‘It’s in his imagination,’ said Sabine.

  ‘Who wants to come in his imagination?’ said Prawn.

  ‘He has an orgasm for, maybe, ten minutes—’

  ‘But in his imagination!’ said Prawn.

  ‘You take the piss,’ said Sabine. ‘But it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful for the woman too,’ I said, speaking from my imagination.

  I borrowed Earl’s blade to cut some wonky lines that he refined. We all snorted them back.

  Prawn made a bright moue in his pale, spotty face. ‘How d’you do it, then?’

  ‘Not easy,’ said Sabine. ‘You need to learn the technique. I bought a book in Berlin.’

  ‘There’s a city I’d go back to in a heartbeat,’ said Lizard.

  Then Sherry said, ‘Meggie, you’ve got a boyfriend, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And he does this ten-minute-orgasm stuff?’

  ‘Not this boyfriend.’

  ‘This boyfriend? You have another?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only Gra-ham,’ said Sabine mockingly.

  ‘There’ve been others,’ I said.

  ‘She likes more than one!’ said Prawn.

  ‘What’s Graham like, then?’ said Sherry.

  Everyone was watching me.

  ‘He’s sweet,’ I said.

  Prawn said, ‘If a girl ever says Prawn’s sweet—’

  ‘No danger there,’ said Lizard.

  Earl pulled a face. ‘Sweet, Meggie?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not right for me.’ I needed to stop. ‘Things just sort of happened.’ STOP, Meggie. ‘And then, they kept happening. And, you know when you’re in a relationship that keeps going because you don’t get round to ending it?’

  I sat there shocked. But wasn’t I saying the truth?

  ‘I was married to a guy twelve years for that reason,’ said Sherry. ‘Lost more than a decade of my life to riding the wrong pony.’

  ‘He wasn’t sweet, Sher,’ said Earl.

  ‘He was at first.’ The cloying scent of Sherry’s hair was strong as she leaned close. ‘Before the jealousy, and the, you know, abuse.’

  ‘That’s hardly Meggie’s situation,’ said Earl.

  ‘God, no,’ I said.

  Prawn topped up our cups.

  ‘Graham’s a good man,’ I said, hoping to compensate for my disloyalty. ‘We’re not right for each other but there’s nothing wrong either. He’s generous. And mature. And he gives me freedom—’

  ‘An open relationship?’ asked Sherry.

  I shrugged. ‘Sometimes I go with girls.’

  Sabine looked up.

  ‘By go with, d’you mean fuck?’ said Prawn.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘fuck.’ This was true too, wasn’t it?

  ‘I’ll be generous and mature, any day!’ said Prawn. ‘From now on, I’m only going to be generous and mature.’

  ‘Shut up, Prawn,’ said Lizard.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’re giving me an earache, that’s why. Your voice is a fucking earworm.’

  ‘’S true,’ said Earl, chortling. ‘Before I fall asleep, all I hear is Prawn’s voice.’

  ‘Cunts.’ Prawn stormed off into the trees to take a leak.

  The crew was silent.

  Then Earl said, ‘Sounds like Graham’s not enough for you, Meggie.’

  I could feel Sabine’s eyes like a hot beam on my cheeks. ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘he’s not. The relationship’s not. I ought to break up with him. I’m definitely going to—’

  ‘Used to say it all the time,’ said Sherry. ‘Mañana, mañana, mañana.’

  I shook my head. ‘Mark my words: I’m going to do it today.’

  Sabine’s dimple was flickering. ‘Mark my words?’

  Then she leaned in and kissed me.

  21

  Waking up in Graham’s bed suggested I hadn’t broken up with him. I felt sick in every way: puke-sick, guilt-sick, gutscared-hungover-sick. The white blinds were pulled down to keep out the light. But the sun wasn’t even trying to get in; it was already overhead. My phone was on the pillow beside me. 11.07. Tuesday. Twelve missed calls from Graham (yesterday). I tried to curl into a ball but the skin at my knee pulled; a red-black graze glared.

  I recalled the nauseating odour of a plastic apple hanging in a taxi, then getting out, falling onto gravel.

  At the bedside table was a glass of water on a coaster. A box of paracetamol was balanced on top of it so insects couldn’t fall in. If Graham dumped me this was how it would be: kind, considerate and neat.

