Wedding Night: A Novel

3

LOTTIE

I didn’t sleep all night.

People say that, and what they mean is: I woke up a few times, made a cup of tea, and went back to bed. But I really didn’t sleep all night. I counted every hour going past.

By one A.M. I’d decided that Fliss is totally, utterly wrong. By one-thirty I’d found myself a flight to San Francisco. By two A.M. I’d written the perfect, loving, and passionate proposal speech, including lines by Shakespeare, Richard Curtis, and Take That. By three A.M. I’d filmed myself making it (eleven takes). By four A.M. I’d watched myself and realized the horrible truth: Fliss is right. Richard will never say yes. He’ll just get freaked out. Especially if I make that speech. By five A.M. I’d eaten all the Pralines & Cream. By six A.M. I’d eaten all the Phish Food. And now I’m slumped on a plastic chair, feeling nauseous and regretting the lot of it.

A tiny part of me still wonders if by walking out on Richard I made the biggest mistake of my life. If I’d hung on, bitten my tongue and never mentioned marriage, might our relationship have worked out? Somehow?

But the rest of me is more rational. People say that women work on intuition and men on logic, but they’re talking rubbish. I studied logic at university, thank you very much. I know how it goes. A=B, B=C, therefore A=C. And what could be more logical than the following detached and succinct argument?

Premise one: Richard has no intention of proposing to me; he made that fairly clear.

Premise two: I want marriage and commitment and, hopefully, one day, a baby.

Conclusion: Therefore I am not destined to be with Richard. Therefore I need to be with someone else.

Other conclusion: Therefore I did the right thing, breaking up with him.

Further conclusion: Therefore I need to find another man, who does want to make a life with me and doesn’t get that wide-eyed, starey look at the very mention of marriage, like it’s such a terrifying idea. Someone who realizes that if someone spends three years with you, maybe they are thinking of commitment and kids and a dog, and … and … decorating a Christmas tree together … and why is that such a bad thing? Why is it so totally and utterly off the agenda and unmentionable? When everyone says we’re such a great couple and we’ve been so happy together, and even your own mother was hinting that we might end up living near them, Richard?

OK, so maybe not that succinct. Or detached.

I take a sip of coffee, trying to soothe my nerves. Let’s say I’m being as calm and logical as one could expect in the circumstances, which are that I had to catch the 7:09 to Birmingham on no sleep and all the Metros had already gone. And I’m about to give a recruitment talk to a hundred students in an auditorium that smells of cauliflower cheese.

I’m with my colleague Steve, in the “backstage” room to the side of the auditorium, and he’s sitting hunched over his coffee, looking about as perky as I feel. We do a lot of these recruitment talks together, Steve and I, in fact we’re quite the double act. He does the science side; I do the general stuff. The idea is, he blows away all the students with how cutting edge our research-and-development department is. And I reassure them that they’ll get looked after and their career will be an exciting one and they’re not selling out.

“Biscuit?” Steve offers me a chocolate bourbon.

“No, thanks.” I shudder. I’ve already crammed enough trans fats and food additives into my body.

Maybe I should go to some hard-core boot camp. Everyone says running changes their life and gives them a new outlook. I should go to some retreat where all you do is run and drink isotonic drinks. In the mountains. Or the desert. Something really tough and challenging.

Or do Iron Woman. Yes.

I reach for my BlackBerry and am about to Google hard-core running camp iron woman when the careers officer appears round the door. We haven’t been to this particular college before, so I hadn’t met Deborah before today. Quite frankly, she’s weird. I’ve never met anyone so tense and jumpy.

“All OK? We’ll start in about ten minutes. Keep it quite brief, I would.” She’s nodding nervously. “Quite brief. Nice and brief.”

“We’re happy to chat to the students afterward,” I say, hefting a pile of “Why Work at Blay Pharmaceuticals?” brochures out of my canvas bag.

“Right.” Her eyes are darting about. “Well … as I say, I’d keep it nice and brief.”

I feel tempted to snap at her, We’ve come all the way from London for this! For God’s sake. Most careers officers are delighted we’ll take questions.

“So, normal pattern?” I say to Steve. “Me, you, clip one, me, you, clip two, questions?” He nods, and I hand the DVD to Deborah. “I’ll cue you. It’ll be pretty obvious.”

