The Night That Changed Everything (32 page)

I squeeze the box tighter as I pass the parish church, with its witch's-hat spire, and the frustration that she can still do this to me, still make me feel this way when I thought I was fine . . .

I draw the box from my pocket and swing my arm, launching it with as much force as I can muster towards the pond, and turning immediately so that I don't see where it lands.

Erica comes into the kitchen carrying the same plate she left with just a few minutes earlier.

‘I'm so sorry, Ben,' she says. ‘The chap is saying he ordered the steak in his baguette well done, but I can't tell.'

On inspection I can see that Erica is being kind, because the steak is basically still grazing around a field somewhere in Somerset. Though I could have sworn the order said . . .

. . . the order said well done.

I'm struggling to concentrate. It's not only Rebecca with her new fella, it's Jamie. Did he know? Was all that stuff about house fires just made-up bollocks to make me feel better? I can't ask him because he's at his frigging mixology competition.

I re-do the steak baguette and when I'm done in the kitchen I take my place at the end of the bar, where I try to get everything straight in my head.

The thing is, all that stuff Jamie said, it worked. I thought I was OK, and it takes me three double brandies to work out why I was so upset when I walked past the restaurant.

It's because we were in a contest. Four months ago it was like our lives had been dismantled, and we had to put them back together, and it's not like flat-pack furniture, there aren't any instructions for this shit, and until one of us finished there was always a tiny, minuscule chance that we could have said
Fuck it
, and reassembled everything together.

But now Rebecca has finished, she's won the contest, and it doesn't feel fair.

None of this feels fair, I think to myself over another double measure. Kicking me out, not giving me a chance to explain. And now this hand-holding twat is probably eating at our dining table, watching TV on our couch, sleeping in our bed, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Or maybe, I think, grabbing my coat, there is.

Do not answer it.
That's my initial instinct when the doorbell rings at midnight. Because when someone is at your door, unexpected, at midnight, it can never be for anything good.

It rings again, making me bolt up in bed this time.

A drunk who has the wrong house?

The local pervert who's clocked I live here alone?

Maybe it's Michael? Maybe he didn't take it as well as I thought he did when I told him I didn't want to see him again. Maybe that calm, spiritual persona is just a front for the fact he's a madman who takes revenge on women who reject him by visiting them at home in the middle of the night wielding a machete.

The doorbell goes again but this time whoever it is doesn't take their finger off the button because it rings again and again and again and again, and I swear to God, I'll snap whoever it is's finger right off, machete-wielding madman or not.

I've been working all hours lately and all I wanted was a Saturday night in, to finally watch the last couple of episodes of
Broadchurch
, eat a greasy takeaway and fall asleep without setting an alarm. And I was just on the verge of scoring my hat-trick when the doorbell went.

Jumping out of bed, I move through the dark to peer through the blinds in the living room and see a tall figure loitering under the window. My heart skips a beat as I realize who it is.

‘Jesus, Ben,' I groan into the intercom. ‘You frightened the life out of me.'

‘Can I come up?'

The clipped way he says it tells me I should have trusted my initial instinct about not answering it, but I'm too curious not to buzz him in.

Plus, there's something else. A weird, unexpected jolt of excitement about seeing him. It's been months.

I peer into the hall mirror and then, on a whim, run through to the bedroom, pulling my tatty old polo shirt off over my head as I go. I rake in a drawer until I find a black cotton strappy nightdress I can't have worn since Ben left, because it sure as hell wasn't me who ironed it.

Then I pull my hair out of its messy bun, running my fingers through it. I'm not planning to seduce him or anything, I just don't want him to think that single life has turned me into a slob.

I get back to the top of the stairs at the same time he does.

‘We need to talk,' he barks, looking me up and down in disgust then peering over my shoulder. ‘You alone?'

My heart wrenches but I try not to let the hurt register on my face. ‘Yes. Why?'

I smell smoke on him as he walks past me and shoves the door closed behind him.

‘Um, Ben? What are you doing here?'

