The Mini-Break Page 10

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. And stop biting your nails.’

  ‘They’re my nails and I’ll bloody well bite them if I want to!’ I said. ‘Look, Benedict, it’s obvious, you want something different and so do I.’

  He finished his beer and put it down on the table with another loud thump. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ I said.

  ‘Well I’m going down the pub. Don’t wait up, will you?’ he spat. ‘I’ll probably crash with Percy tonight. I’ve got a shit day coming up tomorrow, a really hard day, but don’t let that bother you. You just carry on having your silly little fantasies about the grass being greener.’

  Seconds later the front door slammed shut behind him.

  *

  I went into the bathroom, locked the door behind me and gave a little fist pump of triumph. I’d known what I wanted to achieve but I hadn’t known I had the willpower to stick to it. After two years together I’d realised Benedict had perfected the knack of making me feel uncomfortable simply because I disagreed with him.

  We’d gone to Barcelona when I wanted to go to Carcassonne.

  We’d spent last Christmas in London when I’d wanted to meet up with my parents in France.

  We’d missed countless exhibitions and book launches because he didn’t fancy it.

  We’d been to too many parties where he had flirted with other women.

  At the furthermost corners of my mind I had feared that he would talk me round. The old me would have given in or been persuaded.

  I liked this new me. I’d been firm; I’d said no and I’d meant it.

  After a long soak in the bath I went to see if there was any decent food in the kitchen. As I might have predicted there was no milk, no cheese, and the bread (organic, seven-seeded and still in its ecologically friendly paper bag,) was rock hard and slightly green. There is something to be said for preservatives sometimes. But on the other hand there were some organic free-range eggs from deliriously happy hens somewhere in Berkshire, a recently opened packet of smoked salmon presumably from some equally cheerful fish in Scotland and a nicely chilled bottle of champagne.

  I made some scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, put the television on and watched a programme on quilt making in New England that I would never have got away with if Benedict had been around. Particularly as there was football on another channel. But then isn’t there always?

  I opened the champagne with a view to getting through it all. And the more pissed I got the more I thought about Joe. His height, his broad shoulders, his kindness, the way he’d kissed me.

  I wished I’d taken a picture of him.

  I wished I’d not leapt into bed with him.

  That wasn’t true. I’d leap into bed with him again at the drop of a sock.

  I went to get changed into some comfortable pyjamas and a dressing gown and returned to my champagne. It was going down very nicely indeed. I went to see if there was anything else to eat and found only a bag of kale, some wrinkled tomatoes and half a pot of tahini. I cursed Benedict for the untidy, neurotic, health food freak he had become and started to trawl through the cupboards, even the ones that were hardly ever used. I didn’t cook so why did I imagine there would be anything interesting in any of them? There weren’t even enough dishes or plates.

  Was it possible to order a takeaway of milk chocolate, Wagon Wheels and whole milk? With a side order of sliced, white bread with extra gluten and some actual butter instead of the churned axle grease Benedict insisted on?

  I thought about Joe’s kitchen and the beef stew he had made, the warmth and cosiness of his kitchen with the sheepdogs and the cat forming a tangled, furry pyramid in front of the Aga. Benedict would have had a fit if he’d seen that. The perceived lack of hygiene, the air thick with saturated fats and calories and delicious smells.

  My mobile rang.

  ‘Jassy.’

  ‘Hi, I was just ringing to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Great thanks – Benedict and I have split up.’

  I heard her shocked intake of breath.

  ‘Really? God! What happened?’

  ‘Not much. At the moment I don’t care, I’m drinking a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Yes I thought you sounded a bit slurred,’ Jassy said. ‘Tell me what happened?’

  ‘I deserve to be slurred,’ I said, taking a swig of champagne. ‘I’ve put up with Benedict and his sludgy breakfast smoothies for too long. I told him I’m going to sell the flat and move somewhere else.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Jassy breathed, horrified. ‘Sell the flat?’

