‘Sorry, Bells,’ he says, voice muffled by the pub crowd. ‘Last-minute outing with the boys this evening.’
‘Is there any way you could duck out? I’ve had a shit day, Newbury’s is having a tax audit and I’ve had this miserable pair ofinspectors at the office all afternoon. Think they might be here for days. I could do with cheering up.’
‘Oh, shit, that’s annoying. But you’ll be okay, Bells. You’re always on top of your paperwork. Just let them do their thing. They’ll be out of your hair before you know it. Why don’t you call Tori, see if she’s free to go out? I would meet up, but we just found out it’s Rob’s birthday so we’re having a big night.’
I take three measured breaths, counting each one, and try to convince myself that this is an entirely reasonable turn of events – that my boyfriend is not obliged to drop everything for a minor existential crisis, that Rob’s birthday isn’t some grand betrayal, that I shouldn’t expect anyone to anticipate my need for rescue. It doesn’t work. The feeling of rejection burns, and worse, it’s not new, it’s familiar, like a bruise being pressed.
I want to hear Reece’s voice drop into that private register he saves for me, telling me not to worry, that he’ll pop round with a takeaway and a bottle of wine and distract me with a movie and sex until the dread ebbs away. I want him to be the person who makes it easier. I want to matter more than his friends, just this once.
‘No worries.’ I try not to let the bitterness seep into my voice. ‘Have a good night.’
‘Cheers, Bells. You too. We’ll do something tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Sounds good.’ I end the call, my fingers trembling with disappointment as I’m left in a silent flat rippling with emptiness.
Reece was so sweet last night at my parents’ house. The perfect, attentive boyfriend. But it always changes when we return to our real lives. We snap apart again.
I pace the living room, phone in hand, thumbs worrying the edges of the case until the silence becomes unbearable. I open WhatsApp, flicking through my chats as if a solution might be embedded in a meme or a ten-word text from six months ago. I hover over Tori’s name for a full minute. If I call her, she’ll listen,but it’ll all be recounted later – ‘Bella was an absolute wreck last night, darling’ – and whatever comfort I get will be ruined in the aftermath of whispers.
On the next shelf of options – call Mum? Immediately vetoed. For a start, I absolutely cannot tell her about the audit – she and Dad would fly into a panic. Ditto for telling her about my other worries. And if I’m vague and simply say I can’t sleep, she’ll just recommend drinking camomile tea and reading a good book. No. I’ll have to fix my own mood. That’s the way it’s always been.
So, do I just crawl into bed? Face four walls and stew in dread? No. A plan seeds itself. Get out of the flat, get drunk, get back late enough that there’s no time left for spiralling. I can be hungover and penitent in the morning. For now, numb is the goal.
I stand in front of the bedroom mirror and stare at my face. The day has etched new lines at the edges of my mouth and eyes, but a smear of lipstick and a bit of concealer should cheat the world into thinking I’m fresh as a daisy. I swap my jumper for a black camisole with thin straps, layer on a jacket, and let my hair down. It looks good enough, or at least not actively terrible.
I zip up my boots and head out into the chill. I can’t go into any of the bars round here – I know too many people, and besides, the tax inspectors are staying locally, and the last thing I need is for them to see me getting smashed in the pub.
I spend the whole walk to the station rehearsing an alternative version of the phone call with Reece, one where I say something cutting or clever enough to make him feel guilty. In every scenario, he laughs it off and tells me to relax, which only makes me more annoyed. I replay the conversation so many times, I nearly walk past the entrance to the station.
I head briskly towards the train platform, feeling the first tremor of anticipation. When you’re in a small town like this, escaping – even for a night – feels like you’ve pulled off a heist.
As I swipe my company card for a ticket, guilt tugs at me – should my business funds be paying for this night out? I shove it aside, board the train, and find a seat.
The countryside slides by, dark fields and distant lights, but I can’t look away from my own blurred reflection. I try to empty my mind – no spreadsheets, no stern auditors, no disappointments – but my thoughts keep bouncing around like pinballs. I chastise myself – always so controlled, so proper. Maybe that’s why I’m unravelling now. I can’t wait to sit in the corner of a bar and drink until my brain goes numb.
The train pulls into Southampton Central. I bypass taxis in favour of a brisk ten-minute walk. It’s dark and cold, but at least it’s not raining. My body thrums with anxious energy. The city at night is a collage of streetlights and student laughter and, for a brief, heady moment, I feel younger than I am – twenty-one, maybe, with no obligations except to make it home in one piece. I drift down the street, letting my feet choose a direction. I pass two chain pubs, a chippy, and a kebab place, each brimming with cheerful people whose night has not yet turned. I duck into a bar that’s halfway between a pub and a club – dark, with sticky floors and a soundtrack of forgettable pop.
A gaggle of teenagers shoulder past me on their way to a corner table. ‘Careful,’ I mutter. The girl who bumped me – definitely underage – turns and tells me to ‘piss off’ before catching up with her friends. Guilt and irritation war inside me. I shouldn’t have snapped, but she shouldn’t have barged into me.
I shake my head and continue towards the bar, trying to place the song. It’s one I’ve heard recently on the radio, but I don’t know the name. I can’t believe I’ve reached a stage in my life where I no longer know band names and song titles. How did that happen?
‘Can I help you?’ A cute barman with dark curls and blue eyes comes straight over to me, ignoring the other punters at the barand earning himself some dirty looks. I’m flattered. It feels nice to be noticed. ‘Two double vodka tonics please.’
He looks over my shoulder. ‘Who’s the other one for?’ he asks in a soft Irish accent.
I think about saying ‘You’, but I’m not quite brave enough. ‘Me,’ I reply instead.
He grins and reaches below the bar for two glasses, keeping eye contact. His attention stabs at the loneliness I’ve been swallowing all day.
I open my purse to get my credit card, but I can’t seem to locate it.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, just trying to... hang on.’ I rummage some more, but it’s just not here. What the hell? Where’s my credit card? My company one’s here, but not my personal one. Did I leave it at home? On my desk? Did I lose it? I steel myself and hand over the business card.
The evening passes quickly and hazily. I spend it knocking back vodkas, occasionally doing shots with the barman, whose name is Seamus. He’s over from Cork, chasing dreams with the rest of his band. I think he’s at least five years younger than me, but he’s sweet and I like him. He feels like the kind of person I could talk to. Be honest with. He seems kind. Or maybe it’s just that I’m hammered.
While he pours drinks for other people, I become a spectator to their messes. A hen party in matching sequinned dresses; two men having a debate that devolves into a shouting match; a couple breaking up in real time, their faces flushed with rage and exhaustion. I check my phone. Reece hasn’t texted. I consider messaging him something dramatic, but the thought exhausts me. Instead, I scroll through social media until my vision blurs. Seamus brings over another drink without being asked. ‘On the house. You look like you need it more than I do tonight.’
