Conditional Love (2 page)

As a matter of fact, I hadn’t spent any money on Marc’s card. But downloading the pictures off my phone (disappointingly mostly of him, rather than of us both), printing them out and making a collage of memories out of our nine-month relationship had taken me hours. All it took was a bit of effort to show someone you loved them.

Memories. My lip wobbled precariously: that was all I had left of him now.

I hitched up closer to the window and averted my mascara-stained, panda eyes as a man in a creaky wax coat dropped into the empty seat beside me.

Wiping the condensation from the window, I tried to ignore the pair of young lovers opposite who were communicating in tongues, all slobbery and repulsive.

‘Get a room!’ I shrieked. I didn’t really, but I was very sorely tempted.

The woman in the seat behind was holding the biggest, most attention-seeking, cellophane-wrapped bouquet of lilies I had ever seen, or rather felt. I ran my hands over my dark curls and came into contact with a flower, sending a shower of bright yellow pollen all over my hair.

‘Ooh, sorry,’ trilled the woman, ‘it’s just so big, I can hardly hold it!’

I flashed my eyes at her, gave a tight smile and fought the urge to shove the bouquet into her smug, happy face.

Marc had been quite considerate really, I thought, grasping at straws. Better to have the bad news in the morning. Otherwise I would have had a neck like a meerkat all day. At least every time the lift opened bearing another floral message of love to the females who managed to keep their men until February fifteenth, I had known to keep my head down and feign disinterest.

I felt another deep-throated sob forming.

Get a grip, and look on the bright side. There must be some advantages to being single.

I racked my brains to think of one.

More room in the bed for starters. I thought back to my chilly awakening, before Marc’s announcement had caused the temperature to plummet even further. I had chosen the smallest bedroom specifically for its low rent and it was too small for a double. Before going out with Marc, having a single bed hadn’t mattered one iota. I would miss his solid presence though, his warm body, firm muscles… Think of something else quick.

Less food to buy. I had discovered early on that feeding a man-mountain was a pricey business, particularly one on a high-protein diet.

He’d stopped asking me to cook for him after my first few attempts at a seven-egg white omelette, but I still liked to keep all his favourites in the fridge. I stifled a moan. No more popping in for a late night snack of grilled chicken and spinach after a night out with the lads.

It would save me a fortune, but save for what? I’d been building up a nest egg for years, waiting for the right time, the right person to settle down with. Not that Marc and I had ever discussed a joint future, but we were both in our early thirties, I’d assumed it would just happen one day; it was only a matter of time.

With a sigh, I shifted the dream of having my own home to the back burner, along with my other abandoned dreams; the property market was no place for single, first-time buyers at the moment.

The gym! I would cancel my membership with immediate effect. I had only gone along in the first place to keep Jess company. Once there, she had abandoned me to concentrate fully on her flirting and I was left trying to work out how to operate the rowing machine. Predictably, I set the resistance level too high, the bar flew out of my hand and I shot backwards off the end, landing at Marc’s feet. He lifted me up as if I was the weight of a Wotsit and I all but swooned back down to the floor. He turned on the charm, waxing lyrical about the benefits of regular exercise, telling me how much he loved a fit woman. Before I knew it, I had signed up for a whole year and promised to come back three times a week.

What else? No more having to dress up on the off-chance he would turn up unannounced. I could slob about in the flat in my trackie bottoms after work. Take tonight for instance, I could simply relax at home, watch something slushy on the TV and bawl my eyes out while stroking my handmade card.

My face was hot and my jaw was rigid with the effort of holding back the tears. Thankfully, my stomach distracted me by giving a roaring rumble. Mr Wax Jacket raised his eyebrows at me.

‘I missed lunch,’ I said with a wan smile and then looked away to deter further conversation.

My boss had called an impromptu meeting of the advertising team late morning to make sure everyone was ‘on message’ for the restaurant supplement. I, of course, had sat there nodding and pretending to take notes, while all the time surreptitiously checking my phone, fingers crossed that Marc would come to his senses, realise what a mistake he had made and beg my forgiveness. So far zilch from that quarter. The meeting had run over, leaving only enough time for a bag of chocolate buttons before my next appointment.

