Page 7 of One Summer

Shit.

Five

Blame

I can’t even blame Scotty for being pissed off. I’m no longer remotely enthusiastic about this work, which is mostly photocopying, with the odd bit of food and beverage ordering. I thought working at a publishing house would be rewarding, perhaps even, on occasion, slightly glamorous. But that has not been my experience. Most people are underpaid, overworked and stressed out of their heads. I’m not paid enough to give myself stress migraines. Even if I could make it all the way up to the giddy heights of Junior Editor, my starting ‘compensation package’ of eighteen thousand pounds a year would barely even cover the cost of my rent in a shared flat, utilities and my travel bills.

In an attempt to make ends meet, I’m substituting my income with credit cards and manuscript critiquing for an agency who take a hefty cut of the fee. Becoming a fully-fledged editor would give me even less free time to moonlight at my side hustles, not to mention my newfound interest in jewellery design. It’s no wonder Max didn’t tell me about the live stream collaboration – we’ve hardly been in the same room for weeks. We both return home from work late, me to my shared hovel with other underpaid underlings, and him to his luxury flat near Tower Bridge, and then I’m either taking a night shift marking up manuscripts, sketching designs for necklace settings or crashing out in bed, while he edits his videos and sends me the occasional cat meme on WhatsApp. He has a half-day in the office on Fridays, which is when he goes mudlarking. I couldn’t fit in mudlarking even if I wanted to. And, anyway, wading through sewage-soaked mud will never be my thing. If there’s treasure in the Thames, I will not be the person who finds it.

When it’s time to leave the office, I resolve to try to have a proper conversation with Max tonight. We’ll catch up with each other’s news – not that I have anything positive to report – and try to connect. It’s been ages since he stayed over at mine. Mostly because I hate having to tidy my room and field my housemates, but it occurs to me that he hasn’t been inviting me to his flat much, either. I know he’s been busy, but even so, we have an unspoken agreement that we will have sex once a fortnight, twice if the fortnight contains either of our birthdays or a bank holiday. It’s nice sex. Polite sex in a comfortable bed with appropriate music and his touch-lamp on the lowest setting. Romantic. No wild passion, as such, but a sedate and respectful joining of our physical bodies. Who cares if my mind is generally pinging around unsexy subjects at these moments?

Oh god. Even thinking about our love life to myself is embarrassing. It’s the sort of sex that missionaries would approve of. Literally. Because it is almost always missionary position except when Max has overdone it at the gym and his forearm muscles need a rest. Then he gets to lie back, while I go on top and try not to be distracted by his headboard, which is carved out of solid wood in an ornate pattern that would, I try not to notice, be perfect for handcuffs.

He definitely used to extend more frequent invitations. Maybe I’ve been a little bit relieved he’s required less of me, as I already feel stretched thin, but it’s surely not natural to stop spending the night with your boyfriend for what must be now over a month, and not even notice?

We ‘podcast and chill’ sometimes but that’s the extent of it. Perhaps I have taken him for granted. I’ve been a bit shit in general. He’s started listening to a therapy podcast that he says helps him fall asleep, but he’s also lobbed a few grenades at me about my emotional distance and ‘toxic passivity’, whatever that means. ‘Spiritually absent from the room’ is another one of his gems, which he typically brings up whenever I’m sitting on the sofa trying to reach the next level on the brain-training game I like to play on my phone.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him; it’s just that I have nothing to share. Nothing interesting whatsoever happens to me during my day, and after all those hours of peopling and fending off Scotty’s hostility, I’ve had enough talking. I just want to sit and stew in my own juices, because I’m too drained to move.

I hear his hints about washing off the grime of the day until I use his power shower, which is blissful, actually, its huge, square head pummelling me with hot water. I love that shower. And he always has good products. Elemis shower gel with the extra cooling effect and a face scrub that smells of cloves and leaves my skin feeling like silk.

I don’t generally notice the squalor of my shared house, but it’s hard not to make comparisons when I’m at Max’s flat. Max is a grownup with a place of his own and I’m living like a student who’s just left home and doesn’t know how to clean a toilet or work the washing machine yet.

Tonight, I think I’ll surprise him. I’ll take him a bottle of wine and some of his favourite posh crisps, and I’ll stop into a health store on the way and pick up their fanciest bottle of massage oil. I’ll give him my full attention. Massage all those poor, tired, mudlarking muscles and make him feel loved and appreciated. We aren’t supposed to be seeing each other tonight, as it’s his main video editing night, but he can make an exception once, to accept my apology.

Standing outside his door ninety minutes later, I feel weirdly nervous. My stomach has gone all squirmy. I haven’t felt this way in ages. Months. Years. Probably, to be completely honest, not since we first met. We’ve turned into a boring old married couple, and we’re not even engaged.

I use my key and let myself into the flat. I take off my Chelsea boots and change into the silk slippers that Max keeps here for me, because he doesn’t trust me not to step in dog shit and track it all across his lovely blond-wood floors.

Then I notice something that stops me in my tracks.

Six

Flicker

Weirdly, there is candlelight. Max hates candles. The flickering drives him mad, gives him a belting headache and stops him being able to edit his videos. He’s one of those people who likes to have a block of solid illumination around him when he’s working. Even in the evenings, he sits in the lounge with the big light on. It’s one of my least favourite things about him.

But now he’s working by the light of a single candle.

Except, he’s not working.

He is watching a movie in full surround sound. His subwoofer is booming with the sound of explosions. An action film? He can’t stand action films. He says they ‘stultify his intellect’ and all the gunshots wake up his cat, Nemo, who likes to sleep a solid twenty-two hours a day. There’s no sign of Nemo now, though. Perhaps he’s hiding from all the Hollywood gunfire and grenades.

I put my coat on his antique hat rack and walk into the main expanse of the living room, where I see him sitting on the sofa.

Sitting next to him is a woman who is leaning her head against his shoulder, and judging by the long, dark braids, she is Gothic Girl Greta.

Seven

Honey

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but my body already has. Icy dread is steadily building in the pit of my stomach, and I can feel my cheeks flaming with humiliation.

Max is here with another woman.

He doesn’t have his arm around her, but that’s only because their hands are interlinked. Max is holding another woman’s hand.

I can’t move. Tears are pricking behind my eyes, but I don’t want to cry. I won’t.

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