Love Always

were always discussing it – even that night in the pub right before we kissed. Now I know why, I said to myself.

Luckily I didn’t have to pass them to get down the stairs, they’re at my end of the corridor. I just pretended not to have seen them and walked off. I didn’t want to embarrass Ben. I didn’t want to be embarrassed, is more likely the truth. But I was embarrassed. I burnt hot at the thought of it, as I scurried away; why?

The last time Oli and I had sex, that awful, deadening Friday morning, we didn’t kiss. I let him fuck me, and we didn’t kiss once. So Ben is the last person I kissed, I guess, and that thought makes me sad for al sorts of reasons, most of al shame that I wanted him to mix himself up with me and my messy life. I think about him and Jamie together, and I nod. Yes, it makes sense. Of course it does. And I feel glad that, every time I’ve thought about him since, about how good that kiss was, about his face, his eyes, his friendship towards me, how great it felt to be in his arms . . . I feel glad that I pushed it away, never let myself give in to it. It just means it’s easier now.

So as I hurried back down Brick Lane towards the pub, I tried not to feel sad, even though I couldn’t help it. But, as I reasoned to myself, one hand on Cecily’s necklace, it’s only natural. I think I persuaded myself into love with Oli. We both did. I should be careful about doing the same again. Next time, it’l be for ever. I’ve got to get next time right. Cecily didn’t have a next time. I do.

My mind is drifting towards the latter stage of the evening, when I am recal ed to the present, to the railway carriage, to the Bowler Hat, picking daintily over the croissant his wife has given him, long fingers taking up pastry flakes and careful y eating them. I look away, suddenly nauseated.

‘The train leaves in five minutes,’ Louisa says, looking out of the window anxiously. ‘Where is your mother, Natasha? She can’t miss this train, it’l be a disaster. She’s making the speech!’

She looks at me slightly accusingly, but I remain calm. Before al this, I would have felt guilt on Mum’s behalf. Now I don’t. If I was her I wouldn’t want to turn up at al , frankly. I don’t even know if she’s back – if she’s ever coming back. I can see why she likes being away, now.

Once again, my head shoots up as the doors open again. But it’s no one I know, a vast mum dragging two smal children with her. She plonks them into the seat behind us, puffing at the exertion, her face stained red. I look at the clock. 7:26. My mind drifts again.

* * *

‘What time is it?’

Cathy had asked me this question yesterday evening. ‘Nearly eight,’ I’d replied.

‘Exactly. So you can’t just run off. It’s been an hour! I thought we’d meet Jay and check out Needoo. You know, the new Tayyabs. I’ve not been before.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I’d said, swinging my bag over my shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve got to get out of here . . . Sorry, Cathy.’

Dead Dog Tom’s was loud, crowded, hot, ful of girls much younger than me. It’s new and I’d been meaning to go for a while. But the moment I arrived, I knew it was a mistake. Not my kind of place at al . Asymmetric haircuts and big black glasses are one thing, but this was like an episode of The Hills, everyone tanned with perfect teeth, endless legs and beautiful hair – and that was just the guys. Cathy had just battled back from the bar with our second drink when I’d looked up and seen it.

‘Why?’ Cathy’s face was a picture of childish annoyance, like a little girl who’s been told she can’t go to the zoo. She pouted. ‘I want to tel you about our weekend away! I think he’s taking me to Southwold, we’re staying next to Benjamin Britten’s house, can you believe it?’

I touched her shoulder. ‘Cathy – it’s Oli,’ I said. ‘Look – over there. He’s – I’m sorry. I just, I just want to get out of here.’

Open-mouthed, Cathy turned. She looked over to where I was staring.

There, his elbows on the bar, hands waggling intently as he talked fast and low, was Oli. He was saying something to a girl with her back to us.

She had blonde hair, and was wearing a high-waisted tulip skirt, a puff-sleeved little shirt and tights with a black seam, and she was nodding at him.

‘Oh, my God,’ Cathy said. ‘It’s Oli! Bastard.’

As if by some kind of magic alchemy the music stopped and the thunderous chatter abated for a few seconds, the way there is suddenly a strange lul in a noisy bar. Cathy’s voice echoed around our corner, so loudly that Oli looked up and saw us.

Pushing himself off the bar, Oli stood up straight. He raised his hand as if in greeting and then, obviously thinking better of it, walked towards us, turning the handwave into a ruffle through his thick dark hair, which stuck up on end even more as a result.

‘Cathy,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Cathy replied, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Look, I’l —’

‘I was just going,’ I said to him. ‘Honestly.’

‘I’l see you outside,’ said Cathy, vanishing discreetly towards the Ladies.

We stood on the pavement on Whitechapel Road. It was stil light.

‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t cal ed,’ Oli said. He looked much younger. Dressed much younger, in a cardigan, jeans, plimsol s. I held up my hand.

‘No, it’s fine. I haven’t either. You got my email, about you maybe moving back into the flat, though?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah. It’s a good idea. If you’re sure?’

‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to go back there, honestly. How – how’re Jason and Lucy? You stil staying with them?’