The Exes
The Exes
leodora darlington
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First published 2026 001
Copyright © Leodora Darlington, 2026
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To my mother. Thank you for helping me fall in love with literature. I remember how much we enjoyed my reading my books to you. I wish I could read you this one.
Well, the less scandalous parts, perhaps.
Chapter 1
Now
What they don’t tell you about betrayal is that it eats you slowly. Long after the raised voices and slammed doors, after the tears – if there are any – it makes a home where your Good Feelings live and begins to gnaw at fond memories, trust, intimacy. And gnaws until you’re full of holes, nothing left untouched but paranoia and the distinct sense of having loved a stranger.
Paranoia and loneliness are what I’m left clinging to as my husband cries in the room next door. I think about banging on the wall, telling him to quieten down. There is still music and laughter vibrating up through the floorboards from the party downstairs, but I’m worried that people will hear him. I’ve already been humiliated enough; I don’t need our guests to hear our marriage going to shit, too.
A hollow wail pierces the room and my hands curl into tight fists. I close my eyes, breathe evenly. I’m not sure how or why he’s the one in pieces when it’s him who’s destroyed our relationship, but here we are. Once I would have gone and furled myself around him. Made myself soft, pliable. A petal around a wasp. That might be how my mother raised me, but I’ve long since grown tired of watching women like her try to sweep dust from men’s eyes while they have planks in their own. Planks the men usually put there.
Downstairs, someone changes the track to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’. A dull pain begins to throb through my thumb, and I realize that the kitchen knife is still gripped in my hand.
The fleshy tip is pressing into the blunt edge of the steel above the handle. I will myself to let the knife go. For a moment, it feels like I can’t. I won’t. But then I remember the blood already on my hands, still unclean after all these years. The violent rages I can’t clearly remember. And with the ghost of that darkness haunting me anew, I tuck the knife beneath the crisp, cold underside of the pillow on the guest bed.
I can’t let that white-hot rage loose. Not again.
I sometimes wonder, if we’d met at a different time, in a different place, whether things might have ended differently, too. I don’t think there was ever really the possibility of a happy ending. So much stood between us – so much history, so much blood – that the way things have worked out is sort of fitting.
Despite that, I really do think it’s a shame that things have turned out this way. I did love you. I think. Perhaps. I would have certainly given you almost anything you’d have asked of me. I guess, though, when the chips were down, what you wanted was something I just couldn’t give.
I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.
I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through.
But now, after everything, I think we both have to agree that what we have between us needs to come to an end. As much as we’ve been at odds, I don’t believe you’d fight me on that. As much as we’ve been at odds, I think you’d agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.
Chapter 2
Then
Watching without being seen is an art I’ve mastered, but this afternoon, I’m sort of hoping I am. Seen, that is. It’s a surprisingly sunny afternoon on Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting in an East London food hall, pretending to work on my beat-up laptop, half-paralysed by a desire to be noticed and an abject fear of it. He’s several benches away from me, a devastatingly handsome smile on his face as the darkhaired man beside him speaks. My eyes latch on to the firm press of their shoulders against each other and I wonder what it would be like to have his shoulder against mine. Wonder what the over-tinselled tree behind him would look like in a home of our own. Although at this point in my life, not feeling lonely at this time of year would be a true Christmas miracle.
Occasionally, I lose sight of him as the abacus rows of heads shift between us, but it’s enough for me, for now. Right on cue, as if to stop me from gorging myself on him, the table of twentysomethings sitting across from me slide along to let a new friend onto their bench, obscuring the view of the man I came here for. They snap pictures and squeal, mouths wide, eyes gleaming. I’d probably look that jolly, too, if I were a bottle and a half of prosecco deep. For a moment, my stubby, bare brown fingers hover over my keyboard, the speed-typing test on my screen counting the clock down to zero. It takes an effort not to waste time staring at the young women, disappointed. I can’t afford to
drop so much money so often to look like they do. I can’t even really afford to be sitting here, knocking back oat milk flat whites at almost four pounds a pop, but he’s here, as I knew he’d be. Can’t a girl allow herself a little treat?
I can imagine what life would be like were he mine. Or not quite ‘imagine’ – I’ve never seemed to have the creativity for that – but I slot myself into visions I’ve seen. The happy couple next door with the six-grand pram (I’ve googled it). The loved-up newly-weds on the latest season of my favourite reality show. I can take the scalpel of my limited imagination to cut around the young woman, lift her out of the picture and insert myself in. And in doing so, I can see how I would be happy with Him. Secure, for once.
‘Anything else?’ a voice asks behind me. I jump, startled. The incredibly friendly staff here have an incredibly quiet way of creeping up on you.
My eyes try to see through the throng of bodies. See if he’s seen me. If he discovers I’m here, he’ll want to know why, and I’m not sure my flimsy excuse will cut it.
‘Um, sure. Another oat flat white, please.’
‘Sure! Coming right up.’
