The Good, the Bad and the Dumped Read online

  She took out the rest of her service station sandwich and ate it, kicking stones and looking at the grass and the sky. What was she going to say to Almaric? She had tried to find a way to speak to him before she turned up - Margie didn’t have a telephone number, but he couldn’t have been that impossible to track down - but in the end, she had bottled it. Partly because she didn’t want to use the phone in the flat, and partly because she was hoping inspiration would hit her as to what, exactly, she wanted to say. Could I ever have got it right? Will I ever get it right? Do I still love you? She swallowed the rest of her Diet Coke and, taking a deep breath of the clean, sweet chilly air, got back in the car.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Llanuwchllyn was a lovely place - beautiful, rustic cottages arranged around a picturesque old stone bridge. It was a perfect setting for Almaric, surrounded by attractive things; living out his life on his own.

  Parking at one end of a quaint shopping street, Posy consulted the address, but in fact it wasn’t really necessary. Outside one of the old buildings, an old-fashioned plaque swung on metal chains. LLANUWCHLLYN POTTERY, it advertised. In the windows were the familiar shapes of the long, elegant flower pots Posy knew so well, along with squatter teacups and bowls with the name of the town on them, and even a few odd animals scattered about. Posy smiled. She’d redone her make-up in the car, and tried to think about what she wanted to say, but she couldn’t - she wouldn’t know till she saw him. She hoped she wouldn’t cry.

  The street was cobbled, and busy with English tourists enjoying the early spring sunshine; couples of a certain age, in slacks and pastels, glasses and tidy hair. Posy wondered if she would ever be one of those. Well, maybe not those ones, with the matching Scandic jumpers and comfortably wide-fitting shoes bought out of the back of a Sunday supplement. But these people, pottering about the little Welsh town - had they had the same doubts as her? The same dreams? She looked at the women: they all seemed so complacent and contented, with their bumbags smugly perched on paunches and widened hips; blouses ironed, hair sensibly cut. Had they loved, and agonised, and cried over the bald, portly chaps behind them, stuttering over the maps and carrying flasks over their shoulders? Had they thrilled to the sound of old-fashioned telephone bells, announcing the promise of Phillip, or Stanley, or Peter, or John, with their feathered grey hair, broken veins and downturned mouths? Had their flashes of love lasted all their lives long? Did they live on the memories of afternoons spent lingering on sunny beds, eating grapes, wishing for empty days that would never end, just turn into long evenings of love making and wine until, exhausted, they would fall asleep on one another’s damp bodies like babes in the wood?

  ‘Come on, Malcolm,’ one particularly surly woman was growling, as if their day out at a languid Welsh village resort was on an extremely tight schedule. Perhaps it was.

  Oh, those arguments. The first time he’d been late.

  ‘Were you at that pub?’ she’d demanded, conscious to her own ears that she sounded shrewish. She’d never heard her mother talk to her father like that. But then, see how that had ended up.

  ‘What do you mean, “that pub”?’ he’d said, some beer on his breath. ‘We just went for a drink.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me and my class.’

  ‘You and your harem went to the pub, did you?’

  ‘What are you talking about? I sometimes go to the pub with the students afterwards. So what.’

  Posy couldn’t help her twisting misery. Didn’t he realise that every second he spent away from her was torture? That she just wanted him by her side all the time? She sighed.

  ‘Posy, you know I am going to go out now and again.’

  ‘Aren’t I enough for you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’m not daft! I’ve seen those girls! They’re absolutely desperate to get their mitts on you!’

  ‘So what?’

  He was trying to jolly her out of it, but she wasn’t having it.

  It hadn’t exactly been their last argument, but it was the beginning of the end. She couldn’t help it. He was so beautiful, so amazing. She couldn’t believe she had him in her life. So she pushed him and pushed him, alternating between snivelling neediness and furious jealousy. Neither of which, unsurprisingly, he found particularly endearing.

