His gaze melted into mine as my heart writhed. In the dark heat of the hallway I felt myself lean forward, the sweet elastic of muscle memory moving me in. Millimetres from touching, encountering again the drug of him, just one last time.
And then. Laughter on the stairs. Two people we didn’t know clattering down towards us, talking animatedly about foot-and-mouth.
The spell fell apart. Josh shook his head, seemed to collect himself. He took his hand off the wall and met my eye again, butthis time only briefly. ‘Sorry, Rach,’ he murmured, then turned and walked away.
27.
Josh
July 2002
I told Mum about the pill pretty soon after Rachel left. I’d been debating keeping it to myself, worried she would panic about side effects and suchlike. But, in the end, I didn’t want to lie to her about why Rachel and I broke up.
She’s been doing her best to be brave, periodically assuring me that Rachel will come around, in time. And I think she probably does believe that. She was happy, obviously, not to have had to attend my funeral – as far as Mum’s concerned, her only child is still alive, and her family tree’s intact for the first time in well over a century. In most people’s eyes this would be classed as a solid win. So it’s clear she’s conflicted, deep down, and who can blame her?
Unsurprisingly, Darren, Giles and Lola weren’t too jazzed to find out about the pill a full year after Polly and Ingrid. But they have just about forgiven me. Looking back, I feel thankful they did witness my fear, from time to time over the years. Because I think it helps them to understand why I did what I did.
The weird thing is, I think Rachel gets it, too. Just as I get why she felt she had to leave. Why staying seemed impossible. None of her reasons was lacking in logic.
But in a way this makes it worse. Because I’ve long been convinced that resentment is easier to live with than regret.
Even a year on, I can hardly bear to be at the flat we used to share. I’ve been writing a new book, trying to keep my mind occupied. And it has helped, putting words on the page and not actively hating them for what feels like the first time in a longwhile. The story grips me, but I can’t do it justice at home. So I transplant myself to the library and cafés, take on extra teaching hours at the college, where I write between classes. I even head alone to bars and bistros at night, sit there until closing with my notebook and pen.
Rachel and I have yet to do an official division of our stuff, which means I still encounter her every day, all over the flat. I set them tenderly aside, the recipes she tore from magazines, her stockpile of Tunnock’s Teacakes, cartoon sketches on scraps of paper. There are tops mingled with my T-shirts in the wardrobe. A half-used bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo I cannot bring myself to smell. An invitation to a wedding, addressed to us both, that Rachel helped design. Her winter coat, still hanging by the front door.
I often think about bumping into her, at that party last year. The way she moved back against the wall, allowed me to pin her there for a few delicious seconds. Her tawny eyes holding mine as our favourite Christmas song came on to the stereo. Telling her I still thought about her, at home alone. The kick of knowing just from her expression that she did the same. How desperate I was, in that moment, to take her by the hand and find an empty room or a bed or a chair, so I could show her again just how much I still loved her.
28.
Rachel
December 2002
One night close to Christmas, I am with work colleagues in a bar for our company Christmas party.
As I settle in for my second drink, I notice Lawrence Carmichael approaching me. He is wearing a Santa hat, a sprig of mistletoe protruding from his pocket.
I know only two things about Lawrence. First, he is on the bank’s executive team, and second, he has a reputation.
I hear his name mentioned a lot in passing, like a rumour. We’ve been in a couple of meetings together before, and it’s true he has a kind of stop-talking charisma, the kind I’d usually associate with famous people, or criminals.
He takes the empty seat next to me and swigs from his cocktail glass, staring straight ahead as if we’re strangers on a train platform. He is crisply dressed, and there is a certain sharpness to his profile. He is not dissimilar to Josh in appearance, except he maybe has more of an edge – Santa hat aside, obviously.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asks eventually.
I raise my glass, though it’s obvious and I assume he’s just breaking the ice. ‘Snowball.’
‘Very retro. Feeling festive?’
I raise an eyebrow, nod down at the mistletoe. ‘You do know I work in HR?’
He shoots me a smile, and I feel it ripple through me. The dark scent of his cologne bites as he inclines his head. ‘Hate to disappoint... but the mistletoe isn’t actually for you.’
I try to laugh it off. ‘Just checking.’
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong: it absolutely can be.’
Even in the gloom of the room, I can see his eyes are startling, the iridescent green of a deep sea in sunlight. I smile and sip from my glass, decide it’s best not to respond to that.
