Page 62 of The Last Train Home
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘Sean didn’t want you to come and meet my son?’
She shakes her head.
‘Why not?’
‘He didn’t want me seeing you.’
I pull back from her, lean against the counter. ‘Why not?’ I ask again.
‘He was jealous – worried.’
‘About what?’
‘You and me.’
‘You and me?’ I repeat.
‘I told him about what almost happened between us.’
‘It was so long ago,’ I say.
‘I know. But he wouldn’t listen. He hated the idea. And I loved him – love him – and we’re making a life together, and I had to choose between hurting him or hurting you.’
‘No-brainer,’ I say sarcastically and it’s a bit of a low blow.
‘For you, maybe. But it was tough. I was emailing you and he didn’t know, and it just made me feel … deceitful.’
‘I take it he doesn’t know you’re here.’
She smiles wryly. ‘Of course not.’
I pick up my tea, drink it, put it back down again. ‘In which case, I think you should go,’ I say, and her face visibly falls. ‘You’re putting your relationship on the line to stand in my kitchen at one a.m. Why did you think this was a good idea?’
‘Because I had to say goodbye.’
‘Why? What are we to each other, that you want to put your relationship in jeopardy forty-eight hours before we probably never see each other again?’
‘Don’t say that,’ she says. ‘Of course we’ll see each other again.’
‘No, we won’t,’ I reply, and I genuinely believe this.
She’s crying again now and I know I’m being a total shit, but I’m too locked in the punch to pull back now.
‘You won’t come back for my wedding. You know you won’t. You worked in the building opposite me and we never saw each other there. Sean says he doesn’t want you seeing me, and so we don’t meet up. And all the while I want to see you, want to know how you are, want to know if you’re OK. We went through something awful together – what’s wrong with checking in on each other every now and again?’ Abbie’s tears are really falling now, but I can’t stop. ‘You just want to airbrush me out of your life? And then, what? You decide tonight that actually you do want to see me. So it all happens on your terms, despite the fact that I wanted to see you for so long. Did it never occur to you thatImight not be OK?’
Her head lifts. Her make-up is everywhere again, smudged. I hand her more kitchen roll. She can deal with it herself now.
‘Aren’t you OK?’ she asks.
‘Of course I’m not,’ I raise my voice.
Teddy stirs on the mat.
I lower my voice. ‘I’m a mess. I’ve got myself knee-deep in debt for a house I can’t afford, I hate my job, I’m pretty sure my girlfriend hates me, and every time I close my eyes to fall asleep, I see—’ I stop. I’m going too far. My chest is rising and falling in anger, but it’s not anger at her. Not now. It’s everything. I can’t face her. I turn away, run my hand over my mouth.
She’s not speaking. It must be the three Peronis I’ve had tonight, the lack of sleep, the despair that hits me every time I think about that day or the fact that she’s standing in front of me, for what will possibly be the last time ever, that makes me decide, foolishly, that I’m going all the way with this. ‘And then there’s you,’ I say.
‘Me?’ she questions.