Anxiety supercharged by caffeine hitches my heart rate up a notch. I can’t tell if my man has looked this way. A break in the sea of heads seems to be forming but is quickly filled by a middle-aged couple taking a seat a couple of benches down. My eyes snag on the way the man catches the woman’s elbow to ease her down, her pale hand going to cradle what I can now see is a rounded belly. I’m elated for her. I’m terrified by the force of the Want that rips through me. A hand goes to my flat stomach.
I come to the conclusion that if I can’t see him, then surely he can’t see me, albeit aware that I might be falling victim to toddler logic. Truth be told, I’m not sure James
has ever really seen me. I first met him a year ago when he was showing me around the office. I say ‘office’; really, it was a single tiny room in a co-working space. His business with his brother, Will, was still very much in its infancy, although things had been growing, fast, and they suddenly found themselves with more employees and admin than they could handle. The business, East London Chill, was an organic CBD -infused lager company. It was a rapidly successful venture. I was the thirteenth employee to join the company and liked to think of that as a lucky thing, despite the fact that I, entirely inexperienced, somehow represented the company’s whole HR department in addition to my role as office manager. Now there are thirty of us, and I’m still the entirety of HR .
Fortunately, James is a good boss. Hard-working, fair and kind. He’s pushed to get his brother, Will, into line (although, admittedly, Will might have just run out of employees to sleep with). His unwavering sense of Goodness is exactly what’s drawn me to him and why I’ll never have a chance. That, and the way his cheeks dimple when he’s trying to hold in a laugh. The zeal he has for the small details, for how and why things work, making the most mundane process feel interesting. The easy way praise trips off his tongue – easy but earnest – I could bathe in it. His passion. His drive. His togetherness.
Liking James is Nice. If there’s anything the therapy I can’t afford has taught me, it’s that I’m normally drawn to the wrong men like a moth to a flame. Therapy, and what happened to my sister.
I don’t like to think about it. The mere thought makes me want to peel my own skin off and hide in it. It would hurt.
And it would deserve to.
Still, even if my taste in men is improving, I have a lot of damage to heal. Too much to allow myself to get close to someone new. As long as I hold James at a distance, as long as I only allow myself to daydream about him, we can both remain safe.
The sea of bodies between us shifts again and a merciful parting in the waves brings him back to me. He’s in a softlooking jumper with sleeves pushed back and jeans, Will in his customary sharp suit beside him. They have always had this yin and yang pull, Will’s loud, impulsive recklessness a foil for his younger brother’s reassuring calm. Even visually, Will’s dark hair and blue eyes seem a deliberate challenge to James’s sandy colouring and brown irises. The brothers seem to be in opposition in every way possible, aside from the timbre of their voices. Sometimes I have to wonder how long it will be before that friction ignites into a fire that will burn the whole business to the ground.
‘One oat flat white!’
I’m startled, hand flying up in surprise and knocking over the glass of water in front of me. Straight onto my laptop.
‘Shit!’
I expect a dramatic snap, crackle and pop, or at least a gentle fizzing. Instead, the screen slowly flickers, a quiet death. Cursing my incurable clumsiness, I take the laptop, turn it to its side and give it a shake. The waitress behind me is flapping unhelpful concern.
‘Oh my god. Sorry. Are you okay?’
Trying my best to rescue an unsalvageable situation, I flatten the laptop as best I can and flip it onto its front to drain. The backup laptops at work are even older and buggier than this one, and while Will might have declared them fit for purpose, it’s not like he does enough real work to know.
‘Some napkins would be great, please,’ I say.
She claps her hands together in decisive agreement. ‘Yes, of course.’
When I look back up from the mess before me, my body goes stiff. I have taken my eyes off the brothers for a moment and now looked back to where they were to find them both gone.
Panic digs its fingers into the crevices of my jaw and squeezes, clenching it tight. While my eyes dart across the room, I try to keep my head still. Try not to make my scanning too obvious, lest I give away my intentional watching of them, should they now be watching me. Keeping my wits about me, all I can do is –
‘Natalie.’
My head swings around. James stands behind me, eyes crinkling gently in the corners, face lighting up like it’s made his day laying eyes on me. In his hands are large fistfuls of white napkins from the bar.
‘God, James!’ I’m good at faking surprise. I’m good at faking a lot of things. But I know James always comes to this food hall with his laptop to work, and I knew he had set up a meeting with Will and the owners today.
‘I heard the ruckus all the way across the room. Thought I’d save the waitress a trip.’
‘Um, thanks.’ I try to tell my body to relax.
‘Here, let me.’
He starts dabbing at the table, allowing me to take a handful of tissues from him and mop at the ruined slab of tech.
‘Sorry about your laptop.’
I shrug. ‘It’s a piece of shit anyway.’
