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“Ye-es.” Who is this guy accosting me on a London street as if he knows me?
“Well, well, what do you know?” Weaving drunkenly, he grins at his pals. “This woman,” he slurs. Then he peers at me again, gives an exaggerated double take, and waves his arms around, almost losing his balance. “Correction, this cold bitch was my girlfriend in Oxford. Three bloody boring years. Christ!”
Max’s hand tightens, threatening to crush my fingers. I stare at the unfamiliar figure, realization slowly dawning. “Kev?”
My emotions swing from incredulity to embarrassment to anger. Bile floods my mouth and I swallow it back down with a shudder. I haven’t seen this man for almost twenty years, but he had no problem weighing in on the accusations of plagiarism against me last winter.
As I step back, memories of Tina and her vendetta flood in. I always thought of myself as was an inoffensive, inconspicuous person, and yet there are at least two people with animosity so great that years later, they are still out to injure me.
Before I can say anything, he continues his taunt. “Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were still cowering in America after the hoo-ha last winter. But here you are, bold as brass, swanning around Mayfair.”
He swaggers closer and flicks a finger against Max’s lapel. “And who is this git?” He twists his lips into a grimace. “Paid escort?” He moves back and surveys us. “Or have you given up writing and plumped for being a rich man’s plaything?” His short laugh is unamused. “Nah. You have to being paying him. No one would pay you.”
Kev hasn’t aged well, but he’s still trying to make a youthful impression. His hair is shaved close on the sides, while the top stands up like a brush. His physique has morphed from muscular to paunchy. His light blue eyes, sunken and reddened from drink, squint in the bright shine from the street lamps. An Arsenal shirt strains across his belly, and he is wearing a beanie and scarf in the team colors.
Max still has his arm around me, and I feel his muscles bunch as he realizes who this jerk is. Releasing me, he shields me with his body while stepping forward, forcing Kev to retreat. I’d say he was up in Kev’s face, but he towers over the shorter man, fists tight at his sides. His eyes narrow. “Piss off, you mingy bastard.” He pushes Kev’s shoulder.
Drunken bravado gives Kev false courage. “Try to make me, you wanker,” he says, moving closer. The sneer on his face is a dare. Then he focuses on me and licks his lips. “Mutton dressed as lamb.”
Max stands his ground as I back off, struggling not to run away. Kev’s friends grab hold of Max and pull him away. Even though he struggles, he can’t break loose. But he’s still taunting my ex-lover. “Can’t face me on your own, wanker?”
Kev ignores him, laughing as I puddle down, my knees banging onto the sidewalk.
“Still hiding away, Cress? Afraid of your own shadow. Haven’t changed much in all this time, although you dress smart now. Like trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, though.”
His friends crack up as if this is the funniest thing ever. Max takes the opportunity to break away. “You all right, Cress?” he calls out as he grabs at Kev’s shirt.
Anger replaces fear. I manage to get back on my feet, my knees raw and stinging as I move. “Fine, Max,” I call out.
Dancing out of Max's reach, Kev yells, "I bet you’re still a rubbish screw. Don’t know how I put up with you all that time.” I gasp as if from a physical assault. Unbelievable that this is happening in a public place in a posh area of London. Where are all the people who should be milling around?
“You’ll be sorry that you ever ran into me, c—,” he starts, moving in my direction.
Before he can finish the taunt, Max reaches out a long arm and latches onto the back of Kev’s soccer jersey, then throws him on the sidewalk. Kev scrambles to his feet, fists clenched in a caricature of a boxer’s stance as he continues his taunts. “This ponce probably doesn’t even notice you lying rigid, like a corpse.”
That’s the last thing he says before Max punches him in the stomach. Kev goes down with a cry. His friends pull him up. Kev struggles as if he wants to go for Max, who curls his lip like he stepped in a pile of shit.
“He hit me. Call the cops,” Kev snarls as he backs away, rubbing his belly. Max moves forward and lands another hit to the solar plexus and Kev drops to the ground, groaning.
“Should have hit him in the jaw,” Max says. “Probably the only way to shut him up.”
Much as I hate violence, I can’t suppress a chuckle. Kev was always a bully. Most of his abuse was verbal. He never hit me, but he would grab my arm so tightly he left bruises. He pushed me when I walked in front of him, and occasionally knocked me down, always apologizing as if it was an accident. I enjoy seeing him swallow a taste of his own medicine.
Kev struggles to his feet, balls his fists and comes at Max again. This time, Max punches him in the face. Kev’s ensuing howl rends the air.
“He broke my bloody nose. Get the cops.” He shakes his fist from a safe distance as Max lets out a derisive laugh. “I’ll have you up for assault.” His breathing sounds choked.
I peek around Max and see blood gushing from Kev’s face.
A chorus of shouts come from his friends.
“Leave it, mate.”
“Not worth it.”
“Cops will side with the bint.”
His gang pulls him away. As they leave, Kev levels some parting shots. “Good luck, pal. You’ll find out what a cold, whiny bitch she is. Then again, a wanker like you probably deserves her.” His yells continue, fouling the air until they are out of my now blurry sight.
