‘Rich, you can’t keep doing this to me.’ Sounding broken is even worse than sounding whiny. Who even am I? ‘You can’t keep claiming you’re into me and that you love me and want to see me, then doing this crap. I can’t handle the hot and cold! We’re both nearly thirty for fuck’s sake, not twenty-one.’ I take a deep shaky breath. ‘You treat me like shit. You’re late for dates, you don’t reply to my texts for hours – even though I can see the blue ticks, man! And I know you’re still seeing other women. Why are you doing this to me?’
And why do I keep letting you? – I don’t ask. Instead I hang up and sink down on the step. The stone is cold through my thick black tights and I pull my coat around me feeling foolish in my slinky dress. I thought tonight was going to be so lovely. He promised to take me to a nice restaurant. I got the night off work because he made such a big thing of it. This was meant to make up for the last time he treated me like shit with barely an explanation.
I have to hold onto the anger. If it goes away, I will cry. I can’t cry, I hate crying. I’ve cried so much in the seven months since I’ve been seeing Rich. I know it isn’t working with him, I know this is all so dysfunctional and miserable. But I can’t leave. Why can’t I walk away? What is wrong with me? I know this is wrong but I keep going back.
Focus on the anger.
Why do I keep getting seduced into thinking things will change? Why do I keep believing him when he says he wants me? The trouble is that he’s so fucking charming when we’re together. He is so beautiful and sexy and so persuasive.
I shouldn’t have shouted on the phone just now. Something might have happened to him this time. What if he’s lying by the roadside, having been hit by a bus, and when the police retrieve his phone, all they’ll hear is me shouting and calling this poor accident victim a bastard?
I will just call him one last time. I should say I’m sorry.
Someone takes the phone from my hand, sitting down beside me.
‘Hello, dear.’ It’s my elderly neighbour from upstairs. I think her name is Sophie? She’s from France or some other sexy European place.
‘Oh!’ I am too surprised to respond properly. I don’t know whether to be angry or confused that she’s taken my phone. Especially when I watch her slide it into her coat pocket. ‘Um, can I—’ I begin but she lightly shushes me.
‘I don’t know that we’ve met properly,’ she says and smiles sweetly. ‘I live above your noisy flat? I am Sofia.’ She offers me a gnarled hand and I take it, feeling foolish. It’s soft as fuck. This is not someone who has worked hard.
‘I’m Esther,’ I tell her and my throat sounds dry. Dry from too much shrieking and crying into a phone. ‘Sorry we didn’t introduce ourselves when you moved in. Have you settled in OK?’
She nods cheerfully. ‘Your friend Louise knocked,’ she explains. ‘She told me all your names and life stories. She brought me biscuits. I ate them but they were not very nice.’
‘That sounds like Lou,’ I sniff.
We sit quietly for a minute and I shiver in the cold.
‘Are you cold?’ she asks nicely and I nod.
‘A little bit.’ I glance over at the elderly woman beside me. ‘Um, may I have my phone back, please?’
She ignores my request, leaning back on her hands.
‘I have a policy,’ she smiles at me. ‘People who make you cold are not worth your time.’ She looks up at the night sky. It’s too cloudy to see much but I look too anyway. I want to see what she sees. ‘You can be outside in December, wearing nothing but your pants’ – she smiles again coyly – ‘and believe me, Esther, Ihave– but if you’re with someone kind and special, you won’t be cold.’ I stare down now.
Hold onto the anger, I tell myself sternly. No tears.
She continues in her soft voice, that French accent coming through more now.
‘This man you have been shouting at down the phone, he istrès froid.’ She reaches across to take my hand. Her fingers are warm. ‘He has left you out here in the cold. He has made you cold. You could be sitting by a fire in your woolliest of jumpers and you would feelfroidwith this man.’
I do feel so cold. I’ve felt cold for months.
‘Are your friends inside?’ she says after a moment. ‘They are good girls. They will warm you up. Keep them close and they will make you warm, Esther.’
She stands up, her hand still in mine and together, we go inside.
Sofia doesn’t give me back my phone for two days and when she does, there are no calls or messages waiting from Rich.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I almost don’t recognize him when he walks in. He’s the same dangerously gorgeous Rich I knew a year ago, but he’s also completely unrecognizable. His demeanour is different, something in his eyes has changed and he’s almost smaller for it.
Was this me? Did I do this to him? Surely not.
He spots me and shuffles closer, smiling weakly.
