Canada Square (Love in London #3) (6 page)

“Good, good.” Callum rakes his fingers through his hair. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

With that, Jonathan leaves and Callum closes the frosted glass door that leads to his office, leaving me alone in the outer vestibule. I can't help thinking about the way he called me 'interesting'. It's a word that could be an insult as easily as it could be a compliment, and I still can't quite decide which. But more importantly, I'm itching to know who the hell Jane is, and why the mere mention of her name was enough to make him angry.

As I log into the network and go through my emails, I realise I'm starting to find Callum Ferguson as intriguing as he's finding me.

6

“Don't be angry, okay?” Sophie takes my bag as I step into her flat, taking in the familiar silver-papered walls, lined with hundreds of fairy lights that blink on and off. “This wasn't my idea. All right so it was totally my idea, but I only did it because I love you.”

I walk across the thick shag pile rug that covers the sanded wooden floors. Since she and Nick bought this flat in August last year, she's spent every penny on making it into a hairdresser's paradise. Ellie calls it the Kitsch Palace, which describes it very well.

“Why would I be angry?” I inhale the aroma of lamb curry. Sophie may have terrible taste in decor, but her culinary skills are second to none, which is why I jumped at the chance of dinner at hers when she texted the offer.

As soon as I’m in her kitchen I realise exactly why I should be angry. Sophie guessed correctly; I'm bloody furious. Luke is leaning against the counter, chatting with Nick, holding a frosted bottle of Peroni to his lips.

“What's he doing here?”

Luke turns to look at me, his dark-blue eyes soft and appraising. He looks impossibly handsome with his perfectly-cut blonde hair, and the expensive designer jeans hanging from his hips. I feel a mess in comparison; still wearing my work dress and a pair of flat shoes that almost make the work commute bearable. But now all they do is make me feel short and dumpy, next to the tall and elegant arsehole.

“Nick invited me.” His voice is as gentle as his expression. “I can leave if you want.”

I stand there for a minute, listening to the whirr of the extractor fan and the sizzle of the pot. The table is set with four plates and glasses, plus four sets of cutlery. Asking Luke to leave isn't going to turn this into a night to remember.

Nick pulls a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass, passing it to me with a sheepish expression. He mouths a “sorry”, and I roll my eyes in exasperation.

“Stay,” I sigh. “Otherwise Nick will be eating leftovers for weeks.”

“You sure?” Luke blinks, his thick lashes sweeping down. I wonder if this is how reformed smokers feel. Wanting something even though you know it's poisonous.

“It doesn't mean anything,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “Sophie's my friend and Nick's yours. It's not as if I can avoid you.”

Luke takes a step closer, lowering his voice, and even though I hold my breath I can still smell his cologne. The one I bought for him.

“I don't want you to avoid me, Amy, I want you to talk to me. I miss you, babe.”

This is a mistake. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on him. I wasn't prepared to see him and I'm certainly not ready for a full-on charm onslaught. I need to work myself up, starting with short, benign exposures.

“It's ready.” Sophie slides her hand into a pair of oven mitts and pulls the cast iron pot out of the stove. Stepping carefully, she carries the steaming dish over to the kitchen table, where she places it on the waiting mat. “Can you bring the rice over, Nick?” She takes off the lid and vapour escapes, momentarily turning the air above the table opaque. “Sit, sit.” She gestures at the two seats opposite. “Don't let it go cold.”

Glancing at Luke, I pull out my chair, smoothing my dress across my thighs. I can feel his gaze follow my movements He offers me the naan bread, holding the plate as I tear off a piece, then he tops up my glass.

It's strange, because this is all so familiar. The four of us have been sitting around tables for years. From tea with our parents to teenage pig-outs at McDonald's, we've grown up eating together.

Now it feels like the last supper.

Sophie makes small talk about her clients in the salon, telling us about an old lady who insisted she wanted a cut and blow job. I choke on a piece of lamb, and it takes Luke slamming me to dislodge it.

