shaking.
‘What I want is the truth about what you’ve done, but that’s too much to ask from you, isn’t it?’
I make a silent pact that at some point I’m going to tell Ben, at least, the truth about this.
‘I swear I had nothing to do with Zoe selling this story.’
‘Nothing to do with her selling it, or nothing to do with it?’
Lawyers. I hesitate.
‘Nothing to do with it whatsoever.’
‘Alright, she’s answered you,’ Ben says. ‘Let’s call a truce and get back to the office.’
‘Stay out of this,’ he barks, rudely.
‘No,’ Ben says, and I watch two men fighting over me in a way that’s considerably less enjoyable than it’s made to appear onscreen. ‘Stop using her as a punch bag. It’s not her fault this woman and Jon got involved, and it’s not her fault someone’s written about it.’
‘What is it with you two?’ Simon says, looking from Ben to me, feigning amazement. ‘Did she keep the negatives after you broke up, or what?’
Ben ignores this. ‘I know Rachel well enough to know she wouldn’t stitch you up. If she’d turned you over and didn’t give a shit she wouldn’t be here right now, would she?’
‘Maybe it’s for your benefit?’ Simon says, with a very unpleasant curl of the lip.
‘When she didn’t know I’d be here?’ Ben says. Thank you, Ben. ‘When you’ve calmed down you might realise she doesn’t deserve this much abuse.’
The attack-dog glint in Simon’s eyes finally starts to fade. I allow myself to breathe and Simon senses this, drawing himself up to his full height and going in for the kill.
‘You’re a liar. A despicable, miserable, weak little liar who’s sold everyone out and doesn’t even have the guts to admit it.’
‘Jesus, enough!’ Ben cries.
Unperturbed, Simon continues: ‘I’d think more of you if you stood here and said you’d done it and you didn’t care. If I ever see you again it will be a lifetime too soon.’
My shoulders drop, and I know now I couldn’t make many intelligible noises even if I wanted to. I fight the liquid back from my eyes, concentrate on keeping my breathing steady, clench my jaw.
‘OK,’ Ben says, possibly seeing this imminent loss of control and stepping between us. ‘Enough, Simon.’
When he’s satisfied Simon’s verbal onslaught is at an end, he steps out of the way again.
‘Come on.’ He puts a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
Simon shakes him off.
I make a last attempt to steady my voice and gasp out: ‘Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help put this right …’
‘Are you joking?’ Simon spits. ‘Because it’s about as funny as being told the cancer’s spread to the bones.’
‘No.’
‘You’re actually trying to make more for yourself out of this?’
‘That’s not what I—’
Simon looks towards Ben. ‘Whatever she’s got on you, I’d cut her loose.’
He strides off. I definitely can’t speak. I blink at Ben. He stares back.
‘He’s taken this very personally,’ Ben says. ‘As you might’ve picked up.’
‘Ben, this has been a total nightmare, I never meant …’ I try to swallow what’s rising up. My next attempt at speech breaks into speaking-sobbing; it could also be described as a kind of adenoidal howling. ‘I never knew this was going to happen. I worked with Zoe and she was my friend, I never thought she’d do something like this …’
Ben glances left and right, as if we’re in the middle of a drugs deal, and to my total surprise gathers me into a hug. As unexpected as it is, it’s also incredibly welcome, not least as it stops St Ann’s Square’s curious population staring at me. Foremost among them are egg and cress couple, who think they’ve stumbled on some modern guerilla street theatre, a kind of am-dram ‘pop up’. And I’d rather Ben hugged me than looked at me, too; I’m not doing soft-focus Julia-Roberts-esque ‘startled nymph’ crying.
‘I know you didn’t mean this to happen,’ he says, shushing me.
‘You’re the only one who does,’ I say snottily, into the thick material of his coat.
‘Don’t take Simon’s biblical fury too seriously. He’s had a torrid weekend. Journalists called Natalie on Saturday to see if she wanted to “put her side of it” and she completely lost it, rang Simon screaming and crying, a neighbour had to take the kids …’
Bridie, I think. It would’ve been nice hippy-dippy Bridie with the runaway cat. I feel like utter shit.
‘Did he call you?’ I ask, looking up. I don’t know why I want to know.
‘He did, actually. I assured him you wouldn’t have had anything to do with it. I was forbidden to call you. I thought it was easier if we didn’t talk so he couldn’t catch us out on it. He doesn’t need more fuel for his conspiracy theories. How bad’s it been at work?’
‘As bad as it can be without being sacked.’
I wipe at my face with my coat sleeve and my head drops onto Ben’s shoulder again. He puts his hand on the back of my head.
‘Hush, come on, it’ll be forgotten soon enough …’
He moves his hand a fraction and I think he’s moving it away. No. Wait. He’s – stroking my hair? I go tense, hold my breath. Perhaps he feels this as, simultaneously, we break apart.
‘Sorry, sorry, I’m such a mess,’ I mumble, scouring at my running mascara again with the hem of my sleeve.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel. Here I was thinking I was being helpful putting you and Simon in touch,’ Ben says, a notch louder than necessary, returning us to more formality.
‘You were!’ I protest. ‘I’m the one who should apologise.’
‘I’d suggest a stiff drink,’ Ben says. ‘But I don’t think being seen going to the pub with you today would be – erm – politically astute. You understand?’
I nod, manage a weak smile.
‘Tomorrow’s chip paper. Today’s, in fact. It’s at the bottom of litter trays already. Chin up.’
I nod again.
‘You were let down by someone you trusted. Happens to us all,’ he says.
