Page 9 of Read Between The Lines

‘Nothing like it. Thank goodness. You’re the kind of dinner companion I could only dream of. Unlike a certain somebody who deserves a fate which I probably shouldn’t be vocalising within the hallowed halls of the library.’

Moira laughed. ‘Atta girl, that’s more like it. Your fighting spirit will be back before you know it. Right, let’s lock up and get going. Pub grub?’

‘The perfect salve for a broken heart,’ I responded bleakly.

‘Your heart isn’t broken, love, is it?’ she asked. ‘I do hope not.’

I took my time answering, thinking about the dreams that had been dashed, the foolish hopes which I’d allowed to cloud my better judgement.

‘Perhaps it’s better to say wounded,’ I said eventually, trying to pull myself together for my friend’s sake. ‘Definitely badly bruised, although my self-esteem has probably been the worst hit. I’ll get over it eventually, I guess. And food will definitely help.’ I forced myself to attempt a watery smile, although I’m sure it came out more like a grimace. ‘Tonight, I’m going to eat all of my chips, probably half of your portion too, and I’m going to have extra ice cream with my dessert.’

‘Good woman. Give me a few minutes to check nobody’s hiding in the stacks and trying to camp in here overnight, then we’ll get going. You go and touch up your face and give yourself another squirt of that lovely perfume, that’ll make you feel brighter. Everything looks better after chips.’

* * *

We ended up in The Turf, an ancient higgledy-piggledy pub hidden down a narrow alleyway behind the majestic stonework of Hertford College. Unsurprisingly, given that it was a Friday night, it was packed to the rafters with members of both town and gown communities, everyone shouting over one another to be heard. I hesitated on the threshold, not ready to be surrounded by so many happy people while I was nursing wounds which felt very raw. But I didn’t want to abandon my friend when she’d been so kind, and what was wallowing alone at home going to achieve? It would only make me feel even more pathetic.

Somehow Moira managed to secure us a tiny table in a relatively quiet corner, and I sucked down the ‘medicinal’ whisky and lime that she insisted on buying me.

‘I think my throat is on fire,’ I said, my eyes watering all over again.

‘That’s the good stuff for you,’ said Moira. ‘Kill or cure, that’s my philosophy.’

I don’t know whether it was the whisky, the bustling atmosphere where nobody knew me, or the trauma I’d just endured, but the tension in my shoulders started to ease. By the time the food arrived, I was feeling almost relaxed.

‘It’s not Brian himself per se that I’m grieving,’ I eagerly explained to Moira as I shovelled in my fish and chips, washing them down with a second whisky, which may have been responsible for my talkative mood. ‘It’s the possibility that he represented. You know, the potential of the whole ‘happily ever after’, of having a proper partner for once, and not yet another bloke who views me as ‘nice, but not nice enough’ to settle down with. I mean I’m completely, totally happy single. No honestly, I really, really am,’ I said, realising that with each assertion I sounded more and more like I wasn’t. ‘But it would be lovely to have someone to share the fun with, you know? Someone who gets me, who I don’t have to change myself for, who’s there for me, always, as I am for him. Like you and Mr Moira.’

‘You know it amuses Rami no end that you refer to him as that,’ said my companion.

‘I hope he doesn’t mind,’ I said, suddenly worried that I’d been inadvertently causing offence to my favourite couple all these years.

‘Oh no, he enjoys it. He says he’s proud to be known as Mr Moira. And I promise you that, one day, you’ll find someone who will be equally thrilled to be known as Mr Kat.’

‘Mr Kat.’ I made claw shapes with my hands. ‘Miaow, he sounds like a special one.’ I giggled and wondered if two whiskies might actually be my limit.

‘He does indeed. And that lucky man is out there somewhere, I promise you. Dessert, and then I think it’s time to get you home,’ Moira replied with a smile. ‘Things will look brighter in the morning.’

Only if I woke up and realised this had all been a bad dream, I thought glumly.