“You okay? You went pretty blue there for a minute.” It hasn't escaped my notice that his hand is still on my back, rubbing small circles against my spine.

“Yeah, I just need Sophie to stop making me laugh.”

“It's not the first time you've choked on a blow job,” she quips, and Luke laughs. I try not to look at him, because if I do he'll know what I'm thinking about. And I really don't want to be thinking about
that
.

“It beats getting caught with your knickers down in the art room.” I smile back at her, and this time it's Sophie's turn to blush. Then all four of us launch into full-blown school reminiscences, talking about hated teachers and smoking behind the bike sheds. There's a cadence to this tableau; a familiarity that can only come from years of experience. It’s as comfortable as a favourite sweater and I can't help but wonder if I'm fighting against the inevitable.

“Do you remember that time we skipped school, Ames?” Luke says, turning to me. “You made me hide in your room while you did all your homework. It was worse than being in lessons.”

“It was exam year,” I protest. “I wanted to finish a couple of essays.”

“That's not what you're meant to do when you bunk off, babe.” His voice lowers. “I had to make my own fun.”

I swallow, remembering the way he kissed my neck as I tried to write a book report on
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
. In the end the only way I could placate him was by reading out the dirty parts.

“From what I remember, you had a lot of fun.” I roll my eyes.

“I did,” he laughs. “Who knew Dickens could be so sexy?”

“It was Hardy,” I correct him quietly.

“What?”

I clear my throat. “
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
was written by Thomas Hardy, not Charles Dickens.”

Sophie collects our plates and carries them over to the sink. Turning her head, she shoots me a glance, and I know without asking exactly what she's trying to say. She wants me to be quiet. To stop showing Luke that I have a brain. She honestly believes boys prefer girls who play dumb.

Luke shrugs. “Dickens, Hardy, who gives a fuck? They're a load of dirty old men. If they were around today they'd probably be running porn sites.”

I reach out and grab my wineglass, resolutely bringing it to my lips. Sometimes it's not even worth arguing back.

“Did you see
Top Gear
last night?” Nick asks, thankfully changing the subject. He and Luke share a love of cars; the faster the better as far as they're concerned.

“Nah, I missed it,” Luke leans back on his chair, stretching his legs in front of him. As they launch into a discussion on the latest Bugatti, I gather up the dirty glasses and take them over to the sink.

“Alright?” Sophie asks, brightly. “You and Luke seem to be getting on well.”

I rinse the glasses beneath the tap. “What?”

“You should give him another chance. He misses you, you know? He told Nick he wants you back.”

I pull the dishwasher door open and load the plates into the rack. “I don't think so,” I say, scrunching my nose up. “We're over, he knows that.”

Sophie stops scrubbing the pot, pulling her soap-covered forearms from the suds. “But you don't have to be. Take him back, Amy. That girl meant nothing to him, he was just having a bit of fun.”

I look at Sophie. She's very pretty, in that perfectly made-up, well-dressed way. Her hair is curled, tumbling over her shoulders, and her skin is just the right side of orange. She's a far cry from the tomboy I met at the age of eleven, when she used to play netball like a demon on speed. Nowadays she'd run screaming if you threw a ball at her, scared she might break a nail.

I guess I've changed, too. If you asked her, Sophie would probably say I was a desperately shy eleven-year-old, lurking in the corner with my black hair falling over my face. I was unremarkable, rubbish at sports, nondescript in looks. The only thing I had going for me was a love of numbers.

But now I'm less awkward, and definitely less shy. I'm also not going to put up with being treated like a doormat anymore.

I wonder if breaking up with Luke means losing Sophie, too. Will she think she has to choose between the two of us, as if it's all or nothing?

“I'm not interested.” Even though the boys are talking, I keep my voice low. I realise I need to have this conversation with Luke as well, but there's no way I'm doing it in front of an audience.

“You're being stubborn. Okay, so he messed up, are you really going to throw everything away for that? You've been together for years, Amy. He knows you inside out, he loves you for God's sake.”

