He threw his arms in the air rather melodramatically and then let out a strange sound.
‘Lizzy, don’t you see? This thing between us is a relationship.’
‘It’s not a relationship,’ I said very quickly, something I’d had to say to Byron many times before.
‘Could have fooled me,’ he said, his tone sarcastic and cutting now.
‘This is not a relationship. We’ve just been having a bit of fun for a couple of months, that’s all.’
He stepped forward. ‘A couple of months? Try seven.’
It wasn’t seven months, surely? The first time we’d hooked up had been in the lift. It was 3 a.m. and I was pretty tipsy after my first night on the town in years. He was also coming home after a night out. Somewhere between floors three and four, something happened. We flung ourselves at each other and went for it. And that party had been . . . Shit, itwasabout seven months ago.
‘Lizzy.’ He was inching closer now with an intense look in his eyes.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it . . .
‘We’re perfect for each other. Don’t you see that?’ He looked like a sad puppy who’d been put outside and was now crying at the door. I’d never really liked dogs; correction, they’d never really liked me. ‘So what’s the problem?’ He tilted his head and looked at me with pathetic, pleading eyes.
‘The problem, Byron?’ I placed my cup down on the windowsill and put my hands on my hips, adopting a firm stance I hoped would convey the seriousness of my next statement. ‘The problem is that I don’t do relationships.’ I must have spoken a little more forcefully than I’d intended to, because now he looked not only like a puppy left outside, but one that had been left outside in the rain.
He nodded at me peculiarly. ‘It’s okay, Lizzy. I get it.’ And with that, he turned and walked away.
I picked my coffee up and took another sip, grateful that that was over, but also not feeling great, because clearly I’d hurt his feelings, even though I’d told him from the very start that I didn’t do relationships. It was supposed to be casual. Some sex, some pizza, some conversation. Nothing more.
‘He’s right, you know,’ said Philly, taking off her glasses and cleaning them. ‘You’re in a relationship with him, whether you can see it or not.’
‘I hate how the sound in these corridors carries, and it’s not a relationship!’
‘No? Well, what do you call seven months of sex, eating pizza and going to a wedding together?’
‘That was only pretend. My teammate was going to organise me a date for the wedding if I didn’t come with one.’
Philly rolled her eyes. ‘Fake-dating trope, never works. Always leads to feelings.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘No, what’s actually crazy is the way that guy feels about you, despite all the crap you give him.’
‘Well, I don’t feel the same way. And I can’t force myself to either.’ I’d only ever felt that way about one person in my entire life, but it had been incredibly short-lived, and now all I felt for Cam was hatred. Intense, searing hatred. In fact, if there was a word that meant more than just ‘hate’, I needed it to describe the depth of my feelings for the infuriating Cameron Anderson.
I needed something to distract me, so I got up and prowled round Philly’s apartment. The place was a curiosity. Her late husband, Lou, had been a prosthetist; the guy made limbs and other bodily appendages for amputees. But more than that, he’d considered himself an artist, and after he died, Philly decorated their apartment with some of his best work. So upon entering, you were immediately greeted by a leg, mounted on the wall in a large ornate frame. Start looking a little closer, and you’d begin to notice the madness of it all. Because apart from the body parts everywhere, Philly was also an avid collector ofeverything!
Little bits and bobs covered every surface. No centimetre was safe from the mad cramming. Miniature houses, ceramic deer, frogs wearing ballet shoes, novelty spoons, snow globes, porcelain figurines, seashells, souvenir plates and even taxidermy birds.
‘You know, I didn’t much like Lou when I first met him,’ Philly began. She always pulled these ‘Lou and I’ stories out when we had our regular debates about how relationships were all doomed toinevitably crash and burn in the flames of infidelity, heartbreak and pain. ‘I thought he was very strange, making all those arms and legs. He begged me to go out with him for months, and eventually I agreed.’ She walked over to the mantel and picked up a picture of her beloved husband. ‘Well, I tell you, five minutes into that conversation, I knew he was the one.’
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Not because I was belittling her relationship, or even judging it; in fact, I thought it was sweet how much she’d loved him. But I knew unequivocally that relationships were just not for me.
‘I wish I could see you as happy and in love as Lou and I were,’ she said.
‘Maybe in my next lifetime,’ I replied dismissively, hoping that it would put a full stop to the conversation. Thankfully it did.
‘By the way,’ Philly said, ‘there’s a blueberry cheesecake in the fridge, new recipe.’
‘Now you’re talking my language,’ I said, making a beeline for the kitchen.
Philly was always baking for me. She and Lou never had kids, despite being married for over forty years. We’d never spoken about it, but I got the feeling there were some fertility issues. Over the last few years, I knew she’d come to think of me as a daughter, and honestly, I viewed her as a surrogate mom – since I barely spoke to my own.
