Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3), стр. 25

‘Are you going to pay for that?’

My neighbour scowls at me from his doorstep.

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Well, it’s going next week.  You’ll have to find somewhere else to dump your flowers.’

He slams the door, leaving me alone with my embarrassment.  I’ve been caught red-handed, making unauthorised use of a skip.  But worse than that, it’s five o’clock in the evening and I’m dressed in my pyjamas, probably looking dishevelled to say the least.  After a restless night, I shied away from Slaters, telling Lucy I felt under the weather, and cocooned myself from the world.  I’ve spent the entire day on the sofa, knocking back one mug of tea after another, flicking through an endless selection of daytime television crap, and relentlessly raking through the facts.  Closing the front door, I head for the kitchen.  Lucy’s due home soon.  The least I can do is prepare dinner.  I heat up the oven, pop in a frozen pizza, open a bottle of white wine and set the rickety table.

The front door opens and bangs shut.

‘Evening,’ Lucy grunts, dropping her handbag on the floor.  ‘Friday night.  Let’s get pissed.’

‘Bad day?’

‘Shit day.  Gordon’s back.  I had to go through the accounts with him.  And yours?’

‘Had a bath.  Watched telly.  Cooked a pizza.’  And that reminds me.  ‘Oh shit, the pizza.’

In a panic, I tug open the oven door, dismayed at the sight of a blackened disc in front of me.

‘Bugger.’

We stand together, staring at the burnt offering.

‘We’re crap,’ Lucy breathes.  ‘It’s official.’

‘It is official.’ I switch off the oven.  I really ought to get that slab of charcoal into the bin, but it’s still smoking.  ‘I’ve had enough.’  And the devil inside wants to play.  ‘No more moping, Lucy.  No more feeling sorry for ourselves.  We’re going out … on the pull.’

‘We are?’ she gawps.  ‘But I thought you were ill.’

‘Not any more.’  I prod the pizza, burning my finger in the process.  ‘I need to get back on my bike.  And you need to get back on yours.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘But …’

‘What?’

She thinks for a moment, giving me one of her should-I-really-say-this looks.  I don’t know why she bothers.  She always says it in the end.

‘I saw the magazine,’ she ventures nervously.  ‘The one you dumped in the bin.  I saw the article.’  She swallows.  ‘I knew you weren’t over him.  You were like me, hoping he’d made some huge mistake, hoping he’d come back.’

In a strange moment of intimacy, I see it all in her eyes: the raw grief of losing Clive, her sadness for me.  And I just can’t help myself.  I throw my arms around her, pressing her into my chest and giving her the biggest hug of her life.

‘You’re a wonderful friend, Lucy.  I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ she mumbles into my breasts.  ‘But please don’t hug me.  This shit’s going to make us both cry.’

I release her and step back, taking in a gulp of air and coughing it back out again.  There’s a distinct taste of burning in the room.

‘You weren’t ill today, were you?’ she asks.

‘No.’  I shrug.  ‘I was brooding.’

‘It’s always the hardest part.  When you find out they’ve moved on.’

A huge understatement if I’ve ever heard one.  In fact, I never knew it was possible to feel this messed up.  The inside of my head’s not a good place to be at the minute.  A landscape of complete desolation, there’s nothing familiar left in place.

‘I know.’

‘So, tonight … maybe it’s not the best night to get back on your bike.  Perhaps we should stay in.’

I smile at her.  She may be a ditzy idiot, but my best friend’s definitely got my back.  The trouble is, my back, along with the rest of me, just doesn’t want to stay in.

‘There’s never been a better night, Luce.  Trust me.’

She stares at me, disbelief quickly giving way to mild excitement.

‘Well, if that’s the case, I know exactly where we’re going.’

‘Where?’

‘Back to Soho.  The Mill.  More bikes than the Tour de France.’

I stare at her blankly.

‘It’s a metaphor … I think.  Anyway, Gordon’s seeing some friends there tonight.  And we’re invited.  I didn’t think you’d be interested, but …’  The excitement grows.  ‘He wants to treat me for working so hard today.’  She pouts dramatically.  ‘Free entry courtesy of the new boss.  We’re on the guest list.  No queueing.  Straight in.  VIP area.  Complimentary bubbly.’

And Gordon.  A man who seems to have a crush on me, which I wouldn’t normally mind, but when all’s said and done – and in spite of all my brave allusions to cycling – I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for any shenanigans.  It’s going to take a good few months to shake the big kahuna out of my system.  And besides, all I really want to do is get drunk, dance and lose myself in oblivion.

‘Come on, Maya.  I’ll give you a make-over.  Little black dress.  You’re going to look the dog’s bollocks.’

Before I know it, I’m dragged from the kitchen into my bedroom and squeezed into the black dress I bought for my first exhibition at Slaters.  Refusing point blank to let Lucy anywhere near me with her make-up bag, I apply eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara.  Finally, I open my jewellery box and find myself gazing down at the sweet pea necklace and the matching earrings.  Somehow, I still want to wear them.  But I can’t.  Instead, I opt for my grandmother’s Yorkshire jet and close the box, resolving to leave all thoughts of Dan behind.

Three hours later, after a meal in a Greek restaurant and an unknown quantity of ouzo, we’re staggering through the streets of Soho.  Oblivious to the fact that my world’s already swaying and I need a little rest, Lucy