The recruitment DVD is the worst bit about our presentation. It was shot like a 1980s music video, with bad lighting and bad electronic music and people with bad haircuts looking awkward as they pretend to have a meeting. But it cost a hundred grand, so we have to use it.

Deborah disappears to set up the DVD and I lean back in my chair, trying to relax. But my hands keep twisting together. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything feels so crap. Where am I going in life? Where am I heading? What am I doing?

And this is not about Richard, by the way. It’s absolutely unrelated. It’s simply my life. I need … I don’t know. A new direction. A different energy.

There’s a book lying on a nearby chair and I reach for it. It’s called The Reverse Principle: Change Your Business Strategy Forever, and 10 million copies sold!! is stamped across the cover.

I feel a stab of frustration at myself. Why don’t I read more business books? This is where my life has gone wrong. I haven’t put enough effort into my career. I flip through, trying to absorb the information as quickly as I can. There are lots of diagrams with arrows traveling one way, then flipping over and going the opposite way. Clearly the message is: reverse the arrow. Well, I got that in about two seconds. I must be a natural.

Maybe I should read all these books and become an expert. Maybe I should go to Harvard Business School. I have a sudden image of myself in a library, cramming my brain full of business principles. Coming back to England to run a FTSE 100 company. My world would be one of ideas and strategy. Cerebral, high-level thought.

I’m just Googling Harvard overseas students when Deborah reappears.

“So, the students should be assembled by now,” she gulps, sounding desperate.

“Oh, OK.” I drag my attention back to her. What on earth is her problem? Maybe she’s new. Maybe this is her first-ever recruitment presentation and that’s why she’s so twitchy.

I refresh my lip gloss, trying to avoid the sight of my bloodshot eyes. Looking suicidal, Deborah disappears through the double doors onto the stage. I can hear her indistinct voice rising above the hubbub. After a few moments there’s a round of applause, and I nudge Steve, who’s just bitten into a croissant. Typical.

“Come on! We’re on!”

As I stride onto the little stage and see our audience, I can’t help doing a double take.

Recruiting for a science company, you get used to students who shamble in, hair unwashed, unshaved, with bags under their eyes. But this lot are stunning. There’s a whole cluster of immaculate girls at the front, with long shiny hair, manicured nails, and full makeup. Behind them is a group of super-fit guys, their T-shirts bulging with muscles. I can’t speak for astonishment. What kind of labs do they have here? Ones with treadmills incorporated?

“They look great!” I murmur encouragingly to Deborah. “Top marks for presentation.”

“Well … we do advise them to make an effort,” she says, reddening before she hurries off. I glance over at Steve, who is peering at the beautiful girls as if he can hardly believe his luck.

“Welcome, everyone!” I head to the front of the stage. “Thanks for coming today. My name is Lottie Graveney, and I’m here to talk to you about choosing a career at Blay Pharmaceuticals. You’ll know us best for the range of global brands we sell at the pharmacy, from our Placidus range of painkillers to our bestselling Sincero baby cream. But a career with us is so much more than that—”

“It’s an exciting career.” Steve practically elbows me out of the way. “Yes, it’ll challenge you, but it’ll thrill you. We’re working right at the edge of pioneering research and we want to take you on that roller coaster with us.”

I glare at him. He’s tragic. First of all, that’s not the script. Second, where has that fake “sexy” voice come from? Third, he’s now rolling up his sleeves, as though he’s some sort of rugged, pharmaceutical-research version of Indiana Jones. He really shouldn’t. His forearms are all white and veiny.

“If you want an adventure in life …” He pauses for effect and practically growls, “Then this is the place to start.”

He’s homed in on a girl in the front row, whose white shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a deep, tanned cleavage. She has long blond hair and big blue eyes and seems to be scribbling down every word he’s saying.

“Let’s show the DVD, Steve,” I say brightly, dragging him away before he actually drools over her. The lights dim and our first DVD clip starts rolling on the screen behind us.

“Bright lot,” whispers Steve as he sits down beside me. “I’m impressed.”

Impressed by what? Her bra size?

“You can’t know if they’re bright yet,” I point out. “We haven’t talked to them.”

“You can see it in the eyes,” Steve says airily. “I’ve been at this game long enough to know potential when I see it. That fair-haired girl in the front row looks very promising. Very promising. We should talk to her about the scholarship program. Scoop her up before any of the other pharmaceutical companies get to her.”

