The Good, the Bad and the Dumped Page 18

  ‘Hey.’ He looked awkward, too. Incredibly so, in fact.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Posy. ‘This is a bit mad. I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘No, no, you should,’ he said. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Posy. ‘Wine.’

  ‘What colour?’

  For a second, she just looked at him. She had no idea how to answer the question. She’d been focusing on the line of his eyebrows, and how on anyone else his forehead might look too high, but on him it just looked . . .

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I have no idea.’

  He grinned, helplessly. ‘OK. Why don’t I get the middle one?’

  ‘OK.’

  It was a warm evening and they sat on the terrace of the pub with a bottle of chilled rosé between them. And talked. And talked. It couldn’t spill out fast enough, somehow; as if they were both in a race to share as much of themselves as possible. She learnt all about his four older sisters, his mother’s arthritis and his father’s pride when he became a potter (‘Shortly followed by disappointment when I had to keep borrowing money to pay rent’). And oddly, she told him everything: about her mother’s practice, and the dad she just didn’t know, her half-brother, her crazy sister. And he laughed and they both laughed and they found things in common that they couldn’t have imagined, from their teenage taste in music (both rubbish imitation goths) to shared Westlife-phobia to a joint adoration for Harry Hill.

  The whole time Posy felt the oddest sensation, like she was hurtling at full speed towards the most extraordinary fairground ride of her life: a delicious freefall. When he got up to go to the loo, she stared after him, in a state of disbelief, completely and utterly shocked that this thunderbolt had walked into her life.

  A fear grabbed at her chest: he couldn’t be single. He couldn’t be. Women were always single; men never were. There was absolutely no way some woman - not Margie, though not for lack of trying - hadn’t leapt on him like a hungry cougar the second he’d waved goodbye to his last supermodel at the airport. I mean, thought Posy, look at him. The way his bum curved into his jeans, his ludicrously long fingers and the way they pushed his hair off his forehead, his eyes a wide dreamy brown. Posy shook her head. He couldn’t - there was absolutely no way on earth he was single. None. That was the rule in London. And it was going to kill her. The luckiest bloody witch - or chap - in the world who had him, and she or he had better know how lucky they were. As soon as he came back from the loo, she was going to ask. She had to.

  ‘Would another bottle of wine render us completely incapable?’ Almaric was saying, with a regrettable look on his face.

  ‘Incapable of what?’ said Posy. ‘Are you scheduled to drive an HGV later?’

  Almaric grinned, showing his lovely teeth, and headed back to the bar. He put a shirt around her in case she was cold and, when she complained, insisted that it was his friend Smithy’s, and she must have it, even if he caught hypothermia. Him or Smithy. Oh no, this wouldn’t do. This couldn’t. Because if she didn’t find out right now, Posy was going to want to kiss him. In fact, she wasn’t sure how she could avoid kissing him. And that could end very messily indeed.

  ‘Almaric?’ She stood up.

  He turned back. Posy spoke very quickly so the words all ran together.

  ‘Are-you-gay-or-married-or-have-a-girlfriend-or-just-broken-up-with-someone? ’

  She realised her face must look like a picture of hope and vulnerability. But she couldn’t help it. When it came to this man, this man whom she didn’ t know at all, she was an open book. She felt that she couldn’t hide anything.

  Standing at the bar, Almaric twisted almost comically back to her, staring her full in the face. For a second she was sure he was going to ask her to repeat herself, and she wasn’t sure she had the nerve. Maybe she should just pretend she’d said something else, and slink out . . .

  But his face smiled again, then he bit his lip. As if making up his mind about something, he strode towards her.

  ‘E,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He was very close to her now, they were chest to chest, or rather, she was chest to stomach; he was that much taller than her.

  ‘E?’ he said again, a shadow passing across his brow as if he was worried that his joke had backfired. ‘None of the above?’

  They stared at each other, heartbeats apart, for a long moment.

  ‘Are we rushing?’ said Almaric. ‘Am I rushing? Is this too much?’

  Posy couldn’t do anything except shake her head in disbelief.

  ‘I think,’ she found herself saying, completely against her will, ‘I think I’ve been waiting all my life for you.’

  Immediately, everything in her life that wasn’t Almaric, or talking about Almaric, took on secondary importance. They hadn’t slept together then - not that night, not that first night. It was as if they’d both known on some level that there was no rush; that the whole world was there for the taking. So they’d kissed on the terrace, tasting the dusty London summer sun on their lips, and the sweet pink wine; kissed and chatted and laughed and kissed until the pub closed and turfed them out and they found themselves, hand in hand on quiet city streets, giggly and a little drunk. Posy looked at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I have work tomorrow and normal life, and all those things.’

  Almaric nodded.

  ‘We could set your office on fire.’

  ‘We must,’ said Posy. ‘I can’t think of anything else better to do.’

  Almaric smiled.

  Even now, years later, Posy could remember dimples in his smooth cheeks like it were yesterday; the way he looked at her then, as if she was the most amazing, the most wonderful, precious jewel in all the world. It was one of the sweetest nights of her life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘You’re off on one again, aren’t you?’ said Leah.

