Page 24 of Better Left Unsent

And just a few moments ago, the perfect chance to talk to Chloe – or so I thought – presented itself. As Petra asked me to pop out and grab her a sandwich for lunch, and two freelancers helped themselves to water at the dispenser in the lobby, gossiping loudly (and purposely) about ‘the wedding cash Chloe’s lost, poor cow’, I’d seen Chloe herself, out of the window, heading for the tiny café a few buildings down, alone, stretching a hood over her neat, blonde head.

So, despite the summer rain, despite not having so much as a cardigan with me, let alone a jacket, I headed out in it, for my break.

But then it all sort of .?.?. went a bit wrong.

And now, I find myself outside that tiny café, in what is nowpouringrain, as lorries and cars thunder by, spraying the pavement with miniature surf-waves. Because Chloe is not alone.

When I pushed open the steamed-up, wooden-framed glass door of the café, Chloe wasright there, in the bustle, but sitting at a table and surrounded by her friends. Leona in IT (Chloe’s old colleague) and Samira in sales, and all three looked up at me, as I walked in, like I was a pigeon who’d managed to fly in through an open window and shit all over the salt shakers. I froze, rushed out a takeaway order for Petra to the busy, flustered man behind the counter, and told him I’d wait outside. And with what felt like a whole stadium’s worth of eyes on me, I scurried out.

And it is taking forever for the sandwich to appear; be brought out to me, here, in this downpour. So long that I’m starting to wonder whether they’ve forgotten me.I wouldn’t blame them. I’m standing as far from the café itself as possible without standing in the middle of the road, shivering and wet, heavy hammering drops of rain stinging my scalp. I look more like a dog in an abandoned and abused pet charity ad, than a woman waiting for her lunch.

Cars speed by behind me, tyres sizzling through the rain.

I watch the café door – steamed up, from all those full tables, from all the cooking, all the warmth. They’ll be out soon, Chloe and her friends, surely. Or maybe Chloe can see me out here. Maybe she’ll hold back, wait till I’ve gone, before she ventures out. I would do the same, if I were her. Because, God, she lookedsad.Pretty, because Chloe Katz justis, but also, sad. Like someone running on the last ten per cent of their battery.

That’s the face I need to remember. Whenever my relentless, stupid heart strikes up, starts thinking about Owen and bloody meant-to-bes, and our sleepy Sunday morning lie-ins, how happy my mum would be; howrelievedshe’d be I was doing something she could talk proudly about–that’s the face I’ll remember. Because I caused that face. And I know what it’s like, to walk around wearing that face, like a scar. To feel what she’s feeling. That awful, awful ache.

I fidget. I open and close my phone, which, of course, in Old Nokia fashion, is a quiet screen of nothingness. I check the time.Whereis Petra’s sandwich? If I didn’t love her so much and she wasn’t already having a bad ‘balls to the wall’ day, as she put it, I’d leave, let them keep the £5.95, return to work, make up a lie about broken toasters at the café, or something, use my wet-through blouse as proof I waited and waited for it. But I’ve ordered now, and I’ve already waited ten minutes—

Oh.Great.

Coming towards me down the street now, is a tirade of huge, royal blue, Flye TV branded umbrellas, and a mass of suited and stockinged legs marching beneath them, like a scene fromReservoir Dogs. A crowd with a lunch break in their sights. And although I pretend not to look, gazing down at my pointless, sleepy, soaking-wet phone, I spot Paul Foot, his wife, Martha, who always visits on Tuesdays, Ann-Christin, Fundraising Steve, and .?.?. Jack.

‘You watering yourself to grow a couple of inches?’ cackles Jolly Postman Paul, as they approach, and I laugh, make weird noises that sound a bit like ‘ha ha, something like that, yes, yes, that’s me!’ but my teeth are chattering a bit and raindrops are sliding down my face, onto my lips, like tears, so it just comes out like a load of waffle. Painfully, Ann-Christin and Fundraising Steve don’t acknowledge me.

The whole group continue walking, semi-circling around me on the pavement, like I’m a manhole they need to avoid, but Jack stops.

‘Catch you guys up,’ he says, and he moves to stand opposite me, holds the umbrella above us, casting us in a shadow. He’s wearing a slim-fitting dark, khaki green jacket, a crisp, white shirt and black tie visible in the slice of his open zip. And, whatever aftershave he’s wearing .?.?. he smells amazing. Something ripples in my tummy at the scent of him.

‘Ah. Thank you,’ I say, eyes lifting to the umbrella above our heads, and then to him. ‘I didn’t – bring a jacket.’

‘I can see that.’

‘I didn’t realise it was going to rain like this.’

‘Hm. UK for you,’ Jack replies, gruffly. ‘And what am I missing here?’ He reverse nods, a jut of his stubble-covered chin, towards the café.

‘Um .?.?.’

‘What are you .?.?. queueing for a table or something? Donny Osmond in town?’

I pause. ‘Donny Osmond?’

Jack laughs – a deep, throaty chuckle that transforms his serious face. ‘Just wondered if you were waiting for someone to emerge. Someone worth getting this soaked to the bone for?’

‘But .?.?.Donny Osmond?’

Jack gives a shrug, a lazy shoulder to one ear. ‘My nan would queue in a warzone for Donny Osmond. Rain? Child’s play.’

And that makes me laugh. As soaked, as cold, as hungry, as I am, it makes me genuinely giggle. ‘I’m afraid I’m not waiting for Donny today, no,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a .?.?. sandwich.’

‘Asandwich.?.?.’ he ponders, the corners of his eyes, crinkling a little.

‘Tuna. And it’s not even for me,’ I tell him, crossing my arms, rubbing a hand against my damp, chilly shoulder. I am so uncomfortably cold. ‘I forgot to order something for me. I just ordered Petra’s.’

‘And you’re waiting out here,’ he says, curiously, although it isn’t a question.

‘That I am, Jack,’ I say.

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