For God’s sake. He’ll be offering her a six-figure contract next.

“We’ll give them all information about the scholarship program,” I say severely. “And maybe you could try not to address every remark to her boobs?”

The lights come up and Steve strides center stage, pushing his sleeves up still farther, as though he’s about to split some lumber and single-handedly construct a cabin with it.

“Let me share with you a few of the newest advances we’ve made and those we hope to make in the future. Maybe with your help.” He twinkles at the blond girl, and she smiles back politely.

Onto the screen comes a picture of a complicated molecule.

“You’ll all be familiar with onium-poly hydrogen fluorides.…” Steve gestures at the screen with a pointer, then stops. “Before I continue, it would be useful to know what you’re studying.” He looks around. “There’ll be biochemists here, obviously—”

“It doesn’t matter what they study!” Deborah cuts him off sharply before anyone can answer. To my surprise, she’s leapt up out of her seat and is heading toward the stage. “It doesn’t matter what they study, surely?”

She’s as tense as a spring. What’s going on?

“It’s just a useful guide,” explains Steve. “If all the biochemists could raise their hands—”

“But you take students from all subjects.” She cuts him off. “You say so in your materials. So it’s irrelevant, surely?”

She looks panicky. I knew something was wrong.

“Any biochemists at all?” Steve is looking at the silent room, baffled. Normally, at least half our audience is biochemists.

Deborah is ashen. “Could we have a word?” she says at last, and beckons us desperately to one side. “I’m afraid …” Her voice trembles. “There was an error. I sent the email to the wrong set of students.”

So that’s it. She’s left out the biochemists. What an idiot. But she looks so upset, I decide to be kind.

“We’re very open-minded,” I say reassuringly. “We’re not only interested in biochemists. We also recruit graduates in physics, biology, business studies.… What are these students studying?”

There’s silence. Deborah is furiously chewing her lips.

“Beauty,” she mutters at last. “Most are trainee makeup artists. And some are dancers.”

Makeup artists and dancers?

I’m so flummoxed I can’t reply. No wonder they’re all so stunning and fit. I catch a glimpse of Steve—and he looks so gutted I suddenly want to giggle.

“That’s a shame,” I say innocently. “Steve thought this seemed a very promising bunch. He wanted to offer them all scientific research scholarships. Didn’t you, Steve?”

Steve scowls evilly at me and rounds on Deborah. “What the fuck is going on? Why are we giving a lecture on a career in pharmaceutical research to a room full of bloody makeup artists and dancers?”

“I’m sorry!” Deborah looks like she wants to weep. “By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. I’ve been set a target of attracting more blue-chip companies, and you’re such a prestigious firm, I couldn’t bear to cancel—”

“Does anyone here want to work in pharmaceutical research?” Steve addresses the room.

No one raises their hand. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I got up at six A.M. to be here. Not that I’d been asleep, but still.

“So what are you doing here?” Steve sounds like he’s going to explode.

“We have to go to ten career seminars to get our career-search credit,” says a girl with a bobbing ponytail.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve picks up his jacket from his chair. “I do not have time for this.” As he stalks out of the auditorium, I feel like doing the same thing myself. I’ve never met anyone as incompetent as Deborah in my life.

But, on the other hand, there’s still a roomful of students watching me. They all still need a career, even if it’s not in pharmaceutical research. And I’ve come all the way from London. I’m not just turning round and going home.

“OK.” I take the remote from Deborah, flip off the DVD, and walk center stage. “Let’s start again. I don’t work in the beauty industry or the dance industry. So there’s not much point me advising you on that. But I do employ people. So, how about I try to give some general advice? Do you have any questions for me?”

There’s silence. Then a girl in a leather jacket hesitantly lifts her hand.

“Could you look at my CV and tell me if it’s any good?”

“Of course. Good idea. Anyone else want me to look at theirs?”

A forest of arms shoots up. I’ve never seen such a well-manicured selection of hands in my life.

“OK. Form a line. That’s what we’ll do.”

Two hours later, I’ve scanned the CVs of about thirty students. (If Deborah is their CV adviser, then Deborah should be fired. That’s all I’m saying.) I’ve done a Q and A session on pensions and tax returns and self-employment law. I’ve shared all the advice I think might help these guys. And in return I’ve learned a lot about many areas I was totally ignorant of, such as: 1) How you make someone look wounded in a movie; 2) which actress currently filming in London seems really sweet but is actually a total bitch to her makeup artist; and 3) how you do a grand jeté (I failed on that one).