‘Your boss should really get you a new one,’ he says with a knowing smile. ‘Taken?’ He points towards the slice of space opposite me. I shake my head, trying to smother my surging excitement. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ He leans
against the table as he slides onto the bench. I try not to stare at the momentary tensing of the muscles in his forearms. James gestures at the laptop that I’ve left face down, draining. ‘Please tell me you weren’t working on Christmas Eve. I know I have to, for my sins, but if Will’s asked you to –’
‘No.’ My palms flash honesty at him as they fly up. ‘No, I promise no work stuff.’ There’s not even a trace of suspicion in his eyes. He can’t have seen me lurking here. ‘Is Will around, too?’
He shakes his head and I’m embarrassed by how quickly the excitement leaps up again. ‘No, he’s off to meet some friends. I said I’d say hello to you and help rescue you from your laptop situation, then fire off a few more emails.’ His head cocks to one side. ‘I’m in here all the time. How come I’ve never seen you before?’
My stomach tightens. ‘Well, I usually prefer sitting in a café nearer my flat, but it was closed. I remembered you’d recommended this place, but I didn’t think you’d be here today of all days.’ Lie.
James gives me a curious look. ‘What’s the c—’ ‘Anyway, forget me, I can’t believe you’re working on Christmas Eve.’
He laughs, a laugh that comes from deep within his chest and wraps the both of us in a gentle warmth. If he’d planned to grill me, it seems the plan has been quickly forgotten. ‘True,’ he says, ‘but that’s the price of being the boss.’
The waitress drifts back into view, sets another wodge of napkins down in front of me. I thank her, not taking my eyes off James as I try to assess whether he’s seen through me. If he can smell the deception and desperation. ‘Well, please, don’t let me stop you if you need to be cracking on.’
I’ve already noticed the glances at the MacBook poking
out of his rucksack. The weariness that crosses his expression. Will gets to be Mr Charisma, never slow to volunteer for a sampling meeting with a potential new stocker, spending an afternoon laughing and schmoozing over beers. James is the one who keeps the books in order, the orders on time, the time-blind new hires on track. Without him, the business would surely fall apart or descend into chaos.
‘But I think you’ve probably earned yourself a break?’ I add.
That smile returns, broad shoulders relaxing as he looses a sigh. ‘I think you’re probably right.’ He juts a chin towards my coffee. ‘What about you? Maybe we can swap that for something stronger?’
I’ve already watched him sink a beer – otherwise, I’m sure this offer wouldn’t have come. James has always been good at keeping boundaries in place with his employees, where Will has not. But now he wants a drink. With me.
I’d have been content even if my excursion only went as far as watching him from a distance. It’s better than sitting at home alone, tempted to embrace the company of a mother who’s mastered an art of cruelty so casual that you often don’t know you’ve been wounded until you find yourself bleeding many hours later. But this . . . this is everything I’ve dreamed of.
‘I think I’d like that,’ I say with a level of chill I don’t feel. ‘Excellent.’ A naughty grin stretches across his face, and I’m left a little breathless by how inviting it is. I flash a grin back at him, ignoring the rising alarm in the back of my mind. We have the distinct energy of two teenagers bunking off school.
‘What d’you fancy?’ he asks. What would the alluring cool girl order? ‘Assuming they don’t stock any of our stuff, I’ll have an Old-Fashioned, please.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh, so you mean business.’ I laugh. ‘I do.’
‘D’you know what, I’ll have the same.’ He gets up from his seat and begins to head for the bar, but something makes him spin back around. ‘Hey, it’s Christmas – shall I make it two apiece?’
‘The bar is slow . . .’
He winks and sets off without another word. And as he walks away, as he leans over the bar to order our drinks from the bartender, I can feel something shifting in my brain, a question rising up that I’m doing my best to shove down. But I can’t escape the thought that I’m playing with fire. Until I’m sure what happened with my exes can never happen again, I need to keep my distance from romantic interests. But James . . . James is not like anyone I’ve dated before. The worst thing you could accuse him of being is boring. And even then, Mr Double Old-Fashioneds is showing me that he might be more fun than I’ve given him credit for.
You’ve got to stop this, Natalie. You can’t go there.
My infatuations always end in tears, I know that. It’s why I’ve so diligently sworn off any romantic relationships for years. It’s tough, starving myself of the one thing that’s brought me . . . if not release, then distraction from my other problems for so long. But I’ve learned that until I heal, until I fix what’s inherently broken within me, romance only compounds my problems in the long run. What happened with my last ex is a stark reminder of that, the pain from the fallout so bad that it still sometimes has me gasping awake at night, covered in a sheen of sweat. The cost of that relationship was too high. I’m still paying it. Perhaps I’ll always be paying it.
Dear Marc,
I suppose, in some ways, you were where it all began. My first, in more ways than one.
I hate how much your opinion of me made up my opinion of myself. I hate that I ever let anyone have that much control over my self-esteem. If I hadn’t been so weak, my life would look very different. Becky was right, you never really liked me for me. And I might have seen through the nice words if I hadn’t been so insecure. Perhaps I might even be normal.
