Never Saw You Coming - Hayley Doyle Page 0,127

reason to go in there or past there. Besides, drinking in Jim’s local without him being there would be totally weird. I’d miss him, which sounds silly, especially since I live in his old flat, but I would.

I thank my cab driver and stand on the sidewalk, looking at the pub in all its faded glory. The windows have intricate globes carefully designed into the glass and a neon orange poster saying ‘Karaoke Wednesdays’ has been not-so-carefully taped against it. The doors are all open, more to allow a cool breeze to enter than invite a crowd, so the mumbled chatter of punters and sports commentary filter towards me.

I step inside.

There are two guys sitting in silence with their arms folded watching the big screen; some sort of track athletics. A much older gentleman is standing at the bar, sipping his beer. Beside the flashing lights of a quiz machine is a gang of men and women, a similar age to me. They could be the after-work crew, all smart shirts with top buttons undone, smart dark trousers and little black dresses. Except their attire isn’t from the office.

‘Whose round is it?’ one guy asks, knocking back his whiskey. He yanks his much shorter friend into a headlock. ‘Come on! Your turn.’

‘No way, Mikey lad. You haven’t bought a drink all day, you stingy fucker,’ the shorter guy shrieks.

Another guy – wearing a long black leather coat, despite the heat – drags himself away from the quiz machine, offering to keep the peace and buy the round. The door to the ladies’ room swings open and a woman with long red hair emerges, marches straight over to the short guy and whacks him across the head. His response is to pull her towards him and smack a kiss on her lips.

Of course, I recognise this gang. Their smiling faces were hanging on the wall of Jim’s kitchen before it became mine. I’ve always wondered if and when those pictures would come to life: perhaps a chance meeting in the queue of Primark or waiting for the 87 bus. Maybe we’ve all been at the Baltic Triangle together, drinking craft beer and eating sourdough pizza, but I just didn’t notice them amongst the crowds. I want to say hello. I want to ask, where’s Jim? But, I linger, like a ghost haunting a past I almost had. Almost.

‘Where’s Jim?’ I hear, but it’s not my voice speaking. It’s the woman, Helen.

‘Left ages ago,’ the shorter guy says. There’s no mistaking that’s Snowy.

‘Should we ring him? Check he’s okay?’

‘Leave him be,’ the guy in the coat says, who must be Griffo. He’s aged the most from the youthful faces I was accustomed to seeing whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, before I packed the collage into a box to be shipped to Dubai. ‘If Jimbo needs time on his own tonight, then that’s what we’ll give him.’ And he swings one arm around Helen and another around the most drunk of them all, Mikey. They both lean their heads on Griffo’s big shoulders.

‘No!’ I hear. Oh my God. It’s me. I’ve spoken out loud.

Helen catches my eye before I shoot my glance to my painted toes popping out of my sandals. I’ve just forced myself into a private conversation between a gang of strangers, and why? Because I selfishly want them to call their grieving friend so I can … what? Catch up with him? Until today, Jim and I hadn’t spoken in more than a year and a half. We never parted ways badly, because we’d already parted. We never broke up, because we never got the chance to be together. We never did anything, because in many ways, we gave each other everything we ever needed.

So this, whatever I’m trying to do right now, is a mistake.

‘Are you alright, love?’ Snowy asks.

I smile and point to the big screen. There is a woman from Finland doing the pole vault and the slow-motion replay is showing her failure. I’ve never been more grateful for somebody failing.

‘Oh, no,’ I say, giving a terrible acting performance. I even slap my palm to my head. ‘I’m devastated for her.’

‘You American?’ Mikey asks.

Griffo gives him a shove with his elbow.

‘No, Mikey,’ he says. ‘She’s Finnish.’

It’s my cue to leave. I am wonderful improvising with a pencil, but not with my words.

‘Bye,’ I say.

Helen narrows her eyes, but the sing-song of ‘ta-ra’ from the guys allows me to leave the Pacific Arms with a small spot of dignity remaining. If I could only leave. I reach the open doors and stop, deflated from my spontaneous idea not working out. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way and I don’t like it, don’t appreciate how it’s making me feel. I shouldn’t have come. I stopped putting myself in situations where the likelihood of disappointment was far greater than the wish. And it’s worked for me, so far.

For me?

Who did I come here for? For Jim? Or for me?

And if Jim was here, what good could come from us seeing each other anyway, when we live so far apart? I mean, perhaps it would have been lovely to sit down face-to-face over a drink. But when it comes to Jim and me, it’s always been perhaps. Which is why it never was.

The sun has started to lower. Through the pub windows it casts a sharp orange hue against the overbearing greyness of the sidewalk. I twist around, catch a glimpse of the gang again, all talking loudly over one another. I’m going to go home and pour myself a nice cold gin and tonic, add a slice of lime, open the windows and put a record on. Fleetwood Mac, maybe.

I leave the Pacific Arms, and there, on the street; there he is.

‘I would say, fancy seeing you here,’ Jim says. ‘But, you live here.’

‘And you don’t,’ I say.

He’s holding a portion of chips from Wong’s wrapped in paper, a salty warmth that I’m more than familiar with lacing the short space between us.

‘Hungry?’ I ask.

‘Not particularly. Mr Wong only gave them to me when he realised I’d been waiting so long.’

‘Why? Is Wong’s really busy tonight?’

‘No, love,’ he says, taking a step closer to me. ‘Wong’s isn’t really busy tonight.’

‘Oh. So why were you waiting so long?’

Jim gives me that one-sided smile and I can’t work out whether he’s amused or irritated.

‘Oh!’ I say.

‘Yep,’ he says.

‘You weren’t waiting for chips, were you?’

‘Nope.’

And as we stand there between the pub and the chip shop, in a place that we’ve both had the pleasure of calling home, there is no almost. There is no perhaps.

All there is is now.

Acknowledgements

This book was born from a journey in itself, from taking a risk after being stuck in a rut and turning that risk into a whole new life. So an eternal thank you must go to Dubai, the United Arab Emirates, for becoming my second home for seven years. To all the wonderful expats I lived and worked amongst, from the forever friends to the acquaintances; we made memories to cherish always. All of you opened my eyes and my heart to something new, something different. Thank you.

And, of course, thank you to the city of Liverpool, a place I’m lucky to always call home.

A huge thank you to Camilla Bolton, my agent at Darley Anderson. Camilla, you got me. To the Rights and TV/Film team at Darley Anderson; Mary, Kristina and Georgia, and Sheila in TV and Film; to Celine Kelly, for your initial belief in this story, and to Roya Sarrafi-Gohar for reading with such a sharp eye for detail. Thank you all so much. To Helen Huthwaite and her lovely team at Avon, , thank you for welcoming me to your family with so much warmth and smiles.

Thank you to David Runacre-Beck for the broken brainstorming chats between chasing toddlers around London; to Owen Walters for his super-sharp and efficient advice on flashy cars; to DC David Purcell for the facts and helping to keep them creative; to Rose-Mary and Luca and their delightful staff at Two Spoons, Honor Oak Park, where I endlessly wrote over brunch, lunch and coffee (decaf while pregnant!).

For supporting and believing, I’m eternally grateful to my Scouse family. Angela and Paul – my mum and dad – you allowed me to dream whilst keeping my head screwed on.

And thank you to Oli, who I dedicate this book to. My husband, best friend and wonderful daddy to our bears, you’ve been by my side long before the first word and you’re always on the journey with me.