‘Sophie, before we go in to collect a fuck tonne of chicken, I want to clear the air.’
I tore my eyes away from the human beefcake and allowed them to rest on Joe. He stood right in front of me, both hands clasped around the back of his neck, chin jutting out slightly. Defensive with just a touch of irritation.
‘I know you don’t want me here—’
‘Oh no, what gives you that idea?’ I asked, setting foot on the stone step that led up to the butcher’s front door, but before I could open it, he gripped my arm gently and pulled me back down to the street.
‘It’s impossible for you to let me finish a single sentence, isn’t it?’ he said, his thumb and forefinger almost meeting in a perfect circle around my bicep. His hands were huge. ‘I was going to say, I know you don’t want me here but I don’t want to ruin the weekend.’
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ I replied. The warmth of his skin scorched through the thin sleeve of my T-shirt. ‘Honestly, Joe, I don’t know why you’re here unless it’s to torture me. After everything you said to me yesterday, it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I was an idiot and I was drunk. I didn’t mean any of it.’ He threw up his hands with evident frustration. ‘I’ve already apologised, what more do you want from me?’
I didn’t dare confess the answer to that question changed every other minute.
‘Then why say it in the first place?’ I asked instead, wrapping my arms protectively around my body. ‘Youabsolutely meant all of it and that’s fine, it doesn’t matter, I don’t care what you think about me.’ Or my book, I added silently.
‘Well, I care what you think about me.’
He looked so genuine, so contrite, I almost believed him. And I wanted to, I really did. But where would that get me? Joe Walsh was a subplot, an annoyance sent to distract me from the main storyline. I still had a book to rewrite, a laptop to find, the imminent arrival of my ex-boyfriend to worry about and how many days did I have left to return my ASOS parcel before I was stuck with three pairs of jeans that didn’t fit? The only thing I did know was I had no spare brain cells left over to waste on Joe Walsh.
He stood staring at me, waiting for a response. So I gave him one.
‘Would you mind going in to pick up the order?’ I asked politely.
Inside the shop, the keen edge of the butcher’s cleaver sparkled in the sun before he brought it down, slicing through bone like butter.
‘No problem,’ Joe said. ‘Don’t like being around raw meat?’
‘Don’t trust myself around sharp knives,’ I replied.
‘Then I’ll be right back,’ he said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
Once Joe was safely inside, I took out my phone and did something I never allowed myself to do in the cold, sober light of day. I looked at my ex-boyfriend’s Instagram. Usually, I managed to keep my social media self-harm to sleepless nights and drunk Uber rides but this wasn’t emotional masochism, this was self-preservation. Ineeded a reminder of how badly it hurt when another pretty literary user broke my heart.
Colin and I met at the Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie event during the Edinburgh Book Festival, both of us awkwardly avoiding the crowds, sitting in the safety of the back row. From the very first day, it was so easy. No drama, just comfortable fun. I was getting ready to start my first term at Abbey Hill school, he was applying for publishing jobs all over London and the two of us sat up late every night, talking about all the books we’d read and all the books we wanted to write. He dreamed of creating something profound and meaningful, I wanted to write a book that made people smile, and at the time, we agreed that both ambitions were equally valid. We were so in love, it only made sense for us to move in together right away to save money. Once my teaching career kicked in, my book went on the back burner, but Colin only worked three days a week as an agent’s assistant which gave him plenty of time to hammer out his debut, a book based on one of my ideas that I didn’t have time to dig into. He wasn’t making a lot of money but that wasn’t a problem because I was happy to pay the rent, at least until he landed a big book deal, then we agreed I could finish work and concentrate on my writing too.
When he got an agent, everything changed. Overnight, Colin wrapped himself up in a chrysalis of hype and, out of the cosy cocoon I thought I knew, crawled too-cool, CJ Simmons. CJ didn’t want me to read his drafts, CJ had no use for my notes, and after he sold his book, CJ claimed his publicist wanted him to pretend he was single to keep the female readers interested, like he was some kind of literary Harry Styles. A yearlater, on the same day his book was published – an instant critical, if not commercial, success – he dumped me. After five years together, we’d allegedly outgrown each other. Better off as friends, he said.
Colin needed me until CJ didn’t. It was that simple.
CJ’s Instagram was all moody black and white images, everyday objects shot at weird angles and endless teasing about his next novel, although when it might actually come out remained a mystery, much like why I put up with him for so long. The man wore a leather thong around his neck with Chris Martin’s plectrum hanging from it for god’s sake. What was I thinking? No. I promised myself it would be nice guys only after CJ which was why I’d been single for two years. I would not fall for it again.
‘A little help?’
I looked up from my phone as Joe staggered down the single step to the street, straining under the weight of several trays of meat. I grabbed the top tray and my spaghetti arms quivered under the weight.
‘At least now we know the exact weight of a fuck load of chicken,’ he joked but when he smiled at me, I saw CJ, even if I couldn’t imagine Joe wearing a leather thong necklace, and I couldn’t smile back.
‘We should get back,’ I said, turning away from him and pouring every ounce of energy I’d ever had into my non-existent muscles. ‘It’s too hot for these to be out the fridge for long.’
‘Fine.’
He strode out in front of me, not bothering to keep to my side this time which was, like he said, fine. It wasn’t the traffic I needed protecting from.
We marched to the car in silence, Joe fumbling forhis keys, holding them up but not pressing the button to open the boot. The man was a masochist.
‘Right, I’ve got something to say and this time you’re going to let me say it,’ he said as my sad little biceps and triceps screamed in protest. ‘You’ve decided you don’t like me and I can’t make you change your mind.’
