‘Morning,’ I say.
And, ‘Oh my God,’ he yells.
Not in a flattering way, if I’m honest. His tone iswhat the actual, notoh wow lucky me.
His eyes are swivelling a little, and I can feel his whole body drawing back.
While I summon up my best acting skills, I turn my face into the pillow on my side and tip my head so that my hair falls over my face.
And then I say, really hoping that my voice won’t sound as though I’m crying (which, okay, I am a bit – my eyes are suddenly moist and internally I’m absolutelywailingwith misery because it’ssoobvious that he’s just full of regret and nothing else), ‘I know.’
Which is the perfect phrase. I’m just agreeing with whatever he’s saying. Because I do not wish to be humiliated on top of everything else.
‘Um.’ He’s pulling further away from me, so I scoot right over to my side of the bed and drag a sheet around myself (the bed linen is in complete disarray) so that my nakedness is fully covered.
Then I wait for him to continue.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he says. And waits.
I say, ‘I know,’ again.
And then he says, ‘I’ll get my clothes and go and have a shower.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see him pluck a sheet from the bed and wrap it round his waist, so that his lovely, solid chest and abs are still on full display, and then I close my eyes because he clearly isn’t mine in any way, and I shouldn’t be ogling his (gorgeous) body. I hear him move round the room, and then he says, ‘Okay, well I’ll go then.’
And I say, ‘Great,’ and then I hear the door open and close. I wait for a moment, before getting up and locking the door, and then I crawl back into bed and hug one pillow into my body, putting the other one over my head and allowing myself to really justsobfor a few minutes.
Because there is nothing good about realising that you are hugely, probably irrevocably head over heels in love with someone who… just regretted your night of mad, passionate sex.
I think it might take me some time to recover from this, and the first thing I need to do is not see Tom again.
18
TOM
It’s rare to feel like a total dickhead first thing in the morning, but I do.
Carole has organised for everyone from last night’s party to meet for breakfast.
I’m sitting with Bea, Ruth and Nadia. Fortunately, we’re in a row, me and Nadia on the ends, Bea and Ruth in the middle. I’m chatting to Bea and the two people opposite us and I’m trying extremely hard not to catch the sound of Nadia’s voice or her laugh, because every time I do I feel incredibly guilty. In my head I have unfinished business with Lola, and I also have unfinished business with Nadia in that we arefriendsand we hadsexlast night. A lot of sex. A lot of mind-blowingly good sex. And we arefriends. And sex is not a good thing to do with a friend who you would like to stay friends with but not have a relationship with.
Why do I not want to have a relationship with Nadia?
Because she’s my friend and because of Lola.
‘Haveyoubeen, Tom?’ Bea’s enquiry means nothing to me. I have no idea what we’re talking about. Or rather what the others have been talking about while I nod and smile as my thoughts go in circles.
I need to message Lola, I decide. Tell her something once and for all. I mean, she’s obviously ended whatever non-relationship we had by airing me, but I want – need – to round it off from my side. Or, equally, make one final attempt.
‘Tom?’ Bea repeats.
I look at her kind (but always quite stern) face and try to think of a good catch-all response. I fail.
‘Sorry. Really tired. Miles away for a second,’ I confess. Bea’s forehead furrows just a little and she tilts her head slightly, like she’s disappointed in me, so I continue, ‘I had a very, very late night, and I might have drunk a bit too much. So I might just have nodded off for a second. But I would very much like to know where it is that we’re talking about visiting and I will undertake to not nod off again.’
‘Gibraltar,’ the woman opposite me says.
‘Gibraltar?’ I query, confused again.
