Page 37 of The Ghost of Exes Past

How did they meet, anyway? I’m glad he doesn’t dive deeper – I’ll get to experience it soon, which I’m dreading, to be fair. I look at Belle, turn to focus on her instead of the growing heaviness in my chest.

I’ve missed so much. I don’t know where she lived when they met, what she does for work now, if she still takes her tea with two sugars. I haven’t asked and I’m only realising that now. I knew every bit of her up until twenty-five and then nothing – a decade of her without me. These people in this room got to be there for all of it in ways I didn’t.

But she was always going to become someone I’d have to learn again. With or without the crash. I just didn’t get a chance to.

‘I feel like the luckiest man in the world being the one to wake up and fall asleep with you every day.’

I don’t get mornings anymore. Or nights.

‘I promise to love you forever …’

I’m stuck in forever.

‘Please, everyone, raise your glass to my sweet Belle.’

Timothy raises a glass and his face reminds me of that iconic scene in Baz Lurhmann’s film adaptation of The Great Gatsby. The way he dips his head, forehead creased, dimples proud. The room follows.

I fix my gaze on Belle, who is glowing – not for me and not because of me. Just glowing, because that’s what she does – and something in my chest unclenches, just for a moment, because she looks happy. Genuinely happy. I raise my glass, gripping the stem tight. My stomach lurches then as, to my surprise, she looks right at me, a smile on her face.

I don’t look away. I raise my glass slightly higher. It feels stupid, no one can see me do it. But she can. So, I hold it steady, plant my feet, keep my gaze holding hers and stay right where I am.

‘One final thing,’ Timothy says again into the mic. The room turns back to him. I watch Belle’s eyes leave mine.

‘Once we’re done with dessert, there will be fireworks on the lawn, overlooking the sea, followed by drinks and a DJ – so do enjoy. We’d just ask that you’re mindful that we have a big day tomorrow, so perhaps pace yourselves accordingly … We’d hate for anyone to be suffering tomorrow!’

Talk erupts throughout the room at the mention of fireworks and a DJ, glasses clinking and someone wolf-whistling from the back. The responsible drinking note gets a laugh too, which means absolutely nothing good for Timothy’s plans.

Belle is standing now, pulling Timothy into a hug. I swallow. Chairs scrape back as the guests grab their bags and phones from the tables, patting each other’s backs, downing the rest of their drinks. I’m about to duck out and start to walk back towards the bedrooms, but I turn and Belle is next to me, in front of the fireplace, pretending to warm her hands on the crackling logs. She seems energetic, jittery. I feel flat next to her.

Don’t act like a lovesick puppy now, Jake.

‘How many more now?’ I ask, knowing full well the answer.

‘Five more’ she says through closed lips, careful not to look like she’s talking into thin air. ‘We’re halfway. We started at 4 p.m. and now it’s almost eight, so we’re on track. Let’s go, the next one’s a good ’un.’ She turns her head, winks at me, and holds out her hands.

Is she enjoying this?

Emma Cuthbert

No one has ever looked at Belle like this. Not with hunger – she’s had that – but with patience. Like Emma has already decided what she’s going to do and is in absolutely no rush to do it.

They stare at each other, from opposite ends of the sofa. Red wine in hand; Vapour Soul playing on the record player. They know what’s coming. Belle rearranges herself, the pulsing between her legs getting harder to ignore.

Emma breaks the spell and looks away. She uncurls her legs as she stretches over to place her wine glass on a book. Belle watches, eyes skimming the soft skin of Emma’s arms, working her way up from her hand, adorned with gold rings, to her decolletage. Her hair is shorter than Belle remembers, swept back from her face, and Belle can’t look away from those cheekbones, her clear skin, the way her lip curls just to one side. Emma is wearing jeans and a ribbed white tank top that fits tight against her chest – no bra in sight. Belle bites her lip. Tries not to stare again and fails.

‘I’ve been imagining you here, on this sofa, since we first met.’ Emma’s voice is deep, a London accent with a Scottish twang. Belle feels her cheeks turn hot. She too had been imagining this for weeks. Lying awake, phone hot in her hand after another late-night call, imagining the feel of Emma’s hand reaching between her thighs. And now it was really happening and she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

‘Come here,’ Emma says. Belle puts down her glass without looking where it lands. She crawls over, the sofa soft and unsteady beneath her, and wobbles slightly – nervous, vulnerable, made worse by the way Emma’s expression deepens as she watches.

She kneels next to Emma, who takes her face in her hands, leans forward and kisses her. Emma’s skin is soft and smooth against hers. The absence of stubble is a joy. Belle closes her eyes and lets herself fall into it. Emma’s kisses are more tender than she’d imagined, and she’d imagined this a lot. She tastes like cherries, wine. She inhales the scent of Emma now: a radiating warmth, of faded perfume and saltiness.

‘Do you want this?’ Emma whispers between kisses.

‘Desperately.’ Belle feels a thrum in her chest, her hands shaking as Emma leans back and gently removes her own top. Belle takes a sharp intake of breath at the beauty in front of her. She notices a tiny freckle under the left breast and wants to touch it, trace it, memorise it. Wants to run her tongue across Emma’s collarbone, down to where her nipples stand, hard and waiting.

Emma reaches forward now and removes Belle’s top, while her eyes continue to devour her.

‘Get undressed,’ she whispers.