  Had he dumped me?

  Unable to find my clothes, I took a faded green t-shirt from his drawer. The scent of his fabric softener stirred me uncomfortably. Usually when he went out he left a note. There was nothing in his bedroom. I went into the study, the front room and then the kitchen.

  On the counter by the sink was a pale yellow Post-it; I steeled myself.

  Hope you’re ok. Speak later.

  I looked at his plate, his knife, his coffee mug. I pressed my finger into the singed toast crumbs. When I licked it, there was a trace of marmalade. Did the note mean I could pretend the last thirty-six hours hadn’t happened?

  The kitchen window faced the terrace of shops across the road: a fried chicken shop, a solicitor’s and a launderette. Did I need to stop nights for the sake of me and Graham? Or look for another room to rent? Or was it worse? Did I need to start over in Taiwan? As a child when I’d done wrong, I’d distract myself from the consequences with plans for escape: I’d imagine hitching to Durban, then stowing away on a ship . . .

  Awash with fret every option seemed acceptable, except not knowing. I dialled Graham’s number.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ His voice was as detached as his Post-it.

  ‘Not bad,’ I lied. ‘And you?’

  ‘Anti-puke pills in the cabinet.’

  ‘Thanks, Gray.’

  ‘Clothes in the wash.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Swallowing my shame, I focused on the solicitor’s sign. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I had mezcal on an empty stomach and thought I’d be sociable for a change. Then it escalated—’

  ‘I can’t talk now.’

  ‘When I think of you waiting at my place—’

  ‘Got to go, Meggie.’

  The solicitor’s said J & B Blac son. Pi king p the piec s.

  ‘Please, Graham. How can I make up?’

  He was quiet.

  Then he said, ‘It’s not your fault you’re my weakness.’

  ‘You’re my weakness too,’ I said.

  He groaned. ‘Urghhh, bye.’

  The phone cut off.

  Urghhh, bye? I snorted my diva tears back. I had no diva rights. I had no rights. I didn’t even deserve his paracetamol.

  Harnessing the energy of my guilt, I put on a pair of large yellow Marigolds and did the washing-up. I didn’t stop there. I emptied the kitchen cupboards. Mopped the floors. Scrubbed. Vacuumed.

  After defrosting the fridge, I disposed of everything past its expiry date. But for all my efforts, I felt no better. As parts of the previous day seeped back into memory, my relief at Graham’s not having broken up with me was replaced by a less comforting cycle of thoughts.

  What have I done? I can’t move in with him. Can’t move in with someone I talk about like that. I’ve messed this up. I don’t want to hurt him. How do I get out of it? What have I done? And why, on the day of my move, did I kiss Sabine?

  Once the flat was so spick and span it would have impressed my mother, I lay down shaky and sweaty on the kitchen floor. My phone next to me on the lino tiles vibrated with a text.

  Sabine: you ok

  I didn’t want to reply. Didn’t want to see her, or anyone else from nights, ever again. Perhaps it was time to move, not just home, but country. Give up the booze. Do something good. Sign up with VSO like the real lesbian, the Swedish one, had.

  But my renegade thumb typed: Cool – you?

  Sabine: cool too

  I turned the Nokia’s screen face down. But the six-word conversation revived me enough to topple a Sunny Delight from the fridge shelf. I sucked at the fake juice until the bottle conked in for a gasp. When my phone beeped again, I skimmed it across the tiles, out of reach.

  Then I crawled over the floor to fetch it.

  Sabine: want me to come round

  Me (leaving off the punctuation and caps like she did): im at grahams

  Sabine: i know we shared a taxi remember

  I didn’t remember. Me: yes ok come

  I reread the sequence of messages. One moment I was full of regret, the next I was being an idiot again.

  Yet, humming a Jacques Brel tune while I splashed my armpits with cologne from a dusty bottle in Graham’s cupboard, I couldn’t deny: the spirit of the day had lifted.

  Opening the door to Sabine, my awe of her was for a moment too much. Her skin glowed, her hair was glossy; her limbs, though slim, were curved with muscle. I wondered if us having sex would be an antidote, if it would defuse things as it had with the Swedish woman.

