‘You shouldn’t have come.’
‘Don’t you like me any more, Birdy?’ he asks, with a grin.
‘Tim, honestly. Look. You shouldn’t have come,’ I say, trying to remain calm and generous. I don’t hate him. And in any other situation I would have found his own and Damo’s drunken, boisterous antics hysterical. ‘I really care about this job.’
‘You’ve changed. What’s gone on up here? Are you fucking the waiter?’ he says, laughing.
‘No. Which waiter?’
‘The one that looks like a Scottish Jason Momoa?’
‘Oh, Brett? No,’ I say laughing.
‘Built like a brick shithouse.’
‘He’s very handsome, but no.’
‘It’s got to be someone,’ he says, trying to grab my hand again. ‘You’ve found yourself a Scottish shag, Birdy. Is he ginger?’
‘No. There’s no one else,’ I shout. ‘Tim, please, what do you want to hear? There’s no one else. And, honestly, why do you care? You’ve never been a proper boyfriend. We don’t date or order fucking Deliveroo and watch TV together. We’veneverwatched TV together. I’ve never met your parents. You only see me when you’ve got nothing better to do. You’re off to a family wedding and after – what? – like eight months of whatever we are, or were, Damo is your plus one? I should have ended this months ago.’
‘What? You made it pretty clearyoudidn’t want to be serious.’
I fold my arms and step back again, when suddenly I hear footsteps behind me. I turn round and, to my horror, see that James has appeared outside the kitchen entrance. He’s changed, probably heading back to our house. For a second we lock eyes and I will him, with every ounce of myself, to hear the apology that I’m screaming from inside me.
He looks protective, despite what he must have heard. I can see that his shoulders are stiff and his right hand is a little flexed.
‘James,’ I say, raising my hands to my face. I can’t look at him.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Everything is fine. Tim here is just going up to his room.’ My voice is shaking, and I want to say more, but I’m terrified of setting Tim off. I have no idea what he might say if he feels upset or humiliated. ‘Sorry,’ I say quietly to James, and he nods gently in return.
Then Tim looks over my shoulder to James and shouts, ‘Be careful, my dude, this Birdy will up and fly. Right when you want to keep her around.’
I can only look at the floor as I hear the kitchen door shut and James heads back inside.
‘Time for bed,’ I say, as I feel the prickle of tears in my eyes. James must have heard me say there was no one else. At least he heard therest – all of which was true. Tim was terrible for me, and terrible to me. He was never a true boyfriend; just someone I saw whenever he had time to see me. We were never close. He never really cared to know me. And that was understandable, because I didn’t really know myself.
I cannot bear to look back as I push Tim into the house and drag him up the stairs. As he finally gains enough sobriety to climb into his linen bed sheets, he reaches a drunken hand out to me and I recoil.
‘It’s over, Tim,’ I say, hoping it goes in.
‘Fair enough,’ he murmurs. And then he’s snoring.
35.
Back in my room I’ve hauled my suitcase from under my bed and I’m tossing in clothes through a stream of tears. I have to get out of here. It’s the only thing I know now. I shove all my clothes inside, try to force the zip closed, then remember I need to get my bathroom things. I toss my brand-new hiking boots in the cupboard in some kind of defiant act of self-sabotage, and slide the door shut so hard it comes off the rails and gets stuck.
I walk into the bathroom, flick on the light and stare hard at myself in the mirror. Red eyes, swollen underneath. I turn on the tap, splashing cold water on my face. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I hold up my hands and I’m shaking. I need a cup of tea. Or something stronger.
I go to the kitchen, but there’s nothing in the back of the cupboards, just a few empty wine bottles by the bin. But then I remember the cases of bottles in Bill’s room and march upstairs. I fling open his room, stepping over a pair of boxers and a newspaper on the floor. It’sThe Scotsman, open at our review. I shake my head, flick open the lid and slide out a bottle of wine. Itisthe wine from that film night.Oh, Bill. I am suddenly thirsty for a glass of chilled water instead.
The door below slams heavily and then I hear slow, shuffling footsteps in the hallway.
I slip the bottle back into the case, creep out of the room and skip down the stairs, trying to be light-footed, as if I’ve been doing something totally normal upstairs. I find Bill with his arm on the hallway wall, holding himself for balance, checking his phone.
‘Hi, Bill,’ I say casually as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
