head and pumps away. I count in my head.
‘Ooooh!’ Oli comes, crying out, his voice high, rising at the end of his shout. He always shouts, incredibly loudly, I’d forgotten because it’s been a while; in fact, it’s been over two months since we had sex. He lies on top of me, panting. I can’t feel him inside me. He’s squashing me. I am thinking about this, and then I suddenly realise that the last time he had sex was with someone else. He has done this with someone else more recently than with me. Been inside another woman. Kissed her, stroked her, fucked her.
He pats my back, his hands moving gently across my skin, as his penis slides out of me, and his fingers are warm and soft on my spine.
‘That was good,’ he says, elongating the last word. He blinks, smiling. ‘Thanks, darling. Thanks a lot.’
He is so sincere, and his fingers are lovely, knobbling the bones in my back. I am going to be sick. I rol away as he’s stroking my breast with his other hand, and I stand. Oli looks up at me, surprised. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ I say. I walk out as he flops back onto the bed, his slimy cock like a slug against his pubic hair as if crawling away in disgust. I go into the bathroom and shut the door, and then I throw up.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘So – what have you got on today then?’
Oli stands in front of me, decked out in a new change of clothes, showered and shaved. I pul my knees up so they’re under my chin, hugging myself. I desperately want him to go, but I say politely, as if we’re old friends catching up, ‘I’m seeing someone about doing my stal again, and I’m meeting Cathy for lunch. Working on the new col ection.’ I remember the photos Ben took last night, the girls in the bar with the lovely necklace. My stomach swoops, my head pounds.
We both pause, and neither of us says anything for about five seconds, which is a terrifyingly long time when it’s a silence like this. Eventual y, Oli says, ‘I’d better go—’
‘Yes,’ I say, and I nod eagerly. ‘So—’
‘Yes,’ Oli says. ‘Look, Natasha, about last night—’
‘This morning, I think you mean,’ I say. ‘Wel , both,’ he says. ‘I was drunk when I rang you. I’m sorry. I know you were angry, and I know you didn’t want me to come round, and I should have understood that.’
God, he’s clever, apologising for it like this. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have done it. But—’ I hold out my hands. ‘Oli, you know what? It was real y good to see you.’
Oli shuffles on his feet, as though he doesn’t quite know what I’m getting at, what my move is, but I’m just tel ing the truth. The truth is, I’m lonely. I stil miss him, it’s surprising to me that I do. But then, if it was up to me this wouldn’t ever have happened, and then I realise we’re back to where we were, two weeks ago, and nothing’s changed. Except . . .
A jolt of memory passes through me.
Except I kissed Ben last night, and I don’t know if that was an even bigger mistake. I rub my forehead, wishing . . . wishing I hadn’t done it. Is that what I wish? Because Ben was one of the few good things in my life, a friend, someone who I could talk to about anything, who made me laugh, who got my family, my situation, my life. And now he’l probably never speak to me again, and I don’t blame him. I blink and screw my eyes up, remembering what he said to me last night. I can’t go over it again in my head, it’s too – it’s too painful.
‘You OK?’ Oli says. ‘I’m fine.’ I clap my hands together gently. ‘I’m just a bit hungover, that’s al .’
He doesn’t ask how my evening was, or what’s going on with my family, or anything else, and I’m not sad about this, I’m glad. He walks towards the door, takes out his phone and starts texting. I fol ow him, and he stops and says, ‘I’l see you soon, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. I reach out to pat his back. But I don’t. I stop. ‘Bye,’ I say. ‘And Oli – I think it’s best if you arrange when you’re coming round in advance next time,’ I add.
‘Oh,’ he says, turning round in the doorway, his satchel over his shoulder. He puts the phone away. ‘Wel , I might need some stuff next week, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just – cal . Let me know.’
‘Sure,’ Oli says. He steps forward to kiss me, but I step back. ‘So I’l see you then, then.’
Another week of waiting for him to cal , wishing he’d come round, wondering if we should sleep together or not. I know he won’t think about it like that. I know he’l just pitch up and try it on if it’s possible, not if it isn’t. I say, ‘Wednesday’s good for me. Come then. We should talk some more about what to do. About the flat. We should get an estate agent in, to value it.’ I want to mention the solicitor I’ve emailed about the divorce, but it doesn’t seem right, not when I can see the bed over his shoulder where we just had sex. But I wil , next week. I’l make a list, and put that on it.
‘You think we should? Start doing that now?’
‘Yes, Oli,’ I say simply. ‘I need to sort out the money side of things, otherwise I’l be declared bankrupt. You’re best off out of it.’ I rol my eyes mock-seriously.
‘OK, fine.’ He takes my hand. ‘Bye, Natasha. Have a great day. I’m sorry for being a shit.’
The door shuts and I stare at it, listening to his footsteps on the stairs, blinking with surprise and looking round the flat, as though it was al just another dream, something I invented. But it wasn’t.
Cathy and I are meeting at the place with the thin pizzas on Dray Walk. I leave the flat a little early, at twelve, and pop into Eastside Books to buy myself a new Barbara Pym, after which I walk up the lane past the Truman Brewery. It’s quiet round here in contrast to Sunday when al the markets are out, the vintage clothes, food stal s
