Chapter Ten
BEA
Outside, an early grey gloom hangs over the city—a city that’s mostly asleep. At least the sensible people are still wrapped up in bed. The lucky ones are probably curled around the warm body of their other half; a thought that makes me maudlin. Makes me resentful and sad—emotions I’ve avoided all week by hanging around the hospital and keeping myself busy. I worry that the fallout of our breakup is like an acquaintance you see coming towards you on the street, one you’re not ready to face. You’re fully aware of them—standing there on the pavement, facing you—but you avoid making eye contact at all costs, so you don’t have to deal.
That has been my week. Weird, randy dreams and a whole gamut of emotions from anger and self-pity to sad.
So I still don’t want to go home—not yet, at least. If I can avoid the flat for a few more hours, I’ll probably avoid seeing Rory, who would’ve slept over last night. It’s happening more and more since the remodelling in his penthouse apartment began. It’s not that I don’t want to see him, but he’ll make me think of Kit when I’m trying not to.
I’m not envious of Fin and Rory’s relationship.But I still feel sorry for myself. And I just can’t face Fin because when I do, I know I’ll come apart at the seams and tell her everything that’s happened, including what happened with Kit.
And that would be disastrous.
As I plot a course of action for my morning, I pull my phone out of my pocket and read Jon’s last text message.
When are we going to talk?
The twelfth of never, preferably.
When will he get the hint?
I hit delete because if I respond, the numbness I’m currently fostering will be gone. I know I’ll need to talk to him at some point, but it’ll be on my terms, not his. And while that day might not be as far away as the same day hell freezes over, it sure as shit isn’t yet.
I’m about to slot away my phone again when I notice a couple of missed calls from Fin.
Shit. What day is it? Saturday. Did I miss last night’s dinner? Did I say I’d be there?
I’m such a poor friend. It’s a good thing she asks so little of me because I deliver so much less. Not that Fin accepts this. If I was supposed to be there, she’ll put it down to my study load, my work hours, and my dedication to the job.
Unless I tell her the truth.
Not yet.
A coffee place appears in front of me—it’s not a Starbucks or another chain, but one of those places that offers the basics of a full belly.Bacon and eggs. I realise I’m not entirely sure where I am, having walked out of the hospital without direction or a solid plan.Unless you count avoiding going home.The street I find myself on is quiet and genteel. Lots of grey and sage painted shopfronts with accents in shades of white. There are a few boutiques and a bathroom showroom, a florist, and then this... a very incongruous looking café-cum-greasy spoon. The signage is faded and worn, the door’s once white paintwork peeling. I know from experience of living here in London that this kind of establishment offers exactly two types of coffee, white or black, in addition to very strong cups of tea. And the background music is likely to be the sound of frying bacon and eggs.
I decide this is as good a place as any to hide in for a while.
I order black coffee and a fry-up from a man with as much grease on his apron as in his hair. I’m not hungry, and even less so after ordering, but I figure it’ll allow me a little longer to loiter here. I carry my mug to a window setting, the tiny table covered with a wipe clean cloth and decorated by a glass sugar bowl and ketchup bottle masquerading as a red tomato.
I didn’t think they made these anymore.
I place my phone on the sticky plastic and scald my tongue with hot instant coffee as I watch the street begin to awaken. It’s not long after six a.m., and I decide I’ll likely be here for an hour—maybe a little more if I appropriate the second-hand newspaper I spot on the table in front. But then, through the steamed-up window, and through the early morning gloom, I notice a very stylishly dressed couple coming out of the building across the street. At first glance, the building appears to be a house. Old but immaculate and very much in keeping with the rest of that side of the street. Georgian merchant homes turned into tasteful offices and the like, retaining their genteel façades.
My eyes slide over the building where they’re standing outside. The uniformed sash windows. A brass letterbox. Elegant bay trees keep sentry on either side of an imposing black painted door. Ordinarily, I think I’d smile because they’re dressed more for some kind of formal evening event than a Saturday early morning. An early morning walk of shame, most probably. I pick a lump of white sugar from the silver coloured bowl when my attention snags on something horrific.
What catches my attention is Rory, looking almost dapper in a dinner suit, his bow-tie lying open, half on his shirt and half on his shiny lapel.
What catches my attention further is the elegantly dressed woman with her arm around my friend’s man.
Down the marble steps, she hops without letting him go.One, two, three. Dark hair, red evening dress, and a satisfied smile. She turns her face to Rory as he slides his hands into her hair and tilts her head.
I see red—as red as the gown she’s wearing—physically and emotionally because how the fuck dare he do this to my friend? After she has invested her heart fully in him. When she dotes on his every word. How can he be so callous—such a snake of a man—to make her believe in his love?
The chair scrapes across the floor as I push it back, the bell chiming above the door as I pull violently on the handle.
‘ ‘Ere, love. Your fry-up’s done!’
I don’t turn in answer because all men are scum. I’m barely aware of the traffic, finding myself on the other side of the road almost immediately. And they’re kissing now. Kissing passionately.Fucking indiscreet!My eyelashes bead with the sudden drizzling of rain as I power forward. Rory pulls away, though her arm is still around his waist... and there’s another man with them. Tall and fair. Fit but nowhere as big as Rory is—Rory, who slides his hand around the other man’s back, leaning in.
