Page 24 of The Ghost of Exes Past

Juliet stops dead.

The room goes silent. Oh shit.

She looks up from her phone, eyes wide. Her mouth opens, then closes as she scrolls up and down the screen, checking what she just read. ‘After all this time …’ She’s improvising now. ‘… All this time being so focused on your career.’ Belle’s gone pale, her hand gripping Timothy’s arm. She motions to Juliet to hurry up.

Juliet squints at her phone again. ‘And to my new grandson, Timothy. You’re a bonnie wee—’ She stops. Looks up. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I think someone’s been mucking with my phone! Bloody technology! Please excuse me! Let’s just raise a glass together instead now, shall we?’

Worth it.

Totally worth it.

Belle is scanning the crowd again, looking like she’s contemplating murder. Good thing I’m already dead. She finally catches my eye. I steal the glass on the table next to me and raise it in cheers. That’ll teach her to be so uptight.

I feel bad for Juliet, genuinely, as she descends the stairs, shaking her head, still muttering something under her breath that I suspect is directed at her phone, specifically, and technology, generally. Timothy materialises at her elbow to relieve her of her microphone, smooth as anything, and ushers everyone through to the dining hall for the rehearsal dinner, with the confidence of a guy who has never once not known what to do in a social situation.

In the flurry of bodies, Belle cuts through the crowd and storms towards me. She reaches me and hooks her arm through mine, stern and purposeful – the kind of gesture you’d use to steer your drunk uncle away from the buffet – and starts walking. To anyone watching, we look like a couple having a private word, a little dig at each other. Except I’m invisible and she’s steering thin air towards the corner by a fireplace.

She stops when we reach an alcove, drops my arm and turns to face the wall. Hands at her sides, she’s staring at eighteenth-century panelling like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s seen all evening. I’m still facing out towards the room; a woman in a fascinator glances over, clocks Belle’s odd position and frowns, but keeps walking.

‘This looks a bit Blair Witch Belle.’ I smirk as her shoulders go rigid. Without turning around, she reaches out and grabs both of my hands. Now she’s a woman in a white silk gown, facing a wall, holding hands with … absolutely no one.

Timothy’s mother stops – actually stops – and does a full double take as she passes. She stares at Belle and then looks at Timothy, who is standing ten feet away, talking to one of the caterers. He hasn’t noticed yet. I should feel worse about this than I do.

‘People are staring,’ I say, which is true, but also deeply unhelpful.

Her grip tightens, her voice low and furious. ‘Shut. Up,’ she says, closing her eyes.

Vik Parshad

‘You sure you want to do this?’

Their breaths are hot and heavy. Belle sits with her legs either side of Vik’s lap, her knees bracketing his hips in the passenger seat of his car, an old silver Audi with a grey interior. A faded Jelly Bean scent diffuser wafts a subtle lemon-drop fragrance that hardly masks the stink of takeaway burgers and chips, whose discarded packets crunch under his foot as he repositions. He’s a big guy, wide in a way that leaves no room for anything else.

She doesn’t remember who moved first. She’s not sure it matters.

Her fingers find handfuls of his inky black hair, and she holds on as he rolls back the seat as far as it can go. His other hand grips her arse hungrily. ‘Yes, yes …’ she says, reaching down to pull her top over her head.

He takes a swig from the bottle of whisky on the seat next to them, before handing it to her. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as she drinks. He watches her swallow. The hot liquid burns her throat, makes her head spin a little faster, but also quietens her brain; she was not expecting anyone to see her naked today. Her thoughts drift from concern about how her faded blue knickers don’t match the black cotton of her bra, to what his dick looks like. Whether it’ll feel different. Whether she’s capable of feeling anything at all anymore.

She watches now as Vik unknots his tie and tosses it back without looking, not caring where it lands, because his eyes are on her – on the way her breasts are filling out her bra – and she feels it, the weight of his stare. He unbuttons his shirt, their warm chests now touching. He makes a sound low in his throat and pulls her closer.

‘Ugh, this feels so wrong,’ she says to the ceiling as he busies himself unbuckling his belt, his mouth on her chest, her hand against the cold window, fingers splayed out.

‘That’s why it’s so fun,’ he grunts, and she recognises that: the lightness of it, the jokey deflection. She doesn’t call him on it, instead just moves onto her knees, hitching her skirt up, making way for him to slide his trousers down. She catches a glimpse of his boxers. They’re bright blue, ordinary. There’s a tiny hole in the crotch. He wasn’t expecting this either. Neither of them was.

Her leg slips off the seat, and her heel hits the glovebox, which opens; old phone charger leads, a walkie-talkie, and protein bar wrappers tumble out.

‘Shit, sorry,’ she says, turning to look behind, but he takes her chin in his hand and turns her face back to his.

‘Fuck, you’re so sexy,’ he whispers, his chin dropped to his chest, eyes tracking down her body, mouth falling open slightly in a way he probably doesn’t realise. Belle leans forward to kiss him before he can finish looking, and also to stop him from talking. It’s wet and sloppy.

Belle had always wondered what car sex would be like. Passionate, intense, steamy, she thought in her fantasies. His tongue slides into her mouth. In reality, it’s clumsy, poky, and a little smelly. The car looked bigger from the outside, she thinks. He attempts to nibble her lip.

What if someone walks past? Sees them. Recognises them. She pulls back, breathless, and she motions to the bottle. He hands it over and she drinks a desperate gulp. He finds the back of her bra strap. He fiddles with it – the strap – excitedly, like a kid unwrapping the bow on a present. Except he’s unable to open it while also planting kisses on her cheek, her chin, her neck. She ends up unclasping it herself after throwing the bottle aside, neck hitched forward so as not to bump it against the ceiling.

‘There should be a condom in the glovebox,’ he manages, voice low, as she grinds on his lap.

Handy, she thinks, but doesn’t answer, just reaches back, fingers finding the shiny wrapper in the dark. She presses it into his hand without looking, and he takes it.