Page 44 of The Ghost of Exes Past

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jake

The floors are so sticky that my trainers are squelching. There’s also that familiar smell of damp mixed with hops mixed with stale beer that I didn’t realise I’d missed so much until now. It takes me back … Crowding around pool tables, beer in hand. That feeling of hitting a bullseye, sight sightly hazy, flashing pearly whites at girls huddled in the corner.

This pub isn’t quite as rough as my local back home, though. No pool table in sight. Instead, looking out of the windows, it appears we’re practically sat on the Thames. It’s all wooden beams, pirate maps on the walls, and The Smiths playing on knackered old speakers mounted on a brick wall. I lean forward, spotting what looks like a noose hanging from a pole outside. Only in London would that be considered atmosphere. I shrug. I’ve seen worse ways to go.

On a specials board above the bar, burrata with nduja is written in chalk. I have no idea what nduja is – I assume it’s some sort of fancy Spanish ketchup. I’m fairly certain Belle knows, though. A bloke at the bar gets a round in and I catch him wincing at the price as he taps his card to a machine. He then juggles four pints back to a table without spilling a drop. What a skill. Still, at eight quid a pint, I wouldn’t want to waste an ounce either.

I scan the crowd. My guess is it’s a Sunday afternoon. There’s a couple with their jumper-wearing dog lying under the table, a woman reading alone at the bar with the confidence of someone who does this on the reg. An old couple occupy a table next to us – they’re eating scampi, chips, and neon green peas. Behind them a young family plays a card game. It seems like the kind of place where you could become a regular, where the staff might remember your order. I wonder if this is Belle’s local.

And then I spot her – young Belle. She’s wearing an oversized jumper, and there are big silver hoops in her ears; a finger is fidgeting with a loose wave of her dark blonde hair which is long and curled. I got her a pair of earrings like that for one of her birthdays.

She’s sitting, leaning in, eyes locked with another man. Cosied up in a wooden corner booth, the stocky guy sitting in front of her wears thick-rimmed glasses and dons a slightly ginger beard. His arms are covered in black-and-white tattoos. I can make out a PlayStation controller on his bicep and three love hearts in a line on his wrist. The words ‘Endure and Survive’ on his forearm in a weird script – a proper hipster.

‘Who’s this guy, then?’ I quip, looking him up and down. His black T-shirt has its sleeves rolled up. A grey knit beanie hat sits next to his beer on the table.

‘That would be Arthur,’ she says, twitching her nose. ‘He’s been my only other proper boyfriend, aside from you and Timothy.’ She says this while looking at him, not me. I guess moving to London will do that for a girl – gentrify her, make her fall for this dude. Anyway, we saw from Matty she had a thing for the alternative types.

I give him a once-over, watch as young Belle picks a cat hair off his shoulder, then flicks it away without thinking. He has puppy-dog eyes, thin lips, brows slightly upturned that make him look permanently introspective. His hand is resting on her knee in a polite way and he’s nodding along as she talks.

Belle liked guys wearing jewellery. I note the metal bracelet on his wrist. I used to wear one like that. Same type. Same wrist. I bought mine at a market stall outside a gig, lost it somewhere but never replaced it. This could have been us … But it’s not. Anyway, I’d have much better taste in tattoos than those if I hadn’t been so scared of needles.

A howl of laughter erupts from the beer garden outside, and Belle shuffles beside me.

‘How’d you end up here with him?’ I ask.

‘Tinder.’

‘Oh. Yeah, before my time, I guess.’ I shrug.

Belle laughs. ‘Tinder was around when we were together, Jake.’

‘Well, I never got the chance to use it—’

‘You never got the hang of MySpace. Tinder was beyond your technological capabilities,’ she says, rolling her eyes.

‘That might be true.’ I laugh.

Call me crazy but … are we starting to get along? I don’t seem to be driving her to bouts of anger anymore. She hasn’t thrown a vase at me for at least a few hours.

‘What did you like about this fella, then? He looks as if Boxpark and Spitalfields Market had a baby. Was he born in a food truck?’

‘Hey, now,’ Belle protests.

‘He looks like he ferments his own kimchi.’ I’m on a roll now. Belle’s biting the inside of her cheek. ‘He looks like a sensitive soul. The type to make you a mixtape. But like, on an actual cassette.’

‘Jake!’ Belle squeals with a smirk. ‘He actually did that,’ she says, placing a palm against her forehead.

‘What, the kimchi or the mixtape?’

Belle playfully slaps my arm.

‘It had “Kiss from a Rose” by Seal on there.’ Browelle wobbles up and down.

‘Wow. I’m impressed, that’s a right tune.’ I scratch my head. I would have liked to have done that for her – made something for her to listen to, to remind her of me. It never occurred to me that I actually could.

‘He was very sweet. At this stage we’d been dating around three months. I liked him. I liked his humour. I liked that he cared deeply and I liked his sensitivity, but I wasn’t crazy about him … you know?’