ChapterFour

The world was indeed brighter in the morning, but that was mostly because I’d forgotten to close the curtains when I went to bed last night. I was woken at an unreasonable hour by the sunrise streaming through the big bay windows of the ground-floor studio flat I rented from Moira and Rami at mates’ rates. I flinched at the light and pulled a pillow over my head, trying to block out the noise of the birds who seemed to be holding some kind of rave on the fence which separated my meagre patch of scrubland from the road. I could still hear their muffled chirrups as I groaned, the shame and embarrassment of yesterday flooding back to me. Was it acceptable to stay here hiding under my pillow for the rest of my life?

I probably would have spent the whole day like that, if my phone hadn’t pinged a couple of hours later with a message from Moira.

MOIRA

I prescribe Paracetamol, a strong coffee, and a good attitude. Thanks again for agreeing to pick up my shift today.

The text ended with a cheerful-looking emoji blowing a kiss. I had zero recollection of agreeing to the switch. The idea of having a duvet day seemed like a much better one, but I couldn’t let her down, especially not after she’d sacrificed her Friday night with Mr Moira to allow me to cry on her shoulder.

Normally the library was my safe haven, but I wasn’t particularly keen to return to the scene of my humiliation so soon. What if Mr Leo Taylor, former policeman, current pain in the neck, was visiting again? I knew I owed him an apology for the rude way I’d spoken to him, but I could do with a few days to build myself up to it first. I’d had enough of feeling vulnerable. But I comforted myself with the thought that, as he’d been in the library every day this week, he probably had other plans for the weekend. I just hoped those plans didn’t involve laughing at my plight with his clever-clogs mates, who’d undoubtedly never be foolish enough to fall for a romance fraudster.

I double-checked the time, then swore. I would have to forgo the prescribed strong coffee if I didn’t get a move on. Hurrying over, I closed the curtains so I could change out of last night’s outfit, hoping that no early-morning passer-by had seen me passed out face down on my bed. Normally in a student town it was a safe bet that nobody would be around at this time on the weekend, but the road I lived on was on the way to the university gym and the rowing teams were notorious for being up and about at stupid o’clock for training sessions.

An ultra-speedy cold shower did at least make me feel halfway human again. I dry-swallowed the Paracetamol, then realised I didn’t even have time to dry my hair or put my contacts in. After pulling on fresh clothes, and leaving the polka dot yellow dress crumpled up on the bathroom floor where it belonged, I jumped on my bike to get to the library. Helmet hair was bad at the best of times, and wet helmet hair didn’t bear thinking about. The warm spring breeze would sort that soon enough, although the result would be equally questionable. But it wasn’t like I was trying to impress anyone anymore, and I had more important things on my mind. The cold light of day hadn’t lessened the feeling of utter humiliation and hurt, but I was determined not to think of myself as a victim. Instead of wallowing in the denial stage of the grieving process, I was going to make myself fast-forward to the anger stage. And boy, was I angry; although the jury was still out on whether that rage was directed more at Brian, whoever he really was, for his deceptive manipulation, or at myself for being such a fool. Would I ever be able to trust my own judgement again?

Once I’d opened the library and welcomed the first visitors, I plugged my phone in to charge at the front desk and navigated to the terms and conditions page of the SO Ox website. I knew a lot of people didn’t bother to read the boring legalese before clicking to accept them, but I was not one of those people. After I had finally acknowledged that it was highly unlikely that my Mr Darcy was going to rock up in the library or the usual places I hung out at outside of work, I’d reluctantly conceded that joining a dating app was the best way forward. I’d gone with a popular one to start with, but found it full of bots and weirdos. Then I did my research, figuring quality was better than quantity, and chose SO Ox instead because everything about it seemed so thorough. The terms and conditions set out a standard of behaviour expected by members, it was an app founded in Oxford, for real people in Oxford, and most importantly, it promised to screen every single person who joined to make sure they were who they said they were. Well, something had seriously gone wrong, then. How had the alleged Brian James, or whatever he was really called, slipped through such an apparently watertight system? I needed to get in touch with customer services immediately and warn them so they could take the necessary action before he could cause more harm.

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