  She went through his coat and his phone, acts which made her shiver when she thought about them. She called him constantly when he was out. She tried to organise coupley things with other people they knew who were a pair. He hated all of it. Why couldn’t she get enough of him? He was everything she’d ever wanted - why wasn’t that enough?

  But the more she pushed, the further away he went. She knew she was doing it; why couldn’t she stop? Why did she insist on putting dinner on the table every night; talk about getting a flat together when it was so obvious he wasn’t in the least bit interested. But it didn’t matter to him. He didn’t see thirty on the horizon (in those days, Posy thought thirty was quite a scary number rather than, as she now knew, nothing at all); he saw nothing on the horizon at all. He didn’t even bother to sell his pots and he made practically nothing from teaching, enough to fund his beer and fags and that was about enough for him really. But Posy was so sure he was The One that she ignored all this. How could a man who read poetry to her on dazzling London nights underneath the stars at a roof terrace party, who left her a drawing of her asleep tucked under her pillow - how could this man not be perfect?

  ‘Yes, but those things don’t cost him any money,’ Leah had commented, but Posy had ignored her, ignored anything that took away from her beautiful Almaric.

  And it had seemed like that that final night - after one in the morning when he got in. He smelled of beer, but something else, too. He was so beautiful, Posy remembered, so gorgeous still, even slightly drunk and wearing an old grey shirt. But she still hadn’t stopped herself, again.

  ‘Were you drinking with those girls?’

  He turned on her. ‘No, Posy, I wasn’t drinking with them. I was snogging them. You’ve seemed to want me to do it for so long, I thought I might as well give it a shot.’

  Posy took a step back, suddenly feeling very, very frightened, as if he’d slapped her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Going through my stuff, questioning me every time I leave the house. You wanted me to cheat on you, didn’t you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I mean, the weird thing is . . .’ He was actually very drunk, Posy realised. ‘I didn’t really want to. But when you became so convinced that I was about to, I thought I’d better oblige. She wasn’t all that.’

  Posy found her hand was clapped over her mouth.

  ‘Almaric,’ was all she could say.

  ‘Almaric.’

  A small bell jangled the door as she entered the tiny shop. Through, in the back room, a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, his head turning as she tentatively stepped in.

  There was a huge crash. Posy watched, shocked, as a large grey vase slipped out of his hands and shattered all over the floor. They both stared at it for a moment, transfixed. Then Posy raised her head.

  ‘I should have rung,’ she said. Almaric was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

  He’d hardly changed at all. His long-fringed eyes still looked soulful; his bohemian curls had taken on a tiny strand of pure white that actually looked rather stylish.

  ‘Posy,’ he said finally. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Well, it would be a terrible waste of a vase if it wasn’t,’ she managed, and took a further step into the shop.

  ‘Shit, yes.’ He looked down. ‘Great. Well, it wasn’t a classic. ’

  They looked at each other a bit longer.

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll just get the broom. No, wait, hang on. Come in. How are you? What . . .’

  Neither of them knew what to do. Clumsily, Posy walked over to him, trying not to step on any of the broken shards on the f
loor, or knock over anything else with her handbag. In such a poky space, it wasn’t easy.

  ‘Uh, hi there,’ she said.

  ‘Uh, hi,’ he said back, raising his hands, which were covered in clay.

  ‘Uhm.’

  Posy wasn’t sure whether to kiss him and was worried that he might think she was leaning in for a snog, so as Almaric leant over she ended up blowing him an unfortunate kiss, which caused her hand to hit him on the chin.

  ‘Ooh,’ said Almaric. ‘You’re not a ghost then.’

  ‘No,’ said Posy. ‘Uh, sorry.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m glad.’

  ‘No, I mean, I’m sorry I biffed you on the chin.’

  Almaric stood back. ‘Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it.’

  They paused again, both of them standing among the shattered clay.

  A small voice came from the back of the shop. ‘Aren’t you closing up then?’

