‘I normally do,’ he concedes. ‘Who knew I was missing out on so much?’
‘Be quiet.’ I watch as Joe draws level with me, unaware that I’m so close. My throat tightens and I grip the plant pot until my knuckles turn white.
‘Is that him?’ Mason fixes me with a stare. ‘The one who broke your heart? Is that why you’re hiding behind a big plant pot?’
‘Yes,’ I confess, miserably.
‘Wow. He’s not a bad looker,’ Mason concedes. ‘If I was that way inclined, I would.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Who’s the woman? His new squeeze?’
‘His wife,’ I mumble.
‘Wife?’ Mason laughs. ‘He’s married? Oh, Brown. Schoolgirl error.’
‘Yeah, well, he wasn’t married when I started seeing him and then he was again. It’s complicated.’
‘He looks very happy.’
‘Doesn’t he?’ I feel like crying. Yet I should be pleased that his family is reunited, that they’ve put the troubles they’ve had behind them. The kids will be happier, that’s for sure. I hope Gina now appreciates how very lucky she is. Without even trying, I can still feel Joe’s hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the comfort of his arms.
They continue walking past. Danger averted. I sit down heavily on the dirty floor.
‘Bloody hell, Brown.’ Mason frowns at me. ‘You’re in a bad way.’
‘I know.’ It’s taking all my strength not to break down and weep. I feel as if I start crying then I might never stop.
‘OK. What do women do when they’re miserable?’
‘Comfort eat. Get drunk. Talk to their mates.’
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Let’s do that.’
‘It’s a great idea, but I can’t, Mason.’
‘Why not? What else do you have planned?’
‘Nothing,’ I admit.
Mason hauls me to my feet. ‘This isn’t you, Brown. Let’s get seriously pissed. Then you can dust yourself down and get on with your life.’ He puts his hand gently on my cheek. ‘I want to help,’ he murmurs. ‘Will you let me?’
I nod at him tearfully. So Mason puts his hand on my elbow and steers me out of the shopping centre. I don’t know where we’re going, I’m just grateful that it’s away from Joe and his family.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Mason takes me to a restaurant that only serves desserts. We sit in a booth in the bright pink and white space. Currently, we’re the only customers.
I’m incapable of making a decision so Mason goes off to order for us both. While he’s gone, I cry into the napkins and think how much Tom and Daisy would love it here. Then realise that I have to stop thinking like that or I’ll go mad. Maybe I already am.
Our desserts arrive and Mason has ordered well. For me there’s a classic banana split, filled with vanilla ice-cream, chopped nuts, chocolate sprinkles, and topped with toffee syrup, fudge cubes and a froth of whipped cream. Mason has an enormous knickerbocker glory which looks marginally more healthy than mine as, at least, it involves some fresh fruit. Strawberries are layered with chocolate and vanilla ice-cream, the obligatory overdose of fresh cream and strawberry syrup finished with a cherry and a wafer.
‘Eat, Brown,’ Mason instructs when I just sit there staring at it.
I push my tears back in and pick up my spoon. We don’t speak as we eat which is fine by me. I just sit here letting the coldness of the ice-cream give me brain-freeze.
When I finish my last mouthful, Mason says, ‘Phase two. Come on.’ He leaves a generous tip on the table, takes me by the hand and drags me down the street and into the nearest bar – one that’s Cuban themed. It’s normally bustling but, at this time in the day, there’s just the tail-end of the lunchtime crowd.
We find bar stools. I feel so broken that I can hardly sit upright.
‘What do you fancy?’ Mason asks.
‘Apart from unavailable men?’
He rolls his eyes and pushes the cocktail menu at me.
I stare at it, not really seeing anything. I can’t even think what I’d like to drink.
‘Shall I order for us again?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ I close the menu. ‘As long as it involves lots of alcohol.’
Mason catches the attention of the barman. ‘A Madhatter’s Teapot, please.’
Salsa music blares out and the air smells of grilled chicken.
A huge teapot and two metal mugs arrive. Mason pours me a drink. ‘Three different kinds of rum, passionfruit, lime. I can’t remember what else is in there.’
Tentatively, I take a sip. ‘Wow.’ It nearly knocks my head off. ‘This is lethal.’
Mason tries his. ‘Tastes good though.’
‘I’ll be flat on my back in no time.’
‘Excellent.’ He grins cheekily at me and I can’t help but smile back. You can’t fault Mason for trying. ‘Down the hatch!’
We clink mugs together.
As soon as we’ve knocked back the first mug, he tops us up from the teapot. The rum starts to numb my heart and loosen my tongue.
‘Why are you interested in me?’ I ask him.
‘Because you’re different, Brown,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘You make me work hard for what little you dish out.’
I laugh out loud at that. ‘I came to Paris with you the minute you clicked your fingers.’
He frowns at me. ‘We got on OK there, didn’t we?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrug.
His frown deepens. ‘No matter what I do, I never feel that I get under your skin, Brown. Why do you keep me at arm’s length? What has Family Man got that I haven’t?’
‘Let’s not talk about him,’ I say, worried to hear that I’m already a bit slurry. I clink my mug against Mason’s. A bit too enthusiastically. Rum sloshes out on his jeans. He doesn’t even look perturbed, he just grins at me indulgently. ‘I drink to forget.’
‘And you will forget.’
‘Forget what?’ I quip, then laugh like a drain at my own wittiness. We drink more and more rum.
When there is nothing left in our teapot, Mason asks, ‘Feeling better?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Not really.’
‘We have to do it all over again then, Brown.’
So we go back to the dessert restaurant. This time I have Nutella pancakes smothered with chocolate sauce. Mason has toffee apple and pecan pie. When we’ve finished, we go back to the bar.
This time we share a Berry Big mojito which comes in something that looks like a flower vase. It’s certainly the size of one and it’s filled to overflowing with white rum, Chambord, muddled summer berries, mint and lime. If the teapot of rum wasn’t there already, it would go straight to my head. I’m struggling to sit upright on my bar stool and keep sliding off. I cackle away. It’s hilarious! Trust me.
‘Whoah, there!’ Mason catches me as I slide sideways once more. ‘Steady on, Brown.’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ I start giggling and can’t quite stop.
‘Tell me that this is helping you to forget him?’
‘Who?’ I say. ‘Forget who?’ And that sets me off cackling again, even though I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before. But soon I’m not laughing and seem to be crying. I wonder where Joe is now and what he’s doing. He’s at home in the bosom of his family while I’m here getting slaughtered with Shagger Soames and can’t even sit nicely on a bar stool.