And then it happens. That thing where you’re looking at someone and not actually seeing them, but they think you are. A man. He is standing with a group of men. He raises his glass to me, mimicking me, perhaps. Suddenly, it’s surreal.
I have been looking at him because he is Justin. Or, rather, everything about this is something that has happened before. Me. Him – he is similarly attractive, similarly dressed, around the same age. The friends, in their suits and ties. They are standing in the exact location, nearer to the door than the restaurant. I stare at this man, wondering if I am hallucinating, if someone has spiked my wine. It hauls me back to that night. I had said I’d be there for 6 p.m. There I am: I can see myself, trotting down the street in stilettos, uncharacteristically late; Justin is a stickler for people being on time. I’m about to meet a few of his better friends. I don’t want to be late. I should have just jumped in a taxi, but the fare would have been embarrassingly small. I am apprehensive. I want this to go well. I am almost there, unpicking the buttons of my trench. I’m hot now. I don’t want to look harried, I want to look fresh and in control. My hand is on the door handle. I take a deep breath, give it a push.
He must have been watching for me. I see him right away and I witness the expression that alights on his face when he sees me, before he can stop it – as though time is a split second ahead of itself. That wonderful look that says far more than any of his muddled words about loving and being in love. Justin loves me. I know it now. It’s there for anyone to see. His friend, who has his back to me, turns. Clearly, he must want to see exactly what, or who, has captivated Justin. And it’s me.
Justin and I smile.
I am smiling now, captivated by my memory. The man across the room thinks I’m smiling at him. He waves over. He has just said something to a friend, and they’re both looking at me with a certain animal interest. The very way Justin has never looked at me. It brings me back to my senses. I get up sharply, catching the table and sloshing drinks. I need to get out of here, but I’m travelling in the wrong direction. As I pass them, this guy who reminded me of Justin makes a grab for my arm, but misses. It isn’t a particularly sophisticated gesture – something, again, that Justin would never have done. ‘Oi! Where are you going?’ he calls after me. His mates laugh.
This is the terrible, desperately painful thing about the moment – I want to go back. I want to rewind us to that look, when I knew he loved me irrefutably, when there was no doubt. If only I could be coming out of the toilets and seeing Justin there, not those other fellows. And we could write a different outcome, one that is still winding and ambiguous, but that definitely doesn’t end up here. But instead I am in the here and now, about to return to my flat and find out at what point in intoning he would never leave me, Justin had already left.
My heart is racing. I cover my mouth, trembling and silently gasping at the same time, mentally talking away the urge to throw up: that drink on an empty stomach. I hear the muted thump of music and bursts of squeals and laughter. I pull up Sally’s number on my phone.
‘Where are you?’
I tell her.
‘I thought he was coming at seven?’
‘I can’t face him. I can’t look at him, Sal! I can’t do it! I can’t hear what his reasons are!’
‘Al! You’ve got no choice!’ She sounds as panicked as I am. ‘Get it over with! It’s already gone on far longer than it should have. You’ll be okay,’ she says, her voice softening. ‘You will get past this. Sometimes, you just have to face what you fear the most. It’s shitty, but it’s life.’
I listen to her words, letting them calm me down. Then she says, ‘What do you fear most, Al?’
I perch on the sill by the open window just to be near fresh air. I think about what it is, what it really is, while I try to breathe. ‘Well, finding out, obviously. But it’s also that moment when I realise he really and truly is gone. That there’s no going back. How I’m going to feel.’
‘I can promise you it’s not going to be as bad as you think it is.’
‘You’re the last one who would know that.’ There was no one but John.
‘True. But deep down, you know this yourself.’
I look out of the window, which may not have been washed in years, on to Pilgrim Street below, and hear the voices of street life, a rustle of church bells. She’s right. It is only Justin, not a hangman and spectators. And how bad can it be when I’ve already imagined the worst? ‘Thanks,’ I tell her.
‘Go!’ she says. ‘And remember, Alice, if this is the worst thing that ever happens to you in your life, you’ll look back on it and be thankful for that. I promise.’
‘I’ll try.’
I go back into the dining room, thrust forty pounds at Victoria’s friend for my share of the bill, and run.
It’s 7:25 when the taxi pulls up at my building. All my instincts say he’s been and gone. I pelt up two flights of stairs. When I reach the door, I stop and try to catch my breath.
I can barely get the key in. Please God don’t let him have been and gone.
When I go in, I see that his things are still there, exactly where I left them, in the middle of the floor. I gaze at them in baffled relief.
He hasn’t been.
He isn’t coming.
This is some sick game.
The flat is deadly quiet; not even the molecules in the air move, I think. I pluck at the strap of my bag, and let it drop off my shoulder, to the floor.
And then I’m aware of a presence.
Justin is sitting on the sofa, carefully watching me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
He’s wearing a high-collared, pea-green shirt, open at the neck, and a new gunmetal-grey suit. He has one arm extended along the back of the couch, legs wide apart, like a sitting statue, the kind you see in the gardens of Parisian stately homes.
I sink into the nearest chair. ‘Justin.’