Now I’ve opened the floor to any subject at all, and a pale girl with pink streaky hair is speaking about the cost of shellac and how difficult it is to make the margins work if you want to open your own salon. I’m listening and trying to make helpful comments, but my attention keeps being drawn to another girl, sitting in the second row. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she hasn’t said a word, but she keeps fingering her phone and blowing her nose and dabbing her tissue to her eyes.

There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—

No, Lottie. Don’t go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.

“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.

Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.

“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”

“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”

“Of course!” I say. “Absolutely!”

“But will she still get the credit?” chimes in another friend anxiously. “Because she’s already failed one module.”

“It’s all his fault,” says the first friend viciously, and about ten girls nod in agreement, murmuring things like “It so is” and “Tosser” and “He can’t do a smoky eye.”

“We were together for two years.” The pale girl gives another sob. “Two whole years. I did half his coursework for him. And now he’s all like, ‘I need to focus on my career.’ I thought he wanted to be with meeee.…” She dissolves into prolonged weeping and I stare at her, tears starting to my eyes. I know her pain. I know it.

“Of course you’ll get the credit,” I say warmly. “In fact, I’ll give you a special mention for turning up when you’re clearly in mental distress.”

“Will you?” Cindy gives me a watery smile. “Will you really?”

“But you have to listen to me, OK? You have to listen to me.”

I’m feeling a gathering urge to speak off-topic. To convey a universal truth, not about pensions, not about tax breaks, but about love. Or not-love. Or whatever limbo place we’re both in. I know it’s not in my remit, but this girl needs to know. She needs to know. My heart is beating strongly. I feel noble and inspirational, like Helen Mirren or Michelle Obama.

“Let me say one thing to you,” I begin. “Woman to woman. Professional to professional. Human being to human being.” My eyes fix on hers intently. “Don’t let a breakup ruin your life.” I feel so galvanized. I feel so sure of myself. I’m burning with my message. “You’re strong.” I tick off on my fingers. “You’re independent. You have your own life, and you don’t need him. OK?”

I wait until she whispers, “OK.”

“We’ve all had breakups.” I raise my voice to take in the whole room. “The answer isn’t to cry. The answer isn’t to eat chocolate or plot revenge. You need to move on. Every time I’ve had a breakup, do you know what I’ve done? I’ve taken my life in a new direction. I’ve found myself an exciting new project. I’ve changed my look. I’ve moved house. Because I’m in charge of my life, thank you.” I pound my fist in my palm. “Not some guy who can’t even do a smoky eye.”

A couple of girls break into applause, and Cindy’s friend whoops supportively. “That’s what I said! He’s a waste of space!”

“No more crying,” I say for emphasis. “No more tissues. No more checking your phone to see if he’s called. No more stuffing your face with chocolate. Move your life on. Fresh horizons. If I can do it, you can.”

Cindy is gawping at me as though I’m a mind reader.

“But you’re strong,” she gulps at last. “You’re amazing. I’m not like you. I never will be, even when I’m your age.”

She’s looking at me with such wonder, I can’t help feeling touched, even though she doesn’t have to behave as though I’m such a dinosaur. I mean, I’m only thirty-three, not a hundred.

“Of course you will,” I say confidently. “You know, I was like you once. I was quite timid. I had no idea what I would do in life or what my potential was. I was an eighteen-year-old kid, floundering around.” I can feel my All-Purpose Motivational Speech coming on. Do I have time to give it? I glance at my watch. Just about. The short version. “I was lost. Exactly like you feel now. But then I went on my gap year.”

I’ve told this story many, many times. At student events, at team-building seminars, at preparation sessions for personnel going on sabbaticals. I never get bored of telling it, and it always gives me a tingle.

“I went on my gap year,” I repeat, “and my whole life changed. I changed as a person. One pivotal night transformed me.” I take a few steps forward and look directly at Cindy. “You know my theory of life? We all have special defining moments which set us on a path. I had my biggest defining moment on my gap year. You just need to have your own big moment. And you will.”

“What happened?” She’s agog, and so are all the others. I can even see someone switching off their iPod.

“I was staying at a guest house on Ikonos,” I explain. “It’s a Greek island. It was packed full of gap-year travelers, and I was there all summer. It was a magical place.”

