whilst my mind races. He sounds totally normal. Not like he had an illicit lunch today or has anything to hide.
‘I’ve got something delicious for you to munch on,’ he says. ‘It’s very high in protein. Good for the skin, too.’
I pause. That’s normally the kind of absurdly obscene comment that would make me giggle. But I can’t. Fear has sucked the giggles out of me.
‘Oh, alright, I suppose we should eat before we eat,’ he grumbles. ‘See you at Odette’s in half an hour?’
‘Make it an hour,’ I say. I need time to prepare, physically and mentally.
‘Ah, the elusive Miss Wood. It’s a deal,’ he says, and hangs up.
I can hardly eat at dinner, or speak, but Dave doesn’t seem to notice. He goes on and on about his day, and his latest deal, and tells me I look gorgeous. I’m trying to keep my end of the conversation up, but I feel like a moth pinned to one of those Victorian wall-hangings. Fluttering with panic and unable to move.
‘I saw Bella today,’ he says, towards the end of our meal, as he pours me another glass of wine. At least I can still drink.
‘Really?’ I choke out, staring into my glass so I can avoid eye contact. ‘How is she?’
‘Great, fine,’ he says. ‘She was in London for a work thing, wanted to catch up. After a free lunch, I expect. She’s a bit embarrassed about being such a bitch in France, wanted to apologise. She and Ollie were having problems.’
‘Are she and Ollie OK now?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ says Dave dismissively. He’s not interested in other people’s relationships, he’s told me that before. ‘If you’ll excuse me, angel, I have to use the – what is it you always say?’
‘The euphemism,’ I murmur.
‘And then I’m taking you home and I want you naked within minutes, if not seconds. Got that? You’re looking ridiculously delectable tonight.’
The moment he’s gone I nearly collapse with relief. They really were just having lunch! Nothing more! And he told me about it! He wouldn’t do that if he had anything to hide! Thank fuck.
I’m overwhelmed with adoration and relief. He is honest. He adores me and wants me. Not Bella.
Dave’s iPhone is, as ever, face-up on the table, and it buzzes with a text.
I glance down at it.
You can read texts on iPhones without opening them, and I can’t help that I can read upside down from years of sitting across from people in meetings. So I’m really not snooping. The second I read it, I wish I hadn’t. The text is from Bella.
Ha, enjoy. Am home safe. B
I’m frozen, staring at the text, till it disappears from the screen. It’s obviously a response to a text he sent her. Enjoy? Enjoy what? Dinner with me? Why the ‘ha’? It sounds sarcastic, doesn’t it?
Stop thinking about it, Abigail, goddammit, you crazy fool. You’re overreacting again.
A little wispy curl of insecurity winds itself around my chest and settles.
Dave returns and, before sitting down, leans over to kiss me. Our eyes meet as he pulls away and with a little grin, he puts his hand out to tweak my ear. I smile at him and remind myself that he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be with me. He wants me, not Bella. Me.
‘This has been the slowest Christmas ever,’ I say. ‘Ever.’
‘I know,’ says Plum.
It’s December 30th. I’ve been in France for almost a week. Sophie left on Boxing Day to join Luke at his parents’ house in Bath, so it’s just me and my parents.
I’m lying on my bed – the bed that Dave and I were deliciously filthy in all those weeks ago – with my legs propped up against the walls. The shutters are half open, revealing a very dark grey sky. Plum’s at her parents’ house in Yorkshire.
‘I am so over my family,’ she says. ‘If I have to go carolling one more time . . .’
Plum’s family Christmases are very traditional. Carolling, church and long freezing walks. The only tradition we have is watching Annie on Christmas Day after lunch, with my parents singing along.
‘ABIGAIL!’ bellows my father from the kitchen downstairs, making me jump. No one bellows like my Dad.
‘Oh my God, this is like being six again,’ I murmur to Plum. ‘Yes?’ I call down sweetly.
‘There you are. I thought you were lost. Would you care for some soup?’
‘It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, Daddy,’ I call.
‘I know. But I thought it might be nice.’
‘No, thank you.’ I shut my bedroom door. ‘That’s the eighteenth time one of them has yelled for me today.’
‘Maybe you’re not spending quality time,’ says Plum.
‘I eat every meal with them, I go to the market with them, we watch movies together, I mean, unless they want to chat to me when I’m weeing.’
‘When are you seeing Dave?’
‘ABIGAIL!’ There’s another bellow from the kitchen.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, sighing. I don’t want to answer the Dave question.
‘I can’t wait to see Dan,’ says Plum, ignoring me. ‘Did I tell you that he surprised me by wrapping Christmas lights around his willy and singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” to me?’
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Are you OK? You don’t quite sound yourself,’ says Plum.
‘Fine, I’m fine, I’ve just got cabin fever,’ I say quickly. The truth is that no matter how much I remind myself that Dave said he wanted to be with me, the insecurity curl won’t release its hold around my chest. And it’s all because of Bella and that text. It makes it hard to concentrate on anything else . . . I feel very unsettled.
He hasn’t called me since I got here. But he does send two or three funny/filthy texts a day, all signed off with an ‘x’. Which he didn’t used to do. That’s good, right? My uneasy longing for reassurance is so severe that when he finally texts, it’s like a reprieve from someone hitting me in the face. The relief lasts seconds. Then the chewing, restless worry starts again.
‘No problem. You’re back tomorrow, right? Are you seeing Dave right away?’
‘Uh, no,’ I say. Dave hasn’t told me when he’s back in London, and because I don’t want to be needy, I haven’t asked. Text-terrogations and all that. ‘You?’
