. Everything was a whirlwind; we’d be flying from country to country, trying everything, staying up until four in the morning and climbing on to the roof to watch the sunrise. Yes, we fought a lot and I made a lot of mistakes in that relationship, but mostly I’d just felt so lucky to be with him. Without him I feel . . . lost.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But a big part of me wants to.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Gerty says, standing up smartly and patting me on the head, ‘we won’t let you.’
