Page 63 of The Fall-Out

I spent the rest of that day wallowing in misery. Part of me longed for Patch – to speak to him, find out how he was, get reassurance from him that what we’d done wasn’t that bad, it would never happen again and no one would ever find out. Part of me wanted to confess to Zara, to Rowan or to everyone en masse, and receive some kind of absolution – but I was too ashamed to do that. And anyway, I knew it would do no good – what had happened had happened; telling anyone would only help assuage my conscience while hurting Zara terribly. So I kept quiet, clinging to the knowledge that eventually the pain would ease and perhaps, with time, I’d be able to see Patch as just a friend again.

For a couple of days, I heard nothing from him. I knew it was for the best, but the pain was awful. I couldn’t concentrate at work; every time my phone buzzed I grabbed it with wild hope that it might be him, immediately turning to horror when I realised it could just as easily be Zara. I couldn’t sleep at night. I could barely eat.

Tortured with guilt, I thought again about confessing – to Rowan, to Zara, to someone. Then, on Tuesday, I received a text from him. When I saw his name on my screen, my heart leaped and then plummeted again. She’s found out. He blames me. Everyone will hate me.

But the message said only:

PATRICK HAMILTON:

I broke up with Zee. You don’t need to worry. Xxx

Naomi:

What?

I texted back, my fingers fumbling on the keypad.

Naomi:

When?

PATRICK HAMILTON:

It doesn’t matter. It’s been over for a long time. I haven’t seen her in about six weeks and it wasn’t working long before that.

It’s been over for a long time – what did that even mean? That kissing him had been okay? That the way I felt about him was okay? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know.

Naomi:

I’m sorry

Is she all right? Are you?

PATRICK HAMILTON:

Honestly? I’ve never been better. I’d love to see you. I’m back in London in a couple of weeks.

My heart went, Yesyesyesyes! But my head said, No way, Naomi. Too soon.

Naomi:

We could meet for a coffee, maybe?

So we met for a coffee. I told him how bad I felt, and he told me I’d done nothing wrong; it was him who’d been in a relationship and that relationship was over. He said he wanted to be with me. I said I wanted to be with him, too, but I didn’t want to rush into anything. He said he respected my feelings, and we’d take things at whatever pace I wanted.

Six weeks later – waiting for him to return from Aberdeen, it felt like an eternity – we met up again.

This time, I suggested he come round to my flat. Amina was away for the weekend, and I knew what the invitation meant – I couldn’t have been more obvious if I’d said, ‘Netflix and chill,’ instead of, ‘I’ll cook.’

I spent the day making a lasagne – the kind of proper, home comfort food I reckoned he’d have missed while working away. I cleaned the flat to within an inch of its life and shaved every bit of superfluous hair off my body. I lit scented candles and put fresh sheets on my bed.

When Patch turned up with a bunch of roses and a bottle of champagne, I knew he’d understood the message just as clearly as I had. As soon as he walked in the door, we hugged each other as if we were nothing more than friends, but the tension was as palpable as the relentlessly fluttering butterflies in my stomach.

‘This is nice,’ he said, looking around the tidy living room and inhaling the smell of cooking. ‘It feels… homely. I never thought of you as a domestic goddess.’

‘I’m not any kind of goddess,’ I said. ‘But I cook a mean lasagne.’

‘Music to my ears.’

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