‘Who’s on the committee?’
‘Louisa, Octavia’s mum. She and Mum aren’t exactly close.’ I pause and check my phone. Ben watches. ‘Me. And Guy.’
‘Guy?’
‘He’s the Bowler Hat’s brother.’ He looks blank. ‘Louisa’s brother-in-law. He’s a nice guy.’ I snort at this unintentional pun; Ben shakes his head. ‘And that’s it.’ I stop and raise my hands, to buy some time. Two girls behind us at the bar shriek with laughter, and I look over at them; they’re both in vintage pin-tucked shirts, jeans and boots, and one, who has her hair in a loose bun and wears an apple-green cardigan, has a beautiful gold necklace hung with about five different antique charms: a bird, a heart, a little apple. I take a mental picture of her.
Ben puts his drink down. ‘So, what about your mum? What are you going to say to her?’
I push the pieces of the beer mat away and turn to him, admiring again – as I do each time I look at him – the new, hair-free Ben. ‘Wel , perhaps it’s the funeral, perhaps it’s everything with Oli, and trying to keep the business together, but I’ve sort of realised I can’t be that person in her life any longer. I just can’t do it.’ I raise my shoulders and drop them again. ‘She makes me . . . Agh. Never mind.’
‘Makes you feel what?’ Ben’s voice is soft and kind. I find myself struggling not to cry.
‘She makes me feel not very good about myself sometimes,’ I say in a soft whisper. ‘But that’s – that’s family, I suppose.’
‘No, Nat,’ Ben says gently. ‘It’s not. Not in that way.’
As I’m speaking, the iPhone buzzes and a text appears in a box, lighting up the screen. We both look down, force of habit.
Ben the beardy guy who fancies u?! Bel you laters. Ox
I snatch the phone up and shove it in my bag, but I know it’s too late, that Ben has seen it already. I gabble, to say anything, anything.
‘Anyway, I suppose, yeah. You start to realise you have to distance yourself sometimes, and that’s just the way it is, I guess.’
‘Yes,’ Ben says. ‘I think you do.’
I raise my head, look at him. Ben finishes his drink in one long gulp. ‘Ah, I’m going to get another drink,’ he says, standing up. A wave of embarrassment crashes over me. It’s real y hot in here, crowded with a yeasty, hot, old-man smel , and suddenly I wish we hadn’t gone for a drink, that I was at home in my bedsocks on this cold night and didn’t have to wait for Oli to turn up, whenever that might be.
But when Ben comes back, carrying a pint this time, he looks thoughtful. He puts my drink and some crisps down on the table. ‘Hope you like bacon. Tania loathed bacon crisps, I haven’t had them for ages.’
‘That’s my favourite,’ I say, ripping into the bag. ‘Thanks. So . . .’ I eat a few more crisps, trying to sound casual, and I change the subject.
‘When we met in the coffee house that day a couple of weeks back, when Oli and I were . . . I didn’t know Tania wasn’t working with you any more.
Why’s that?’
Ben looks blank. ‘We’re stil working together.’
‘She said she wasn’t. I introduced her to Oli and said you were her boyfriend and you worked together and she said, Not any more.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding then. She meant we’re not going out any more. We’re stil working together, yeah.’
He says it as though it’s not a big deal. I gape at him. ‘You guys – you split up? I didn’t know that.’
‘Wel , yes.’ He scratches his shoulder, reaching behind with his arm and real y concentrating, as if it’s important to scratch it properly.
‘But – you never said. How – when? When was it?’
‘A month ago,’ Ben says. ‘Yeah.’ He looks down into his pint. ‘It’s pretty sad.’
‘Was it – was it a bad break-up?’
He looks up and around the crowded pub but doesn’t meet my eye. ‘It wasn’t good.’
He won’t look at me. Even though Ben is pretty chil ed, he’s stil a bloke. There’s a lot of stuff you just don’t get out of them.
‘How long –’ I begin, but he says quickly, ‘Yeah, two years. It was painful. But we get on, that’s why we’re stil working together. It’s weird sometimes, but . . . it’s for the best, I suppose.’
‘Can I ask what happened?’ I push the mess I’ve made with the new mat out of the way, embarrassed.
‘Nothing real y.’ He looks at me now. ‘Just that . . .’ He pauses. ‘We were together for two years and . . . Yep.’
‘“Yep”?’
Ben smiles. ‘Wel . . . I’ve come to realise – we both did – that it’s better to be alone than be in a relationship that’s not right.’
I nod emphatical y. ‘Sure.’
‘And if you know you don’t want to be with that person, that you don’t love them any more, it’s best to do something about it sooner rather than later.’
