Page 42 of The Ex

‘Who?’

‘The Milk Tray… forget it. An old advert, fella dressed in black, breaks into the lady’s house and leaves a box of chocolates on her pillow.’

‘Ah. Actually, no. I think I need to respect her boundaries.’

Joyce lowers her chin to her chest, bottom lip pushed up against top. ‘Boundaries? What happened to romance? Bit of spontaneity, surprise? You can borrow the MG.’

You never surprise me, Sam. You never just book something and whisk me away.

Old words, rising like mist.

‘You’re right,’ he says, throwing his legs out from under the duvet. ‘Sod boundaries!’ He kisses her on both cheeks. ‘Don’t wait up!’

Half an hour later, in pyjama top and jeans, he parks Joyce’s MG on the road outside Naomi’s house. He is about to get out but finds himself still in the car, one hand on the door handle. Now that he’s here, he feels a lot less sure than he did when he set off. At the sight of a pale grey Volvo he doesn’t recognise on the drive, his chest tightens. It is late, so late, and he has come here without asking.

He gets out, walks the short length of pavement to the driveway. Downstairs, faint orange lines glow between the blinds.

He backs up, throws his eyes up to a bedroom window – no more than a yellow sliver between drawn curtains. It is after eleven. Naomi told him she always turns in by ten. If she’s in bed or preparing to go to bed, this is an invasion of her space. Actually, it’s an invasion of her space regardless of what she’s doing. He should have texted. Joyce’s suggestion that this would be a romantic gesture is old-fashioned. Turning up in the middle of the night and breaking into women’s houses is not what men do anymore; he doubts they ever did. By today’s standards, the Milk Tray man was a stalker, a creep. This was a bad idea.

He is about to walk away when the front door opens.

But it is not Naomi.

‘Can I help you?’ It is a woman with reddish hair who looks about the same age as Naomi.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Sorry to disturb you. I was just…’

The woman is looking at him suspiciously. Something is off here. Something is wrong.

He raises a hand. ‘I was looking for Naomi, my… Sorry, I’ve just realised it’s much later than I thought. Sorry.’ He is already backing away, but the woman appears to relax, her posture loosening against the door jamb.

‘Naomi’s out with her sister.’

‘Oh.’ The word is a sigh. The woman at the door is the babysitter. Of course. The Volvo is hers. God, he’s a paranoid idiot. ‘Gotcha. Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry!’

‘Shall I tell her who called?’

‘Sure. Sure, yeah. It’s Sam. Sam Moore. Actually, just Sam. She’ll know who it is. Thanks. Sorry for the interruption. Goodnight.’

He drives home cringing. Puts the radio on loud to try and drown his thoughts, but up they swim to the surface. Naomi will get the message from her babysitter, but she won’t understand why he’s come over so late, will have no idea he came to give her his grandmother’s engagement ring, something of such deep significance, a tangible emblem not only of his love but of Joyce’s acceptance, a welcoming of Naomi into the family. No, all she will know is that he was loitering outside her house late at night, didn’t text, didn’t even ring the doorbell.

What the hell were you thinking?she will say.You can’t just turn up in the middle of the night like that – that’s so weird.

Halfway home, unable to keep his breathing steady, he pulls into the forecourt of a service station. Makes himself calm down. Thinks about calling Miranda to ask her what the hell he should do, but no, it’s late, too late – he doesn’t want to wake her or Betsy. Breathe, Sam. Get it together. You just need to pre-empt the babysitter’s message, head it off at the pass. Should have done that the second you got in the car.

But when he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, his heart shrinks. There is a message from Naomi already.

Cheryl said you stopped by at 11?? Am out with Jo. What did you want?

‘Oh God,’ he says aloud. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Cheryl, of course. He should’ve put two and two together.

Sorry!he writes.I wanted to give you something, but it’s OK, it can wait. Romantic gesture fail, lol. Love you. Xxx

Transfixed by anxiety, he waits. Seconds pass. His guts twist.

‘Please reply,’ he whispers, phone held close to his face. Almost yelps when he sees the rolling dots. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Forty. The dots vanish. He waits. The dots return, ebbing like waves. Finally the message flashes up, but it is short, so much shorter than the wait promised.

OK. See you Wednesday.

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