Page 66 of The Ghost of Exes Past

The realisation arrives fully formed, like it’s been there deep inside me all evening, just waiting for me to be still enough to reach it. I know what kind of person this makes me: the kind of person who walks away from someone this good for a ghost. But he’s a ghost who hasn’t seen me for ten years and still knows me better than I know myself. Who loves me despite my fuck-ups. Who was my first love.

But I can’t be with Jake. Jake is dead. And Timothy is here, now crouched before me, hands in mine, offering me a life most people would be grateful for. So I tell him yes.

‘I want to get married tomorrow.’

The warmth of Timothy’s breath hits me as he exhales. He reaches forward and kisses my forehead. ‘I love you, Belle. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.’

I sit still as he squeezes my hand before walking out. He looks back just once then closes the door gently behind him, as I sink deeper into the sofa.

The room is quiet. Too quiet, without Jake.

I stand to walk towards the bathroom, ready for our last trip of the evening, and as I do so, my eyes land on my wedding dress once more. My veil is almost trailing the floor. And then it hits me – I didn’t say his name. I replay it in my head: I want to get married tomorrow.

I didn’t say, ‘I want to marry you tomorrow, Timothy.’

I hear the bathroom door creaking open, the fan whizzing, and I turn to watch as Jake steps into the room again, his hands outstretched. A blank look on his face.

‘Are you ready? Our last one.’

This is good. I need this. I need to remember why I fell in love with Timothy in the first place.

‘I’m ready.’ I nod, reaching towards him.

Timothy Small

He’s given her the full tour of his place – the restaurant. The pantry.

The foreplay had started at the bar, where he’d lifted her onto the counter, pushed her legs wide as he slid in between, and kissed her. Her hands in his hair, his hands around her waist. She had leaned back and gripped the edge of the counter as he nibbled her neck.

They’d had to stop before they got carried away. Not here, not yet.

Then to the back of the restaurant, to show off the wine cellar. It was a small, dark room with a glass window and door. He’d pointed out the vintage, the Château Margaux, described its silky, refinement, its blackcurrant finish. He’d been steady all evening, his hands sure and his voice unhurried. But in the cellar, when she’d reached past him to touch the label of the bottle, his exhale had been just slightly too slow and deep. It was a tight space, but room enough for him to push her back to the wall and kiss her passionately, wine bottles rattling, whispered words echoing in the dark.

But not here, not yet.

He wanted to take his time and show her his everything; he needed more space.

And then through to the kitchen, where he’d pointed out the state-of-the-art equipment, the water baths, the Japanese chef knives. Belle wasn’t focusing on any of that. His hands entranced her, the way his fingers lingered across stainless steel surfaces. How she couldn’t tell whether the heat was residual from the end of service or radiating from her. She’d watched, silent, as he pushed aside a crate of vegetables, making space for her in a place that was normally just his. Just to seduce her.

He’d placed her with ease on a cold metal table, opened the top buttons of his shirt while she watched on, a fire behind her eyes. He’d reached between her legs and she’d leaned into him, gasping for more in his ear as he teased.

And now she watches the hard bulge in his pants grow as she unbuckles her jeans and shimmies them down to her ankles. He kneels in front of her, slowly sliding her shoes from her feet, then pulls her trousers off, placing them neatly to the side. He plants small kisses up her legs, to her knees and then inside her thigh, before standing up in front of her.

She takes delight in watching his dick harden underneath his trousers until she can tell it’s bursting at his waistband to escape. Small by name, but not by nature, she thinks to herself, biting her lips as she pulls him closer by the hips.

He unbuckles his trousers, and they fall to the floor as he pushes himself into her. Belle looks at him and he looks back. There’s a stillness as they hold each other there. She can feel her legs shaking then as he slides in and out, slowly. The whole of him consuming her. She can’t take it anymore, him standing there, foreheads pressed against each other, her arms around his neck, the cold steel under her arse. There’s an urgency to them now, their breath speeding up as he quickens his pace, Belle leaning back on her elbows, watching as he fucks her.

Afterwards, he kisses her, fingers tangled up in her locks, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He pulls his trousers up, disappears, and comes back with a tissue, a bottle of wine, and two glasses.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Jake

Blimey. So this is what a fancy restaurant looks like.

The best meal – or, rather, the most memorable meal – I ever had with Belle was a box of chicken nuggets from the local high street at one in the morning. We’d been debating something, I can’t remember what, but when we walked past a chicken shop she announced she was starving, like the debate hadn’t happened at all.

We ate them standing up outside, the box of nugs balanced on a windowsill. She had dripped barbecue sauce on her top and didn’t even care. For some reason, the ultra-processed battered chicken-and-God-knows-what had tasted out of this world. Maybe it was because we were drunk, or maybe because they were piping hot and crunchy and it was cold outside. Or maybe it was just because they were shared with her.