  It was two days later. They were having lunch and Leah had asked once more if she was going to find him. ‘I don’t think you ever stop thinking about him. You never have.’

  Posy shrugged. ‘Yes, thanks, I have your take on the whole affair. It was the first time I fell in love, OK? The first time I fell in love properly. And it was like lightning; it was exactly like everybody always says. It was like being hit by lightning. It’s the only time that’s ever happened to me. So I think I’m allowed to, you know . . .’

  ‘Obsess about it and jeopardise all your future relationships? ’

  ‘Reminisce a bit.’

  ‘I’m just saying that until you get Lord Voldemort out of your head, then I’m not sure you and Matt have a chance. Which means . . .’

  Posy stayed quiet.

  ‘Hmm,’ Leah sighed. ‘OK. All right. I admit it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That maybe you should go and see him.’

  Posy looked at her. ‘Oh my God, someone agrees with me.’

  ‘Well, maybe life is like a blister. Sometimes you just have to prick it with a pin and let the goo come out.’

  ‘Maybe it is. Some people like doing that, you know.’

  ‘It’s true, I like doing that. Because it hurts, but then you feel better afterwards.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Posy.

  ‘But there’s one thing you have to do.’

  ‘Tell Matt?’

  ‘Are you two speaking?’

  ‘No,’ said Posy miserably, nudging at her cappuccino. ‘Funny, I thought we’d be picking out china patterns by now.’

  ‘You need to talk to him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And there is another thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say his name.’

  ‘He used to say, “Call me Steve”. Can’t I call him that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was a stupid bloody name anyway.’

  ‘Say his name.’ She drained her cappuccino.

  ‘Almaric,’ she said. ‘His name is Almaric.’
>
  ‘And he wasn’t all that,’ said Leah, but too quietly for Posy to hear.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Aunt Cathy,

  Although I am in a good relationship, I have been checking up on my exes on Facebook. I can’t seem to stop myself. One in particular I am desperate to see again. Do you think this would be a good idea, just to close the door on the unfinished business in my life? P, London.

  Dear P,

  Oh dear. What a terrible muddle you are in. Facebook, MySpace and Friends Reunited have all become so popular, and it is human nature to wish to find out what happened in the lives of people you have known; particularly those you have been close to.

  It is, however, a temptation entirely worth resisting if you can. The temptation to give in to grass-is-always-greener syndrome can be terribly strong, especially if you compare past relationships, without worry or responsibilites; when you were younger and more innocent, to the day-to-day realities of being part of a couple. But that is what maturity is. Rest assured, the golden haze you attach to the past would soon become commonplace if you were picking up his socks every day!

  If you genuinely feel you cannot work on the relationship you have, then perhaps you need to look inside yourself and ask what, exactly, is missing, and why you can’t be happy with what you have.

  Dear Deirdre

  Although I am in a good relationship, I have been checking up on my exes on Facebook. I can’t seem to stop myself. One in particular I am desperate to see again. Do you think this would be a good idea, just to close the door on the unfinished business in my life? P, London.

  Dear P,

  Perhaps the first thing to do is to spice things up in the bedroom arena with what you have at home. Try a naughty secretary outfit - being taken on the computer will be much more fun than spending all your time in it!!

  Posy is BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. >:(

  But he wasn’t there. That was the problem. He wasn’t on Twitter. Facebook. MySpace. Bebo. You couldn’t even Google him, apart from a passing mention in the evening-class brochure from years ago; he wasn’t teaching there now. Nothing. He was completely off the grid. Who didn’t turn up on Google, at least, here or there?

  Everyone in the world was connected. Everyone was about. Except for him. He had vanished off the face of the earth.

  Posy hated the very idea of it, but she knew it had to be done. She was going to have to endure the sneers and happy superiority. The ‘I told you so’s. And she may not even get what she wanted in the end. But she was going to have to talk to Margie.

  At work, she steeled herself and bought two chocolate muffins. Then she thought again and bought three. There was no nice way around it or of thinking it. When Almaric captured her heart, and she his, she broke Margie’s. It didn’t matter that Margie wasn’t Almaric’s type, that he hadn’t looked at her, however many private classes she took, that Almaric was Margie’s crush. It only mattered that Margie had seen him first, had practically warned Posy off, and Posy had sluttishly rushed in and snaffled him anyway. Posy understood that this was how Margie saw it, and indeed endured without complaint the many, many work demerits that were to follow in the years to come, from the first time - Posy couldn’t even think of it without wanting to wince - when Almaric had turned up to surprise her at the office, with a huge bouquet of delphiniums, and she had rushed out of the building and thrown herself into his arms, unable to bear even the eight-hour separation of the working day. And yes, Margie had seen it, and Posy had been so wrapped up and senseless in love she hadn’t even cared - in fact, worse; she felt that Margie should be as happy for them as she was, that everyone should be incredibly fascinated by every tiny detail of Almaric: his favourite muppet, what an amazing cook he was, the location of the most perfect freckle he had low down, just below his right ear . . .

  She had been hideously selfish, overflowing.

  ‘You must shut up now,’ Leah would say. ‘And I like you.’