What happened was a shock. But that shock was like dunking my whole body in ice water. It woke up something inside me. I now live in constant fear of that thing. I’m trying to starve it out, but I don’t think it’s working. It wants feeding. If only you hadn’t brought it to life.
Chapter 3
Ex Number One Marc
You can still hear the cringe prom music from the school hall, even if it is a bit faint. The corridor is dark, as is the classroom we’re in. It’s kind of creepy. Like a scene from a horror movie before the two teens who’ve snuck off get murdered. Marc says it’s better to keep the room dark, though. And Marc’s smart. Or at least he says he’s smart, and people seem to agree.
Apparently, no one should be coming this way, but I can’t help but feel nervous every time I hear the slamming of a door echo from somewhere in the school. It’s an old, pileof-shit building. The roof blew off one winter. Nothing is soundproof. Which is part and parcel of why I feel about as comfortable as I would in a one-to-one with our pervy careers adviser in the library, but here I am.
‘For god’s sake, Natalie! Would you relax a bit?’
I want to bite back and ask Marc how I’m supposed to relax with Latin textbooks digging into my back. He has me on the teacher’s desk, and he’s standing between my legs. One hand is grabbing at my chest, feeling more padded bra than anything else, and the other is between my legs. I’ve never really stopped to reflect on how I’d feel if my younger sister was dating someone like Marc. But perhaps that’s intentional. Perhaps I know I’d then like him less.
‘I’m relaxed,’ I lie. And he’s obviously heard the lie. His
nostrils flare for a second and that faraway look glazes over his blue eyes. I hate it when he gets that look – it always means he’s pulling away from me. And he does, physically. Suddenly, the skin on my body where his hands were feels ice-cold, almost as cold as the look he’s giving me, dark curls falling into his eyes, dark brows stitched together.
God, he’s so hot. He’s so hot and he’s mine.
Well, I’m his, and he’s not with anyone else, and that’s the same thing, really.
‘I’m relaxed,’ I insist.
‘Is this about Becky? What she said?’
I feel my body stiffen at the mere mention of her, picturing her stupid face and her new burned-toast glow. She’s still furious that she tanned that dark and that streaky. She swears up and down that someone switched her tan out for the wrong colour in her gym bag, but I don’t know who’d be dumb enough to risk her going off on them.
‘Because I thought it was really out of line,’ he continues. ‘I can’t believe people still say stuff like that. I mean –’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You know I’m not with you just ’cause you’re Black, though, right? I mean, you don’t even look it.’
I’m dumb enough at this age not to catch the insult.
‘Really, Marc. I’m fine. Like, I’m not even thinking about that. Come here.’ I tug on his shirt to bring him close to me again. The material feels good beneath my fingers. Thick, good quality, like the shirts Dad used to wear to work when he still had a job. They’re in a box somewhere in the attic now. I found a load one day, and Mum caught me sniffing at them to see if there was any of him left in the fibres. She totally freaked out. They’re probably still there, getting dusty and damp.
Marc’s lips are on mine again, and I try to stop thinking
about Dad. It turns out it’s not too hard. Marc tends to transform into Tentacle Boy when we kiss, his hands going everywhere. It’s a lot. You know, the sort of jabby, windscreenwiper tongue action. I used to think it was because I got him so excited, but now I sort of think that he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Speaking of not knowing what he’s doing, and speaking of jabby, his hand is now in my underwear doing something I imagine is meant to feel good but feels incredibly uncomfortable. I want to tell him to stop, but I don’t want him to pull away again. That feeling changes when I hear his zip come down.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
He pulls out a shiny packet from his pocket and grins. The cocktail of Pimm’s, whisky, vodka and gin churns in my stomach. I’m beginning to think Emily’s idea of taking a little off the top of each bottle in her parents’ drinks cabinet wasn’t such a smart one after all.
‘Here?’ I ask, not quite believing it. ‘Now?’
The excitement in his eyes is snuffed out. ‘Look, Natalie, you know I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do.’ It doesn’t sound comforting. ‘I think, maybe, though, I got this wrong, like . . . I dunno. I just thought you and me made more sense than maybe we really do. And it’s not what Becky said. I guess, maybe, you’re just a bit too . . . too uptight for me.’
It’s a strange sort of feeling, but it’s almost like halfway through the dumping I stepped out of myself, and now I’m watching this happen to someone else from a dark corner of the classroom. It’s easier to do that sometimes; disappear while someone is trying to hurt you. You can’t feel the blows land if you’re not really in your body. Another choice life lesson.
I want to tell Marc he’s wrong. I want to show him I’m not a silly kid. I want to prove to the other girls that not only can I take Marc Baxter, I can keep him, too. But before I can get a word out, he’s already edging away from me.
‘I’m sorry, Natalie. To do it like this, I mean. Here. I just – you know . . .’
I don’t know. Prick.