  ‘I’m serious. I just realised I don’t want this any more, I want something else.’

  ‘What? FFS. What in the name of all that’s holy could possibly be better than what you’ve got?’

  I put her on speaker, knocked back my champagne, and refilled the glass. ‘There must be loads of things. I don’t really know.’

  ‘Then you should sleep on it. Don’t do anything.’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘Well perhaps he’s right. Look, you’ve been wrestling with Choose Yes. Sally’s been on at you hasn’t she – maybe that’s it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I agreed.

  ‘So don’t do anything you can’t undo. I mean if nothing else this is going to completely bugger up my birthday dinner, just when I thought it was sorted.’

  ‘I’m not staying with Benedict for the convenience of your seating plan,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Calm down, I know you didn’t. I’m nearly forty, Jassy.’

  ‘Oh God. Spare me. It’s not the frigging biological clock speech is it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You know you’d be a shit mother. Just like me.’ Jassy made the sort of noises associated with lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘Thanks for that. Why can’t I find a man? A man man who can do manly things with bits of wood and mend engines and doesn’t mind mud. And doesn’t watch me eating Crunchies with a sad look on his face.’

  Jassy snorted with laughter. ‘You’re round the bend. So are you coming out tonight? We were going to meet up with the Gang at nine thirty. Probably at that new wine bar down by the market: Billy’s or Bunty’s or something. You coming? You can drown your sorrows a bit more.’

  I thought about it for a minute. It would mean changing out of my pyjamas, slapping on some make-up, putting proper shoes on, calling an Uber because it was now raining, and squeezing around a table with seven or eight noisy people who would know nothing about Devon or how cold the night can be. They would be banging on about the congestion charge and talking a load of crap about pollution and plastic bottles. They would have no idea that really clean air is crisp and clear as water. That the night sky is endless and full of wonderful things.

  I suddenly realised I was too hot. Maybe that was why I didn’t usually wear PJs and a dressing gown. They might be needed in Barracane House where no room was draft-proof and the wind whistled through the letterbox, but they certainly weren’t necessary in a well-insulated, zero-carbon flat like mine. I shrugged off the dressing gown and topped up my glass. The champagne foamed over the top and I dabbed ineffectually at it with a tissue.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Jassy said.

  ‘Yes I’ve got you on speakerphone. No I’m not coming out. I’m heading for an early night actually. I’m in my PJs.’

  ‘Lulu, it’s only quarter to eight!’ Jassy said, confused. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I’m just tired. All that driving and stuff. And …’

  I hesitated. I’d seen some sentimental post on Facebook once that said, Your sister will always keep your secrets safe. Should I tell her about Joe? Should I confide in her about how I dragged him into bed? No chance, not if I wanted to keep it a secret from the rest of London. She’d see it as some sort of unwise bucolic romance and I’d find myself in her next book.

  ‘And what?’ she said.

 
I couldn’t stop myself from talking about him. ‘Do you remember Joe Field? The neighbour who fixed my puncture?’

  ‘The chap who popped off and popped back?’

  ‘Yes him. Well his daughter – he has a daughter Ivy – was unwell and she had meningitis and we had to get the rescue services out.’

  ‘Wow, how do you know?’

  ‘I was round at his house and she threw up and I went upstairs to see her and she had that rash—’

  ‘Hang on! You were round at his house?’

  Bugger. Why did I say that? TMI.

  ‘Yes he invited me round for a meal.’ I must have been pissed to let this nugget of information slip.

  ‘Oh did he indeed? Well look at you! A rural interlude as soon as my back is turned!’ Jassy’s voice rose several octaves into a squeak.

  I knew it. ‘No it was just—’

  ‘But he was rather gorgeous as I recall. Rather hunky and big.’

  Well yes he was certainly … shut up.

  ‘Anyway, that’s why I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well (for various reasons) ambulances and stuff and all that driving. I need some sleep.’

  ‘Wow, and is she okay?’

