Back in the bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed with the phone. I sighed deeply and then typed,Sorry Rob. I didn’t know you’d be home today. I’m off on a little adventure. I needed a change of air. I’ll be back tomorrow by midday.
My phone rang just seconds after with an incoming call from him, but, because I didn’t know what to say, I let it go to voicemail.
Another text landed:If you don’t want to talk to me that’s your right. But are you definitely OK? Because I’m worried about you.
I am, really. But I’m in a noisy restaurant, I lied.Let’s talk tomorrow when I get home.
Am I allowed to know where you are?
Can we please talk about that tomorrow, too?
Sure, no problem. I love you. And CALL ME if you’re in any kind of trouble.
HisI love youmade me feel a bit breathless. HisCALL MEmade me want to cry.
I love you too.I typed.Talk tomorrow.
My finger hesitated over the button for a second and then, at the dual realisations that it was true and that I’d actually let myself forget that essential fact, I clickedsend.
When I went out to the car to get my tiny overnight bag, I realised how badly I’d scraped the roof. It looked like someone had started to squash the car in one of those car-crushing machines they use in breakers’ yards. That was something else I would have to explain to Rob.
I found the half-sandwich I hadn’t eaten on my journey up, so back in my room that’s what I had for dinner. I was feeling sick and out of kilter anyway, as if I had jet lag or perhaps the beginnings of the flu. I just hoped it wasn’t the Covid bug.
I desperately wanted to talk to Mum, to own up to what I’d done; to hear her reassure me that everything would be OK. Just the thought of hearing her voice down the line was enough to make tears well up. But when I imagined how that conversation might actually go, I could hear her expressing outrage on Rob’s behalf. I pictured all the explaining I’d have to do to try to justify myself too – the conversation would be messy and emotional and endless and would end with her giving me a well-deserved telling-off.
So instead I sent her a text message saying I was fine and that I’d spoken to Rob, and then ignored her incomingFine, but where the hell are you?
Instead, I called Shelley, the only person who actually knew.
‘You dirty dirty birdy birdy!’ she said gaily, the second she picked up. ‘I hope you’ve worked out what you’re going to tell R—’
‘Stop, Shell. Just stop. It’s not funny anymore. None of this is funny.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Everything’s awful,’ I said. ‘I have so fucked this up, Shell.’
‘Awful because it was wonderful with Billy, or awful because it was awful?’
‘It was awful. It was beyond awful.’
‘Christ,’ Shelley said. ‘D’you want me to come over?’
‘I’m in a hotel, down by Exeter. So no.’
‘Right,’ Shelley said. ‘Course you are. D’you want to tell me on the phone?’
‘I don’t think so. Not yet. But it was really, really, awful. I just needed to tell you that.’
‘Right,’ Shelley said. ‘Awful how?’
‘Rapey-awful.’
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘He didn’t… you’re not saying… Did he?’
‘No. I made a run for it. But it was pretty bloody scary.’
‘Oh God,’ Shelley said. ‘Poor you.’