“Not enough to be faithful.” If I'm being truly honest, I can feel myself start to waiver. It isn't just Luke I'm splitting up with, but seven years of memories, and a predictable future. Not to mention a whole crowd of shared friends. “It's not the first time, either.”

I say that last bit to remind myself. I can't afford to deviate. If Luke thinks he has the slightest chance, he'll keep pushing until he wins.

“Men stray sometimes. At least Luke loves you and looks after you. He doesn't beat you up, does he?”

This makes me laugh. “No, he's never touched me. But if that's all he's got going for him then he's not much of a catch is he? I mean there are millions of men out there who don't beat up women. I've heard some of them might even manage to keep their dicks zipped in their trousers, too.”

Sophie huffs, shaking her head. “Well, it's your problem. Don't come crying to me when you don't find anything better.”

* * *

The rest of the evening is a quiet affair. After our kitchen sink drama, Sophie barely brings herself to talk to me, concentrating on the boys and hanging on their every word. She listens as Nick complains about his boss at the Ford factory in Dagenham, and when Luke describes a sale he made today I remain silent, sipping my wine and wondering if it would be rude to say I'm tired and ready to go home.

In the end it's Luke who breaks up the evening, reaching his arms above his head in a stretch and yawning loudly. When he brings his arms back down, he reaches one across the back of my chair, the tips of his fingers brushing against my neck.

“You want to share a cab home?” he asks. “I'm going past yours anyway.”

My house is a ten-minute taxi ride from here. I calculate whether we'll be able to say everything that needs to be said in such a short time.

“Uh, yeah, sure. I'll pay half.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

The cab arrives and I hug Nick goodbye before pressing my lips against Sophie’s rouged cheek. She smells of Chanel and curry, a weird combination that's somehow still quite pleasant. “Thanks for dinner,” I say.

“You're welcome.” Her reply is as stiff as her hair. “Thank you for coming.”

Soon we’re in the cab, driving through the night-time streets. We stop at a red light at the end of the road, and I turn to look at Luke. His face is lit up, the shadow of his chin sharp beneath the ambient glow. I can see where his morning shave is beginning to lose the battle against his evening stubble, and for some reason I reach out to touch it.

“Luke,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You don't have to say it.”

He's wrong; I do. Not for him—although I think he should hear it from me—but for myself. I need to sever the final cords that bind us.

“I'm sorry.” This is harder than I thought. It's like rolling in fibreglass; my whole body hurts. “It's really over.”

He turns in his seat, grabbing hold of my hand. His eyes are glassy. I feel my own start to water as my heart hammers against my chest.

“I don't want it to be,” he whispers. “I was a dick, but I love you, I really do. You know that, don't you?”

The car pulls away, engine rumbling dully. From the corner of my eye I see the driver glancing at us in the rear-view mirror. How many life-changing moments has he seen in mirror image? First dates, long kisses, short goodbyes. The fading embers of a dying love.

“You cheated on me, again and again. That’s not love Luke, that's not even
like.
That's...” I try to find the right word. “That's disdain.”

“Give me another chance.” He brings my hand to his lips; his breath hot against my skin. “I won't fuck it up this time.”

The wavering of moments ago is gone, replaced by a certainty that feels cold as ice. He's lying. He might not know it, he might not mean it, but there are some things in life that are crystal clear. The sun will rise in the morning, the world will continue to turn, and Luke will keep looking at other women.

No, not just looking. Touching, kissing... fucking.

Gently, I pull my hand away. “I can't, I can't give you another chance. If I do, I'm cheating myself. I won't do that.”

He recoils as if I've hit him, and lets go of my hand so fast it drops right into my lap.

“Don't flatter yourself,” he says, his eyes narrow, his mouth mean.

“What?” The sudden transformation startles me.

“You're nothing special, babe. You're pretty, yeah, and your body's okay. But you can't wear a tight dress to save your life without looking like a deformed freak.”

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The merest hint of a breath escapes my lips.