‘I guess I’ll just –’ And the coward doesn’t even finish the sentence. He just slinks off.
Perhaps if that’d been it, if dumping me at prom was the worst of it, maybe things would have been okay. But that humiliation wasn’t enough for Marc. No. He had to push me further. Had to make things worse.
In the end, I was sorry for what happened next. But Marc was sorrier.
Chapter 4
Now
James’s snivelling has worn my patience thin. I get to my feet, the imprint of my body still on the covers. The clock tells me I haven’t been lying there, staring at the ceiling, wondering about the disintegration of my marriage, my life, for long. But it has felt like an age. Not quite my life flashing before my eyes, but the life James and I might have shared suddenly bleaching out like film left lying in the sun.
Now I find myself creeping into the corridor. A gentle, rhythmic buzzing hums into the soles of my feet. The party downstairs is too loud. I should do something, turn the music down. The neighbours. We’ve just made nice with them and made this neighbourhood feel like our own. It’s wild that we’re even going ahead with this belated housewarming, but when James fled to hide in his parents’ home, I warned him I wouldn’t cancel. He could show up, face me and save face, or I could tell all our friends what he did. At least it sounds like the guests downstairs are having a good time, distracted. No one should disturb us.
When I open the door to our bedroom, I find James curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed, sobbing his little heart out. The tips of his ears have gone pink, and he looks like a little pig awaiting the butcher’s knife. Like he knows just how much danger he’s in. He catches my eye and, well, not quite straightens up, but rocks up into a seated foetal position.
‘Please, I just –’ He pauses to choke out a sob. ‘I’m so sorry. I love you. You know that.’
My hands clench into fists and unclench. It feels like a rope is pressing itself against the soft flesh of my neck. When he proposed, he promised that, together, we’d forget the ways in which our families have disappointed us. Be each other’s chosen family. But what kind of family would choose this?
‘If you loved me,’ I say, ‘then how could you do this to me?’
He shakes his head, hugs his knees to his chest. ‘I don’t know. Really, I don’t. It’s the worst thing I could have done.’
‘Yes,’ I say, closing the door behind me. ‘Yes, it is.’
Chapter 5
Then
My palms are always itchy when I’m nervous, and they’re practically on fire as I make my way over to James’s flat. It’s only a short walk across London Fields from my own. A fortunate proximity, as I have already turned back on myself five times. This is stupid. Reckless, even. At first, it was just that one night. A friendly couple of drinks without so much as a goodbye kiss on the cheek. And yet, something shifted that evening. Suddenly, it felt like James saw me. I’d taken one of the equally old and useless backup laptops at work to replace my now dead one, but when the gift-wrapped MacBook landed on my desk, I’d looked up to see James watching me from his office, a gentle smile on his face, and knew what he’d done. Sometimes, I’d glance up from my desk and catch him doing that, one ear to his receiver, deep in doubtless important conversation, but still watching. He’d smile, shake his head and then go about what he was doing.
The first sign that we were slipping from something known into the unknowable was the Friday after Christmas when he caught me by the lifts on the way out of the office, the shadow of a fading bruise under one eye.
‘Hold the doors!’
My guts clenched at the thought of our bodies penned into the same space, lungs breathing the same air. There was something intimate about sucking in the clouds of vapour he puffed out. Like I got to hold a little piece of him inside me. I held the doors.
‘Wow – leaving before six. That’s almost skiving by your standards,’ I said.
He laughed, slipping into the lift a moment before the doors slid shut. ‘Well, if you don’t tell the boss, I won’t.’
It had been a surprise to me when James hadn’t made some excuse to peel off or hang back as we headed in the aligned direction of our respective homes; does the MD really want to be stuck talking to the office manager for his entire commute? But as we paced along the chilly East London streets, squeezing together and breaking apart in narrowing and widening pathways, he stuck with me, face bright and engaged. He had this new zest for life since Christmas that was infectious. And I was outwardly engaged, too – delightful even, I’m sure – but inside was sheer panic. I wanted him desperately. I wanted to hand in my resignation and never speak to him again.
My pocket started buzzing a notification. When I checked the screen, I saw the round photo in its centre. The white text that floated above it: Melissa Doe. It’s perhaps a quirk of mine that I save her contact info under her full name, rather than just ‘Mother’ or ‘Mum’. It’s been this way for ever. All my contacts are saved like that. There’s just something about having the whole name saved that soothes me. I suppose it’s a reminder to look at the whole picture of who people are, rather than taking them in parts.
In any case, I did what I had done for the past few years and quietly declined the call. I knew I was damaged. Wrong. I didn’t need her reminders of that fact. Didn’t need to hear the unspoken insult beneath: You’re so like your father . Didn’t need to feel like any more of a freak. A monster.
My therapist once asked me why I’d not blocked the number. Sometimes I considered it, but I was at once
terrified of and drawn to my mother. She was a bottle of vodka and I an alcoholic who couldn’t live without it, even if I knew it was slowly killing me.
