2 October
“Izzy, seriously: where the fucking hell is Scott? Why hasn’t he texted? I’m moving in tomorrow.”
Tickled by my histrionics, Izzy lays into her rum and Coke. She never used to drink before the accident happened. I wonder if she’ll carry on boozing when she can walk again unassisted by the crutches propped up against our pub table.
“Kate, I need to tell you something,” she says, deploying frank eye contact. “And I need you to hear me: you’re talking like a crazy person right now.”
“By the time we finish these drinks,” I tell her, checking my watch, “it’ll have been twenty-four hours since this guy, the one who cannot wait for me to move in with him, last texted. And he hasn’t responded to any of my little follow-up prompts. You know: Helloooo? Are you there? All that needy shit.”
Izzy’s braids jostle as she shakes her head. “Crazy, crazy, crazy. So what’s going on in that little bauble of yours, mate? What exactly do you reckon’s happened to this bloke who hasn’t replied for a while?”
“Well, worst case scenario, he could be dead.” Ignoring what Izzy’s eyebrows are doing, I press boldly on. “I don’t know any of his friends or family. So there’s no one to tell me Scott’s been hit by a bus.”
She shrugs. “Well, you already know how I feel about the whole friends-and-family weirdness there…”
“Yep, you’ve been expressing that opinion since June. And you’re right, it is pretty weird, but I honestly think—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know: you honestly think that couples often seal themselves in an insular bubble in the early stages of their relationship. In other words, you think Scott’s been too busy banging you to introduce you to a single friend or family member… or even mention any of them. But why have you never asked?”
I blow out a fat plume of air. “Because… I suppose… if I ask about his family, he’d probably ask about mine. And then, if I tell the truth, he’ll have to hear about me never having known my dad. And even worse, about Mum herself and, you know, the whole… coma thing. Anyway, we’ve gone off topic.”
“None of that stuff is anything to be ashamed of,” Izzy insists, “and Scott will hear about it someday. But all right, moving on, here’s an idea: have you checked his social media?” When I frown at the very suggestion, she checks herself. “Of course you haven’t. You can’t. But surely if you’re worried, you won’t be breaking your own code by looking at his bloody Twitter for ten seconds.”
Temptation triggers a warning sign in my head and makes the back of my neck sweat. My addiction is the only thing in the world I feel unable to properly discuss with Izzy. Back in March, when I destroyed my smartphone, I told her I’d just got sick of the internet.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I tell her. “Slippery slope, and all that. I’ve been loads happier since I went off-grid.”
“Oh yeah, you look dead happy right now, for sure.”
“God, I’m being stupid, aren’t I? You’re right: Scott’s fine. Busy, that’s all. Probably getting the flat ready. He’s rushing around, buying celebratory balloons.”
“Hey, do you want me to look at his Twitter for you? Would that work?”
Seeing me fidget, she adds, “All I want is to see you happy, you know? You’re about to move in with Mr Perfect. You should be glowing, man.”
The knot in my throat makes it hard to speak or swallow. Despite having laced Mr Perfect with sarcasm, Izzy truly does want me to be happy, even though I’m leaving her and Leeds behind. Even though…
Even though… actually, let’s not think about how very badly I let her down, not right now. Let’s nod and fight back these infuriating tears.
“Are you nodding,” Izzy says, “because you agree you should be happy, or because you want me to check his Twitter for signs of death?”
“Both,” I manage to say.
Izzy whoops with relief and whips her phone from her bag. Unlike most people, who feel on edge if their phone isn’t on the table right in front of them, Izzy has a healthy, normal relationship with hers. What a total cow.
I gulp my drink as she taps her phone screen and navigates through to Twitter.
“Okay,” she says, scrolling down. Then she stops dead and peers at the screen. Oh shit. She doesn’t look concerned so much as horrified.
I’m waiting for the big fake-out laugh, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she says, “Brace yourself.”
“What the fuck is it? What the fuck’s happened?”
“You know Sarah Harding, who used to be in Girls Aloud? Last night, Scott posted a picture of her and him, saying she’s his… new girlfriend.”
My brain spasms, then snaps back into shape.
“Fuck right off,” I tell Izzy, who finally breaks cover with one of her bomb-blast cackles.
“Sorry mate, I couldn’t resist.”
“Fuck’s sake.” I’m not even smiling, let alone laughing. “Why did you have to pick someone vaguely plausible? Why couldn’t you have chosen Madonna, or Kim Kardashian?”
Seeing my total lack of amusement, Izzy composes herself. “Because I’m… evil? Also, Kim’s already spoken for by Kanye… sorry, I mean by Ye.”
“So… has Scott tweeted?”
“Not since you last heard from him. Shit, I really am sorry.” She peers at the drink I bought her. “Is this a double? That was mean of me. But serves you right for sodding off to Brighton and leaving me here.”
“You’ve got Jared to keep you busy. You’ve got plenty of other friends, too, you daft mare. And if you think I won’t be in touch, like every hour of every day, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
Izzy knocks back the rest of her drink. “Have you tried calling Scott? Your olde-worlde piece-of-shit phone does do calls, right?”
“Twice so far: morning and afternoon. I mean, you play it cool when you’re first seeing someone, but surely when you’ve agreed to move in together, all that crap’s off the table.”
She seizes upon a new angle. “Which network is he with? Could the network be down?”
I consider this thin sliver of hope, then brush it aside. “Look, if he’d changed his mind about me moving in, he’d have said so, wouldn’t he?”
“Course he would.” Even as Izzy says this, I’m painfully aware that she’s never met Scott. She has no idea of what he would or wouldn’t do.
Neither do you, Kate. Not really. And that’s why your stomach feels like you drank bad milk.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” I tell her, welling up again. “Sarah Harding or no fuckin’ Sarah Harding, you are awesome.”
Something diverts Izzy’s attention over my shoulder. She says, “You’ll love me less in about three seconds.”
Wearing his one decent shirt, Trevor leads a grinning, whooping posse of our ambulance colleagues across the tacky carpet towards us. Each of them clutches the string of a bobbing, Day-Glo helium balloon. I barely tolerate half of these people, but apparently they’ve tolerated me more than I knew. Or, more likely, they’ll grab any old excuse for a piss-up.
Izzy and I get sucked into the maelstrom. Everyone wants to hug me, push a drink in my hand and wish me luck on the next step of my journey through the bewilderingly twisty corridors of life.
I’d feel so much better about this little soirée if only my phone would vibrate.