  ‘Yes, I think she’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Well what shall I say if Benedict turns up looking for you?’

  ‘Jassy, I don’t care. Tell him I’ve got smallpox or something.’

  Jassy rang off and I carried on knocking back Benedict’s champagne. More out of cussedness than anything. I didn’t really want it. Apart from anything else it was giving me heartburn.

  I did a bit of channel hopping and eventually found a gritty police series set in Los Angeles where a sullen detective was in hot water for shooting someone who had clearly deserved it. He was definitely manly, I thought. With his stubble and LAPD badge and gun. I bet he could change a tyre. Even his smart and sassy ex-wife seemed to find him irresistible.

  I did a bit of hiccupping, dragged myself off the sofa and went to the bathroom to find some heartburn tablets. There were none in my cabinet so I looked in Benedict’s. For all his healthy, ecological lifestyle and bike riding and gluten avoidance he suffered from heartburn all the time. I found three packets and a bottle of some vile pink gloop. And behind it was an unopened pregnancy test.

  Really?

  Had I bought this?

  I took it out and looked at it, wondering if I was going mad. Or had in fact already gone mad and forgotten.

  Nope, there was no way this was mine.

  I looked at myself thoughtfully in the cabinet mirror. I didn’t look that good actually. A bit blurred and pale. I went to sit on the sofa and tried to think.

  So let me get this straight: someone had bought a pregnancy test and left it in Benedict’s bathroom cabinet.

  Had they had ‘an accident’?

  Or was she trying to get pregnant? Was he? Were they? He’d always made it perfectly clear he didn’t want children. I didn’t think I had either. His horror at the possibility of me being pregnant had been obvious. So what was this doing here? Who had bought this? That blonde – what was her name? Tess?

  But they can only have known each other for five minutes – hadn’t they?

  God I was stupid. Who knows how long this had been going on? Certainly long enough to have to think about pregnancy. Planned or otherwise. But we had always agreed we didn’t want children. How many times had he rolled his eyes at some baby crying on the tube or a toddler kicking the back of his seat on a plane?

  I felt tears prickling my eyes. I took a deep breath.

  Bastard.

  I picked up the champagne bottle and drained what was left in it in one long, throat-stinging swallow. Horrible.

  There, that would teach him.

  *

  I stayed awake long enough to get into bed and I woke at about five thirty bursting for the loo. There in the bathroom bin was the pregnancy test. So I hadn’t dreamed it then?

  I went back to bed and dozed for a bit and then I went to find some aspirin and a glass of water. And then I snoozed a bit more. Hunger got the better of me at about six thirty and the thought of the bakery down the street – the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and sugar – called to me like a siren song.

  I was out and back within ten minutes carrying a large full-fat latte with two sugars and a selection of Danish pastries. A cinnamon swirl, a croissant, a pain au chocolat and a maple pecan thingy. This was a sugar crisis of epic proportions.

  I kicked off my shoes and sat in bed to have my breakfast, propped up by Benedict’s hypoallergenic pillows. I thought some more about what I was going to do. Things I was going to say to him. What possible excuses could he come up with?

  I woke up again just after nine o’clock, covered in flakes of pastry and shards of icing. I needed to get myself sorted out. I couldn’t spend the day eating and lounging about. Particularly as I didn’t have any proper food in the house. And I might not have a daily commute that was longer than twenty steps but I did have a book to sort out and an increasingly irritated editor and agent to placate. I was also rather sticky and had a wedge of pain au chocolat stuck to my face. I’d end up with type two diabetes as well if I carried on. I needed to get a grip.

  I made myself a list.

  1) Throw out all B’s hideous food.

  2) Buy nice, proper food. And some wine.

  3) Change the bed!!!! Consider buying new sheets. And pillows. And duvet.

  4) Phone Sally to thank her for use of house and her neighbour and apologise in a grovelling way for lateness of book.

  5) Get book finished.

  6) Stop fantasising about Joe – just stop it!

