Eva Woods - The Ex Factor

‘I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t mind if you dated one of my exes. I’d be happy if you were happy.’

Helen bit her lip. At times she had tried to convince herself of this, but she knew one thing was true: not all exes were the same. Which was why she hadn’t, and still couldn’t, tell Marnie anything about it. She changed the subject again to safer things. ‘Any other plans while you’re here?’

‘While I’m here? I’m here for good!’

There was a short silence, during which Helen thought of the past two Marnie-less years. What if she just took off again? Of course, she’d always been a wanderer—Spain, Dublin, New York, and Australia were just a few of the places Marnie had lived over the years—but she’d never stayed away for two whole years before. ‘I just meant, you know, you said London was so money-obsessed, so cold, so joyless.’ This had been the gist of Marnie’s first garbled email from the beach, after she’d up and left with no warning.

‘Not at all. It’s full of theatres and museums and lovely parks and most of all, it’s got my favourite people in it.’ She gave Helen’s arm a little squeeze, then looked at her watch again. ‘Crap, I’ve got five minutes. I better tell you my news—I’ve been contacting people, seeing who’s around.’

Everyone was around. Everyone else they knew had shown a singular lack of imagination when it came to not moving to London, or not staying in Reading, where they’d grown up. Except for Marnie, who had jet fuel in her feet. ‘Oh?’ Helen was starting to feel as if the majority of the conversation was taking place in her own head. ‘Did anyone reply?’

‘Oh sure. Anyway I started looking up a few people I’ve lost contact with, emailing…’

Suddenly, like seeing the mist clear and the cliff top under her feet, Helen realised where this conversation was going. Oh God. Here it was at last.

‘So I dropped Ed a line! It’s been two years after all, I think it’s time we caught up.’

Helen’s heart was racing as if she’d downed a quadruple espresso. Did Marnie know? No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. She heard her own voice try to stay casual. ‘And was he about?’

‘Well, I haven’t heard back yet. He’s probably quite busy, you know with his music and stuff.’

Thank God. And yet there was something else—a tiny treacherous stab of disappointment.

Marnie and Helen had been close, before. So close they were sworn ‘sober death picture friends’. This meant that if one should happen to die suddenly, the other was charged with making sure the officially released photo was one where the deceased looked sober and upstanding, and not one of them clutching tequila shots in a bikini, which would make Daily Telegraph readers shake their heads over the marmalade and decide they probably deserved to be horribly murdered anyway. But now, Helen had no idea what her friend was thinking. Was Ed just another guy to her now? After all, she’d broken up with him.

Marnie was saying, ‘If he is around, anyway, I think I’ll ask him to my welcome-home drinks. It’d be nice to catch up.’ She leaned forward to reach her tea, and Helen saw something round her neck. A necklace with a pale green stone. The birthday necklace. Oh God.

She swallowed hard. ‘You’re having welcome-home drinks?’

‘Well, sure. Why not?’

‘Um… No reason.’ Helen realised she would have to go, and that would mean maybe seeing Ed, after all this time, and being in the same room as him, and talking to him. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She would have to. And then, she also realised, all her defences suddenly caving in like a kid’s sandcastle, she was going to join in with the stupid project, and go out with whoever one of her friends picked for her, because anything was better than the way things were after Ed, and nothing was as stupid as what she’d done back then. And anyway, she owed Marnie. Big time.

Marnie was standing up, swallowing the last of her tea. The hipster man paused in frowning at his Mac to watch her. Even in plain black, she was the most striking woman in the place.

‘Hey,’ said Helen, faux casual. ‘That project—you know, if you’re all doing it, I guess I will too. Count me in.’

‘OMG! Really?’

‘Yeah, why not. It’ll be fun.’ In the same way that gouging out your eyeballs was fun.

‘Awesomesauce! We’ll find you someone lovely, I promise. Listen, I’ll pay for this.’

‘Don’t be daft, you hardly had anything!’ Surely Marnie didn’t have a lot of cash right now.

‘It’s done.’ She put some cash down on the counter, then blew a kiss and dashed off. Helen watched her go, off to her cool life, while Helen was heading home to her cat and her box sets. She wondered how it was you could know someone so well, and still not know them at all.

* * *

Marnie.

‘You’re late,’ said Barry, tapping on his oversized Casio watch.

‘I’m sorry, I just lost track of…’

‘No excuses. I’ll have to dock you a quarter-hour’s pay.’ Marnie opened her mouth to say she was only six minutes late, and had he seen how busy the streets were, but she closed it again, tying on her apron. No point in arguing. She needed this job, and as far as Bean Counters was concerned, Barry was the lord and master of all he surveyed—except when the regional manager stopped by once a month. ‘And turn your phone off,’ Barry hissed. ‘We have to give the customers our full attention during their beverage experience.’

Beverage experience? Marnie fumbled her phone out of her jeans, spotting a message from Cam, her new flatmate. That was the one who stood too close, rather than the one who peed with the bathroom door open, or the one who she’d already caught ‘accidentally’ going through her backpack. It said: Party tonite bring ur own stash. She didn’t want to go to a party, stash or no stash. She wanted to cosy up in her own nice place and watch TV. Exactly what Helen would be doing, no doubt. A place that was warm, and clean, and didn’t contain any sleazy flatmates or recreational drugs, or, for that matter, any bedbugs—she scratched her arm, reflexively. She sighed. Would she ever have that?

‘Marie! Get your arse in gear!’ Barry was pointing frantically at the counter, where a line of customers was waiting, tapping their feet at the thirty-second delay. She thought about telling him her name was Marnie, and that her arse was not and never would be any of his concern, but again, what was the point? With a bit of luck she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.

She took her place, pasting on a smile. ‘Good afternoon, welcome to Bean Counters. Are you ready to begin your beverage journey?’

Chapter 6 The Ex Factor

Helen

‘Right,’ said Marnie, looking round at the other three. ‘We’re all here. Time to start…Project Love.’ They had gathered in Rosa’s flat, which she now lived in alone, David having shacked up with The Intern—apparently, a nasty break-up was what it took to get a place to yourself in London, even a tatty new-build on the scruffy end of Willesden Green.

Ani groaned. ‘We can’t call it that.’ She was shoving Kettle Chips into her mouth like letters in a postbox. She waved the bag at Helen, who shook her head. She was prone to anxiety-eating and knew that if she had even one crisp she’d probably end up eating Ani’s head, and then it was goodbye four-stone weight loss, hello being lifted out of her house by a crane.

‘Are you going to stay here, Rosa?’ she said, trying to postpone the inevitable.

Rosa grabbed one of her Moroccan-print cushions and stuck it over her face, her standard response to anything divorce-related. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to sell, I guess. So enjoy this while you can.’ Rosa indicated her tatami matting, her carved Indian table, and all her pretty ornaments. There was a photo of her wedding day over the piano, happy faces pushed together. Rosa in vintage lace, David with a top hat, and, in the background, Ani, Helen, and Marnie—who’d flown in from New York ten minutes before the ceremony—in red bridesmaid dresses, throwing confetti. Helen averted her eyes from it—her dress had been ordered in a size twenty. ‘I spent years decorating this place,’ said Rosa miserably. ‘I thought we’d be here for ever. Or at least until we bought somewhere bigger in the suburbs. He always said I loved Ikea so much, I must have Stockholm syndrome.’ Ani met Helen’s eyes—they’d have to watch Rosa, or she’d slide into another wine-and-weeping marathon.