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Chapter 22
Saturday 20th February
Megan has gone away for the weekend, on some sort of advanced yoga teacher training course down in Devon, something which, if I’m honest, is a bit of a relief. I’ve felt a bit awkward around her since the conversation about her potentially moving in, and the prospect of spending Saturday evening here at home with just Pete is infinitely more appealing than playing gooseberry again.
We both have a busy day, Pete heading into the office to finish off some urgent work for a client, and me trying to catch up on my washing and ironing and other chores I’ve been badly neglecting recently. But at seven o’clock, we finally crash in the upstairs lounge.
‘Can you be bothered to cook dinner?’ I ask Pete, poking his thigh with a bare toe. He’s sprawled at one end of the sofa, me at the other.
He turns and squints at me.
‘Definitely not. Curry?’ he says.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, and grin at him.
We order an Indian and Pete goes down to the kitchen to get us a drink while we wait for the food, spending several minutes clanking bottles in and out of the wine cupboard before choosing a nice bottle of Rioja. The restaurant is busy and running behind on deliveries, and the curry is late in arriving; it’s nearly nine by the time we’re spooning it onto our plates, and by then we’ve finished the first bottle of wine and we’re halfway down a second. I’m feeling decidedly tipsy, and even though we’re having a lovely, chilled-out evening, my thoughts keep floating off in other directions: Topaz Casino, Stella Clayforth, and poor dead Jane Holland are still uppermost in my mind. Suddenly, I can’t help myself. Ihaveto ask Pete again about his visit to the Topaz back in January. As we finally put our empty plates aside – the chicken madras with Bombay aloo and tarka dhal wasdelicious– and settle back on opposite ends of the sofa, my left foot resting against his knee, I say it.
‘It’s such a weird coincidence, isn’t it? That you were at the Topaz Casino so recently. Stella told me that Jane was really hands-on, never out of the place really. You could easily have seen her that night, you know. Maybe youdidspeak to her …’
‘And maybe I didn’t. Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe she was at the Coventry casino that night, or maybe she just took a night off,’ he says, and although his voice is steady, I know him well enough to detect the hint of impatience in his tone. ‘And even if I did speak to her, so what? What difference does it make, Mary? Bloody hell. Can we change the subject now?’
‘Er, sure. Sorry,’ I say, and he looks at me for a few seconds, a curious expression on his face, then swings his legs off the sofa and stands up.
‘You need to think about something else for a few hours,’ he says. ‘Stop dwelling on it all. I’m going to top us up. Here, hand over your glass.’
‘OK. Thanks,’ I say, and hold out my empty wine glass, and he takes it and leaves the room, leaving me feeling strangely uneasy.
Was that a weird reaction to an innocent observation?I think.Or am I just thinking that because I’m ever so slightly pissed?
When he comes back a minute later, he’s his usual cheery self, and I try to dispel my sense of disquiet. Pete’s right. His visit to the casino has no relevance at all, and Idoneed to stop thinking about it.
And so we drink more wine and talk about other things. Neither of us mentions Megan; instead, we chat about music, and about silly things that happened at work this past week, and about whether we should buy a new barbecue for the back garden ahead of the summer. That, of course, makes me start to wonder yet again if I’ll actually even behereby the time summer comes around, if I might in fact (despite the continued plotting I’ve been doing about my possible way out of this), be dead by then. I’ve told myself repeatedly,daily, that ofcourseI’m not really going to die on the 1st of April, that it’s all going to be fine, but every now and again it still hits me like a punch to the stomach. And now, embarrassingly – and I’m sure mainly thanks to the frankly excessive quantity of wine I’ve glugged – the prospect of having only weeks to live suddenly seems utterly overwhelming.
‘Oh shit.Shit, Pete. What’s the point in buying a new barbecue? What’s the point in buying a newanything?’ I slur, and I burst into tears. And once I start, I seem to find it impossible to stop. ‘This poor guy called David, whoever he is, only hasoneweek to live now, and he doesn’t even know,’ I sob. ‘I mean, I’m sure the police in Cardiff are trying their best – all the police forces are. But it’s impossible, isn’t it? And then … then it’s my turn. And I don’t want to die, Pete. I really don’t. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do …’
I bury my face in my hands and bawl. I’m standing up now, and I start pacing up and down the lounge, crying loudly and feeling a growing sense of panic. As I reach the far wall for the second time and stop, tears beginning to seep through my fingers and drip down my arms, I hear Pete say, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Come here.’
Moments later I feel his hands gently peeling mine away from my face and placing them firmly on his waist. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close and, eyes closed, I rest my head on his shoulder, my rapid breathing gradually slowing, my heart rate settling, as he strokes my back and whispers in my ear, his lips brushing my skin.
‘It’s going to be OK. You know that, don’t you? It’s all going to be OK. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you, Mary Ellis. I’m not going to let it, all right? Everything’s going to be fine.’
I gulp, and lift my head so our cheeks are touching, and we stand there in silence for another few seconds, his hands still gently running up and down my back. He smells so good, I suddenly realise, a seductive scent of musk mixed with something else –bergamot, maybe? A hint of vanilla?I can’t help it – I nuzzle my nose into the soft skin of his collarbone, and hear him take a short, surprised breath.
‘You smell delicious,’ I murmur. ‘Sorry. I just needed to sniff it properly. What aftershave is this?’
‘I … I can’t remember,’ he says softly, and then we both move our heads at the same time, and bump noses, and for one, two, three electrifying seconds our mouths are just centimetres apart, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. And then, simultaneously, we both release our grip on each other and step backwards, moving apart again, and we both laugh a little awkwardly and agree it’s time to go to bed, and we head off to our respective rooms and, well, that’s that.
I pull my clothes off and pass out almost immediately, but wake in the early hours, my mouth feeling like someone’s poured sand into it and my head pounding. I drag myself out of bed to get water and paracetemol, then crawl back under the duvet and lie awake for a long time, thinking about those few moments with Pete which, despite knowing I have the mother of all hangovers brewing, are crystal clear in my memory.
I don’t fancy Pete, I don’t,I tell myself repeatedly.I never have. Why would I start now?
And yet, for just a few heady, heart-stopping moments, did we almost kiss? I think about that, about our lips meeting, about his tongue slipping into my mouth, for the very first time, and what that might feel like. And, even though I give myself a stern talking to, telling myself that Pete’s my best friend, that it was just the booze and the fact that I was so upset that led to us standing in our living room wrapped around each other, I’m not sure I’m even convincing myself. If he had kissed me, would I have responded? Would I have kissed him back? Or would I have laughed, and pushed him away? It’s a question I can’t answer. Don’twantto answer.
I have enough problems right now, and getting involved in a messy love triangle with my best mate and his girlfriend is not on the cards, I decide, and I roll over and fall back into a dreamless sleep.