  Right. That should keep me going for a few weeks. First things first. I went to find that bag of kale and chucked it down the waste disposal.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that day I took my hangover into the nearest estate agent and made an appointment for one of their valuers to come and give my flat the once-over. Christy Church was someone I had seen many times, pounding the streets in her sensible brogues, and she seemed more than delighted to take me on; after all, as we agreed, my place was in a well-maintained block and in a highly desirable area. She didn’t envision any trouble at all selling it and estimated six to ten weeks maximum before she got an acceptable offer. I handed over a spare set of keys and went off to find coffee and some paracetamol.

  Sitting in the café window I watched the traffic stopping and starting and getting snarled up and drivers honking at each other. It was a miracle anyone ever got anywhere if it was always like this. I pulled apart a raspberry muffin I had somehow ordered as well as my cappuccino and thought some more about what I was going to do.

  I checked my phone every couple of minutes, wondering if I was going to get a flurry of messages from Benedict. If he had spent the night on Percy’s hard leather sofa his back was probably killing him and he’d be in the mood to try reconciliation. On the other hand he might have had more comfortable places in mind where he could lay his weary head. Bastard.

  I finished, paid the bill and hopped on the tube. There was someone who was sending me a battery of text messages and I couldn’t avoid her any longer.

  *

  ‘So when am I to expect Choose Yes – any time soon or is it going to be another six months? The publishers are screaming at me. I hope you realise that.’

  I flopped down into one of her armchairs. ‘I’m sorry, Sally, really I am. I had a bit of a crisis and well – I got distracted. You know how it is.’

  She harrumphed a bit. Perhaps I hadn’t been grovelling enough yet?

  ‘I thought that’s why you went down to Devon again. To get your shit into some sort of order? How was the house by the way? It must be five months since I went there. I don’t know why I keep it on sometimes. Henry thinks I should sell it and buy somewhere in France. We last went to Devon for my cousin’s hen weekend just before Christmas. Catrin wanted to go to Jamaica and I told her straight, I didn
’t have the time and she didn’t have the money. Her wedding is already getting completely out of control what with bloody scrolls and fairy light curtains and frigging almonds in gauze bags. I’ve told her no one wants them. People will be suing her for broken teeth and cracked dentures. Anyway, four weeks Saturday it will all be over and she’ll be Mrs St John Payne. Can you believe that? No one is called St John these days are they? Where the hell did she dig him up? Still if he’s what she wants, who am I to argue? Three husbands. I’m no expert.’

  ‘In answer to your original question, Barracane House was fantastic, Sally. Needs a few draughts fixing but it was great. I bet it’s even better when it’s not snowing.’

  ‘Ahh did you have snow? Fuck. I’ve always wanted to be there when it snowed.’

  ‘It didn’t last. Just long enough …’

  I stopped. Any minute now I was going to put my foot in it and talk about him. I didn’t want to talk about him.

  ‘Anyway, Choose Yes. I thought you said it was going well?’

  Sally paced around the office and went to look out of the window. Far below the traffic along the Embankment was the usual stop-start jumble, brake lights gleaming in the dull afternoon.

  ‘It was going well,’ I said, ‘it was going very well. I just came back because of – well, various reasons.’

  Sally sighed. ‘So go on, what’s happening now?’

  ‘I split up with Benedict. I came back earlier than he was expecting and found him with a little blonde companion. He almost talked his way out of that but now there’s a pregnancy test in his bathroom cabinet that is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No! What a complete bastard!’

  ‘Quite. He stamped off to stay with a friend and I haven’t spoken to him since.’

  ‘Good riddance by the sound of it. Never mind him. Choose Yes? What’s happening there?’ Sally tapped her nails against the grimy window. I knew what the problem was: she wanted a cigarette.

  ‘I’m still working on it. I’ve done a massive rewrite on it, changed the perspective and strengthened Darcy’s journey to include some more about her determination to make the business work.’