Of course! Another good thing about being single. I would lose interest in food and drop to a size eight. My stomach growled again. No, apparently this wasn’t going to be the case, I was absolutely starving.

I groaned. It was my turn to cook tonight and due to my distracted mental state, I had forgotten to go shopping.

At my stop a group of people, in twos obviously, jostled against me as I tried to disembark. I was barely clear of the last step when the bus trundled off through a puddle, sending a spray of black slush up the back of my red wool coat.

Marvellous. And this coat was ‘dry-clean only’.

How could snow, so white, so pure, so beautiful, turn so vile in only a few hours? It was clearly a metaphor for a love gone sour. I huffed up the steps towards home, cross with the world.

The Victorian house we lived in had long ago been split into flats. I let myself in and I flicked through the mail on the communal post shelf. No scented envelopes, huge bouquets of flowers or small square boxes with ‘
To Sophie Stone – love of my life’
on them then? No? Thought as much.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I brushed them away. Actually, why shouldn’t I have a good cry? I was sad, might be properly sad for weeks come to think of it. I had loved Marc, had even dared to think that he was the one. He was so big and strong and protective. And he was exciting.

OK, I never knew what he was up to, or when I was going to see him again, but no one’s perfect. I had been so proud to walk into the pub on his arm, watching the way other girls turned their heads to stare.

For a moment, I considered sliding down the wall to the floor and succumbing to my sorrow. But it looked draughty and very public, far better to get home and let my lovely flatmates cheer me up.

I began the ascent to flat four, sniffing the air hopefully on the off-chance of catching any tantalising aromas. Nothing. I waggled the key in the lock and pushed my way into the tiny hall.

‘Oh babes, are you OK? I’ve been worried about you all day.’ Jess threw her arms round me, crushing me to her bosom.

‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed hard, lying through my teeth, and pulled back to examine my plumptious flatmate. ‘Why are you wearing a toga?’

Jess tutted. ‘It’s not a toga, it’s a chiton,’ she replied, enunciating slowly as if talking to one of her pupils. She examined herself in the mirror and then twirled round in her voluminous white sheet. ‘I’m doing Ancient Greeks with Year Five.’

I peered at the sheet. ‘Is that mine?’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ She pulled a face and lifted up the excess, which was dragging on the floor. ‘Mine are all tiny and a bit – revealing.’

Despite my crushing melancholy, I managed a smirk at the image of her generous figure being unleashed on a class of innocent ten-year-olds.

‘That would be inappropriate,’ I agreed.

‘Ah, thanks, babes!’

To my credit, I only baulked slightly as Jess began hacking at the bottom of the sheet with a pair of scissors.

Right, food. As it appeared that no one felt sufficiently sympathetic to let me off dinner duty, I made my way into our uninspiring kitchen.

Three bunches of flowers had taken over the sink. I peeked at the gift cards stapled to the cellophane. Each of them bore messages to Miss Piper, supposedly from children, although I suspected there were more than one or two single dads who had a soft spot for their offspring’s voluptuous teacher.

‘Not jealous, not jealous,’ I muttered under my breath as I scanned the contents of the cupboards for dinner ingredients.

The fridge revealed nothing much except a pack of Marc’s chicken breasts. They were slightly grey and slimy and was I imagining it, or did they have a stain of abandonment about them? I shuddered and wrinkled my nose. Despite the lack of alternatives, there was no way I was going to cook them. I took a deep breath and dropped them in the bin.

There was nothing else for it; it would have to be three-tin-surprise. Not my favourite; in fact no one was fond of it. I had gleaned all my culinary talents from my mother; it hadn’t taken long. She was to cooking what Heston Blumenthal was to hairstyling: a total stranger. This particular concoction was like playing Russian roulette with your taste buds and suited my mood perfectly.

‘Any more news from the incredible hulk?’

Emma stood in the doorway, chewing on the end of one of her long red plaits. In her overalls and stripy t-shirt she looked like an over-sized Pippi Longstocking.

I took a deep breath and shook my head.

This was Emma being sympathetic. Her tongue would be bitten to shreds with the effort of not blurting out, ‘I told you so.’

