And I take her into my arms, as any good friend would, and hug her tight. She hugs me back, a final line now drawn in permanent marker.
‘So, come on,’ she says, wiping her tears on her sleeve. ‘Who is she?’
I’m not sure that one of my heart-to-hearts with Helen is what I should be doing right now, but we can’t change a lifetime’s habits in the space of a few minutes. So I give a slight nod, ready, perhaps, to admit who’s at the absolute forefront of my mind.
‘Zara.’
27
Zara
Right. I’m almost packed.
I feel fresh, rested. What would this morning have been like if I’d woken up beside Jim, naked? Oh my God. My stomach does a whirl like a ferris wheel in overdrive. What a relief, surely. A random fuck with the guy whose car I smashed up wouldn’t have solved anything. Would it? Even if it had been wonderful; the most memorable sex of my life; the sort that makes my heart race like it’s doing right now?
Stop.
Maybe sex was never on the cards. Just a kiss. And what if that kiss had been awkward, the kind where we each predicted the wrong rhythm? What if it was sloppy? He might be the kind to get his teeth involved; his perfect teeth. Then again, maybe it would have been soft, delicate, and completely in tune with my desires. The flutter of something special on the horizon …
Oh, stop!
Snap out of it, Zara. Now.
It’s not as if I can endure another long-distance relationship, one that will no doubt be as unsuccessful as the last. We can’t make promises that neither can keep. Even with the best intentions in the world, these things just never work out. I’ve learnt this the hard way, and Jim watched the entire lesson being taught. This is obviously why he’s left without saying goodbye. Our meeting was an accident. A bad one that ended quite well. But it has ended.
I give the room a final check. All clear.
Except on the dressing table beside the empty wine-stained coffee cups. A note.
Sorry got to dash. Forget the money, life’s too short. Have a good one, Jim x
Ha. He doesn’t want the damn money after all. That’s a relief. I guess.
No, of course it’s a relief, and actually, quite a nice – no, generous – gesture. But …
Have a good one.
HAVE A GOOD ONE?!
Jeez. Same to you too, Jim.
‘Nothing until tonight,’ I’m told at the airport. It’s noon.
I accept a seat on tonight’s flight and leave my suitcases and broken holdall in the airport’s storage facility, not before layering myself with an extra two t-shirts beneath my zebra print sweater. I remember a cream beret that I packed. What a shame I hadn’t thought of that yesterday. I pull it over my clean, blow-dried hair.
I buy some glossy magazine and a Kinder Bueno and head to the London Underground. I haven’t been to Covent Garden since my boarding school days; a trip to see the matinee of Miss Saigon. Killing time in the West End is going to be much more interesting than sitting around the terminal, waiting all day to check in. Settling on the tube train, I open the magazine and nibble the chocolate. But the latest weight-loss tips and reality-star scandals won’t distract me from yesterday, from last night. I zone out.
Oh, Jim. Jim Glover. Who’s not even on Facebook.
‘There’s no going backwards,’ I murmur, aloud, not giving two hoots how crazy I might seem to my fellow passengers. ‘Only forwards.’
‘Deep,’ some guy says, sitting opposite.
I nod, agreeing, although deeply wishing I knew where the hell to go forwards to.
Ah, damn. I miss my stop.
I get off at Kings Cross St Pancras to change trains, but God, there are SO MANY people. It’s stressful and hectic. I feel the need to get out of the Underground, and fast, so I wander into St Pancras International.
For a train station, this is a delight.
I sample all of the Jo Malone fragrances, and as a result smell like a walking, talking florist. I buy a Chanel lipstick for Katie, my way of saying sorry, you were right.
But what I really need is a drink.
I don’t fancy the rowdiness of a British pub, so I go to the champagne bar.
‘A Merlot, please,’ I say, pointing to the second cheapest on the wine list.