  Posy hadn’t listened, of course, her every spare second was for Almaric, and his for her. She had never been so happy, never. And now, it had come down to this.

  She absent-mindedly ate two of the muffins before she’d even got in the lift, then when she saw Gav, offered him the remaining one immediately.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked, but she didn’t really need to. His year-round Australian tan, topped up when he went home at Christmas (skin cancer, he’d informed her, was something only weaklings got) had faded, leaving him grey and weary, his thinning hair whitening at the temples. He looked beaten up, kicked in.

  ‘That witch,’ he said. ‘Do you know what she’s done now?’ Posy shook her head.

  ‘Well, we have to share custody of Sprinkles, right?’

  ‘Sprinkles?’

  ‘Our Maltese Terrier. She’s the most beautiful little dog, right . . .’

  Posy was slightly worried he was about to start crying right there in the lift.

  ‘Anyway, she says, right, she says that she’ll keep the dog, but when she . . . she . . . dies . . .’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Sprinkles.’

  ‘She . . . my wife will have her cryogenically frozen. Then when technology develops, they can bring her back to life and then it’s my turn to have her. And I can pay for the freezing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Posy. ‘Oh dear, that sounds terrible.’

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t get married,’ said Gavin, taking her arm in a serious gesture. ‘Not unless you want to pay to freeze a dead dog.’

  He left her behind outside the elevator, brushing chocolate muffin crumbs off herself. Posy walked in to the office.

  ‘Margie?’

  Margie looked up, her eyes blinking behind her spectacles. Immediately she glanced at her watch.

  ‘I’m not late,’ said Posy defensively.

  ‘So what do you need?’

  Margie was wearing a tight skirt suit, with a large cat-shaped brooch on the lapel.

  ‘I like your cat,’ said Posy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margie. ‘My cats keep me company now I’ve lost my true love and everything.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Posy, biting her lip, ‘as you probably remember from the way I lost a stone and walked about with a black beret pulled down over my face, it was three years ago. Why don’t you go out with him now?’

  ‘He wouldn’t go out with anyone else from this office,’ said Margie immediately. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘No, but it’s totally obvious.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Posy. ‘Actually, Margie, I wanted to ask you . . . have you heard from him?’

  Margie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Almaric?’

  ‘No, the Prince of Wales. Yes, Almaric.’

  ‘He won’t take you back, you know.’

  The fact that Margie knew absolutely nothing about the circumstances of their break-up, and therefore had not the faintest idea as to whether Almaric would have taken her back or not was wildly irritating, but Posy tried to swallow it. All through their break-up she’d managed to avoid Margie - who had made it clear she had many important thoughts on the topic, if Posy would only listen - and gradually it had faded into the background. Except here she was, scraping up all the old wounds again.

  ‘I don’t want him to take me back,’ said Posy. ‘I just have to speak to him.’

  ‘He’s probably married to some really beautiful woman now . . . and they’ll have really beautiful children,’ said Margie. ‘Although Almaric could always see beyond physical appearances. It didn’t matter to him.’

  ‘Yes, apart from him being an artist and thus totally concerned with physical appearances,’ said Posy. ‘Do you know where he is? I’ve looked online, but I can’t find him.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t be able to,’ said Margie, irritably.

  ‘So you know?’ said Posy. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Why do you want to see him?’

  Suddenly Posy wished she w
as a tough-talking action figure from an American television series. What she’d really like to do was square Margie up against a wall and threaten her with deadly torture until she gave her the information she required.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’d send him your good wishes.’

  ‘I did a lovely sculpture of one of my cats,’ said Margie. ‘Maybe he’d like to see it.’

  ‘I bet he would,’ said Posy, wondering whether Margie even knew.

  ‘But he’s not very good at answering letters,’ said Margie.

  ‘You write him proper letters?’ asked Posy. ‘You’ve been doing it all this time?’

  ‘Only Christmas cards and things,’ said Margie. ‘And pictures of the cats.’

  Posy sat down. She’d had no idea.

  ‘You write to him all the time?’

  Margie shrugged.

  ‘Oh, Margie,’ said Posy. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you loved him so much.’

  Margie dropped her gaze. ‘Well, you had him.’

  ‘If it helps, it wasn’t just to spite you. I loved him, too,’ said Posy. ‘Very much. Really.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’ said Margie. ‘Honestly?’

  Posy smiled. ‘Oh yes. Yes, I think on balance, all the getting my heart trampled into the mud, the never quite getting over him, the messing up my future relationships and any chance at happiness . . . Yes, I think, he probably was worth it.’

  ‘Yes, he would be,’ said Margie decisively. ‘How could you have let him go? If it had been me I’d have locked him up in a wardrobe and never let him leave the house ever again till we both died.’

  ‘I should have thought of that,’ said Posy. ‘Maybe I’ll take some handcuffs with me.’

  ‘It’s quite far,’ said Margie. ‘And you don’t have any holiday leave left.’

  ‘I know,’ said Posy, looking down. ‘I was hoping you might . . .’

  Margie blew out air so her fringe flew up.

  ‘You’d better not make him sad.’