Every time I tell this story, it brings back the same memories. Waking every morning to the Greek sun dazzling my eyelids. The feel of seawater on sunburned skin. Bikinis hung over peeling wooden shutters to dry. Sand in my trodden-down espadrilles. Fresh sardines grilled on the beach. Music and dancing every night.

“Anyway. One night there was a fire.” I force myself back to the present. “It was terrible. The guest house was packed with people. I mean, it was a death trap. Everyone came out onto the upstairs veranda, but no one could get down; everyone was screaming; there weren’t even any fire extinguishers.…”

Every time I remember that night, it’s the same flashback: the moment the roof fell in. I can hear the thunderous sound and the screams. I can smell the smoke.

The room is utterly silent as I carry on.

“I had a vantage point. I was up in the tree house. I could see where people should be heading. You could jump off the side of the veranda onto the top of a nearby goat shed, only no one had realized. Everyone was panicking. So I took charge. I started directing people. I had to yell to be heard, and wave my arms, and jump up and down like a mad thing, but finally someone noticed me, and then they all listened. They followed my instructions. They all jumped off the veranda onto the shed one by one, and they were all OK. It was the first time in my life that I realized I could be a leader. I could make a difference.”

The room is absolutely still.

“Oh my God.” Cindy exhales at last. “How many people?”

“Ten?” I shrug. “Twelve?”

“You saved twelve lives?” She sounds awestruck.

“Well, who knows?” I try to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m sure they would have been saved anyway. The point is, I realized something about myself.” I clasp my hands to my chest. “From that moment on, I had the confidence to go for what I wanted. I changed course, changed all my ideas. I can honestly say, it all dates from that point. That was my big defining moment. That was when I became the person I am. And you’ll all have your defining moments. I know you will.”

I always relive the moment and feel a little overcome when I tell that story. It was so terrifying. That’s the bit I never put in: how scared and panicky I was, shrieking through the breeze, desperate to be heard, knowing it was all down to me. I blow my nose and smile around at the silent faces. I made a difference. That mantra has stayed with me all these years. I made a difference. Whatever else I do that’s crap and stupid, I made a difference.

There’s silence in the room. Then the blond girl in the front row stands up.

“You’re the best careers adviser we’ve ever had. Isn’t she?” To my astonishment, she leads a round of applause. A couple of girls even cheer.

“I’m sure I’m not,” I say hastily.

“Yes, you are,” she insists. “You’re ace. Can we say thank you properly?”

“You’re absolutely welcome.” I smile politely. “It’s been a pleasure to be here, and good luck with your careers—”

“That’s not what I mean.” She approaches the platform, brandishing a massive black roll of brushes at me. “I’m Jo. Fancy a makeover?”

“Oh.” I hesitate and glance at my watch. “I couldn’t. I mean, that’s very kind of you—”

“Don’t take this personally,” says Jo kindly. “But you need it. Your eyes are dead puffy. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“Oh.” I stiffen. “Yes. Yes, I did, thanks. Plenty of sleep. Loads.”

“Well, you need some different eye cream, then. Whatever you’re using really isn’t working.” She’s peering closely at my face now. “And your nose is red. You haven’t been … crying?”

“Crying?” I try not to sound too defensive. “Of course not!”

Jo has ushered me into a plastic chair and is gently patting the skin round my eyes. She sucks in breath, like a builder assessing someone else’s dodgy plastering job.

“I’m sorry, but your skin’s in a terrible state.” She beckons over a couple of friends, who pull equally dismayed faces at the sight of my eyes.

“Ooh, that’s painful.”

“Your eyes are all pink!”

“Well, I’ve no idea why that is.” I aim for an easy smile. “None. None at all.”

“You must have an allergy to something!” says Jo in sudden inspiration.

“Yes.” I seize on this idea. “That’ll be it. An allergy.”

“What makeup do you use? Can you show me?”

I reach for my bag and pull the zip open, but it’s stuck.

“Let me,” says Jo, and reaches for it before I can stop her. Shit. I don’t particularly want anyone seeing the massive Galaxy bar I bought in WHSmith this morning and half consumed while waiting for Steve (moment of weakness).

“I’ll do it,” I say, grabbing it back. But her hand is already wrenching open the zip, and somehow the whole thing gets jostled and jerked, and before I know it the half-Galaxy has been tossed out of the bag, together with a mostly drunk miniature bottle of white wine (further moment of weakness). And the shreds of a ripped-up photo of Richard (even further moment of weakness).

