‘Can you stop telling me how I feel?’
He reddens and looks down at his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—’
‘You think I slept with you to get back at Lloyd? Like some kind of revenge?’
‘I don’t know, I?—’
‘Why are you saying all this?’ Tears spring to my eyes and I jump up from the stupid bed and turn away so he doesn’t see them.
Back in the bathroom, having gathered up my clothes and brought them in with me, I dress quickly and sit on the closed loo seat. Thirty-seven years it’s been since the last time we did it. How many times have I thought about him since then, wondering where he was? And who he was with? Peeking at his Instagram, gathering clues – Paula’s too. Like picking at a spot, I couldn’t resist. In a recent one she was grinning at a restaurant table, with her and Shane’s teenage children (they looked so like him, they had to be his), and an extremely buffed-looking bloke in a black polo neck. I checked the caption: Copenhagen, you’ve been a blast!
I’ve trawled Shane’s account for pictures of him and Paula together, or him with any woman who might be a girlfriend or a wife. Home alone, after a bottle of wine, I’ve considered dropping him a message. Hey, just stumbled upon you here! How are you? DON’T DO IT, YOU STALKING LOON! I’ve actually said that out loud. STOP IT! PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY! It’s a benefit of living alone, being allowed to shout at yourself. And this is what he thinks? That I only had sex with him because I was upset by a missent message from a man I’m not in love with – or, worse, that I wanted to pay him back?
It’s true. I liked and fancied Lloyd, but I wasn’t in love with him. The man I love is right here, on the other side of the bathroom door.
I stand up, readying myself to do this, fully aware of how mad it is. Could it be the meds? They warn you that you shouldn’t come off them abruptly, but taper down. I haven’t tapered. I’ve gone from the prescribed dose to zero and as part of the process I’ve had wild, thrilling sex with the only person who’s ever made me feel that way.
Clutching my washbag, I step out of the bathroom and stuff it into my rucksack. ‘What are you doing?’ Shane exclaims.
I look at him, and then I gaze down at the bed. Just like at that guest house – the last place we stayed on our tour – the sheets are rumpled. Only this time it’s different. We won’t even get there because this is where it ends.
‘I’m going home, Shane,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I can’t do this any more. I want to go back to London.’
‘But why?’ He gets up and puts his arms around me, but I pull away. ‘What about Huddersfield?’ he asks, looking distraught.
‘We’ll always have Huddersfield!’
He stares at me. What made me do that? Make a terrible joke at a time like this?
‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ he mutters.
‘No, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—’
‘So we’re leaving now? You really want us to go back to London today?’
‘No, I’m taking the bus.’
‘The bus? Why?’ His face pales and his beautiful eyes fill with hurt.
‘Because it’s cheaper than the train and?—’
‘I mean, why are you doing this, Josie? Why d’you want to leave without me?’
‘I just think it’s better,’ I say firmly, hating myself already.
‘So… you won’t travel back to London with me?’
‘No,’ I say firmly.
‘But why not? Please tell me!’
Because I can’t bear it, is the answer. Because I loved you so much back then, and all these years I haven’t been able to shake you off me. It’s why I fell into a thing with Dale Watson and moved to London with him. It’s why I stayed with him, when it should only have been a fling, if that – all the better to push my love for you right out of my brain. And right now, the thought of five hours in the van with you is more than I can bear.
‘I’d just prefer it,’ I say.
