‘Over here!’
She’s facing the steps, her back to us. Beside me, Otty tenses.
And then I see why.
Creepy Chris emerges from the departing crowd. Otty looks at me and is about to say something when Sheila and Chris come back towards us. So they know each other? Odd…
‘Better late than never,’ Sheila says, linking her arm with The Creepmeister’s. But he isn’t looking at her. I hear Otty swear under her breath as he makes a beeline for her.
‘Hi, Otty. I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Dad invited us.’ Her voice sounds strained.
If her dad weren’t next to me I would repeat my super-smooth arm-around-the-shoulder move and send Chris packing again. But I can’t. All I can do is flash a comradely smile at Otty so she knows she’s not alone.
‘I see you brought the new boyfriend,’ Chris says.
Jarvis snorts. ‘Too late, mate, we already tried that one.’
Chris frowns. ‘But – he is. She told me…’
‘When?’ Mike is death-staring right at me.
‘Week or so ago? I met them in town. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other.’
I hear a tiny noise like air escaping from the neck of a balloon and realise it’s coming from my housemate.
And then, everything shifts into slow motion. Mike’s expression thunderous, Jarvis and Steve’s open-mouthed delight, Sheila reaching for a tissue from her sleeve, her eyes reddening, Creepy Chris looking from Otty to me and back to Otty, as if he’s watching a tennis champion flounder at match point.
And my wonderful friend, crumpling slowly in the middle of it all.
I can’t let this happen to her.
Not considering the ramifications, or trying to work out exactly what’s going on, all I can think of is getting Otty out of there.
I can’t remember what I say – something vaguely unoriginal along the lines of, Goodness, is that the time? We must be going – and then I grab Otty’s hand and guide her through the crowd up to the stand entrance and down the stairs to the main exit.
I don’t head for the bus stop, instead leading her across the busy road outside Edgbaston Cricket Ground to the lush greenness of Cannon Hill Park. We weave in and out of the departing crowd, skirting the ice-cream vans and a troupe of circus performers entertaining a gaggle of kids, and keep walking until we clear the main drag. We don’t speak as I guide Otty up the grass bank past ripening cherry trees, softly bowing green willows and russet-leaved maples, towards the old bandstand I used to go and sit in when university hangovers were crushing my brain.
I allow myself a moment to breathe when I see it’s empty. Gently, I lead Otty up the steps and over to the wooden bench that runs around its circumference. We sit, side by side, almost together but not quite.
Otty is breathing hard, but I don’t think the walk here is responsible. I wait for her to speak – but she hangs her head and says nothing.
We are two people who write words for a living. So why can neither of us find the right ones now?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
OTTY
It’s a disaster.
Dad thinks I lied to him. Steve and Jarvis, too. They think I’m with Joe. Sheila looked like I’d punched her in the heart. And if Chris has half a brain cell he’ll work out that the lie was to him, not to everyone else. Today was supposed to be me proving to them I was right, to show them the life I fought to live on my own terms is pretty bloody perfect. Now I just look like a liar.
‘Otts?’
I can’t look at Joe yet. I can’t. I just used his kindness to kick my family. Some friend I am.
‘Otty – look at me.’
Stupid tears! Don’t turn up now! I try to shove the emotion away, which only makes it surge back stronger.
Joe’s voice is soft as the autumn breeze, warm and low near my ear. ‘I’m just going to guess-talk this, okay? See if I’ve got it right. So… Creepy Chris is Sheila’s son?’
I nod. A tear escapes and runs down my nose. It leaves an almost perfect circle when it drops on the knee of my jeans.
‘And the long-term relationship you left, that was something your family wanted to happen?’
My head bows lower.
‘O-kay.’
I sniff. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’
‘Kind of an important plot point, that.’ A glimmer of humour plays in his voice.
‘Mm.’
‘The reviewers on Rotten Tomatoes would not be impressed.’
When I dare to glance at him, one side of his mouth lifts in a half grin.
‘5/10 – disappointing,’ I say, mimicking a disgruntled cinemagoer.
‘3.75/10 – Oh-Em-Gee why didn’t they tell us?’
More tears chase the first escapee when I laugh. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my denim jacket. Joe’s attempt at a Californian accent is worse than his acting ability in the coffee shop, but I love that he’s even trying to make me feel better.
‘We got together so young,’ I say. ‘Looking back, the hints were always there with our families, you know? Sheila was Mum’s best friend – they grew up next door to each other. When Mum left, Sheila stepped into the breach. I think her and Dad saw Chris and me as the next generation of their friendship.’
‘Like they planned you both into it?’
I stare at him. I’ve never thought of it in those terms, but it’s exactly what it felt like. ‘It’s all the unspoken stuff, over the years. It builds into something insurmountable. The expectation. And the implied threat it carries: like stepping off that path would mortally wound them. Like you’d betray them if you didn’t do it. Especially once Mum wasn’t on the scene. We were the great hope for the Perrys and Wrights. So I went along with it for years because I wanted to make everyone happy. But it was suffocating – and as soon as Chris proposed, it got worse.’
My heart contracts and I have to wait until the pain subsides enough to breathe again. In the moment when Chris asked me to marry him, it seemed right to accept. But I still remember the panic when Sheila appeared at my family home the next day carrying an armful of bridal magazines – the paralysing horror of watching my father and future mother-in-law planning me into a day, a marriage, a life I didn’t want.
‘You did the right thing, though. Calling it off.’
‘It didn’t feel like that when I did it. It felt like I’d detonated a bomb beneath my family.’
There’s a long pause then. A pattering of birdsong, and the distant hum of cars on the main road beyond the park, rush in to surround us. I’m suddenly aware of Joe’s breathing.
Then his hand closes over mine on the weathered wood between us. ‘What we need,’ he says, the hint of conspiracy dancing in his tone, ‘is wine. Lots of it.’
‘Yes, please.’
He smiles. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go home.’
I have never been happier to hear those words…
When we get back, the house is filled with the warm spiciness of the beef and ginger stew we prepared for the slow cooker this morning softly bubbling away. Bless Joe Carver and his large shiny kitchen gadgets. I’ve ribbed him before about the kitchen resembling a QVC cooking-appliance segment – all chrome shininess and dubious necessity – but this evening the slow cooker is our saviour.