She laughs, displaying a set of perfectly straight and flawlessly white teeth. ‘I’m not. You must be able to tell I’m as English as you.’
He returns her laugh. ‘I can. I can. What’ve you been doing in Edinburgh?’
She pauses, as if she needs to consider her reply. ‘Visiting an old school friend. And enjoying the Fringe Festival, of course. In fact.’ A pause. A giggle. ‘I went to your talk yesterday, at the Clayback Hotel. It was amazing.’
He straightens his back. The way he always does when his ego is being stroked. ‘Really?’
I grit my teeth. An admirer. He’ll love that. He gives a coy smile. A well-practised one I’m sure he fakes for his fans. He denies it, but I know. I know.
‘It was very interesting,’ she says. ‘I loved it.’
‘Thank you.’ He places a hand on his chest. ‘I’m flattered. So, what takes you to Stockholm?’
She shivers. So do I, but not from the extra cold air conditioning. I shiver for what could happen next. The cold anticipation that our lives are going to be turned upside down again – and this time, they will stay that way. She releases her hand from the rail and tugs out the grey and white shawl threaded through the crisscross straps of the front of her rucksack. ‘I’m visiting my boyfriend.’ When the shawl is free, she throws it around her bare shoulders and crosses it over her pert breasts.
My hand moves to my flat chest. How I miss my breasts.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks.
‘Home,’ he replies. ‘Stansted.’
‘That’s where I’m heading too.’ The tram jolts again. Harder this time. She barely stops herself from falling into him, thrusting her chest forward. Good grief, the boldness of the girl. She grabs the edge of the partition screen. ‘But I have a night at the airport before I fly to Stockholm.’ She pulls a mock sorrowful face and hunches her shoulders. ‘Needs must.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘A stopover?’
Oh, no. Here we go. His eyes meet mine. I glare back, my eyes delivering the message I can’t speak out loud:Don’t you dare.
She rolls her eyes. Two emeralds, as stunning as his. ‘Yep. I don’t fly out until tomorrow morning. Believe it or not, it was nearly two hundred pounds cheaper for me to fly via Stansted than to fly directly from Edinburgh to Stockholm. Unbelievable!’
I wonder if she is aware that his wife is sitting on the other side of her. Leaning forward, I wave my phone. ‘Justin. Can you pass me the portable charger? My phone needs charging.’
The girl turns to me and gives a camera-ready smile. She’s pissed off I’m here. I despise her type. I bet she’s hoping he’ll invite her back to ours so she can avoid a night stretched out over three uncomfortable chairs in the airport departure lounge. She shuffles two steps backwards to get out of our way. Justin digs into his leather bag on the floor between his legs and hands me the portable charger.
I plug my phone into the port. She’s staring at me. I can feel it. I look up.
‘I like your necklace,’ she says.
I fondle the large silver cross sitting proud on my chest. Does she? Does she really? She sounds genuine enough. Or is she ridiculing me? It’s difficult to tell.
The tram squeaks and hisses as it pulls into the station. ‘This is us.’ Justin zips up his bag.
The girl yanks an orange scrunchie from her hair, her fingers a comb as she runs them through her mass of blonde curls.
Anger rages in me with a force I can’t control. I feel sick to the core.
He’s looking at her out of the corner of his eye, studying her. She is everything I’m not. Young. Blonde. Slim. Alive.
She remakes her ponytail. The tram comes to a standstill. The doors beep and clunk as they fly open. Justin waves a hand. ‘Ready?’
Is he talking to me or her?I nod, my eyes flitting like a squirrel between the two of them, checking if either of them is looking at the other.
Justin nods at her. ‘Have a safe flight.’
She smiles at him, slowly, privately, before turning to me. ‘You too.’
He takes my arm. The feel of his fingers on my skin is overwhelming. I could cry with relief. I thought he was going to invite her to stay the night with us… on the pretence that it would be a kind thing to do, which, of course, on the face of it, it would’ve been. And it’s what he would’ve done, once upon a time. We only live twenty minutes from the airport, after all.
Perhaps, after the last time, he really has learnt his lesson. I’d like to think it’s because he realises how much he loves me. But I think it has more to do with my diagnosis. He knows he can’t put me through the whole trauma again.