  Then I noticed how much she’d girlied up. Under her duffel coat, she wore a skimpy yellow dress and black ankle boots. She had pink pearl polish on her minute nails and a dusting of eyeshadow, lipstick, blush. I interpreted it as a retraction from dykey inclinations. Or could it be to impress my boyfriend, since we were at his flat?

  Leading the way to the kitchen, I felt like my teenage self again, bell-shaped and stale. I needed a drink. A couple of beer cans knocked against the fridge door. On the top shelf, the Winston Churchill lay prominent in its box.

  ‘Fan-cy,’ said Sabine in her soft, low drawl behind me.

  ‘Need more than fancy on my side later,’ I said.

  I passed a can to Sabine but she shook her head. ‘No beer?’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  I put her can back and tapped the top of mine but didn’t open it. ‘Graham’s upset with me.’

  ‘S’understandable.’

  ‘I know.’

  She hitched herself up onto the counter by the sink. ‘I’ll break up with him! Today! Mark my word!’

  ‘Sabine. Please don’t—’

  ‘And later? He rang and rang. We all said, Meggie, answer! But you didn’t want—’

  ‘I’m an arse,’ I said. ‘Can’t stay with someone I treat like that.’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘But I know,’ I said, my face hot. ‘And everybody else knows.’

  She swung her legs back and forth. Then leaning over the sink, she opened the tap and drank. I pictured Graham’s slight frown. She wiped her wet lips with the back of her hand. The rim of the tap was smudged with lipstick.

  I should offer her a glass, I thought. But I didn’t want to be the kind of person who offered glasses, who insisted on doing things the conventional way.

  Taking the Winston Churchill from the fridge, I opened its velvet-lined box. I slit the foil, unpeeled it, and popped the cork to release a small genie of vapour. In a tribute to her ways, I took a swig from the neck.

  My mouth filled with bubbles; I choked.

  Laughing, she whacked my back. ‘Can tell you don’t have French blood!’

  While I continued to cough, she moved efficiently around the kitchen. She found the long-stemmed poshies at the back of the Tupperware shelf in no time. She took the champagne from me, stood the glasses side by side, and filled them up.

  I’d always liked Graham’s front room. Once, when he was at football practice, I spent an entire afternoon lying on his leather sofa watching the breeze in the leaves of a conker tree. But the tree had been hacked back at the start of winter, and as I sat on the sofa with Sabine, the room, rather than feeling peacefully spare, felt sparse.

  She leaned over the sofa arm to the console and fingered through Graham’s CDs. They were all either jazz or classical. She chose Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.

  ‘My favourite ballet,’ I said.

  ‘You like ballet?’

  ‘When I was a kid I wanted to be a dancer. I was crap at it. But I couldn’t stop reading those fifties books: A Dream of Sadler’s Wells, Veronica at the Wells, Masquerade at the Wells, No Castanets at the Wells . . .’

  Sabine bobbed her head to the violins’ soaring opening.

  Embarrassed, I pressed eject. ‘What have you got in your bag?’

  From the discs in her flipcase, I selected a CD she’d been handed at a club night called TrailerTrash. As soon as we put it on, the early afternoon atmosphere of the flat changed. We played it loudly while we talked and drank.

  Above the TV, a tarnished seventies mirror was screwed into the wall. I kept gazing at our reflections. Then Sabine waved at me.

  ‘It’s the tint,’ I said. ‘Makes it look like we’re in a fairy tale.’

  ‘Fairytale friends, no?’

  I wanted to secrete myself away with her words, keep playing them over. But forcing my eyes from the mirror, I poured the last of the champagne. ‘Why d’you change your name to SJ?’

  ‘If you always do everything the same, your brain gets in a rut.’

  ‘I’ve heard about brushing your teeth with your other hand. Or altering your route to work.’

  My phone beeped.

  Graham: Got a leaving do. Back by eight.

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ said Sabine.

  ‘Yes.’

  She ejected the TrailerTrash disc.

  ‘Don’t go. It’s only two o’clock.’

  ‘Bathroom first,’ she said.

