Page 25 of The Ghost of Exes Past

She watches as he blows into the end of the rubber, shimmies his boxers down and places it on his cock. She closes her eyes as he sorts himself out. Her hands move over her own skin, her body whisky-warm and wanting. She touches herself properly, one hand in her knickers, and she rubs, her head thrown back, her other hand bracing on the ceiling when she hears, ‘Oh fuck.’ He stumbles.

His eyes are wide, his dick hard and pulsing, and she rises. She lowers herself onto him. They both exhale at exactly the same moment, collapsing into each other with a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob – her forehead against his shoulder, his hands guiding her thighs, the car rocking with them.

The windows are steamed up now; Belle thinks back to the car scene in Titanic that she loves so much, his body shuddering beneath her.

CHAPTER NINE

Belle

‘Why are we in a car park?’ Jake walks around with his hands in his pockets, his shoes crunching tiny pebbles. It’s pitch black and I shiver, waiting for him to notice.

‘Who are you here with?’ He’s circling the cars parked up like a bird of prey, but he’s walked in the opposite direction from where Vik’s is parked, in the corner. If he stood still for just a moment, he’d see it bouncing.

I peel my eyes away and smirk. ‘Work it out,’ I say glibly.

Why is it that some men are incapable of spotting things right in front of them?

He shrugs. ‘Honestly, this is already better than the last one. It’s nice to be in a part of the movie of your life that I haven’t already seen. Didn’t enjoy my cameo much, let’s put it that way.’ He stops abruptly in front of the hall.

There’s a sign on an easel just inside the doorway, half in shadow, the corridor dark enough that I almost missed it. Jake’s dad must have forgotten to take it home. It’s an A1, cream-coloured card with a display of white roses neatly placed at the top. The sign reads: Remembering Jake Marleigh.

I watch the light from the hallway catch the side of his face as he reads it. Watch his face process it all. Confusion first, brows raised, and then something else underneath it, something heavier, the line between his brows deepening as it lands.

‘The fuck? We’re at my funeral?’ He rubs his forehead. ‘I thought we’d got to the end of our relationship already?’ I shrug and watch as, right on cue, there’s that little head tilt he does when playing the tortured soul. Ten years dead and still thinking he’s the main character.

This is supposed to be my time. My weekend. My wedding. Can’t the ten years I spent rebuilding my life since he left – since he died – be enough to secure my spot in the afterlife? Surely, I’ve earned it by now.

I hitch my silk gown up off the floor and look around the car park. I want to be eating course one of seven – a cheese cornetto served standing in a bowl of popcorn kernels – not standing outside in the dark, having an existential crisis about my soul.

I think back to my Excel spreadsheet, the one with thirty colour-coded tabs and a timeline planned down to the minute for my dream day. The time I’ve spent choosing napkin colours, researching wedding bands, the countless Zoom calls with caterers.

Jake thought I’d be happy with a small wedding. Fuck, he’d probably have chosen this depressing hall for our party. He had our whole life mapped out for us: helping my parents with their bed and breakfast; Sunday dinners at his mum’s; children and a house by twenty-seven. I realise I’ve been biting the inside of my cheek as I sense the tang of copper. I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Now I watch as he skirts around the perimeter of the hall, peeking in windows, trying to count the mourners. Right.

I hope Timothy can’t taste the metal when I head back. What would he think, knowing his future wife has been holding hands with a ghost? Would he even have liked me like this? Shagging some guy in a car, swigging whisky from a bottle. No, I’m different now. I don’t mix my spirits and dance on bar tops anymore. Instead, I host beautiful dinner parties with friends, can draw a swan in my latte art, and go to Reformer Pilates once a week.

I have a job title that makes my mum emotional at dinner parties. A career I built from nothing, a life in London I fought for, a house that I furnished, mostly alone. I also always take my makeup off before bed … most of the time. I definitely did last night, but maybe not the night before.

But I do sometimes wear the same socks two days running and eat cereal over the sink, and I’m not going to apologise for it. Timothy doesn’t know that yet. There’s quite a lot that Timothy doesn’t know. Like the fact that I love nothing more than a full Sunday sofa rot, or that my favourite thing to listen to while doing my makeup, when he’s not around, is My Favorite Murder podcast … But, ultimately, I’m a better person now. I think.

I need to remember how far I’ve come. I need to stand here tall and proud of everything that’s led me to become the person I am today, even if that means this: watching twenty-five-year-old me having sex in a car with my dead ex’s bestie.

Jake has his face pressed against the hall window, staring into his wake. The glass doesn’t steam up with his breath. ‘Jeeeez, that’s embarrassing. Not many people there …’ He leans in closer. ‘Oh, wait, there’s a clock. It’s 11 p.m. so it must be over and these are the stragglers … The numbers aren’t that bad, considering the time.’

Just then, behind us, Vik slams the car door. Jake turns sharply. He watches in silence, squinting, as younger me comes into the light, pulling down her top, patting her skirt, heels in hand. She leans against a lamppost – I remember the feeling, dusting off gravel from the soles of my feet, the stark light blinding my eyes as I put my shoes back on – and Vik appears beside her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, shirt untucked. They walk towards the hall together, flushed, not quite touching. Jake watches it too and catches it: just as they reach the entrance, just next to that sad sign, Vik’s hand finds her arse, then winks at her and she shoves him back. Playful and familiar.

Jake looks stunned. ‘I’m sorry, what is going on here?’

I shrug, letting him figure it out.

‘You slept with my best friend?’ He stumbles back against the wall, hands on his knees, head low. ‘You slept with Vik Parshad?’

I straighten, lift my head.

‘He didn’t seem to think I was a shit shag.’ I let it sit in the air.

Jake almost flinches. His face tries to recover but his mouth can’t quite form the smile it’s reaching for.

‘Touché,’ he cringes.