I shook all thoughts of her away, eyes latching on to the black-shuttered bar coming up beside James and me as we walked.
‘I love this place,’ I said, nodding towards it.
‘Oh really? I’ve never been.’
‘Never? They do this thing called a beer and a bump for only seven quid.’ I suddenly felt silly and childish for extolling the virtues of cheap alcohol to this clearly wealthy man. ‘It’s, um . . . It’s their house lager with a shot of your choice. I know it sounds silly, but –’
‘It sounds like a hangover waiting to happen.’ The laughter in his eyes told me that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Something shifted in my periphery. A guy in a suit was hurtling towards us down the pavement, phone to ear, yelling obscenities. For a moment, I thought he might barrel into me, but James stepped between us, hand firmly pointing Phone Guy towards the clear stretch of pavement. ‘Watch it, mate.’
I thought Phone Guy might turn his puce-coloured rage on James, but he simply sidestepped, throwing an angry look over his shoulder.
We were stopped now, James and I. It felt like fate.
Words fought each other in my mouth. I found myself blurting out, ‘No worries if you have plans, but d’you want to stop in and try one?’
His eyebrows shot up. I wonder if he knew what I was doing, what I wanted, despite every reasonable bone in my body knowing I shouldn’t. He made a show of looking at his watch and then looking back at me. I could almost see
his mind sorting through where he felt the lines of propriety were. How close to those lines he was comfortable colouring.
‘I guess one wouldn’t hurt.’
Inside it was dark and close, tables and chairs pushed up against each other in low light. It was busy, and James and I found ourselves equally pushed up together. It could have just been in my head, but I was sure I could feel the warmth of his leg seeping through his jeans and into mine. It was loud, so we found ourselves having to speak into each other’s ears. I liked the feeling of his warm breath condensing on my neck.
I felt myself slipping into Cool Girl mode. Easy laughs, bright, engaged eyes. But never too engaged. Always just charming enough and aloof enough to seem worth liking. To seem desirable but not easily attainable. It’s not that I wanted him to like me. I needed him to. People only tend to give you what you want when they like you. And what I wanted from him was to be allowed to exist within his sphere of handsome normalcy, even if it was a fleeting bubble that I’d enjoy before it burst.
As we spoke about inconsequential things – office gossip, Netflix binges, weekend plans – I could feel lines blurring, boundaries demolished by the promise of ‘just one more drink’, pints disappearing as quickly as they came. I plucked up the courage to ask about the fading shiner, unsure which of the office rumours were true. Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid; just an enthusiastic nephew with a new ball and terrible aim. And then the conversation shifted, our words stumbling through the shallows and over an unseen precipice that plunged us somewhere deep.
‘I just sometimes wish she’d see me,’ James said, removing his tortoiseshell glasses to rub at his eyes. He’d never
looked so boyish. ‘She funnels so much into Will that sometimes it feels like there’s nothing left for me.’
Emboldened by booze, I took hold of his knee. ‘He’s great, but I can’t imagine it’s always easy having an older sibling like him.’
‘I feel like a traitor for agreeing with you, but it’s true.’
‘I mean, even at work, he’s a bit of a loose cannon. More so, lately.’
My mind was flooded with recent memories of sour hangover breath fogging the air; alcoholic vapours steaming from mugs of coffee; overloud sentences with wild gesticulations drawing attention across the office; knocked-over files; knocked-over screens; an office sitting empty, unexplained, for two days that week. Will’s fondness for a drink seemed to have mutated into something ugly that everyone in the office could see. I wanted to ask more about it, but my questions caught in my throat. It didn’t feel like my place.
James gave out an exasperated sigh. ‘Yeah, I don’t know how much longer he’ll stick around. Please don’t repeat this to anyone. But Will’s the kind of person who’s interested in something until he’s not. And I think the business is prime to join the growing pile of his discarded hobbies.’ He paused to take a sip of his drink. ‘I get why she worries about him. My mother. I get why she doesn’t always take him seriously. But I don’t know why she takes me even less seriously. If she’d just pay attention, then maybe . . . God, listen to me going on.’
‘No. It’s nice to hear you open up. And funny to hear everyone else’s problems. As for me, I’d love my mother to see me less . . .’
‘Oh really? How come?’
‘You really want to get into it?’
‘I do. If you’re happy to, that is. You mentioned it’s not your favourite subject.’
And so I went on to give him the sanitized version of my life story.
He blew his cheeks out, laughed. ‘No way did an argument that big erupt over some dishes.’
‘My inability to leave dirty plates by the sink is genuinely a trauma response – my therapist had a field day trying to unpick that. Me and my sister learned our lesson with the dishes, although Claire rebelled in other ways.’
He paused, looking down at me through thick lashes. ‘Your sister sounds like quite the firecracker. You should bring her along to the summer party. I’d like to meet her.’
