He reappears in his joggers and a T-shirt, and we sit side by side on the bed, backs against the quilted headboard, legs stretched out. Like an old couple, I reflect, fiddling about on our phones.
I glance over at his mobile and smile. ‘I know,’ he says, catching my look. ‘Liv says it’s an embarrassment. An ancient artefact.’
‘I’d say she’s right,’ I remark.
‘It’s all, “God, Dad. Put that thing away!”’ He hands it to me and, although I have already registered the state of it, I examine it more closely this time. It’s welded together with sticky tape and possibly powered by steam. I chuckle and pass it back.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘if it works?—’
‘—then why bother upgrading?’ he finishes.
‘Very sensible.’ As Shane reaches for his book, I switch my attention back to my own phone, about to message Lloyd, just to see what he’s been up to. It feels slightly odd to be about to text my boyfriend when I’m stretched out on a king-size bed, emblazoned with Love Hearts, with another man. But he’s not ‘another man’ – he’s Shane, my companion on our pilgrimage – and Lloyd isn’t the jealous type.
In fact, I’m wondering now if he’s been a bit under the weather these past couple of days. He’s certainly been quiet – but then he’s not a big texter at the best of times. And perhaps he’s a little huffy about my lack of enthusiasm over the soil trough. It’s just a bit of fun! was his last message on the subject. No big deal. We don’t have to use it if you don’t want to.
I start to figure out what else I could use it for, seeing as it’s sitting there, waiting for me in my flat. Yes, the block has a communal garden but it’s firmly under the control of Deena from upstairs. The one time I added a pretty pink hydrangea in a pot, she swiftly moved it, tucking it away in a corner like a sleazy uncle at a family gathering. ‘I thought it’d be better there,’ she said tartly, ‘out of the way.’
Would Cora like the trough, I muse, for her tiny back garden? But then how would I explain what it was originally for, and why I came to own it? It’s not the kind of thing you just have kicking around. I’m turning all of this over, conscious of Shane at my side, so close to me on an actual bed, when my phone pings.
Weirdly, as if he can magically see the Love Heart bed situation – and he does mind, after all – Lloyd has messaged me.
I read it once, and then close my eyes and lean fully back against the padded headboard. Vaguely aware of Shane turning a page of his book, I open my eyes and read the message again. My heart is thudding, my hands trembling a little. Suddenly, so many things fall into place.
Shane reaches for a tiny packet of sweets from the bowl on his bedside table. ‘Want some?’
I shake my head. ‘No, thanks.’
His forehead creases as he sets down his book at his side. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
I swallow hard and try to steady my breathing. ‘Um… not really,’ I mutter. ‘No, I’m not okay. Not at all.’
His gaze fixes on mine. I take a deep breath, knowing what the message means. And that there’s no going back from it. ‘What is it, Josie?’ Shane asks gently.
Wordlessly, I show him my phone. He squints to read the screen.
‘Who’s this from?’ he asks.
‘Lloyd. My boyfriend.’
Shane frowns hard at it. ‘Sorry, I don’t get it…’
‘He didn’t mean it for me,’ I tell him. ‘It was… supposed to be for somebody else.’
His expression switches. ‘Oh, God. Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’ That’s when the tears well up and overflow as, in a room bedecked with giant Love Hearts, Lloyd has messaged:
Thanks for gorgeous pics you horny minx. I’m at J’s flat still finishing that job here. Hurry over now.
29
We are drinking cocktails in the hotel bar. Or rather, I’m glugging mine (lilac, slightly fizzy) and Shane is sipping his gamely (violent green). His is only a third down by the time I’m slurping my sugary dregs, and I’m unembarrassed by this.
Obviously, further alcohol was needed after that message. The thought of Lloyd not only doing it but doing it in my flat! Are they swinging from my multicoloured plastic chandelier? Banging against my fridge? Doing it in my bed, even? I hope he warns her about the dodgy slat!
I have tried repeatedly to call him but it’s just rung out and of course he’s busy right now. Busy drinking my cheap white wine with her and laughing at my fridge magnets! ‘Who’s this mouse?’ Lloyd asked once, jabbing at one of them.
‘It’s not a mouse,’ I retorted, ‘it’s Madame Cholet.’