  The moment Sabine left the room, the mirror emptied itself of the desirable life it had reflected. Alone, my face changed: I saw its asymmetry, its uneven texture. I saw the look of resignation; I was too young for such a look. I didn’t want to be this person, or live in this flat, or even wait here until eight.

  Taking the empty champagne bottle through to the kitchen, I dumped it in the bin. About to put our glasses in the sink, I noticed the smudge of red at the tap’s rim. I listened to make sure Sabine was still at the other end of the flat. Then I put my mouth to the tap. I put my lips around where hers had been. I turned it on and drank as she had.

  When I pulled back, her smudge was gone.

  I went to fetch my denim bag from Graham’s bedroom. I puffed his white pillows and smoothed his white duvet. Glancing at the glass of water on the bedside table, I felt bad. Then I smelled Sabine’s scent.

  I turned to her. ‘Fancy going out somewhere?’

  ‘We can get the bus to Camden.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  22

  The pub roof garden was gaily decorated with what looked like giant cocktail umbrellas. Silk flowers corkscrewed the iron railing. The concrete tables were decorated with shells and a ragdoll in sunglasses lazed back with her pudgy cloth feet resting on one of them. Otherwise, unsurprisingly for a Tuesday afternoon in spring, we were the rooftop’s only occupants.

  Screwing up her eyes at the feeble sun, Sabine said, ‘So you didn’t break up with Graham?’

  I chewed the straw of my caipirinha. ‘It’s more complicated than I made out.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’

  ‘Not as complicated as that.’

  ‘What, then?’ She took a cigarette from a crushed pack of Menthols.

  ‘I was supposed to move in with him. Yesterday.’

  She laughed. ‘Already you fucked up.’

  ‘Thanks, Sabine.’

  She fished in her rucksack for her skull lighter. ‘But, come. If you change your mind, it’s better now, no?’

  ‘You mean for Graham?’

  ‘For both.’

  She was right; he’d find someone else. I foresaw a leggy woman in a floral dress: good-natured, pretty. Both successful lawyers, they shared sandwiches in lunch breaks at court. I put my head in my hands. My own future was less clear. ‘I’ve given notice on my room. I’ll need to get another place.’

  The cigarette pack shot between my elbows. ‘We’ll get a place.’

  ‘We?’ The pack was empty.

  ‘It makes sense.’ She lit up.

  I said, ‘We’re both night owls.’

  She gave her cockeyed smile. ‘Deux chouettes.’

  Finishing off my caipirinha, I couldn’t quite believe it.

  I smiled back. ‘I’ll get us more drinks to celebrate.’

  Someone had scrawled on the toilet door: I’ll call you Laurie. When you call me. And you can call me Al. I took my mobile from my bag. The battery icon on the screen was flashing; it was days since I’d charged it. Before Graham’s number could ring, the phone cut out. I pressed down hard on the power button. Dead.

  A sign, said my more cautious voice. You can’t end your relationship like this.

  But another voice said, It’s going to be awful however you do it. You might as well get it over with.

  Not wanting to be a mañana mañana person, a Sherry type, I slipped out of the pub. A bright red phone box stood like an exclamation mark at the bottom of the block.

  I’ve always been amazed by how quickly things can change. One moment, I was swimming along about to embark on a cohabitation that might have led to a life together. If I’d kept going with the flow, perhaps there’d have been kids, grandkids, chromosomes forever entwined . . . Except the next I was clutching a bone-shaped piece of plastic in a urine-scented cubicle saying, ‘We need to break up.’

  ‘You’re pissed again, Meggie?’

  ‘It’s not because of that.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Call box.’

  ‘Look, we’ll talk later.’

  ‘Graham, there’s no point.’ A death rattle of coins went through. ‘I’m sorry, this is a crap way to do things.’

  ‘Actually, it’s pretty fitting.’

  ‘If it’s not going to work, it’s better now—’

  ‘Fuck off, Megan.’

  The line went so quiet I thought it was dead. ‘Graham?’

  ‘I’ve one last thing to say to you.’

  I waited.

  ‘You’re obsessed with that woman. I don’t know what she’s like. But I feel sorry for her. It’s terrible to be used like that.’

  I was stunned.

  ‘As for you,’ he continued. ‘With her in your life, nothing’s going to work out. No relationships. No literature studies. Nothing.’

 

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