‘In the flat where all my furniture is? Am I not allowed to be?'

That's when I realize he isn't entirely sober.

‘You don't live here, Ben.' I cross my arms. ‘I think I'm allowed to ask why you're here, unannounced, at,' I check the clock, pointedly, ‘five past twelve.'

‘Well, that's what I want to talk to you about. You living here with all the stuff that I bankrupted myself buying while I'm in some shithole.'

‘What's your point?' I ask, though it's pretty obvious what his point is. But he's pissed me off by turning up in the middle of the night to make it. He's had ample chance if that's how he sees it.

‘My point,' he says, ‘is that half of that is mine,' he points at the sofa, ‘and half of that,' he points at the dining table, then stands at the bedroom door pointing at the bed, ‘and half of that.'

He turns to face me. ‘And I don't particularly like the idea of you and your new fella being all
versatile
on them.'

I pretend not to get the reference.

‘My fella? What in the name of Jesus are you talking about?' Suddenly it occurs to me I'm not wearing any underwear – funny the things that pop into your head – and I pull the back of the nightdress down, though it's easily long enough to cover my modesty.

‘That fella,' he waves a finger around his eyes, ‘with the glasses.'

‘Who?'

‘Don't play dumb.' He staggers to the sofa, gives it a dirty look and then sits on the coffee table. ‘You were having a romantic steak lunch with him just a few hours ago.'

‘Michael?' He saw us? ‘Shit, Ben, are you stalking me?'

His eyes look like they're going to pop out of his head. ‘Am I stalking you? Oh, get over yourself. I was walking past.'

‘And it made you so mad you had to rock up in the middle of the night and have it out with me?'

‘This isn't about that,' he snaps. ‘It's about me wanting what's mine. Which is half this furniture. It's bad enough I'm living in some shithole the size of your bathroom, but it would be nice to have something to sit on.'

‘This is about furniture?' I ask incredulously, fury simmering at the pit of my stomach. ‘Fine – take what you want. Have you got a van parked outside? Or are you planning on carrying it to your
shithole
on top of your head?'

‘Don't be ridiculous. It's not just about the furniture. You just have it so easy now, like . . .' He looks around. ‘That knife!' He points at one of the knives he bought me, lying on a crumb-covered plate. ‘I mean, do you need a fucking cook's knife to butter toast?'

‘No. You said you bought those knives for me at the time but by all means, take them.'

He glares at me. ‘It's not about the knives.'

I can't win.

‘You keep telling me what this isn't about. What
is
it about?'

‘Me getting what I'm owed. I need to get some cash together so me and Jamie can start our own business.'

‘You're still talking about that, are you?' I laugh cruelly as I pick up my handbag from the hall floor and yank my purse out. ‘Here, how much do you want? A hundred? Five hundred? A grand? How much does it cost to adopt an Adélie penguin? Because let's face it, that's what you'll really do with the cash when you get bored of your latest big dream.'

‘Don't patronize me,' he says, waving my purse away. Thank God he didn't call my bluff – I have less than a tenner on me and I doubt he takes Visa.

‘So what do you want?' I chuck my purse back down and cross my arms. ‘To cut everything in half? Maybe we could use your special knives.'

Ben treats me to his dirtiest look.

‘We could sell it and you could use your half to buy stuff with your boyfriend.'

I take a deep breath, and try to see this from his point of view. He's seen me and Michael, jumped to conclusions and thinks I'm with someone else, and he's transferring his anger. Which must mean he still cares. I feel myself start to soften.

‘Listen,' I say gently, ‘it's not what you—'

‘And good luck to him.' He smirks. ‘Because you're a real treat to live with.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' I demand, feeling defensive again.

‘Well, is he a mind reader? Because Christ, Rebecca – I sure as hell never knew what you were thinking. I used to think you were just closed but I'm starting to realize you're actually emotionally stunted.'

My temples throb, and for the first time I feel proper anger. This has nothing to do with the furniture, or even Michael. It's the argument we never had when we broke up. It's been brewing for months.

