made Phil wait a month before she slept with him. That was more her speed. And it had been well worth the wait. More than worth it. He was the first and – still – only man she had ever had sex with. Her high-school boyfriend. They’d stayed together all through the university years, him at the University of the West of England in Bristol, her at Durham, which were two places about as far apart as you could get in England. A true long-distance relationship, a true test of their devotion, then they’d moved back to their hometown, back to the village of Stockton Heath, where they’d rented a house together, and set off on the final leg of their journey to marriage and kids.
Until she decided that she wasn’t ready, that she needed to live a little before settling down. She comforted herself that she could always go back to him, if she needed to. That made the decision a bit easier, although not for him. He hadn’t taken the break-up all that well. Truth be told, he’d taken it very, very badly. He called her early in the morning before work and late at night, drunk in his friend Andy’s flat, where he was living until he sorted out something permanent, or from outside some nightclub or, once, from the bathroom in the house of a girl he’d gone home with. He’d told her he’d moved on, found someone else.
Why are you calling me from her bathroom at two a.m., then? she’d said, aware that it was mean to mock him, but it was the middle of the night and she was tired and frustrated.
Fuck you, he’d replied, his voice wavering as though he was on the verge of tears. Just fuck you, Kate.
So yes, it was fair to say he hadn’t taken it very well, which was part of the reason she’d come away. At home he was a constant presence, so she struggled to get any perspective. She needed some space, some distance between them, some time with her girlfriends, doing nothing but relaxing on the beach in the day and going out at night.
Her friends. They’d be freaking out. She leaned over and looked at the pile of her clothes on the floor. A knee-length red summer dress, black lace underwear, strappy high-heels. All bought with this holiday in mind. All bought with the thought that she needed to look good in the pubs and clubs of her holiday destination.
And to look good for what? So she could wake up in a stranger’s bed? No, not for that, but, damn it, that was what had happened, and she was not happy about it, not happy at all.
Her bag was next to the clothes. She reached down and grabbed it, then took out her phone. There were a bunch of missed calls from Phil, but then she’d been getting those all week. She’d not answered any of them. She’d come here to get away; the last thing she needed was a long, emotional conversation with her ex. There were also missed calls from May and Gemma, and a bunch of text messages. She scrolled through them.
2:02 a.m., from May:
Where are you?
2:21 a.m., again from May:
For fuck’s sake, Kate, pick up your phone! Where are you? We’re worried!
2.25 a.m., this time from Gemma’s phone. She imagined the conversation, pictured May speaking: Perhaps my phone’s not working, maybe the messages aren’t getting through, let’s try yours and then the message:
Did you leave with that guy? You need to message us, now.
And then, her reply, at 2.43 a.m.:
Hi! I’m fine. I’m with the guy from the nightclub, Mike. He’s really nice! Don’t worry, I’ll see you in the morning.
God, she’d been drunk. She didn’t remember sending it, couldn’t place it in the timeline of the night. Was it before they arrived at his place? After? She had no idea.
She typed another message.
On my way back. See you soon. I feel like a dirty stop-out.
She put her feet on the cold tiled floor and reached for her clothes. Now for the hard part. Now she had to face Mike and then get the hell out of there.
She pulled her clothes on, pushing the thought from her mind that she was going to have to do the walk of shame through the morning streets of this Turkish resort, everyone who saw her dressed in her evening clothes fully aware that she had gone home with someone and was now making her way back to her own accommodation.
She didn’t care. She’d never see those people again, and she’d never do this again. All she wanted was to get back, shower, sleep, and forget this had ever happened.
The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open and walked into the apartment. It was a typical holiday apartment: an open-plan kitchen and living room, with two bedrooms: the one she had woken up in, and one which still had the door closed. Presumably one of Mike’s friend’s was still asleep in it.
All the more reason to get out of there.
He was sitting on the couch, a mug of coffee in his hand, one bare foot on the tiled floor, the other tucked under his thigh. He looked up from his iPad and smiled at her.
‘Morning, Kate,’ he said. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Great,’ Kate said. Awfully badly, she thought. And why did I just lie?
‘Would you like a drink? Orange juice? Coffee? Tea?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Beer?’
‘What?’ she said, her voice little more than a croak. ‘Are you kidding?’
He grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’
Kate blushed. ‘Right. Sorry. Of course you are. I’m feeling a little delicate.’
‘Me too. They make strong drinks here.’ He drained his coffee, then untucked his foot and stood up. ‘I think I need a refill. You want one?’
She didn’t. Even though they hadn’t, in the end, had sex, she still didn’t want to spend a single minute more here. The grubbiness of her hangover mixed with the memory of throwing herself at him and produced a horrible self-loathing. But she also didn’t want to be rude; he looked so hopeful. And a coffee did sound good.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Maybe a quick one. Then I have to get going.’
‘If you need to be somewhere, I understand,’ he said. He had a neutral accent which was hard to place, although she thought she detected the flat vowels of the north. Lancashire, maybe. ‘You don’t need to hang around if you don’t want to.’
‘No,’ Kate said. ‘It’s fine. A coffee would be nice. Thanks.’
He crossed the white-tiled floor to the kitchen and took a mug from a cupboard. He filled it from a stove-top coffee maker. He was wearing chinos and an olive green T-shirt and was maybe ten years older than her, in his late thirties, with a lean, wiry body. His movements were precise and deliberate, but graceful – almost balletic – and he was handsome in a severe, school-teacherly kind of way. He was very different to Phil, a stocky, broad-shouldered rugby player who was anything but precise and balletic. His friends called him clumsy; he said he was too strong for his own good. Either way, it was one of the things she had loved about him.
There