  Almaric turned his head. ‘Yes, yes I am.’

  Posy glanced at her watch. ‘You’re closing up?’

  Almaric looked uncomfortable. ‘Uh, yeah. I guess it’s about time.’

  The voice came from the back again. ‘Big day tomorrow.’

  He looked at her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Posy winced. ‘Well . . .’ she said.

  ‘Will it take a bit of time to explain?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Almaric looked like he was doing long division in his head. ‘Uhm, hang on . . . I have to make a few calls. Would you like to have dinner?’

  Posy blinked. It was such a civilised suggestion - and very unusual from Almaric, who never normally remembered to eat at all.

  ‘Uh, OK.’

  Almaric disappeared from view and Posy heard snatches of what sounded like quite awkward phone calls. The girl from the back came through - she was young, gorgeous and covered in clay dust - and gave Posy a long look.

  ‘Hi,’ said Posy, unnerved. The girl let out a long sigh and disappeared back into the other room, obviously unimpressed. Posy wondered if she was used to fending off visits from Almaric’s exes. Probably.

  Almaric steered her now, without a word, out on to the crowded high street and down towards a quaint little coffee shop that was so crowded with chintz, teddy bears, small pottery animals, winsome wall stencils and wood carvings that it was nearly impossible to sit down at all.

  ‘Nice,’ said Posy.

  ‘They’re all like this,’ said Almaric, glancing at his watch. ‘And the pub doesn’t open till six.’

  ‘No, no, this is much better,’ said Posy. She looked at his hand. There was only the faintest trace of a pale white line. She imagined women in bed with him asking where he’d got it. Did they laugh at her? she wondered. Or did they understand completely that sometimes, you absolutely and utterly had to throw something at someone? But that had come later.

  They were the youngest people in there by about forty years. Posy felt herself wither under the unerring scrutiny of lots of grandmas. This wasn’t exactly how it had been in her imagination. They’d been walking - arm in arm, perhaps - along a riverbank, not ordering a pot of tea for two. Although . . .

  ‘And can I have an Eccles cake, please?’ she added.

  The only other youngish person in the place, a sullen plump teenager wearing the fussy black and white maid’s outfit as scruffily as she could, sniffed. Then she bestowed a radiant smile on Almaric and asked if he’d like any buns. Posy rolled her eyes.

  ‘Actually I don’t have an appetite,’ said Almaric when they sat down.

  ‘No, me neither,’ said Posy. ‘I just ordered that cake for something to do.’

  ‘Ah. So I suppose I should ask, really,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s not the worst thing you could have said,’ mused Posy.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Almaric. ‘What would that have been?’

  ‘Hmm. “Who are you?”, I suppose. Or you could have yelled.’

  ‘Oh Posy,’ said Almaric. ‘Why would I have done that?’

  ‘If you’d thought I was a crazy stalker or something.’

  ‘I knew you were a crazy stalker the second time I met you,’ he said. ‘Didn’t worry me.’

  ‘Then,’ said Posy.

  Almaric shrugged.

  Their tea arrived in a floral pot. The young waitress leant over and pressed her bosoms close to Almaric as she poured it.

  ‘How’s the shop?’ she asked.

  ‘Not bad, thanks, Jade,’ said Almaric, moving backwards. Posy shook her head in amazement.

  ‘What?’ he said, when the waitress had gone.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘You are absolute catnip to girls.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘In the slightest. It’s just all the men in this town are about a hundred years old, that’s all.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Posy. ‘Right.’

  ‘So . . . what are you doing here?’

  Posy put her teacup down.

  ‘Well,’ she began. ‘It’s like this,’ she went on. ‘In fact,’ she said.

  She realised she wasn’t going to be able to finish the sentence.

  ‘Oh Almaric,’ she said, as a great big fat tear ran down her face and plopped into her tea. Almaric glanced around nervously, worried she seemed to be making a scene. ‘I just . . . I’m just making such a mess of my life.’

