Cover Story - 66
It was an irony that Bel couldn’t share with Connor, that only once the fake dating was over, did their interacting feel fake. They patched up the aborted sex with a lot of suddenly forced buoyant normalcy and humour and the end of Point Break. They discussed anything and everything, like old friend...
It was an irony that Bel couldn’t share with Connor, that only once the fake dating was over, did their interacting feel fake.
They patched up the aborted sex with a lot of suddenly forced buoyant normalcy and humour and the end of Point Break.
They discussed anything and everything, like old friends, while YOU MADE AN ABSOLUTE SHIT SHOW OF YOURSELF thundered in Bel’s mind.
Bel skipped the hotel breakfast – all things considered, she couldn’t face it.
‘I don’t think I want to run the gamut of the Hornbys enough for Eggs Benedict.’
‘Mind if I go?’
‘Not at all.’
He left Bel listlessly playing with her phone in its charger.
Shilpa
Reviews are in! I’ve had a message from Rufus saying you are insensitive to ‘flaunt’ new man in front of Tim without ‘doing him courtesy of warning you were seeing someone’ and ‘it was really unnecessary, Tim says they were all over each other.’
Bel thought of Tim’s swipes at Shilpa yesterday. A lot of wing-manning advocacy going on.
Bel
WHAT?! I thought me and Connor ‘weren’t real’? If I’d told him I had a plus one I guarantee I’d have got rank-pulling ‘it’s my sister’s wedding so please leave the piece of boy ass at home,’ I couldn’t win and unlike him I’m not allowed to move on. My two options: pitiable, or a bitch.
Shilpa
One hundred per cent. I told Rufus they’ve turned into the Brewdog Andrew Tates.
Connor returned, reporting her mum had said, in full hearing of the Tim-Rhiannon table, that she couldn’t wait for Connor to visit. ‘And Miles is in London soon for a party and we’ve swapped numbers to go for a pint, hope that’s OK?’
‘Of course,’ Bel said, bloodlessly.
‘I honestly don’t think the fauxmance charges are sticking, at all.’
Bel smiled and said brilliant. Shame she’d had to be told it was one, too.
She desperately wished she’d not got over-excited and tried it on with him. They could’ve salvaged the friendship she’d outlined. The Big Other Irony was that Connor had pretended that sleeping together would spoil it, but ‘Bel trying to make it happen and him resisting’ had much the same effect.
There was now a ghostly question mark hanging over why she’d ever proposed their staying in touch at all, and she’d not be trying to arrange any meet-ups. She had a solid premonition that Connor wouldn’t either.
As their car approached Ancoats, Bel knew that this was it, goodbye, more or less forever. She was incredibly glad of her large ‘hangover’ sunglasses.
Connor asked the driver to wait a second, heaved Bel’s case out of the boot and stepped up to the pavement to say goodbye.
‘Nothing I could say to thank you would do justice to the support you’ve given me,’ Bel said.
‘Are you kidding? Bel, you got me on the front page in twelve weeks flat. Toby wants to see me on Monday. I have gone from Total Nobody to Rising Star and it’s one hundred per cent down to you.’
‘You were never a total nobody,’ Bel said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘And career favours and personal-life favours aren’t the same. The second is far more valuable and meaningful and you’ve done me those in spades.’
‘It was nothing.’
Yes, Bel feared that for him, in the nicest possible way, it was.
Connor leant over and hugged her, and Bel threw her arms round him and closed her eyes and fought to stay in control.
‘See you at the Christmas party, I guess?’ she said, for a carefree parting line, wanting Connor to disagree and insist no, they’d organise something in the autumn.
‘Guess so. In our antler Deely Boppers.’
Bel imagined seeing Connor across the room and realising from a stray hand-touching that he and another colleague were seeing each other. She would honestly rather make up an excuse than witness that; it’d feel like gazing at a hangman’s noose on a deserted moor.
Bel would have to phish with him beforehand to try and make sure he was single. Look at him, he’ll be single for about as much time as it takes an avocado to go grey.
Bollocks to it, she’d eat microwave Christmas pudding from the tub and scroll it all online instead, searching for a glimpse of his face.
‘You bet,’ Bel said. ‘Bye, Connor.’
‘Bye, Bel.’
She turned and busied herself with getting through her door, as watching the taxi turn the corner was too much.
As she ditched her luggage and flopped onto the couch, she got a message from her mum.
Isabel, what a thoroughly delightful young man Connor is. Your father would’ve adored him. I have a very good feeling about you two. I’m already working on an itinerary for showing him around here – he seemed extremely enthusiastic about getting to know York/becoming acquainted with your origin story. I am afraid a viewing of the ‘nude toddler crabbing in Cromer’ photos has been offered and accepted, haha! Hope you got back safely xxx
Bel burst into tears.
‘At least it’s not chucking it down like it was in May,’ his dad said. ‘You’re getting out at the right time, if that was Manchester in the good months. Imagine November.’
‘Hah, yes,’ Connor said.
He was leaving her behind.
Soon he’d be staring out of windows at Pret Charing Cross, listening to songs about her, wondering what other bastard might be getting close to her. Grit-smiling through the rigmarole of dates that made him feel existentially lonely, and living for the funny debrief WhatsApps with Bel when he got home. Trying to avoid hearing about hers. Ugh. He was too old to find the tragedy of the loss of her poetic. He didn’t want to wallow, he wanted her back in his arms.
See you at the Christmas party, I guess. Not if he was going to watch other men circling her and then overhear her say: ‘That’s what my boyfriend says …’ and feel like he’d bruised his ribs. Realising any chance with her he might’ve ever had, had been comprehensively missed. He’d have to try to suss her romantic situation out ahead of time and cry off if needs be. Crying being the operative verb.
Could he have just bet the house, and told her? What would he say? More to the point, what would Bel say? Last night proved he wasn’t friend-zoned, but there was still a yawning conceptual leap in wanting anything serious. Not so long ago, he was her hemlock.
‘Got all your things, then?’ his dad said, and Connor thought: well, no. A massive sodding chunk of my heart is bleeding everywhere, forever stuck somewhere north of Manchester city centre, but it is what it is.
‘Yeah, I’ll follow you down.’
He heavy-sighed and did a last wander round, doing the visual sweep of the bathroom, the bedroom side tables. All he’d wanted when he got here was to go home again and all he wanted, on going, was to stay.
He was halfway down the stairs to the car, about to put the keys into the lockbox and make them irretrievable, when he remembered. He bounded back up the stairs and unlocked the door, walked over to the mantelpiece and picked the envelope up from behind the candlestick.
He ripped open Shaun’s card. It was two sentences long. Connor read them and reread them and said aloud, in disbelieving and somewhat choked voice: ‘Smart-arse bastard!’
He locked up again, bounded down the stairs with a new vigour and found his father fiddling with the car radio.
‘Dad, would it be all right if we made a small detour? I have something I absolutely have to do before I go.’
‘As long as it’s not too far. What’s the address for the Sat Nav?’
Connor folded the card he was holding and put it in his jeans pocket.
‘It’s in Ancoats.’