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“Sorry, babe,” he says. He starts to introduce me to his friends but I just give a quick wave and bring my mouth close to his ear, so he has to bend down to listen. “Just going to the bathroom,” I whisper, holding his phone, in my case, so that his face faces the screen.
“Okay sure,” he says. I weave my way between tables in the direction of the bathrooms, my thumb swiping up the screen before it has a chance to lock itself again.
I shut myself in a cubicle and sit on the toilet lid. My hand is trembling, the phone is still unlocked. I should check the message now before the phone locks itself again, but for some reason I can’t, and my shaking finger is poised above the icon. Maybe I misread the name. Maybe it’s a different Summer. Maybe I am making a big mistake, and if I go back right now before he realizes the phone sitting in front of him is not his, maybe I can stop this insanity before it takes off like a runaway train.
But I have to know, and I click on the icon.
There is one unread text at the top of the list. The avatar is the default white S on gray background, but the sender name is Summer. I don’t even have to open it to read the message, it’s so short it shows up in the summary.
I miss you. Come over later? xxx
The shock takes the air out of me and I try to breathe, but nothing goes in and I feel like I’m drowning, until like a swimmer breaking through the surface, my lungs take over and I draw a great gulp of air, my heart hammering. Someone flushes a toilet, a door shuts abruptly. I open the message but there’s nothing else. No other message from her, not a single read one, which tells me that he deletes them as soon as he reads them. I press the message to select it, click on the trash icon and flick the app closed. Then I press my fingers against my eyes until shards of pain erupt behind them.
I miss you. Come over later? xxx
I think about the afternoon we had at the gallery, Summer and I. How we squealed when we read the review.It’s an honor to be a part of the journey!she’d said. And the other day, fifty times,Are we okay?She wanted to know. And me, like a moron, I said, Yes! Yes! Of course! We’re fine! I even apologized to her for dragging her into my mess. I scream a silent scream and pull at my hair.
I picture myself walking back into the restaurant, hurling the phone at his face,how could you?I can see the scene play out like a movie, guests staring with wide eyes, forks frozen halfway to their mouths, waiters obsequious but insistent,You have to leave now, Ma’am.
But I also see with as much clarity how that particular movie would end. He would break off our relationship. He’s been on the verge of doing that, I see that now. And right now, I would leave. But I know in my heart that Charlie is miserable and confused. I can feel it in every fiber of my being. I can’t leave her, not like this. That’s all I know.
At the vanity I put water on a paper towel and clean the makeup under my eyes. The paper is too thick, too harsh and chafes my skin. My heart is thumping with panic now. I have to get out of here, I have to get back to the table before Jack realizes I’ve swapped our phones. A woman walks in and goes straight to the mirror, pulls out a tube of lipstick. Our eyes meet and she frowns. “You okay?”
“Yes, thanks,” I say. I throw the crumpled paper towel in the trash, stare one last time at my reflection and run shaking fingers through my hair, then give her a weak smile and walk out.
My legs are wobbly as I make my way back to our table. Jack is sitting down again, studying the wine list. I sit opposite, clock his phone—my phone—where I left it, the leather flap closed. “Have we gone through a bottle already?” I ask, although there’s some wine left in my glass and I gulp it down.
“No,” he says, “Just waiting for you. What did you do to your finger?”
I put the glass down and look at my hand. The tip of my index finger is bleeding, where I tore off a bit of nail. I stare at it, surprised that it doesn’t hurt.
“I caught it in the tap, in the bathroom,” I say, wrapping a corner of my napkin around the tip of my finger. When I unroll it again there’s a red stain in the linen, like an ink blot. Jack’s mouth curls with distaste.
The waiter takes this as his cue and appears to ask if everything is okay. We’ve barely touched our starters. Satisfied that I’m no longer bleeding, I take another slug of wine while Jack says something I don’t hear. The waiter nods, takes our plates away.
“Those guys, back there,” he says. Then he tells me how he worked with them on a big contract when he still had his company, and I get where this is going. Something about work they can throw his way, they’re working on a big project, they were very interested to hear about his consultancy work. What consultancy work, I almost ask, or I would have if I’d been focused on this conversation, but I’m not really listening. My mind is back in the cubicle, staring at the screen in my hand. It’s so vivid I can still feel the weight of the phone in my palm, the weight of wet cement in the pit of my stomach, the tears in my throat as I held back a sob.
“So anyway, sorry I took a while,” he says now.
“That’s okay.” I try to smile but my face feels like it belongs to someone else. I am dying. I am wracking my brain for an explanation for when the inevitable happens: a call, a text, Jack picks up his phone and sees the photo of a grinning Charlie with her small-brimmed summer hat and red cheeks filling up the lock screen, and he’ll know.That’s Laura’s phone. Why is Laura’s phone in my phone case?
For a moment neither of us speak, I take another sip of wine, Jack gazes around the room, our waiter brings steaming plates of food which I think is for us, but then he stops at another table.
Jack pushes his chair back. “My turn. I’ll be right back.”
I look up sharply. He reaches for his phone but I slam my hand on his so fast he gives a shocked little gasp.
“Don’t take your phone, Jack. Come on. What are you going to do, make calls from the urinal?”
I bet he would, too, I bet he’d call her. He gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just a reflex. You’re right.”
Am I?
The moment he has his back turned, I pull both phones on my lap and swap them back into their respective cases. This time it takes no time at all although it makes my fingertip pearl with blood again. I put Jack’s phone back on the table and fish around my bag for a Band-Aid, wondering why I didn’t think of it before. I always carry Band-Aids in my bag. It’s what you do when you have small children.
“You know what? Don’t worry about the wedding,” I say when he returns. The waiter sets down our mains. “We have all the time in the world. I’ll cancel everything first thing in the morning, and we can make new plans when the time is right.”
His body deflates and his whole face softens. “Thanks,” he says. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “It’s just for a few weeks, that’s all.”
