Page 51 of The Ghost of Exes Past

In the centre of the room, Luke has his arm draped around Rachael’s shoulder, the pair of them glowing in that specific way newly engaged people glow. Like they’re lit from the inside by smugness … and love. Rachael’s laughing at something, a plastic wine glass tipped towards herself.

I remember being jealous that evening. Not of Rachael, specifically, but of the milestone ticked, the path visible ahead of her in a way it wasn’t ahead of me. I thought that by thirty I’d have been happily married or, at the very least, engaged. Instead, I’d broken up with my gamer boyfriend and when my thirtieth arrived, it hadn’t felt significant or special – it was just like any other Tuesday, except with better wine.

The plans for my year had been less hurty, nerdy, and surviving, and more thirty, flirty, and thriving.

Next to the happy couple, a girl sways along to the music, empty glass in hand. She’s wearing a dress more suited to cocktail hour at the Ritz than a house party in Harringay, which the guy next to her doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too busy asking her if she’s back in the office yet or still working from home.

Next to Jake and me, a guy in a checked blue shirt and grey gilet is trying his absolute best to impress Rachael’s sister.

‘So, er, I’m quite into crypto. I’ve been exploring some DeFi stuff, but I might just ape into Solana while it’s hot. Or just stick it in Bitcoin and be boring …’

‘Oh wow,’ she says, tapping her foot, eyes doing a slow lap of the room in search of … literally anyone else.

‘Love a bit of networking.’ Jake nods next to me, a crumb of cheddar on his lip.

‘How do you know what networking is?’ Jake worked in a garage after finishing A-levels and never networked a day in his life, unless you count charming people into not noticing he slightly overcharged them for an MOT.

‘Films,’ Jake says, flicking another cube of crumbly cheese into his mouth.

The cheeseboard is one very typical for a house party of this type: a slightly sad, sweaty-looking brie, a jar of chutney that no one has opened, and a tub of hummus that’s almost finished, with a shard of a crisp poking out like a shark’s fin.

‘Right …’ I smile.

From where we’re wedged, we have a prime view straight into the kitchen. Someone is attempting to pour wine next to the counter, despite having approximately four inches of space. There’s a bin bag hanging from the drawer handle, already full; squashed beer cans that didn’t make it in are stacked next to it. I can also see that the bedroom door is ajar and spot a pile of coats laid on the bed. I wonder if that’s where my favourite denim jacket went.

I didn’t think it was possible to squeeze this many people into such a small room. It’s like the Central line during rush hour, sardine-style, except with booze and friends instead of sweaty armpits and morning breath. This was the year that lockdown lifted and you can feel it. Everyone’s slightly too loud, drunk earlier than they should be, and hugs are lasting just a beat too long. Someone in the corner howls with laughter like they’ve forgotten how to socialise at a normal volume.

I reach for a cube of cheese the way Jake did, but then put it back. My throat feels dry and I look around for a drink. Jake moves closer, our arms pressed together now. He’s stopped eating and is watching me avoid the room.

‘You don’t want to do this, do you? Find younger you,’ he says. Not a question.

I already have.

She’s perched on a windowsill, deep in conversation with Anna – Luke’s friend. I’d come straight from work, so I was dressed in all black, with my heels on. Sure, I wasn’t successful in the relationship department, but everything else was going well. I had a new job, a new flat – the first one I’d been able to rent entirely on my own. And after a year of lockdown and someone else’s constant presence, going home to silence felt like a gift. Having my very own bathroom made me feel like royalty. I was back on the apps but not seriously. And I didn’t need to be. Because I was fine.

I’d forgotten that. That I was fine.

She’s animated. She gestures with her hands, and her face is expressive as she talks to Anna. She’s confident, I can tell by the way her shoulders are back, how her head is raised, how she isn’t scoping out the room, comparing herself to others. She looks well.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t.’

I know what’s about to happen and who is about to snake their way into her life, but now I can’t look away. Not because of him, but because of her. She has four minutes left of just being a girl having a good time at a party, before her life re-arranges itself around one man, which she won’t even clock is happening. I’d like to keep her here for a little bit longer.

‘Well, that lipstick looks good on you,’ Jake says, his arm still pressed against mine.

I allow myself to look at her face properly. That colour. I’d forgotten I used to wear red. A proper bright orange-red. I mixed it myself: two lipsticks layered together until I created the exact shade I wanted. I used to do things like that: small deliberate acts of indulgence, just because I could. Because it felt like one step closer to my truer self. The lipstick made a statement. It made me feel bigger. Seen. I stopped wearing it shortly after.

My stomach lurches when I spot him.

Sebastian. Prowling the room. Working it like he owns it, which he absolutely does not. It’s Rachael and Luke’s rented two-bed in Harringay. There is a single overhead bulb and someone’s optimistically lit a Yankee candle.

He’s not unattractive, that’s the thing. All Morrissey-wannabe, big quiffy hair. Harsh angles – sharp jaw, sharp nose. The kind of face that charms well, but photographs badly. I can see it now, though, if I look hard enough. How there’s something slightly off in the set of his jaw. How it’s tense. The way his eyes move around the room before the rest of his face does. I couldn’t see it then. I’ve spent a long time wondering why I couldn’t see it then.

He’s already at the kitchen doorway, leaning into the frame with an arm raised, blocking the exit of one of Rachael’s school friends without it seeming like that’s what he’s doing. I understand now that he probably did mean to. She’s laughing in that way women laugh when they’re deciding whether to be rude or not. She decides. Makes her excuses. He watches her go without embarrassment. Like he’s already moved on before she has.

He refills his cup from a bottle on the table – not his bottle – and downs half of it standing up. His eyes are doing a sweep of the room. Patient. Methodical. He should have come with a red flag the size of a bedsheet waving behind him.

Rachael’s cousin is next. The girl who’d only just managed to escape the gilet-wearing city banker. He leans down to say something in her ear and she entertains it. For a bit. Before making her excuses to go to the bathroom. He starts to follow her … but then he stops.