‘OK.’ Ben nods and runs both his hands over his shorn hair, his kind face smiling at me. ‘You’re right. I’m being a dick, Nat, I’m sorry. It’s just I want you to be happy.’

‘But I was happy,’ I say. ‘We were happy, for a while.’

‘Right,’ he says, but there’s a note of disbelief in his voice and for the first time I feel myself getting angry.

‘We were,’ I said. ‘I loved him – I – I don’t know, perhaps I stil do.’

When I say this out loud, I realise how long I’ve been wanting to say it.

‘You don’t deserve him,’ Ben says. He is staring into my eyes. ‘You should be with someone who wants you to be happy, Nat. Who it’s easy to be with. Easy. Like . . . like it is with you and me.’

He leans forward. I don’t say anything. I just move towards him, resting my head on his shoulder. It is so nice to be held by someone again after so long. He puts his arms round me, and I give in to it, sinking into his comfortable jacket and the comfortableness of him, how lovely he is, how kind, how handsome . . . how my head fits into the crook of his neck the way it’s supposed to. The way it’s supposed to.

I look up at him and he moves his head towards me just enough, so his lips are touching mine. And he whispers, so his lips brush mine, ‘You and me.’

He pushes his mouth against mine, and I close my eyes, feeling the wetness of his tongue sliding into my mouth. He moves against me, and he sighs, and pul s me towards him; his lips are hard on mine, his fingers are on my neck, and it’s as if I’m coming alive again, tingling al over.

His skin is so sweet, the touch of his kiss is so alarmingly exciting, I push myself against him for a few glorious moments. I want him to pul me tighter towards him, to total y sweep me up, to carry on kissing me, feeling his hands on me, holding me close, it is amazing . . .

And then my phone rings. I should ignore it, I should stop. But in the quiet street it is loud. As if I’m coming awake, out of a dream, I pul away from Ben, step backwards. I push him away, my palm flat on his chest, and snatch the phone out of my bag.

‘Ol?’ I say. I pause. ‘Where are you? You’re – now? You’re coming now? OK – um, yeah, that’s – that’s fine. See you in a minute.’ I put the phone away, my eyes stil locked with Ben’s. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and look at my fingers, as if he’s poisoned me. He is staring, standing stock-stil , in the shadow of the huge church, the cobbles shining in the moon and the rain.

‘So Oli’s coming over, then, is he?’ Ben’s voice is cold. ‘You’re running off. He says, “Jump,” you say, “How high, Oli?”’

My stomach is churning, I think I’m going to be sick. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, breathing heavily, my heart pounding almost painful y in my chest. My hair is fal ing over my shoulders, around my face, and I back away, staring into his face. ‘I have to go, we should never – I’m so sorry . . . we should never have done this.’

‘Why?’ he says. He’s almost smiling. He reaches out to touch me, and ends up cupping my elbow in his palm. His hands are big and strong.

‘Natasha, you must have known this was going to happen.’

‘No!’ I say, pul ed towards him by his hand on my elbow, and by a huge desire to kiss him again. I shake my head at him. ‘Absolutely not, Ben, no!’

And then the doubt that can almost immediately cover the bravado of taking an action like this comes over him. ‘But—’

I put my hand underneath his and remove my arm from his grip. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s too soon. It’s too soon. Oli and I, we only just split up, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, and—’

‘You do know!’ he says, almost impatiently, and he steps forward again, as if to touch me, but instead he clenches his hands into fists by his sides, his knuckles white with frustration. A passer-by scurries alongside the wal of the church, and we both turn. Ben lowers his voice. ‘Natasha –

can’t you see? He’s never going to change, what are you waiting around for?’ He trails off. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

I stare at him again. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘Not horrible.’ His voice is low and soft. ‘It’s because I want you to be happy. It’s because – God, can’t you see it? I’m in love with you, Natasha

– I have been for a while.’ And he reaches up to his chest, and touches his heart with his fingers. I don’t think he realises he’s doing it.

‘You’re what?’

‘I’ve fal en for you. What the hel . I have fal en for you. Your smile, the way you bend your head when you’re embarrassed, your long legs . . .’ He opens his hands, his eyes burning into me. ‘How talented you are, and you don’t see it, how tough you try to be, how sad you are, and how happy you deserve to be. You’re so strong al the time and you don’t always have to be. You need someone to look after you.’

‘Stop it, Ben,’ I say, and I’m trying not to shake. ‘Stop it.’

‘You deserve everything, Nat.’ He nods. ‘And you don’t deserve him. You deserve someone much better.’

