Page 91 of Not in a Million Years

Then, one Thursday in August, I got a call from Daniel. It was right in the middle of what the newspapers call the silly season – everyone was on holiday, work was quiet, the City was almost deserted apart from a few bewildered-looking tourists wandering through the streets looking for St Paul’s Cathedral. So the pub where Daniel suggested we meet – which I guessed he’d chosen because it was near to my work, and I wouldn’t be able to use inconvenience as an excuse not to come – was quiet.

He was already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with a pint of Guinness and a glass of white wine in front of him. He stood up to greet me, but we didn’t hug each other as we might once have done.

‘Kate,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Not too bad. You know, busy. You look well.’ It was true – he was tanned and smiling, blonder streaks bleached in his hair, which didn’t appear to have seen a barber’s shop for several weeks.

‘I wish I could say the same about you,’ he told me bluntly, sitting back down and pushing the wine across the table to me.

‘I’ve not been sleeping well,’ I said defensively. ‘And I don’t want a drink.’

‘Have it or don’t,’ he said. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I took a sip of the wine. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

‘I wanted to see you. Because no one else has, not for ages. Abs and Matt say you keep making excuses, because you’re “snowed under with work”.’ His fingers sketched ironic quotes around the words. ‘In August.’

‘Well, I am. Half my team’s off on holiday and I’m having to pick up the slack.’

‘Instead of going on holiday yourself. Patch said he and Naomi invited you to go to Ibiza with them, but you’re “too busy”.’

‘So what if I’m busy? What’s it to you?’

‘Except it’s not because you’re too busy. It’s because you’re too scared to leave Andy alone. Isn’t it?’

I shook my head, taking another gulp of wine. All at once, I felt overcome with exhaustion. I wanted to have a massive, cathartic cry. I wanted to sleep for a week. I wanted to wake up alone in my apartment and not worry about anything or anyone except myself.

‘You look like shit, Kate. I’m sorry, but you do. You say you haven’t been sleeping and man, it shows. When was the last time you got out for a walk, or went to the gym?’

‘I walk to work every day.’ I felt a lump forming in my throat and my eyes stinging with the threat of tears. I must not cry.

‘Look,’ Daniel said, more gently, ‘I know you’re trying to do your best by Andy. But it isn’t working, is it?’

‘Andy’s fine. Isn’t it you that keeps saying he’s a grown man and he can make his own decisions?’

‘Sure, and he can. But that doesn’t mean he gets to make them on your dime, at the expense of your health. I’m worried about you, Kate. I know you think I’m public enemy number one right now, but I do actually care about you.’

‘And Andy?’

‘I care about him too. But I can’t help him.’

‘And you think you’re helping me?’

He picked up his glass and drained it. ‘I’m just giving you a bit of friendly advice. Get him to move out, before he breaks you.’

And that night, before the resolve Daniel’s words had given me could fade away, I did just that. It was awful. Andy cried and pleaded, but I stood firm. I said we would always be friends, but not lovers ever again. I said I’d always care about him, but he couldn’t stay with me any longer. I gave him until the end of the weekend to find somewhere else to stay, and evidently he did, because on Sunday he packed his things, said goodbye and left.

I expected to feel bereft, weighed down with guilt. But I felt only overwhelming relief.

Thirty-Six

Now

I’d been to Andy’s flat in Manchester once before, about five years ago. Then, like today, I’d turned up unannounced – Andy wasn’t the only one who could choose to just rock up, rather than calling or texting like a normal person. Then, I’d had a pretty good idea what I was going to find, and my suspicions had been confirmed as soon as he opened the door. He’d been in as bad a state as I’d ever seen him: pale, gaunt, trembling, the smell of unwashed clothes and unwashed body hitting me like a blow to the face.

When he’d seen me, his face had broken into a delighted smile, then fallen again as he’d taken in my look of horror at what I could see – not just him but the flat beyond, dusty and almost empty, only a bare mattress on the mezzanine level where he slept. He’d invited me in and offered me coffee, but there was no coffee, and the fridge was empty apart from a bottle of vodka with only an inch or so in the bottom.

I’d stayed for a few days, doing what I could to clean and stock the kitchen and trying to get Andy to eat. But I’d known, even while I was lugging a bundle of his clothes to the laundromat or pushing a trolley round Tesco or scraping mould off the grouting in the shower, that I was wasting my time.

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