I realized my mistake too late. ‘Oh, um . . .’ I forced myself to look away from his stare. ‘My sister . . . well, we had a big falling-out before she moved to LA . I kept dating arseholes, kept dragging her into my mess . . . I guess the main reason she moved was to escape our mother, though . . . It’s complicated.’
There are a lot of questions on his face, but the next one out of his mouth surprises me. ‘Is there much of a culture clash there? With your mother, I mean.’
I looked at him quizzically.
He continued. ‘Just for people growing up in the diaspora, I hear there can be some intergenerational friction between what parents are used to and what’s the new norm for their kids.’
‘You sound like you’ve swallowed a stack of journal articles.’
He blushed and I realized that my joke may have accidentally hit the mark.
‘Sorry. I just wanted to read up a bit. Educate myself, y’know?’
I took another moment to consider him. The earnestness made him bashful, dipping his head towards his beer. ‘I didn’t mean to be disparaging. It’s cool you want to learn more. Although, I mean . . . have you dated Black girls before?’
‘No. Not that I wouldn’t. But why? D’you think I’d only be interested in your history because I was trying to get laid?’ A vulpine smile now sat on his lips. I smiled back.
‘Maybe. That’s usually the reason.’
He simply shrugged. ‘Sorry to disappoint. But if you ever want to chat decolonization, I’m down.’
It elicits a genuine cackle from me.
‘Seriously, though,’ he continued, ‘we only have to talk about things you’re comfortable with. I know you don’t like talking about the past, your family, in particular. We don’t have to go there again.’
‘Is that a promise?’ I nudged him with my shoulder, a grin on my face. His was deadly solemn.
‘It can be.’ His earnest gaze set my heart fluttering. He reached out a finger. ‘Let’s make a pact to leave the past where it belongs. Focus on the future.’
And my pinky slid around his, the promise made.
A soft heat pulsed at the edges of the evening as we talked. I could tell that the guy waiting tables – dangly earring, two phones in use behind the bar, clear fuckboy – was trying to flirt with me, not believing James and I could be on a date. On another approach to ask an inane question about my hair, James was curt: We’ll tell you if we need something, thank you . I found myself reaching for his hand across the table and squeezing it. His palm was soft. Large. I felt small in his touch. Needing of his protection. From what, exactly, I’m not sure. Myself, perhaps, my therapist would say.
When the hours had worn on too long and we had to
make our way home, we were both unmistakably drunk. More so than on that Christmas Eve we’d spent together.
‘I’m just going to quickly use the loo,’ I said.
I found myself in the poky toilets, panic high in my chest, phone to my lips, recording a voice note for my sister.
‘Claire, I know I promised no more relationships, but I think I want to hook up with my boss. And I think maybe he wants it, too. I don’t know . . . Is this . . . I mean . . . Like, I know it’s stupid and risky and it terrifies me . . . and I know what happened with the last guy. But this is okay, right? It’s been years. What’s the worst that could –’
Someone was banging on the door. I let the voice note send half-finished.
Outside, James took me in with a deep spark of curiosity behind a slightly glazed look. I wasn’t going to let this spark of interest die. I pulled him to me.
‘I want you to forget about this tomorrow, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t do this tonight.’
And I kissed him. It was warm and wet, and I think he was startled at first. After a moment, he pulled away.
‘Natalie, I really shouldn’t. You’re my – This is –’
‘Do you want me to stop?’ I asked.
‘Not even a little bit.’
I kissed him again, his hands soon on me, steady and strong. The kiss was at once tender and firm. It felt like a kiss on a leash. There was a restraint in the meeting of our lips and the light pressure of his fingertips on my flesh. But the restraint soon came loose, James’s hands reaching for my waist, pulling our bodies together.
A sharp pain suddenly bloomed on my lip, a metallic taste in my mouth. It didn’t take me long to realize that he’d bitten me. Hard enough to break the skin. I pulled back, our eyes connecting. There was a challenge in his. My pulse raced quicker.
Perhaps this should have been a warning that James might hurt me more significantly down the line. That he might even enjoy it. But in this moment, I was so consumed by want, blood rushing through my ears and creeping across my tongue, that there wasn’t any room for fear.
And I wish I could say that this was where things ended between us, but as I walk over to his flat, the promise of a home-cooked dinner and perhaps something more ahead of me, I’m ashamed to admit that this feels like the beginning of something new.
Chapter 6
Ex Number One Marc
It’s amazing just how easily a shitty boy can ruin your whole night. I’m sipping a Smirnoff Ice, already a bit dizzy, the usually sweet bubbles sour in my mouth. Across the teeming living room, Marc and his boys are having a laugh, elbowing one another and downing cups of foamy beer. They’re red cups, just like the kind from American shows. Everyone says it’s so cool he got them. Marc, that is. It’s his house we’re in for the prom after-party.