  Posy desperately tried to get a grip. This wasn’t what she meant to do at all! She didn’t want to bubble and moan all over him as if she was trying to get him back! She’d wanted to be cool, calm, collected and unphased, and lay things on the line totally.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  Oh, no, that was even worse. Posy swallowed, trying to get a hold on herself.

  ‘Do you want to go out?’ said Almaric. ‘Of the shop, I mean.’

  Oh God, he thought she was flinging herself at him again! Oh no! It was impossible. The tears just dropped faster and faster into her tea.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ asked Jade rudely, as she put down the Eccles cake, which made Posy even worse.

  ‘Uh, have you got any money to pay?’ asked Almaric. ‘I came out without my wallet.’

  Hysterically snivelling, Posy found her purse.

  ‘Come on, girl, let’s get you out of here.’

  His kind tone didn’t help anything. Posy sniffed and winced as she felt the whole cafe go silent as he lifted her elbow.

  Posy pushed her hand to her eyes and tried to gulp down the huge lump in her throat that just wouldn’t move. Half blinded by tears, she made it through the door, which jangled loudly, just in case a single person had missed her before.

  ‘Come on,’ said Almaric, and he half led, half pulled her up the street towards the open countryside. The light was fading, but it was still a beautiful evening, with a hint of warmth in the air and crocuses and daffodils infesting the roadside. All round the village stood great green hills, the sun setting behind them. Posy, though choked, could still see their beauty.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. Not pausing to look, Almaric pushed her on till they were out of the village altogether and found, set back from the road, a park bench. He sat her down there, and wrapped his coat around her.

  Posy sobbed and sobbed until the evening started to go dark around them and, finally, she felt emptied out.

  ‘Oh’ she said eventually, when she felt slightly more herself. ‘Oh, I am so sorry.’

  Almaric shrugged. ‘You’ll probably make the local paper. I think you’re about the most exciting thing that’s happened round here for months.’

  Posy swallowed hard. ‘I must look a complete fright.’

  Almaric shrugged again, which meant, yes, she must. Posy rubbed frantically underneath her eyes to try and get rid of any remnants of mascara. She hiccuped up a smile.

  ‘OK, good to see you, I’m going to go now.’

  He smiled back. ‘Well, it was fun.’

  ‘It was.’ />
  She sat up straighter and gave him back his coat. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK. I’m ready.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was getting married,’ she began.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ said Almaric. ‘Of course, so am I, tomorrow.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Posy just stared at him.

  ‘You’re what?!’

  He smirked. ‘I know, I know. Don’t tell me.’

  ‘You and my mother spent an entire evening once talking about how marriage was the terrible enslavement of the patriarchy and a crime against women!’

  ‘Was that the night you cried all the way home?’

  ‘Yes, because you were never going to get married!’

  Posy was so shocked she had almost forgotten to be sad. This wasn’t the Almaric she knew, not at all.

  ‘To me, obviously. You were never going to get married to me,’ she added quietly.

  ‘But now you are getting married,’ said Almaric kindly. ‘That’s fantastic.’

  Posy felt the tears rising again. ‘But we’re not! He thinks I’m not ready to make a proper commitment.’

  ‘Really?’ Almaric sounded surprised. ‘I thought you were desperate for that.’

  ‘So did I,’ confessed Posy. ‘And I do love him, Almaric, I really do.’

  ‘So what are you doing here? Short on pots?’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘I will say, pudding, I thought you might be here because you wanted to stop the wedding.’

  ‘Would I do that?’

  Almaric held up his wrist. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I am sorry about that.’

  Posy left a pause for Almaric to say that there were a few things he was sorry about, too. He didn’t.

  ‘Leah thinks . . . she thinks I can’t move on because I never got over you.’

  There. It was out. She had said it.

  Almaric sat back on the bench.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are a lot of tears on my jacket.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re all for you,’ said Posy. ‘It was just a shock seeing you again.’