‘What are you humming?’
He makes a noise like a scarily authentic trumpet. ‘“When the Saints Go Marching In”,’ he says. ‘It’s a good song to keep you warm. I’m cold.’
‘Me too,’ I say. He puts his arm round me and pul s me tight. He has one of those large, sensible puffa jackets like security guards wear and it is nice and comforting. I lean my head against it as we walk, remembering how comforting he is, though we are walking slightly unevenly.
We’re on the corner of Wilkes Street, and then I’l be home. Ben stops and says, into my ear, ‘Natasha. I’m glad every-thing’s turning out OK for you. I real y am.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure it is, but thanks. I’m glad you think so.’
‘I was worried about you, for a while there.’ His breath is on my ear; it is dry and warm.
I stop, and he nearly trips over me. ‘Ah, that’s nice. Why?’
‘Wel . . .’ Ben says. ‘I just meant . . . Oh, shit.’
‘What?’
‘I’m about to be rude. I’ve had a lot to drink. It’s taken the edge off.’
I close my eyes. ‘I’ve had six vodka lime and sodas. Possibly seven. Eight. Nine. Go on.’
Ben says, ‘I meant you and Oli.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I just didn’t . . . didn’t see you staying together. I know we only met a couple of times, but – just watching the two of you together, the way you talk about him – I always thought he wasn’t good enough for you.’ He nods politely. ‘OK, I’l be off then. Off to bang my head repeatedly against a rock.’ He walks off and I fol ow him.
‘I know,’ I cal . He stops. ‘What?’
‘I know you think that,’ I say. ‘Real y?’
‘Real y,’ I say. ‘I know you didn’t like Oli, Ben.’ He starts to protest but I carry on. ‘I’m not stupid. But he was my husband.’
‘OK.’ Ben nods and runs both his hands over his shorn hair, his kind face smiling at me. ‘You’re right. I’m being a dick, Nat, I’m sorry. It’s just I want you to be happy.’
‘But I was happy,’ I say. ‘We were happy, for a while.’
‘Right,’ he says, but there’s a note of disbelief in his voice and for the first time I feel myself getting angry.
‘We were,’ I said. ‘I loved him – I – I don’t know, perhaps I stil do.’
When I say this out loud, I realise how long I’ve been wanting to say it.
‘You don’t deserve him,’ Ben says. He is staring into my eyes. ‘You should be with someone who wants you to be happy, Nat. Who it’s easy to be with. Easy. Like . . . like it is with you and me.’
He leans forward. I don’t say anything. I just move towards him, resting my head on his shoulder. It is so nice to be held by someone again after so long. He puts his arms round me, and I give in to it, sinking into his comfortable jacket and the comfortableness of him, how lovely he is, how kind, how handsome . . . how my head fits into the crook of his neck the way it’s supposed to. The way it’s supposed to.
I look up at him and he moves his head towards me just enough, so his lips are touching mine. And he whispers, so his lips brush mine, ‘You and me.’
He pushes his mouth against mine, and I close my eyes, feeling the wetness of his tongue sliding into my mouth. He moves against me, and he sighs, and pul s me towards him; his lips are hard on mine, his fingers are on my neck, and it’s as if I’m coming alive again, tingling al over.
His skin is so sweet, the touch of his kiss is so alarmingly exciting, I push myself against him for a few glorious moments. I want him to pul me tighter towards him, to total y sweep me up, to carry on kissing me, feeling his hands on me, holding me close, it is amazing . . .
And then my phone rings. I should ignore it, I should stop. But in the quiet street it is loud. As if I’m coming awake, out of a dream, I pul away from Ben, step backwards. I push him away, my palm flat on his chest, and snatch the phone out of my bag.
‘Ol?’ I say. I pause. ‘Where are you? You’re – now? You’re coming now? OK – um, yeah, that’s – that’s fine. See you in a minute.’ I put the phone away, my eyes stil locked with Ben’s. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and look at my fingers, as if he’s poisoned me. He is staring, standing stock-stil , in the shadow of the huge church, the cobbles shining in the moon and the rain.
‘So Oli’s coming over, then, is he?’ Ben’s voice is cold. ‘You’re running off. He says, “Jump,” you say, “How high, Oli?”’
My stomach is churning, I think I’m going to be sick. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, breathing heavily, my heart pounding almost painful y in my chest. My hair is fal ing over my shoulders, around my face, and I back away, staring into his face. ‘I have to go, we should never – I’m so sorry . . . we should never have done this.’
‘Why?’ he says. He’s almost smiling. He reaches out to touch me, and ends up cupping my elbow in his palm. His hands are big and strong.
‘Natasha, you must have known this was going to happen.’
‘No!’ I say, pul ed towards him by his hand on my elbow, and by a huge desire to kiss him again. I shake my head at him. ‘Absolutely not, Ben, no!’
And then the doubt that can almost immediately cover the bravado of taking an action like this comes over him. ‘But—’
I put my hand underneath his and remove my arm from his grip. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s too soon. It’s too soon. Oli and I, we only just split up, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, and—’