She had never been a huge fan of Marc. I had tried to explain many a time that Marc was a free spirit. ‘Freeloader, more like,’ Emma had commented during a previous debate on his qualities as a boyfriend. I prayed Emma wasn’t going to start another character assassination tonight; I didn’t have the energy.

‘Do you think this is infected?’ Emma loomed over me suddenly, thrusting a finger in my face. A red slash contrasted sharply with the white skin, wrinkly where a plaster had been.

‘Urgh, I don’t think so.’ I winced, grateful for the change of subject. ‘How did you do it?’

‘On a metal file at work.’ Emma replaced the plaster.

‘The thing is, I’ve had a bit of a stiff jaw today too.’

I looked at her blankly, trying to make the connection. ‘So?’

‘I’ve Googled it and I think I might have tetanus.’

I bit the inside of my cheek. Last week, she had convinced herself she had appendicitis and had been writhing about on the sofa until, after a vicious bout of wind, she sheepishly pronounced herself cured.

Emma had been my best friend since college. She had been doing an art foundation course and I was studying A-levels.

She had been taller, louder and brasher than me at sixteen. I had been hovering timidly on the edge of college life until she plucked me out of the shadows and tucked me under her wing. I had been there ever since.

Now she was a self-employed silversmith with a studio in a trendy part of Nottingham. The stuff she designed ranged from contemporary fruit bowls through to intricate one-off pieces of jewellery. Ironically, the only jewellery she wore was a shell she’d found on Newlyn beach while surfing, threaded onto a piece of leather.

‘I forgot.’ Jess bounded into the room, her auburn bob now adorned with a headdress made from bay leaves stuck to a bra strap. ‘A letter came for you.’ She placed an envelope reverently on the kitchen table. ‘It looks important.’

I abandoned the tins quest immediately, my heart beating furiously as I grabbed the letter. That was why there had been no post for me downstairs; Jess had already brought it up. Hallelujah, all was not lost. Visions of Marc filled my mind – pen in hand, eyes swimming with tears as he realised what a terrible mistake he had made this morning.

Hold on a minute. If this letter had come in the post then it must have been sent before he dumped me. So maybe he sent the card yesterday, when he was still my boyfriend? Boyfriend! I loved that word. Perhaps it was all just a silly misunderstanding and…

‘It’s from a firm of solicitors,’ said Emma, reading the franking label over my shoulder.

Solicitors? I frowned, trying to quash my nerves. Why was it I automatically felt guilty even though, as far as I could remember, I had done absolutely nothing wrong? It was the same when I passed through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel at the airport; I would blush, let out a high-pitched giggle and start making jokes about the two thousand cigarettes in my bag. I didn’t even smoke.

‘Hey! You don’t think Marc has done something dodgy, do you, and implicated you in it?’ said Emma, wide-eyed.

Jess gave her a sharp look. ‘It might be something nice,’ she suggested. ‘Go on, open it!’

‘Yes,’ I said, trying to think positive, ‘it could be um…’

Emma nudged Jess and winked. ‘I know. It’s a restraining order from Gary Barlow’s people!’

Jess giggled and they linked arms, started swaying and launched into the chorus of ‘A Million Love Songs’.

I smiled, grateful that they weren’t bickering for once. The two girls were more than flatmates; they were sisters, Jess being the elder by two years. I loved them both dearly even though most of the time I had to act as adjudicator in their disputes. They treated me like a third sister, which in practice meant that Jess clucked over me and Emma teased me mercilessly.

I prodded Emma in the ribs. ‘I should never have told you about that letter.’

When I was sixteen and could stand the pain of unrequited love no more, I had written to Gary Barlow, care of his record label, and bared my soul. Never got a reply, of course. But I lived in hope.

‘Oh my Lordy,’ I continued. ‘Listen to this. “Dear Miss Stone, Whelan and Partners have been appointed… blah, blah, blah… writing to inform you that you are a beneficiary in the last will and testament of Mrs Jane Kennedy. Please contact this office at your earliest convenience. Yours, blah, blah, blah.”’

I plopped down into a chair, dropping the letter onto the table. The sisters grabbed it and re-read it.

‘Bloody hell, Sophie!’

‘Who’s Jane Kennedy?’

I stared up at them, feeling a bit dizzy. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’