I propped myself up on a pillow so that I could look outside, just as the morning sun began to creep around the edge of the window. When I turned to study Ant’s features more closely, a gentle strip of orange sunlight had fallen across his face, and I took this as a sign from the universe. I knew in that instant that I wasn’t going back. I just had to work out how to do it causing the least harm to all concerned.
By the time Ant opened his eyes, my decision had been made, reflected on, and psychologically notarised. To his surprise, I climbed on top of him and smothered him with kisses.
‘Hey, hey,’ he said. ‘What’s going on with you?’
‘Nothing,’ I told him, straddling him and pulling him inside me. ‘Nothing’s going on with me except this.’ I reached out and pinched his nipples, wondering if he’d enjoy it or, like Joe, complain like hell.
‘Oh God, I love you,’ he said, blindsiding me. ‘I’m totally fucking in love with you, Amy.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Me too.’
We stayed in that generic hotel room for three nights, only dragging ourselves out and into Malaga once for a total of maybe three hours.
It’s not that there was anything wrong with Malaga – in fact, it was far prettier than I had expected. But everything we wanted was in that room; everything we wanted was in that bed. So we drank and ate snacks and made love, and when that was over we showered and started all over again.
On the morning of the final day, I borrowed Ant’s laptop so that I could write Joe a proper thought-out email.
I’d toyed with the idea of driving back up there so that I could say what was needed to his face, but it was better this way, I decided.
Writing has always struck me as the purest expression of thought. You have the time to weigh up every word and you can rewrite bits and move them around. You can look out for things that could get misinterpreted and change them to make sure you’re being clear. You don’t get interrupted, and most importantly, you don’t get angry and say things you don’t mean.
Of course, you don’t have to face the other person’s emotional response to whatever it is that you’re saying either, and that perhaps makes it all a bit cowardly. But by the time I’d written, edited and re-edited my mammoth email, I was satisfied that this was the least harmful solution.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to call Heather before I send this?’ I asked. Ant had read my email and approved. He shook his head dismissively.
‘You understand that Joe’s going to tell her we’re together, right?’ I pointed out. ‘Don’t you think she at least deserves to hear it from you?’
‘She won’t care,’ Ant said. ‘It’s not the same as you and Joe. I told you. She hates my guts. She’ll be glad.’
I was pretty sure that this was untrue, but ultimately, how Ant dealt with Heather was for him to decide. It really was none of my business.
‘You’re sure?’ I said. ‘I’m about to click.’
Ant leaned over so that he could see the screen, and then he reached out and clicked send. ‘Now put that bloody computer away and come back to bed,’ he said.
Nine
Heather
Joe’s taxi, driven by a Spaniard with a comic-book moustache, arrived just after four. He didn’t work between twelve and four but there was no point leaving earlier anyway as the car-hire place opened even later.
Because Ben had pleaded to go with Joe, and because he’d ultimately caved in to Ben’s demands, Lucy was spitting blood as we walked back to the house. ‘I hate you!’ she told me repeatedly. ‘I hate you! And I want Daddy.’
Lucy’s moods had never bothered me unduly. They were like violent storms that swept in from nowhere and vanished again just as unexpectedly. So I’d always treated them exactly like weather – I ignored them and waited for the sun to come out. Her ‘I want Daddy’, though, had felt like a stake through the heart. We all want Daddy, I thought at one point. But then I wondered, Or do we? Do we want Daddy at all?
Lucy’s indoor sulk gave me some quiet time with Sarah in the pool, and as I swung her around, dragging her through the water, I thought about Amy and Ant and wondered what the attraction was. Because to my eye, at least, pop-star Amy was way out of Ant’s league. Then again, she was out of Joe’s league too, so perhaps she just liked slumming it.
Still, they were both physically attractive, I admitted. Hadn’t I read somewhere that the couples that last the longest are those where both participants are equally good-looking? It crossed my mind that it was a wonder Ant and I had lasted this long, but then perhaps he liked slumming it too.
I tried to imagine life without him, but the void of it terrified me into numbness. I toyed with the idea of phoning Kerry again – she’d be reassuring, I was sure of it. But as I was looking after the girls, I couldn’t really speak to her, even less cry – and cry, I would. Just the thought of her friendly voice was enough to bring tears to my eyes.
‘Is Joe going to get Daddy?’ Lucy asked, making me jump. Her sulk was apparently over.
‘You know he isn’t,’ I said. ‘I told you, Daddy’s gone home. To England. To our house.’
Lucy glared at me as she thought about this. I could almost see her debating whether there was anything to be gained by having another hissy fit.
‘Is Joe coming back?’ she asked then, mirroring my unspoken fear that he might not, that we’d be abandoned
