The Perfect Girlfriend(11)

I return to the train station, glancing up at its distinctive square clock – it’s not even midday yet – and go home for the afternoon. I may as well use my time productively before I head off to Amy’s, so I take out my laptop and get to work. After chasing some estate agents, I check on what Bella is up to. She is supporting yet another charity. An anti-bullying one this time. Anger sweeps through me. She has no right, none at all.

In-bloody-hale, ex-bloody-hale. In. Out. In. Out.

Patience is a virtue.

Stick to the plan.

I occupy my mind by searching for a driving instructor, and I finally book some lessons.

I catch the bus to Heathrow for a change of scene, then another one to Brentford, even though it makes my journey longer. It doesn’t matter, as I still have plenty of time, despite my busy day. Each trip we do generates between two and five rest days off, depending on the destination – ‘Time at Base’ days, generally known as TAB days. The bus stops and starts, snaking through Hounslow, then back on to the A4, passing rows of houses set back from the main road. Even above the noise of the bus engine, I am aware of the constant stream of whining aircraft on their final descent. Glancing up through the window, on each approaching plane I can see – despite the daylight – the flashing lights of the anti-collision beacons, and the landing gear; thick, black tyres poking beneath the metallic underbellies.

I alight at Brentford High Street, outside the County Court, and from there it is a forty-minute walk to Amy’s. I pass tall, shiny glass buildings and the depressing grey pillars supporting the bridges of the M4 above. The final leg of my journey takes me up a wide, residential road.

I am sweating by the time I press Amy’s buzzer.

She opens the door in a peach towelling robe. ‘Sorry! Running a bit late. Help yourself to a drink from the fridge,’ she calls over her shoulder as she disappears into her bedroom. ‘I won’t be long.’

I don’t bother. Instead, I wait on the sofa. She takes ages. Bored, I pull open a drawer in the coffee table. It’s mainly full of junk. I can’t help myself tidying it, grouping random pens and picking out a disintegrating packet of sticky cough sweets, which need to go in the bin. There is a Homer Simpson key ring, a burst of sky blue and yellow, holding two keys. Spare keys? I pick them up and slide them into my bag – you never know when things will come in useful.

‘You remember Jack from my party, don’t you?’ Amy says when we’re finally en route. She doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing. ‘I hope you don’t mind? He was at a loose end tonight, so I said he could join us.’

I smile. ‘How lovely. The more the merrier.’

Of course I fucking mind.

As soon as I enter the restaurant, my mood drops further. There is no sign of a welcoming Alejandro and I sense his absence, made more obvious by the lack of a decaying cactus on a high-up window sill and the missing paper tablecloths, decorated with badly illustrated sombreros. Instead, the place looks . . . sleek. I just know that he’s sold out, moved on. I feel a tiny stab of betrayal. I was a loyal customer.

A waitress shows us to a table set for four. I can see the back of a man’s head; he swings round and grins.

‘Hi, Jack,’ I say with a big smile. ‘Who’s the empty seat for?’ I casually slip in as I take a seat opposite Amy.

‘My pal, Chris,’ says Jack with a grin.

A tingle of unease seeps through my chest when things are out of kilter. I don’t want to double-date or hang out with other men – there’s no point. I have Nate. Clenching my fists beneath the table, I force myself to pick up the menu and study it.

Just as I am about to suggest that we don’t bother eating and head for a bar instead, Chris arrives. He is larger than life in every way: tall, loud, with a beer belly. Although I grin and appear welcoming, the next few hours are an endurance. I feel trapped. I hate the fact that I am here, going through the motions in the wrong life, with the wrong people. I haven’t endured the nightmare roller-coaster ride of my early twenties to now experience such a brutal stab of hollowness. My beliefs entitle me to a cosmic reward like . . . contentment or stability. I belong at home, with Nate. Every moment that we are apart is a waste of time, because the outcome is obvious – we will be together. Being with Nate was as though I’d begun a homeward-bound train journey, only to be booted off halfway through, on a winter’s night, and instructed to reach my destination on a series of replacement buses.

I want it all: Nate, his family’s welcoming acceptance, the comfortable lifestyle and kids who grow up to be a footballer – Will loved kicking his football – and an actress. I’d look after my children myself; I wouldn’t trust anyone else to watch them properly. I want to be the sort of person who other people might glance at – in a restaurant, say, or even just taking the kids to the park – who people might aspire to be. I want them to imagine that I am the sort of person who is ‘together’ and to picture my orderly home, with children’s pictures stuck to the designer fridge with magnets, whilst my husband opens a bottle of chilled, expensive wine as I stir a risotto.

Approaching midnight, they are all pissed and laughing at things that aren’t funny. If Jack shows me one more YouTube clip of a man flying off a motorbike into a conveniently located haystack, I will scream. And I don’t think I will be able to stop.