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Something twists inside me at her description. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
She places her hand on mine for a moment and squeezes before releasing it. “It wasn’t all you,” she confirms.
“You’ve had, what, three serious relationships? You’re so strong, Elizabeth. So resilient. They can’t all have broken your heart?”
She looks around. Ian has come back into the bar, and he’s currently collecting more glasses. He’ll stay until I go home unless I say otherwise.
“Ian,” I call out, and he looks around. “Call it a night and finish off tomorrow.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Thanks for all your hard work.”
“You’re welcome.” He grabs his jacket, then selects a whisky bottle from the row. He brings it over and puts it on the table, grins, then heads out the door. Now it’s just me and Elizabeth.
She takes off her shoes and rests her bare feet on the edge of the chair, knees bent. I look down at her toes as she wiggles them. They also have a French polish.
“Jesus.” I close my eyes for a moment.
When I open them again, she’s giving me a wry look. “Want me to put my shoes back on?”
“Definitely not. As long as you don’t mind wiping the drool from my chin.”
She laughs and leans back against the wall. I unscrew the bottle and splash a little whisky in our glasses. She sighs.
“Come on,” I say. “Spill the beans.” Even though I’ve seen her most days over the past ten years, I know very little about her love life. She’s a private person, and as far as I know, she hasn’t told any of our friends about why her relationships ended.
“Let’s see,” she says. She blinks slowly. She’s been drinking all evening, and she must be pretty tipsy to open up like this. “Tim cheated on me. Rich had issues in the bedroom. And Steve…” She hesitates, then says, “Steve hit me. So yeah. Not a great track record.”
I stare at her. I don’t know where to start.
Actually, yes I do. “He hit you?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“In the living room.”
“Where on your body, Elizabeth?”
“Ah, across the face.”
“Holy fucking shit, that motherfucker.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. He only did it once. I pushed him through a plate-glass window for it, and they spent a fortnight picking glass out of his hair.”
She wants me to laugh, because that’s what we do—we turn our personal disasters into comedy moments—but I’m not laughing. The thought of a man raising his fist to Elizabeth—to any woman—makes me see scarlet.
“Don’t burst a blood vessel,” she says. “But maybe you can see why I ended that one.”
I reel off another string of swear words, down the whisky in one, and pour myself another shot. She does the same, coughs, then gestures for me to refill hers.
I’m quiet for a moment as I battle my fury. I wish she’d told me at the time. I’d have shoved the guy’s teeth so far down his throat he’d be shitting molars for a fortnight. But Elizabeth’s not the kind of girl who appreciates displays of testosterone, so I keep it under, for now.
“And Tim cheated on you?” I say when I finally feel I can speak.
“Yeah. I came home one night and found him in bed with Patsy Landingham. Do you remember her?”
