Page 50 of The Ghost of Exes Past

There’s a DJ set up in the corner, blasting music – everything from Nineties R&B to the indie that Belle and I used to love. I spot Harry leaning over the speakers, holding a beer and attempting to make eye contact with the DJ. I walk to the bar, which has upgraded since dinner – spirits lined up, beer taps flowing. I lean on it, grabbing a pre-poured wine, and watch as Belle joins her girls. They crowd around her, squealing. They bring her drinks, which she downs, impressively. She whips her hair around, hands caressing her body, hips rocking to the beat. Timothy stands next to his dad, both of them watching Belle. They laugh and cheer, wine in one hand, the other sat neatly in their tux pockets.

More shots.

Drunk by both me and Belle.

Me to drown out the Coldplay song currently blasting out (who plays Coldplay at a wedding rehearsal?). And Belle … I don’t know. To enjoy her last night as a single woman? To prove to me she’s not stuck-up, that she’s still the same Belle? Or just to live it up with everyone she loves in one room?

The one she loves most, though – Timothy – isn’t looking too impressed now. I move to stand next to him, size him up. He’s not as tall as me, but he smells damn good. I note the mole on his cheek, the twitching of his mouth, the growing stubble on his chin – a reminder that he’s very much alive.

Timothy and I watch as Belle runs towards the bar, her sunset of a dress clutched in one hand, and instructs the barman to line up another shot. Timothy’s head is shaking slowly beside me. I almost hear a tut. He glances to his cousins, his brothers, who stand in a line on the other side of the room, gaping, as Belle is handed the drink. She downs it, then throws her hands in the air. The woo she lets out is practically testing for an echo.

Her girls are that echo. They cheer her on. As she slut drops. As she spins in circles. As her dress fans out around her. As she climbs onto the bar. As she dances to the crowd of girls below her, bar staff laughing nervously.

And I’m there too, cheering her on. I leave Timothy, the bore, tutting, while I bop to the beat, shuffling my feet, badly but committed. It feels good – the vibrations of the bass pounding through me.

At last Belle grabs me away from the DJ booth – I was seeing how close I could stand to the speakers for the biggest vibrations – and drags me to the bar. Without caring who sees now, she grabs two shots and hands one to me, a glint in her eye, her cheeks plump with laughter, forehead glistening with sweat. I take note of the barman clocking the shot glass floating in the air, doing a double take, and then dropping clean behind the bar as Belle shouts, ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

We clink glasses. We drink. She winces, wipes her lips with the back of her hand, and takes my palms in hers.

‘Ready?’ she asks.

Sebastian Priest

A voice drifts out of a small portable speaker on the bedside table. A woman’s voice, breathy and soft, which sits close and feels intimate, the lyrics half-whispered but dreaming of love. Belle latches on to the voice. She spent an hour the previous evening making this playlist especially for tonight. A soundtrack full of love songs, to sing to. To shag to. She had hoped it would impress him.

She’d been more nervous than usual. Had spent two hours this afternoon bathing, shaving, tidying her flat. She’d plucked out her nipple hairs, taken time to curl her highlighted blonde hair, fresh from the salon that week, and stuffed her dirty washing to the bottom of her wardrobe. She had even put on a matching lace set. She smiled when she thought of him.

She’s below him now and she’s not thinking of how well the playlist is working. Instead, she can’t shake the creeping claustrophobia.

His hand was on her thigh, then her waist, then her breast. Then it wasn’t. She feels fingers at the side of her neck, a thumb pressed below her jaw. Words dissolve before they reach her mouth. She can’t feel her hands. They’re above her head, clasped in his other palm. The weight of him feels heavy.

She sinks into the mattress.

He pants.

Her mouth opens, then closes.

It’s difficult to swallow. She said yes to this, she reminds herself of that. It’s fine.

His eyes are shut, and she can’t look at him, can’t catch his eye, so she turns her head and focuses on the window. The flicker of the light through the trees outside casts everything in an amber hue. The streetlamp is amber. She hadn’t noticed that before. How long had it been that colour? She counts the shapes on the curtains.

One. Two. Three.

She tries to remember the words to the song but can’t. On the windowsill, her little cactus droops to one side. She’d been meaning to water it.

The song fades into the next. A husky, rough male voice.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Everything has gone still. Very still, except him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Belle

We land and Jake has immediately located the cheeseboard, despite technically being dead. He raises an eyebrow at me – cheeks full, clearly delighted with himself.

We’re wedged next to a fold-out dining table, balloons bobbing overhead in celebration of Racheal and Luke – the first of us to get engaged, which felt very grown-up and slightly alarming, especially after a couple of drinks.