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“It was...” I screw up my face, trying to hit on the right adjective. “Interesting.”
“Uh oh. Interesting good, or interesting bad?”
I get down on my mat and start stretching. My muscles are tense and resistant. “Well, on the plus side my boss is hot as hell.”
Ellie turns onto her side, balancing on her forearm. “Ooh. Best not tell Luke.”
“I wasn't intending to. Anyway, he might be good looking but he's also a miserable arsehole. And I might have shouted at him in the lift.” My cheeks pink up at the memory.
Ellie tries to stifle a laugh. She fails miserably. “You did what?”
We spend the rest of the session analysing my day as we move from pose to pose. By the time we get to the cool down, the conversation is exhausted, and Ellie decides to change the subject.
“So what's going on with you and Luke?” she asks. “Sophie said something about a picture.” Sophie is our other best friend. The three of us met on our first day at senior school. She's also engaged to Luke's best friend, which makes everything so much more awkward.
“It's over.” The instructor dims the lights as we go into Savasana, lying on our backs with our arms and legs stretched out. The ache in my back has disappeared, and I let my eyes close as the instructor tells us to slowly inhale.
“What do you mean it's over?” Ellie whispers. “It can't be over. Not you and Luke. You’re meant for each other.”
That's the problem with childhood sweethearts. You grow up together and create a network of shared friends. When things go wrong it breaks everybody’s hearts.
“I've had enough.”
The woman next to me tuts and I shut up quickly. But Ellie won't let it go.
“But you'll work it out. You two always do. It's not as if you haven't split up before.”
I breathe in deeply, feeling the air pull through my nostrils and down my throat. My chest inflates, but the sense of calm I'm seeking doesn't materialise. Instead I start to feel awkward and panicky.
“Not this time,” I say. Inside I'm wondering if my words are true. If I'm strong enough to stand up for myself. It's not just Luke I'm rejecting but a whole way of life. Things will never be the same again.
That's what I want, isn't it? To get a degree, get a good job and get the hell out of here? I repeat my plan in my head like a reassuring mantra. It isn't working. Ellie is right, we've been here before. I've ended things only to take Luke back, over and over again. No wonder she can't believe it's finished. No wonder Luke won't believe me when I tell him we're through. History has taught us all that when it comes to Luke Sayer I'm a complete and total pushover.
My thoughts flicker to Callum Ferguson, and the way I stood up to him when he goaded me this morning. Despite his foreboding demeanour, and the fact he’s my boss, somehow Callum made me feel brave enough to stand up for myself. It was a good feeling, not taking any shit from him. Empowering. Maybe if I can be that girl when I'm in the office, it might spill out into my relationships, too.
By the time we roll up our mats and guzzle our water, my equanimity is restored. This time when Ellie asks me if there's any chance for me and Luke, my voice is as firm as my resolve.
“There's not a cat's chance in hell I'll ever take him back.”
4
By the time I make it home the sun is setting, casting the usually grey streets with a peach and orange glow. I'm listening to music through my ear buds, my bag slung loosely over my shoulder, and my mind a thousand miles away. Maybe that's why I don't notice the man at first. We’re almost face to face by the time I realise he's by my front door, and I stop suddenly in front of him as his eyes look into mine.
I watch as his mouth takes on the shape of his words.
“I'm sorry, I can’t hear you.” I pull the headphones from my ears. The lead dangles down from my hoodie.
He says nothing, but carries on looking at me. The vividness of his eyes unnerves me. He looks old, maybe in his early fifties with dark skin pocked with acne scars. His nose twists to the left as if it's been broken and set badly. There's a white line that leads from his ear to his jaw, that looks suspiciously like a healed knife wound.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise up.
“I'm looking for Tina Cartwright.”
That gets my attention. This isn't any old weird guy hanging around outside our house. This is a weirdo with an agenda, and it has my mum's name written all over it.
“Are you?” I counter question for question, trying to think the situation through. “Why?”
I'd like to say this is the first time a strange guy’s been looking for my mum, but that would be a bald-faced lie. One of my earliest memories is hiding behind the sofa with my mum while a bailiff was banging at the door, calling out her name. She had a bag of toffees in her hand and fed me them to me slowly in an attempt to keep my mouth shut.