‘What? Like you?’ I practical y spit the words out, sudden anger coursing through me. ‘How dare you,’ I say. ‘Just because you’re single again, and you don’t like Oli, and you think you know me – you don’t know me, Ben! We’re col eagues, we’re not . . .’ I shake my head, looking for the right words. His eyes are stil on me, searching my face. I think again how naked he looks without the beard and hair. Defenceless. I don’t want to hurt him. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s probably best if – I’m going to go now.’

‘Nat – don’t go –’ he cal s. I turn and run up the street. He is fol owing me.

‘Please, just leave, just let me go!’ I am almost hysterical. I turn in to my road, which is completely dead, and as I do I look back down Wilkes Street. Ben is standing there, watching me, a lone figure, dark in the yel owing lamplight. He turns and walks away.

My phone rings again and I pick it up, unlocking the front door.

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘You’re back already?’

‘Yes,’ Oli says, his voice so familiar it beats a tattoo in my head. ‘Let myself in. Is it OK? ’S’not too late? For a visit?’

He’s drunk. I’m drunk. I know what I’m about to do. Slowly, I shut the door and go upstairs, wondering where the hel that came from, whether it’s always been there, and wishing, with a desire I tel myself is completely childish, that Ben were stil here now, that I was in his arms, my head on his broad, comforting, safe chest, feeling his heart beating underneath. His heart.

Chapter Thirty-Four

When I get upstairs, the flat is a tip again. Al evidence of the tidying up I did that morning, so long ago now, is vanished. Oli is standing in the centre of the room, his hands in his hair. He is swaying slightly. As I shut the door, he turns round. He’s been crying. His eyes are ful of tears.

‘Natasha –’ he says, and he pads over towards me. ‘Natasha. It’s so good to see you, babe.’

‘Hi, Oli,’ I say wearily, putting my bag down on the hal table. Suddenly I wish he wasn’t here, that I was alone. ‘What do you want? It’s late.’

He stands in the doorway to the sitting room, hands on either side of the door frame, pushing himself backwards and forwards. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he says.

‘Has Jason kicked you out?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here now? I – I don’t want to see you,’ I say brutal y. I think of Ben, walking through the wet, icy night, back home, alone. Instantly guilt rushes over me.

‘Just miss you,’ Oli mumbles. He holds out a hand. ‘C’m’ere.’

I take his hand, and he pul s me towards him. And I stil want him. Oh, the smel of him: yeasty, beery, sweaty, but spicy too, something to do with his aftershave. His hair, so soft and floppy. His scratchy stubble on my cheek. He’s my husband, he’s the man I thought I was going to be with for the rest of my life. I know it’s fucked-up, I know he’s drunk, but so am I, and hey, isn’t that what we should have done a while ago? Get drunk and just say what we think? With a mighty effort, I pul away.

‘You seeing Chloe again then?’ I ask. ‘What’s going on?’ Oli doesn’t say anything, he turns and goes into the bedroom. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Sort of –

yeah. No.’

I don’t know whether to be pleased by this news or not, or even whether to believe it. I don’t know what I think. I am real y tired, drunk, my hair is wet from the rain, my feet are hurting, and I just feel sad, sad about Ben, sad about this. I should press him on it, but I don’t want to hear what he says.

Oli flops down on the bed. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Honestly just came t’get some more shirts and stuff. I know it’s late, I know I’ve had too much to drink. I was out with the boys from work, and they al went off early, and I suddenly . . .’ He looks up at me, I am standing against the chest of drawers looking at him. ‘I just real y wanted to see you. To hold you. Sleep in our bed just once more. You know? No, you don’t know.’ He struggles to stand up again and he mutters under his breath. ‘’S’Natasha, remember?’ Then he says, ‘You hate me and you want me to go. It’s fine.’

Cold-hearted Natasha. I push him back down on the bed, just as I pushed Ben away, the same hand, the same gesture. ‘You can stay,’ I say.

‘It’s fine. But nothing’s going to happen. I’m tired.’

‘So am I,’ he says. He smiles. ‘I miss you. I saw Mad Men the other night, with – with Jason and Lucy, and they didn’t understand what was going on. Kept wishing you were there.’

As romantic scenarios go, it’s not exactly up there with Casablanca. But it’s Oli. He’s my husband. And it’s late, and we’re both tired. I brush my teeth and hastily wash my face, and when I crawl into bed next to him, he’s practical y asleep anyway. He snuggles against me, holding me in his arms and I look at the alarm clock, blinking on the bedside table. 11:02. His hand is heavy on my ribcage. My eyelids are heavy too. In seconds, we are both asleep.