A few weeks later I heard that Cassie and Sam were engaged; Bernadette sent round an e-mail, looking for contributions towards a present. That evening I told Heather someone’s kid had scarlet fever, locked myself in my room and drank vodka, slowly but purposefully, until four in the morning. Then I rang Cassie’s mobile.
On the third ring she said blurrily, “Maddox.”
“Cassie,” I said. “Cassie, you’re not actually going to marry that boring little yokel. Are you?”
I heard her catch her breath, ready to say something. After a while she let it out again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything. I’m so, so sorry. I love you, Cass. Please.”
I waited again. After a long time I heard a clunk. Then Sam, somewhere in the background, said, “Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Cassie said, farther away now. “Some drunk guy.”
“What were you on so long for, then?” There was a grin in his voice: teasing. A rustle of sheets.
“He told me he loved me, so I wanted to see who it was,” said Cassie. “But he turned out to be looking for Britney.”
“Aren’t we all,” said Sam; then, “Ow!” and Cassie giggled. “You bit my nose.”
“Serves you right,” said Cassie. More low laughter, a rustle, a kiss; a long contented sigh. Sam said, soft and happy, “Baby.” Then nothing but their breathing, easing into tandem and slowing gradually back into sleep.
I sat there for a very long time, watching the sky lighten outside my window and realizing that my name hadn’t come up on Cassie’s mobile. I could feel the vodka working its way out of my blood; the headache was starting to kick in. Sam snored, very gently. I never knew, not then, not now, whether Cassie thought she had hung up, or whether she wanted to hurt me, or whether she wanted to give me one last gift, one last night listening to her breathe.