“I’ll do it,” I say, grabbing it back. But her hand is already wrenching open the zip, and somehow the whole thing gets jostled and jerked, and before I know it the half-Galaxy has been tossed out of the bag, together with a mostly drunk miniature bottle of white wine (further moment of weakness). And the shreds of a ripped-up photo of Richard (even further moment of weakness).
“Sorry!” Jo says in horror, gathering the shreds. “I’m so sorry! What’s—” She looks more closely. “Is that a photo? What happened to it?”
“Here’s your chocolate,” volunteers another girl, holding out the Galaxy.
“And I think this might be an old Valentine?” says her friend, gingerly picking up a charred piece of glittery card. “But it looks like it’s been … burned?”
I did it with a match in a coffee cup in Costa before they told me to stop. (Ultimate moment of weakness.)
Richard’s eye is staring at me out of a fragment of photo, and I feel my insides heave with sudden grief. I can detect a few meaningful looks passing between the girls, but I don’t have any words. I can’t find a noble and inspirational way out of this one. Jo turns and surveys my bloodshot eyes again. Then she springs into life and starts stuffing all the things back into my bag.
“Anyway,” she says briskly, “the most important thing is making you look totally fabulous. That’ll show … whoever.” She winks at me. “Or whatever. It might take a bit of time. Are you up for it?”
This is the answer. I don’t know what the question is, but this is the answer. I’m sitting in a chair with my eyes closed, in a state of near bliss as my face is brushed and penciled by my new best friend Jo and her fellow students. They’ve sprayed my face with foundation and put rollers in my hair and they keep changing their mind about which eye look to give me, but I’m barely listening. I’m in a trance. I don’t care if I’ll be late back to the office. I’m zoned out. I keep drifting off to sleep and half waking up and my mind is a swirl of dream and color and thought.
Every time I find myself thinking of Richard, I wrench my mind away. Move on. Move on, move on. I’m going to be OK, I’m going to be fine. I just need to take my own advice. Find a new mission. A new track. Something to focus on.
Maybe I’ll redecorate my flat. Or maybe I should take up martial arts. I could start a course of intensive training and get super-fit. Cut all my hair off and get amazing biceps like Hilary Swank.
Or pierce my belly button. Richard hates pierced belly buttons. That’s what I should do.
Or maybe I should travel. Why have I not traveled more?
My thoughts keep drifting back to Ikonos. It was an amazing summer, until the fire happened and the police arrived and everything disbanded in chaos. I was so young. I was so thin. I lived in cutoff shorts and a string-bikini top. I had beads in my hair. And of course there was Ben, my first proper boyfriend. My first relationship. Dark hair and crinkly blue eyes and the smell of sweat and salt and Aramis. God, how much sex did we have? Three times a day, at least. And when we weren’t having sex we were thinking about sex. It was insane. It was like a drug. He was the first guy I ever felt so hot for that I wanted to …
Wait. Wait a minute.
Ben?
My eyes pop open and Jo cries out in dismay. “Keep still!”
It couldn’t be. Surely.
“Sorry.” I blink, trying to stay composed. “Actually … can we pause a moment? I need to make a call.”
I turn away, rummage for my phone, and press Kayla’s speed dial, telling myself not to be stupid. It can’t be him. It’s not him.
Obviously it’s not him.
“Lottie, hi,” comes Kayla’s voice. “Everything OK?”
Why would he be phoning me after all this time? It’s been fifteen years, for God’s sake. We haven’t been in touch since … Well. Since then.
“Hey, Kayla. I just wanted the number of that guy Ben.” I try to sound relaxed. “The one who called yesterday while I was out, remember?”
Why am I clenching my fingers together?
“Oh yes. Hold on … Here we are.” She dictates a mobile number. “Who is he?”
“I’m … not sure. You’re positive he didn’t give a surname?”
“No, just Ben.”
I ring off and stare at the number. Just Ben. Just Ben.
It’s a cheeky student candidate, I tell myself firmly. It’s a careers officer who thinks we’re on first-name terms. It’s Ben Jones, my neighbor, ringing me at work for some reason. How many people are there in the world called Ben? About five zillion. Precisely.
