Page 85 of Not in a Million Years

Thirty-Two

Three days later, at four in the morning, I found myself in my kitchen alone, grimly rubbing butter into flour to make the base of a raspberry crumble traybake, listening to the muffled sound of Daniel and me simulating sex through my earplugs.

Perhaps the sensible thing would have been to deactivate the timer, but then everything – the hilarious, bizarrely erotic recording session in his workshop, the drilling into my bedroom wall, even the shattering row – would have been for nothing. The Airbnb guests, a new hen party who’d arrived the previous afternoon, had got back from whatever bar or club they’d spent the evening in at about two, and the music had started immediately, putting paid to any chance I had of sleeping.

Not that I’d managed to sleep much anyway – I’d spent the earlier part of the night the same way I’d spent the previous nights: lying in bed, my mind roiling with memories of what Daniel had said to me, about how Andy had behaved towards me, about my own mixed-up emotions – about who was right and what on earth I would do next.

Occasionally, my brain had given me a break from all that and allowed me to worry about my new work contract, beginning in just two days, and how hopelessly unprepared I was to put my professional A game on and do my job properly.

So it had been with a kind of perverse pleasure, once the last clash of bottles, blare of music and shriek of laughter from next door had died away, to get up, come into the kitchen and let the staged, pre-recorded shagathon commence.

The only problem was, I couldn’t have anticipated how it would make me feel. Each moan, gasp and exclamation of put-on desire reminded me of the real thing. Not just sitting opposite Daniel in his workshop fighting back giggles as our eyes locked, but the real thing – that night (how could it only have been one night?) in Alsaya, when sex with him had felt so inevitable, so natural, so fricking amazing.

There was no hope now of it ever happening again. I’d burned my bridges. If things had been different, perhaps I could have told him about Andy and me in a way that would have been easier for him to accept. It only happened a few times. He wanted to know what it was like being with a woman. It was just one of those things that friends do.

But it hadn’t been. At the time, it had meant so much more to me. I’d colluded in the deception, the dishonesty, rather than telling our friends, because that was what Andy had wanted.

I recalled Daniel’s words – not his, obviously; presumably they’d been quoted to him by Andy on one of his evangelical post-NA-meeting highs – ‘We’re only as sick as our secrets.’ I didn’t know the context of the saying, but I understood instinctively what it meant.

I’d allowed the secret Andy and I had kept to influence so much of my life. I hadn’t had a real relationship in years because of the not-real one I’d had with him. I’d lied to my friends – not just by omission but properly, when I’d cancelled plans at the last minute because Andy wanted to see me. And now, I’d scuppered whatever tiny chance there might have been of salvaging something with Daniel – a friendship, or the something-more I realised I’d been dreaming of – from the mess we’d found ourselves in.

I pressed biscuit dough into the base of a baking tin, added raspberry jam and a layer of almond topping, then sprinkled crumble over it all and slid the tin into the oven. It was Saturday; Mona’s group didn’t meet on weekends and there was no way I was going to sit in my flat alone, listening to myself have fake orgasms and stuffing my face with Bakewell slices.

I needed my friends.

I opened the Girlfriends’ Club WhatsApp group on my phone, hoping that my recollection of Abbie’s holiday plans was correct.

Kate: Morning all. Anyone up? How’s everyone’s Saturday looking?

Naomi: Groundhog Day here. Toby and Meredith were tag-teaming all night, with one bellowing at me while the other slept. Patch has gone to the gym but when he gets back I’m handing over the kids and going the fuck to bed.

There was no response from Rowan – I didn’t expect there to be. I imagined her curled up against Alex’s back, sleeping the blissful sleep of the loved-up, probably weighed down by Alex’s giant black cat. Thinking of Balthazar reminded me painfully of Daniel, and how he’d fed treats and most of our dinner to the cats in Alsaya.

Abbie: We just landed at Gatwick. It was a flying visit but Italy was incredible. I’ve eaten my body weight in pasta and gelato and I feel so relaxed I’m practically horizontal. Healthy eating plan starts today.

Kate: Any chance you’re free later, Abs? I’ve made Bakewell slices.

Abbie: Scratch that, healthy eating plan starts tomorrow. Want to come over at about ten? We should be unpacked by then, and Matt’s going to pick Shrimp up from the cattery.

Kate: See you then. You’re a lifesaver.

While I waited for the oven timer to beep, the sex recording came to an end at last. I flicked through to the Airbnb app, where I had next-door’s listing waiting on screen, and was gratified to see a new review.

Great place, shame about the porn stars next door.

I allowed myself a small, triumphant fist-pump. It was early days, but Daniel’s plan seemed to be working.

Just after ten, I arrived at Abbie’s. The sun had come out, and I walked from the Tube station carrying my Tupperware box of cake and a bottle of wine (because, after all, it was after midday somewhere in the world) feeling more light-hearted than I had all morning, although with a slightly dreamlike feeling brought on by lack of sleep, as if the whole world had gone kind of blurry and shimmery around the edges.

Abbie opened the door seconds after my knock and ushered me in. The house was chaos – a load of washing hanging damply on the airer, open suitcases on the floor, the washing machine going full blast and a dirty pan in the stove that looked like it had been used for bacon and eggs. But I couldn’t have cared less and nor could she – over the years, we’d been exposed to so much messiness in each other’s lives that a messy, post-holiday house was neither here nor there.

‘You brought wine, you angel!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just wondering if it was too early for a sneaky G&T. I got used to having Aperol Spritz with breakfast on holiday.’

So we settled ourselves on the sofa, the open bottle and box of cake in front of us, and Abbie filled me in on the details of their trip abroad – the food, the weather, the handsome waiters.

‘So what did I miss while we were away?’ she asked at last.

‘Oh God.’ I buried my head in my hands. ‘I’ve had a falling-out with Daniel. Another one.’

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