After You

I walked back across the road straight past him, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Why did fingers always turn into cocktail sausages at moments of stress?

‘Louisa.’

The keys refused to appear. I riffled through my bag a second time, dropping a comb, bits of tissue, loose change, and cursing. I patted my pockets, trying to work out where they might be.

‘Louisa.’

Then, with a sickening drop of my stomach, I remembered where they were: in the pocket of the jeans I had changed out of just before leaving for work. Oh, great.

‘Really? You’re just going to ignore me? This is how we’re doing this?’

I took a deep breath, and turned to him, straightening my shoulders a little. ‘Sam.’

He looked tired too, his chin greyed with stubble. Probably just off a shift. It was unwise to notice these things. I focused on a point a little left of his shoulder.

‘Can we talk?’

‘I’m not sure there’s any point.’

‘No point?’

‘I got the message, okay? I’m not even sure why you’re here.’

‘I’m here because I’ve just finished a crappy sixteen hour shift and I dropped Donna off up the road and I thought I might as well try to see you and work out what happened with us. Because I sure as hell don’t have a clue.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

We glared at each other. Why had I not seen before how abrasive he was? How unpleasant. I couldn’t understand how I had been so blinded by lust for this man when every part of me now wanted to walk away from him. I made one last futile search for my keys and fought the urge to kick the door.

‘So, are you at least going to give me a clue? I’m tired, Louisa, and I don’t like playing games.’

‘You don’t like playing games.’ The words emerged in a bitter little laugh.

He took a breath. ‘Okay. One thing. One thing and I’ll go. I just want to know why you won’t return my calls.’

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Because I’m many things, but I’m not a complete idiot. I mean I must have been – I saw the warning signs, and I ignored them – but, basically, I haven’t returned your calls because you’re an utter, utter knob. Okay?’

I stooped to pick up my things that had fallen on the ground, feeling my whole body heat rapidly, as if my internal thermostat had suddenly gone haywire. ‘Oh, you’re so good, you know? So bloody good. If it weren’t all so sick and pathetic I’d actually be quite impressed by you.’ I straightened up, zipping my bag. ‘Look at Sam, the good father. So caring, so intuitive. And yet what’s really going on? You’re so busy shagging your way through half of London you don’t even notice that your own son is unhappy.’

‘My son.’

‘Yes! Because we actually listen to him, you see. I mean, we’re not meant to tell outsiders what goes on in the group. And he won’t tell you because he’s a teenager. But he’s miserable, not just for the loss of his mum but because you’re busy swallowing your own grief by having an entire army of women traipse in and out of your bed.’

I was shouting now, my words tumbling over each other, my hands waving. I could see Samir and his cousin staring at me through the window of the shop. I didn’t care. This might be the last time I ever got to say my piece.

‘And, yes, yes, I know, I was stupid enough to be one of those women. So for him, and from me, you’re a knob. And that’s why I don’t want to talk to you right now. Or ever, actually.’

He rubbed at his hair. ‘Are we still talking about Jake?’

‘Of course I’m talking about Jake. How many other sons have you got?’

‘Jake isn’t my son.’

I stared at him.

‘Jake is my sister’s son. Was,’ he corrected himself. ‘He’s my nephew.’

These words took several seconds to filter into a form I could understand. Sam was gazing at me intently, his brow furrowed as if he, too, were trying to keep up.

‘But – but you pick him up. He lives with you.’

‘I pick him up on Mondays because his dad works shifts. And he stays with me sometimes, yes. He doesn’t live with me.’

‘Jake’s … not your son?’

‘I don’t have any children. That I’m aware of. Though the whole Lily thing does make you wonder.’

I pictured him hugging Jake, mentally rewound half a dozen conversations. ‘But I saw him when we first met. And when you and I were talking he rolled his eyes, like …’

Sam lowered his head.

‘Oh, God,’ I said. My hand went to my mouth. ‘Those women …’

‘Not mine.’

We stood there in the middle of the street. Samir was now in the doorway, watching. He had been joined by another of his cousins. To our left everyone at the bus stop turned away when they realized we knew they’d been watching us. Sam nodded at the door behind me. ‘Do you think we could talk about this inside?’

‘Yes. Yes. Oh. No, I can’t,’ I said. ‘I seem to have locked myself out.’

‘Spare key?’

‘In the flat.’

He ran a hand over his face, then checked his watch. He was clearly drained, weary to the bone. I took a step backwards into the doorway. ‘Look – go home and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m sorry.’

The rain suddenly grew heavy, a summer dump, creating torrents in gutters and flooding the street. Across the road Samir and his cousins ducked back inside.

Sam sighed. He looked up at the skies and then straight at me. ‘Hang on.’

Sam took a large screwdriver he had borrowed from Samir and followed me up the fire escape. Twice I slipped on the wet metal and his hand reached out to steady me. When it did, something hot and unexpected shot through me. When we reached my floor, he pushed the screwdriver deep into the hall window frame and started to lever upwards. It gave gratifyingly swiftly.

‘There.’ He wrenched it upwards, supporting it with one hand, and turned to me, motioning me through, his expression faintly disapproving. ‘That was way too easy for a single girl living in this area.’

‘You look nothing like a single girl living in this area.’

‘I’m serious.’