Page 13 of The Ghost of Exes Past

Jules is giggling. Actually giggling. Like a fourteen-year-old, hands hiding her mouth, eyes shut. Jake is typing on a random phone lying flat on the table next to Jules, looking stupidly pleased with himself. I watch as Jules swats the air, grinning, as a tinny robotic voice says, ‘You look absolutely ravishing this evening, madam.’

I grab Jake’s arm and yank him sideways. ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper through a tight-lipped smile, trying not to draw attention to myself.

‘Relax, it’s just Google Translate on some guy’s phone. His fault for leaving it on the front desk.’

‘Oh, stop it, Harold!’ Jules says, beaming at … nothing.

‘Why! I gave you strict instructions to stay upstairs.’ I feel my nostrils flaring and make a conscious effort to keep my voice at a pitch that won’t alarm those nearby.

‘Bored.’ Jake shrugs.

‘You’re impossible,’ I say, dragging him by his T-shirt to the nearest bathroom, awkwardly smiling and waving to other guests as I run past. I push him into the powder room on the right and the smell of synthetic roses smacks me as we stumble in.

I can’t see anyone or hear anything in here, but better to be safe than sorry. I squat to peek under the bathroom stall doors. Jake preens in the mirror.

‘They can’t see me, remember?’

But there’s no lock on the main door and I’m not risking it, so I pull him into the nearest cubicle.

We’re standing chest to chest over a toilet. Jake kicks down the loo seat and holds out his hands.

‘Small.’

My hands hover over his. ‘What?’

‘The seating plan, out there.’ He tilts his head towards the door. ‘You didn’t tell me that was his surname. Timothy Small.’

I close my eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re going to be Belle Small.’

‘Jake.’

‘Belle Small.’

‘Professionally, I’m keeping my name.’

‘That’s not the point.’

I open my eyes and look at him. His hands are still outstretched. The start of our relationship … Of all the memories to revisit right now, stood over a toilet, about to become Belle Small.

I take his hands, close my eyes, again.

Think of falling in love for the first time.

Jake Marleigh

Gravel crunches underfoot, birdsong fills the air and everything else is silent apart from their breathing. The woody and sweet aroma of lavender dances around them as they walk through the field, late summer’s dusky sun beating on their backs. They’re walking in step with one another, close enough that their arms occasionally brush, nervous glances stolen sideways. Belle tries to keep her face neutral but the flush is already creeping up her neck.

She hears him inhale beside her and feels herself wait. But he says nothing. She continues forward, counting the steps and the thuds in her chest. Jake brushes his hand through his hair, lost for words but racking his brain for something, anything, to say – he’s anxious that the date is ending and neither of them is doing anything to stop it.

Belle stumbles over a rock and Jake grabs her waist, catching her mid-fall, and now as the heat between her legs grows, she allows herself to face him.

‘This is …’ Belle starts.

‘Yeah,’ Jake replies, his free hand reaching up to move a strand of hair from her face. He doesn’t pull back. He stays there, thumb resting under her jaw, and he looks at her the way people look at things they don’t want to forget – slowly and like he has all the time in the world. Like he isn’t going anywhere. She can feel her pulse where his thumb rests, how it throbs, how it’s giving her away.

‘Why do I feel so nervous around you?’ she says, barely above a whisper. The eye contact is undoing something within her.