The after-wedding blues are like returning from a holiday. Everywhere lacks colour; the pace has slowed down to a yawn. It’s hard to talk about anything unrelated to the joyous event, now only a memory, a piece of history. In short, the world just feels less interesting.
I’m sat outside London Euston station amongst the smokers and vapers.
‘Well, that’s an excuse if ever I heard one,’ I say.
I’ve finally managed to get Beth to answer her bloody phone and she won’t meet me after work because she’s viewing flats. Another one. As well as the Islington terrace, she and Fergus already own a delightful two-bed in Scotland that they rent out on Airbnb. They make a fortune during the Edinburgh Festival every August. And here I am, begging. Well, property wins.
‘It’s not an excuse, babes.’
‘Where’s the flat?’
‘West Hampstead.’
Sounds expensive. I don’t know the area but I know it’s on the Jubilee line.
‘Nice. Can I come? I can be there in half an hour. Or meet you after?’
‘No, it’ll look weird if you come with me. And then I’m going straight to bed.’
Great. My suitcase is in between my knees and I’m sucking on the last dregs of an iced coffee from Caffè Nero, contemplating which direction to go in. I’d banked on it being east to Islington, but Beth’s having none of it.
‘Babes, I’ve gotta go. I’m running late as it is.’
‘Bye—’ but she’s already gone.
We still haven’t mentioned our fight. I sent her a message the day after the wedding, apologising for not getting much chance to speak to her. Our cosiest moment had been at the end of the night when we found each other side by side – hand in hand – in the circle for ‘New York, New York’. Our Kit had been adamant his big day wouldn’t end so predictably. But it did.
I toss my iced coffee cup into the bin and open Instagram. The guests all went a bit Insta-crazy and I’m loving the captured magic, the filters, the hashtags. There’s our Kit and Gareth in a selfie at the airport now, on their way to Mykonos with pints in hand, toasting. The message request from Justin remains unopened. I can’t imagine it’s anything more than a simple Hi, how are you?, but other than that being the world’s most banal question – especially when you’re not fine – I’m uncomfortable with what I did. Not only with what happened in his room in Vietnam; what had I been thinking, going to Bangkok? Trying to find that man sat in the shopping trolley? It’s absurd.
I wheel my suitcase into the noodle bar. Si hasn’t read the messages I sent him two hours ago. After the wedding, he told me he ‘owed me, big time’, and I’ve politely asked if I can crash on his sofa because I couldn’t get hold of Beth. I select a readymade yaki soba and pot of edamame from the self-service counter. Si will respond soon; or Beth might change her mind.
Speaking of food – my mum made my favourite tea last night; her homemade fish pie. Later, about an hour after I’d gone to bed, she barged her way into my bedroom, knowing I’d still be awake. She planted a loud, heavy kiss on my forehead and said, ‘Love you,’ in the same way she’d say ‘Get up’ if I was having a lie-in. It’s been less than a week since our Kit’s wedding and neither of us has brought up that conversation in the toilets. I would’ve been keen to talk about it and get to the root of our problem, if my mum wasn’t Sue Roscoe. Women like Sue are of a certain ilk, you see: a generation who seem outspoken, but can’t express what’s truly going on inwardly. It comes out wrong. It’s frowned upon. It’s too deep. It’s indulgent. It gets in the way of practical things like getting the tea on the table for six o’clock or watching Corrie to unwind. She’d rather just say ‘Love you’. And at the very least with that, she means it.
Si still hasn’t checked his messages.
I message Fergus.
Hiya! Just checking you’ll be home in 30 min or so? I’m on my way to yours. Ok?
I don’t mind if Beth goes straight to bed when she comes back from West Hampstead. I just need their guest room and it’s always there whenever I need it. Beth’s words, not mine.
Fergus replies.
Aye. Almost home.
It’s lashing down when I emerge from the tube station. Summer’s on its last legs. My denim jacket gets soaked and sticks to my neck, my back, my elbows. When Fergus answers the door, I run inside and slip off my Converse, leaving them in the hallway with my suitcase, and hang my jacket to dry on the coat rack.
‘Get the kettle on,’ I say. ‘I bought some biscuits from M&S. I won’t tell Beth.’
He obeys my orders with a huff and I chuckle. He’s so easy to wind up.
