Page 39 of Cover Story

Connor had expected her to be bowled-over grateful he’d not gone crazy. He realised now that Jen’s ego didn’t like that he’d coped, that she’d been denied him storming and raging about his jealousy. She’d wanted him to fight for her, over her.

‘If you’d been sent a dick pic tonight, intended for another woman, and I said you’re ultimately in the wrong for not loving me enough, how would that go down?’

Jen sniffed and shrugged. ‘I’ve never been able to out-argue you, Connor.’

‘Night. Safe journey tomorrow,’ he said, giving her a quick, tight hug, too brief for either of them to feel anything.

Forty-five minutes later Connor was once again sitting up bare-chested in bed, doom scrolling alone, finding Francis the PT in Jen’s friends with ease. He looked like Joe Wicks trying to be punk rock. Willy-flashing goon.

Now they had reached the end, he thought about his and Jen’s start and could see them in totality. He was playing the part of a somewhat spontaneous North London playboy in their early years–hey, I know we’ve only just met, but want to come with me to New York for my brother’s wedding?– and he’d found it an exhilarating escape from himself, at first. The fact it wasn’t really him was the buzz. No wonder, really, Jen felt that he was mis-sold goods.

She was, in fact, entirely correct in her parting words. He’d stopped caring about her when she hadn’t cared he was suicidal. He’d survived that experience, but his feelings for her had curled up and died. They were a good-times romance, untested by crisis, and when bad times arrived they had discovered they weren’t compatible sharing a nuclear shelter.

23

Bel suggested she and Connor meet for a pre-match drink elsewhere in Didsbury, and walk to Ci Vediamo together. Otherwise they’d have to snap into a loved-up mode they hadn’t practiced and quite possibly couldn’t pull off, as soon as their shoes hit the pavement outside the cab.

Appearances were everything here, so Bel had bought a dress for the occasion: a strapless black mini with maribou feather trim along the hem, plus sheer tights and black stilettoes, which she had to balance on carefully, as if she was on ice. Her hair was in a big bundle of salon-created up-do with artful wisps. The lip-linered brick-pink lips and false-lashed eyes she did at home.

It had been witty in the planning and felt fairly ludicrous in practice, not least because it was straining to be sexy. Bel accepted her usual half-arsed style was a form of protection. If you’d not tried that hard, no one could mock your effort. She was strangely vulnerable, and more so when she was plus-oneing with terminally judgemental Captain Cheekbones.

When she walked into the carpets-and-wooden-beams pub she’d chosen, Connor had a table and a pint in front of him. He was in a light grey, thin wool jumper, his hair shorter,clean-shaven. Unhelpfully, he looked like an enhanced version of office Connor.

He got up to insist he buy her wine, but not before Bel caught a look of extreme despondency on his face before he’d seen her. Was an evening in her company that much of an ordeal? She knew the likely answer.

‘Did Jennifer have a nice visit?’ Bel asked, once they both had a beverage, and Connor momentarily looked wrongfooted that she knew that much.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing too strenuous. Dinner at Erst in the Northern Quarter if you know it? Yeah, it was really good.’

As predicted, even without anyone listening in, it was tricky to find topics that were sufficiently innocuous. As they drained their drinks, Bel’s anxiety that they weren’t about to magically transform into relaxed, fizzy chemistry made her snap.

‘Connor, I’m worried it’s not going to work if there’sthisbetween us,’ she whispered, through gritted teeth, flapping her hands at the air.

‘A pub table?’ Connor said.

Bel hadn’t eaten much through a combination of butterflies and the pressure of a tight dress, and a large Sauvignon Blanc had landed fairly hard.

‘The obvious frost of arseiness,’ Bel said. ‘The touch of cold arse in the air.’

‘How do you mean?’

She smiled. ‘You tolerate me at best.’

‘Whereas you’re super keen on me?’ Connor said, with a sardonic look.

They stood up to leave, Bel picking her way carefully across the carpet.

‘When you see two people in close conversation, you can immediately tell if they’re involved or not,’ Bel said, as they emerged into the street. ‘The body language, the eye contact, the way they lean in when they talk. If they’re new, it’s all intense. The whole “nobody else in the room” feeling.’

‘Your point is …?’

‘We’ve been going out eight months and we recently moved in together, you’ve come up north for me. We’re serious, but we’re in the first flush of love. There’s still going to be thecrackleof …’ she cleared her throat, ‘electricity.’

‘Electricity?’ Connor repeated, dully.

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