‘Look, Ben, if you weren't so shit with money then you might be able to afford to buy some furniture rather than coming round here in the middle of the night and shouting at me.' His mouth opens but I don't give him time to reply. ‘And it's not that I'm emotionally stunted,' I insist, through gritted teeth, ‘it's that when I've had a bad day I don't want to bring everyone else down by whining about it. Because I know what a bloody drag that is from living with you.' He goes to say something but I'm on a roll. ‘You hated your job – I GET IT – but rather than actually attempt to find something you did want to do, you just brought all your negativity home with you every night so that I'd be depressed too.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were supposed to be able to turn to your girlfriend for support. I didn't realize what you wanted was a relationship where we sit there and don't say anything, just holding hands across the table. Mealtimes look like a riot with your new bloke.'

‘He's not my new bloke, you stupid idiot.'

‘Pull the other one.'

I laugh in frustration. ‘You've got it wrong, Ben.'

I watch the tension seep out of Ben's body and I know I should leave it there and send him home, but I can't. ‘You know what, though? Living with someone who actually eats their meals at the dinner table rather than on their lap in front of the TV doesn't sound that bad to me.'

‘Ouch.' He clutches his fist to his chest. ‘Hit me where it really hurts.'

‘Oh, grow up, Ben. Go home and sober up, and let me know when you're ready to talk about this like adults.'

‘Oh my God.' He jumps up. ‘I can't believe you have the audacity to stand there and tell me to grow up.' He points at me using both pointing fingers in case there's any confusion about who he's referring to here. ‘You, who dumped me because of one stupidly small thing I did before we were even a couple. You, who hasn't spoken to your best friend for months for the same mistake.'

His words hit a nerve. A little spark of doubt that I was right to completely banish Danielle from my life is constantly there at the back of my mind, but I always extinguish it before it has a chance to get momentum. I do the same now.

‘Well, at least you've got each other's shoulders to cry on. And you know, when she's really upset, you can always just shag her. But then I don't need to tell you that.'

‘Oh, leave off.'

‘No, I mean it – it must be very comforting for you both.'

‘I've barely spoken to Danielle since you and I split up. I've seen her once, when she was with Jamie.'

‘Yeah, right,' I mumble, turning my back on Ben as my worst fears are confirmed: the three of them hanging out together without me.

Thinking about Ben and Danielle still feels as raw as when I first found out. I thought I was over it but clearly I'm not – I've just been avoiding thinking about it.

Don't cry
, I warn myself. If it's anger or sadness, choose anger.

‘I haven't! We slept together once, Rebecca. Once. You and I weren't even going out yet. And I can see why you were upset when you found out but we can't undo it. We had sex. GET. OVER. IT.'

‘It was never about those two minutes you shared,' I cry. It's a low blow, I know, and there's no anecdotal basis to back it up. ‘It's about all that time you lied to me.' My voice gets louder. ‘It's about the fact I can't trust you.' And louder. ‘And me not wanting to be with you any more? That doesn't make me childish, Ben.' And the crescendo . . . ‘It makes me NOT A FUCKING MUG.'

There's a bang on the door, making us both jump.

‘Who's that?' I whisper.

‘How the hell should I know?' he whispers back. ‘Michael?'

‘Why are you making speech marks with your fingers? That's his real name. And I told you – he's not my boyfriend. He doesn't even know where I live.' I hope.

‘Rebecca?' a man's voice calls. ‘Is that you? It's Angus from downstairs.'

Oh, shit.

I take a deep breath and answer the door.

‘Sorry to knock,' says my bathrobe-clad neighbour. ‘It's just the baby is sleeping, and we can . . . Oh, hey, Ben.' He seems happily surprised. ‘I didn't realize you were back.'

‘Sorry,' Ben and I say in unison, but while I'm about to assure Angus we'll be quiet and let him leave, Ben is stepping round me to shake his hand. ‘How are you, mate?'