Page 95 of Last Night

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I lie prone with hot tears coating my face, my mobile handset still a warm slab of glass in my hand from the recent call. A green light unexpectedly winks on the landline by my bed. For the second time inside twenty minutes tonight, I break my own rules and answer blind.

‘Hello?’ I say, blearily.

‘Hi it’s me,’ Fin says. ‘I didn’t wake you?’

‘No.’

‘You wouldn’t have a spare iPhone charger, would you? Mine’s frayed and the battery’s inching up by one per cent a half hour.’

‘Oh,’ I sit up and glance at my open case. ‘Actually, yes. Think I do.’

‘Mind if I come get it?’

I have to heave back a sob and say: ‘Sure,’ which comes out as a squeak.

‘Are you alright?’ he says.

‘Not really,’ I gasp.

Fin pauses.

‘I’m on my way.’

A soft tap at the door moments laterand he’s outside, in his t-shirt and sweatpants. Even with hiking socks, it’s a good look for him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he says, as I hand him the charger. I try to speak and instead I burst into fresh tears, clamp a palm over my face. Fin steps into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

‘Mark called,’ I say, when I get the power of speech back. ‘My ex? In America. He’d seen something on Facebook today about Susie and called me to see how I was. He was so shocked and his shock made me shocked all over again.’

Fin nods, face grave. ‘Yeah. Telling people, talking about it, is a series of aftershocks.’

‘Yes! He was so sympathetic, it really did for me.’

During our conversation, I could hear the snuffling and occasional ragged cry of a newborn in the background of the conversation, an unknown female voice shushing. The connection had that slightly echoey, windy quality of long distance.

Standing in the anonymous surroundings of this grand hotel, it was what Susie and I used to call a ‘searchlight in the prison yard’ moment. When you’re caught in the bright, unforgiving glare of an inspection you’ve not prepared for.

I didn’t want to be with Mark. Yet somehow, his being so distant in sunnier climes, and my being here in cold, lonely dark ones, amid such grief – it made me feel my life had comprehensively fallen apart, since I declined to share his. It felt like judgement, by a higher power.

‘Mark’s memories of Susie caused me to think, you know, in a way I hadn’t, about how we all were,’ I hear my tremulous voice in the quiet of a plush, noise-proofed hotel room. ‘About a time gone past. Racing around in our twenties, when things were hopeful and choices were unmade and Susie was with us. When I could’ve warned her not to get out of taxis early to smoke. It’s all gone,’ I say, looking at Fin with streaming eyes, wiping my face ineffectually with my pyjama sleeve. ‘It turns out that nothing worked out. My friends were the bit of my life I’d got right and now everything is sick and strange and fucked up forever.’

Finlay is frowning in concern, but letting me talk.

‘I feel like I got old overnight. I know how indulgent that sounds when Susie only got thirty-four years. All I have is pain and regret and a shit job where I type stupid things into boxes.’

‘It won’t always be this way, Eve,’ Fin says, quietly. ‘Life has harder parts.’

‘What’s going to change for me?’

Fin smiles, sadly. ‘That’s largely up to you.’

‘Yeah. I don’t have much faith in Future Me. Past Me is a twat.’ I pause for a strangled breath. ‘I miss Susie so much,’ I say. ‘I miss her so much, and I’ve spent this time being uselessly angry at her … and you were right, she was snooping with Ed, like I snooped on her reading that letter. Oh God … I just want her to be here to say sorry, so I can tell herI’msorry. For everything. And that I love her so, so much and nothing matters except that fact. I can’t, I won’t speak to her ever again, Finlay. Game over.’

I sob openly, and Finlay puts his arms round me.

I make a decision, in the embrace, to lean into it. I’m not going to staunch my tears out of embarrassment. I’m not going to stop and choke this back into something feminine, and picturesque. I ugly heave-sob into his t-shirt until it’s wet enough to stick to his skin. He feels hard-bodied and lean under the fabric, a stark contrast to the squish of my chest. I’ve never been this physically close to an athletic type before. My partners, however narrow they looked when dressed, were always softly British-pudgy from beer and curries. Like me.

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