To be totally honest, Marc’s got a weird hard-on for all things American. He says he’s going to Harvard to study, but it’s not clear to anyone whether he’s actually got in. His parents, who are staying in a hotel for the night, could probably afford it, though. They’re stupid rich. Which is kind of why we’re at Marc’s place in the first instance. It’s huge – they’ve got four whole bedrooms and a pool. One time, Marc had me over and got me to give him a handy in it. When he came, his voice slipped into this weird American accent. It was strange as fuck.
Anyway, I’m at Marc’s stupid big house looking at his stupid hot face and trying to make eye contact with him. I’ve been trying this for a good half hour now, and it’s like he’s deliberately not looking at me.
It’s strange to say, but in this new state of crisis, I feel a
little more alive than usual. Terrified, but everything drawn into a sharper focus. I hate it. I need it.
Emily’s suddenly appeared, a bony arm around my shoulders. She’s been hitting it harder than I have, shiny copper curls wild from all the dancing.
‘Come on, Nat. You’ve gotta dance with me!’
‘In a minute,’ I say.
Emily tracks my line of sight.
‘What’s going on with you two anyway? You were all weird leaving the hall. You didn’t even speak to each other. You fighting?’
‘Yeah, you could say that.’
She hiccups and leans her head against my shoulder. ‘Babe, he’s kind of an arsehole. You’re better off out of it.’ She abruptly springs upright. ‘Now come dance with me!’
‘In a bit. Promise,’ I say.
I watch her pout and leave, and I gather what courage I can. It never comes easily to me, bravery, but I’ve got good at faking it. I strut across the room, imagining I’m a sexy model or actress, hoping that this will mesmerize Marc, who is now, at the very least, looking at me. I catch the end of what his friend in the red hoodie is yelling, slapping Marc’s back to punctuate his point.
‘Bullshit. No way have you jumped from the roof into the pool!’
‘Can we talk?’ I ask, hand on hip. A chorus of ‘oohs’ erupts from the gaggle of twats around him.
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know that there’s much to talk about.’
‘Marc, look, I –’
‘I’ve said what I have to say and that’s it, okay?’ More snickers break out around him.
I fold my arms across my chest. ‘Oh, fuck off, losers.’
Marc gives me the world-weary look of a forty-year-old
divorcee. ‘Actually, guys, if you could give us a sec,’ he says, and they slink off, smirking. Once they’re gone, he turns to me sharply. ‘What exactly do you want from me, Natalie?’
The edge in his voice slaps more life into me. I want this. I want him.
‘An explanation for what the hell happened today woul—’
‘What more could you need? I don’t want to be with you. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. Now, piss off.’
Despite the kind invitation, he’s the one who actually walks away. I immediately scan the crowd around me. A few people are looking over, hateful smiles on their faces. Nosy bastards and bitches, the lot of them.
Even though only a few people will have heard what he said, everyone could read our body language, and the few people within earshot have already whispered their version of events to their neighbours. I can see the gossip spreading through the party like wildfire in real time.
For the third time that night, my face is hot with shame. Emily finds me – rescues me, really. She whisks me away to a bathroom, dabs away my tears.
‘You’re a bad bitch, Nat.’
‘Yes,’ I sniffle. ‘Yes, I am.’ Although I don’t feel like one – and with Marc Baxter so publicly declaring me Unwanted, I’m not so sure other people will be convinced, either. Being an object of desire for a boy like Marc Baxter comes with social currency, social currency I wasn’t born with, and social currency I’ve worked for. I can feel my balance depleting.
The party rages on. Emily and I unearth a bottle of topshelf tequila that Marc has tried to hide away and we go to town on it. Before long, my dizziness graduates into blurriness. Everyone looks fuzzy. My casual clumsiness escalates into something more volatile, and several glasses are broken.
I’d love to say that my drama with Marc is quickly
forgotten, but it’s obvious that people are talking about it through the night. About me. Some of his friends come over to say they’re sorry to hear how things went down. They touch my shoulder, my waist, my arse, as they say this. I suppose I don’t have a ‘hands-off’ rule on me any more. I no longer belong to Marc Baxter. I slip away from quick palms and into pulsating crowds of dancing bodies. The tequila bottle never leaves my side. Someone pinches my bum and I hate it, but I drink until I don’t care any more.
And the rest is fragments.
Elbowing my way to the front of a toilet queue and chundering everywhere.
A text from my mother, asking if I’m going to bed at a sensible time at my ‘sleepover’, ignored.
More tequila.
More dancing.
Spilled drinks. A bottle of rum carelessly elbowed to pieces on the kitchen tiles.
More tequila.
Cannonballing into the pool with my prom dress on.
Shivering.
More tequila.
A search for dry, warm clothes.
I know where Marc’s room is.
A door opened. A sudden scream. Two naked bodies interlocked.
Marc. Becky.
Pleading, tears.
More tequila.
In the bathroom again, face pressed against the cold plastic of a toilet seat.
Slurring, the world tilting on an angle.
My sister, someone’s called my sister.