The Reunion

kind of embarrassing…’
    ‘Come on,’ he said, poking her toes with his own, a jolt of electricity bolting right up his spine at the merest physical contact. ‘You can tell me.’
    Another deep breath. ‘Right. Well, you know I’ve been with Conor since I was sixteen years old, right? That’s one third of my life. One third! And the thing is…’ she tailed off. The hint of a blush in her pale cheeks deepened. She looked perfect, she
was
perfect – he had to look away, he had to sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching out to touch her.
    ‘The thing is, what?’ He could almost feel them drifting into uncharted conversational waters, dangerous waters. ‘You can tell me,’ he said again. ‘You can tell me anything.’
    She laughed. ‘It’s nothing.’ She wrapped her arms around her knees, bent her head down to hide her face. ‘It’s just that, if we stay together, if we get married, like everybody’s always thought we would, then he’s going to be it for me. And me for him. There’s never going to be anyone else.’
    Her voice was muffled, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. Was she really saying this, was she really talking about being with someone else? He laughed, nervously. ‘I, uh, didn’t think girls worried about things like that,’ he said.
    ‘Yeah, well, we do.’ She was still hiding from him, but after a moment, she looked up, her face bright red. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a good thing, to only ever be with one person. It’s a good thing to only ever want one person, isn’t it?’
    ‘Well…’ They both started laughing.
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m being so stupid. I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I’ve had way too much to drink.’ She got to her feet and went into the kitchen, carrying their empty wine glasses with her.
    He didn’t let himself think about what he was doing, he just got to his feet and followed her. She put the glasses down and turned around, looking up at him, and he knew she wanted him to kiss her, so he did. She didn’t pull away at first, not right away, but when she did her eyes were lowered, she wasn’t looking at him, and she placed her hand against his chest and pushed him, gently, away from her.
    ‘Dan,’ she said, her voice low, husky, ‘don’t.’
    She didn’t say another word, just smiled at him and shook her head, then she went upstairs and he heard the bedroom door close.
    He thought about leaving, about calling a taxi and going to the station, but it was after midnight and there wouldn’t be a train until morning. He wasn’t even sure if Liverpool Street was open all night. He turned off all the lights and sat in the darkness, looking out at the almost full moon in the night sky, knowing that there was no possibility of sleep, not tonight. He doubted he would ever sleep again, he’d just lie in bed replaying that kiss, and that hand against his chest, and her saying his name, her telling him no.
    It must have been half an hour later when he heard a creaking sound, and then the squeak of a door handle. He held his breath. He heard a footfall on the stairs; she was coming back down. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest.
    ‘Dan?’
    ‘I’m here,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
    She was standing in front of him, wearing a vest and little shorts, her pale legs pressed against his knees. She reached out to him and took his hand, she pulled him to his feet and led him into the spare room. It was real, he wasn’t imagining it, her lips on his, her hands pulling at his T-shirt, lifting it over his head, her body pressed against his, the smell of her, citrus and vanilla. She was really there, and he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t send her away.

Chapter Thirty-four

    THERE WAS A moth in the room, batting against the inside of the window pane, behind the curtain. She rubbed her eyes. The curtain was pale, a yellowing kind of beige. The light streaming in. What was wrong? It came to her and she gave a little gasp, audible, something like shock, or panic. She closed her eyes tightly. She wished for it not to be real, a dream. Please, let it be a dream. But if it wasn’t real, why was the curtain that yellowing sort of beige? That was the colour of the curtain in the spare room, not the dark blue in her and Conor’s room. She knew then that when she opened her eyes again and looked under the cover, that on the inside of the wrist of the arm flung