I crack out the biscuits and Fergus opens them, taking two and devouring them like a monster. The crunching echoes around the kitchen and crumbs fall onto his rather baggy t-shirt – it’s unlike the usual muscle-hugging ones I’m used to seeing him wear. The kettle boils and he pours hot water into two mugs.
‘Teabags?’ I remind him.
‘Uh? Oh. Yeah.’
He finds a box of green tea in the cupboard. Drops a bag into each mug.
‘Milk?’ he asks.
‘With green tea?’
‘Sorry.’
‘You okay?’
Fergus presses his hands into the kitchen table and hangs his head down. The veins on his arms pop through his skin and he releases an animalistic growl. I was not expecting that.
‘Go on, then,’ he says, standing upright quite abruptly. ‘Hit me.’
‘Hit you with what?’
‘Chloe. You’ve come here to have a go at me, so just get on with it.’
He takes another biscuit and eats it whole. A large crumb sits on his pale pink upper lip. Come to think of it, Fergus Douglas has never looked so dishevelled.
‘I’m just waiting for Beth,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here to crash.’
‘Crash?’
‘Yeah, you know Beth’s always said the guest room’s mine whenever I need it.’
‘But Beth doesn’t live here anymore.’
I pull such a series of faces that I must look like a clown. Surely he’s having me on? Although he’d need a personality transplant to attempt that.
‘Don’t tell me she hasn’t even told you?’ he yells. The table gets the brunt of it, again.
‘Told me what?’
‘We’re getting divorced.’
‘What the—’
‘Yeah. Fuck. Been on the cards for a while but she finally moved out a few weeks ago.’
‘Fergus, come on, hun. Stop playing with me head.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Dunno. But correct me if I’m wrong, our Kit’s wedding was only last weekend. You two were like, so loved up. Gareth told youse to get a room at one point!’
He pulls a chair from beneath the table, scraping it along the tiles like nails on a chalkboard. Plonking himself down, he rubs his eyes and his neck, as if allergies have come to attack him.
‘Wasn’t real,’ he says.
‘Oh, please. You can’t fake that shit,’ I say and pull out a chair, more carefully than Fergus. I lean in, my elbows on my knees. ‘And why would you bother?’
‘Okay, look, it was real.’ His voice is robotic. ‘But it wasn’t our real, real life. At the wedding, we were nostalgic. We hadn’t seen each other for a fortnight. We agreed to show up and have a nice time. And we used it to say a final goodbye.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘Why not? Surely you’ve noticed how toxic we’ve been. For years, Chloe. Years!’
‘Yeah, maybe. But I thought that was what made you both, I dunno, tick?’
‘Nobody wants to live like that.’
‘’Course not, but Beth’s never said anything to me about—’
‘Beth’s been trying to talk to you for months. Longer.’
‘No she hasn’t.’
Fergus stands up to get another biscuit.
‘Okay,’ he says, lightly, ‘she hasn’t.’
I don’t like how his tone has changed.
Nor do I like how I never saw this coming, when it was so obvious. Oh God!
‘Where’s Beth living, then?’ I ask.
‘Staying with a friend from work, but she wants her own place.’
Ah, West Hampstead. She was telling the truth.
‘Wait,’ I stand up. ‘You thought I was here to have a go at you. To hit you. Oh, Fergus. You didn’t …’
‘Huh? No! Fuck, no. I’d never cheat on Beth, ever.’
‘So what did you mean? Did you turf her out of the house?’
He puts his head in his hands and nods.
‘It’s only fair, Chloe. It was my parents and my savings that bought this place – Beth’s always just contributed,’ he says. ‘She said some hurtful things. You know how she gets.’
‘But she’d never mean any harm, she’s all show when it comes to arguing.’
‘I know, I know, but she was cruel. She blames me through and through.’
‘For what?’
‘The baby. Well, lack of.’
I have to be loyal to Beth, and yet I’m compelled to reach out to Fergus. I launch forward and give him a strong hug, although he doesn’t reciprocate, and he steps away throwing his shoulders back in military fashion.
‘I need to find her,’ I say.
Fergus gives a series of nods.
‘You’re more than welcome to stay, though. However long you need.’
‘Thanks.’
Although I’m not sure that would be the best idea right now. I give Fergus a closed-mouth smile, which he sort-of returns, and I get my things and leave.