“Sorry!” Jo says in horror, gathering the shreds. “I’m so sorry! What’s—” She looks more closely. “Is that a photo? What happened to it?”

“Here’s your chocolate,” volunteers another girl, holding out the Galaxy.

“And I think this might be an old Valentine?” says her friend, gingerly picking up a charred piece of glittery card. “But it looks like it’s been … burned?”

I did it with a match in a coffee cup in Costa before they told me to stop. (Ultimate moment of weakness.)

Richard’s eye is staring at me out of a fragment of photo, and I feel my insides heave with sudden grief. I can detect a few meaningful looks passing between the girls, but I don’t have any words. I can’t find a noble and inspirational way out of this one. Jo turns and surveys my bloodshot eyes again. Then she springs into life and starts stuffing all the things back into my bag.

“Anyway,” she says briskly, “the most important thing is making you look totally fabulous. That’ll show … whoever.” She winks at me. “Or whatever. It might take a bit of time. Are you up for it?”

This is the answer. I don’t know what the question is, but this is the answer. I’m sitting in a chair with my eyes closed, in a state of near bliss as my face is brushed and penciled by my new best friend Jo and her fellow students. They’ve sprayed my face with foundation and put rollers in my hair and they keep changing their mind about which eye look to give me, but I’m barely listening. I’m in a trance. I don’t care if I’ll be late back to the office. I’m zoned out. I keep drifting off to sleep and half waking up and my mind is a swirl of dream and color and thought.

Every time I find myself thinking of Richard, I wrench my mind away. Move on. Move on, move on. I’m going to be OK, I’m going to be fine. I just need to take my own advice. Find a new mission. A new track. Something to focus on.

Maybe I’ll redecorate my flat. Or maybe I should take up martial arts. I could start a course of intensive training and get super-fit. Cut all my hair off and get amazing biceps like Hilary Swank.

Or pierce my belly button. Richard hates pierced belly buttons. That’s what I should do.

Or maybe I should travel. Why have I not traveled more?

My thoughts keep drifting back to Ikonos. It was an amazing summer, until the fire happened and the police arrived and everything disbanded in chaos. I was so young. I was so thin. I lived in cutoff shorts and a string-bikini top. I had beads in my hair. And of course there was Ben, my first proper boyfriend. My first relationship. Dark hair and crinkly blue eyes and the smell of sweat and salt and Aramis. God, how much sex did we have? Three times a day, at least. And when we weren’t having sex we were thinking about sex. It was insane. It was like a drug. He was the first guy I ever felt so hot for that I wanted to …

Wait. Wait a minute.

Ben?

My eyes pop open and Jo cries out in dismay. “Keep still!”

It couldn’t be. Surely.

“Sorry.” I blink, trying to stay composed. “Actually … can we pause a moment? I need to make a call.”

I turn away, rummage for my phone, and press Kayla’s speed dial, telling myself not to be stupid. It can’t be him. It’s not him.

Obviously it’s not him.

“Lottie, hi,” comes Kayla’s voice. “Everything OK?”

Why would he be phoning me after all this time? It’s been fifteen years, for God’s sake. We haven’t been in touch since … Well. Since then.

“Hey, Kayla. I just wanted the number of that guy Ben.” I try to sound relaxed. “The one who called yesterday while I was out, remember?”

Why am I clenching my fingers together?

“Oh yes. Hold on … Here we are.” She dictates a mobile number. “Who is he?”

“I’m … not sure. You’re positive he didn’t give a surname?”

“No, just Ben.”

I ring off and stare at the number. Just Ben. Just Ben.

It’s a cheeky student candidate, I tell myself firmly. It’s a careers officer who thinks we’re on first-name terms. It’s Ben Jones, my neighbor, ringing me at work for some reason. How many people are there in the world called Ben? About five zillion. Precisely.

Just Ben.

But that’s the thing. That’s why my breath is coming just a little short and I’m instinctively sitting up straight in a more attractive manner. Who would call himself that except my old boyfriend?

I punch in the number, close my eyes tight, and wait. The ringing tone sounds. And again. And again.

“Benedict Parr.” There’s a pause. “Hello? It’s Benedict Parr here. Is anyone there?”

I can’t talk. My stomach is doing a little dance.

It’s him.