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Mandy stepped forward, her face glum, her arms up in a please-stay-calm gesture, which was totally lost on Becky. “I’m so sorry, Becky. We were going to tell you sooner, honest, but, well, you’ve been so upset over your mum and-”

  Without premeditation, Becky’s arm lifted and, with one fluid motion, she punched Mandy square on the nose, sending her stumbling back and right into Roger’s open arms.

  Mandy’s hand shot up to her nose, and when she pulled her hand away, it was covered in blood. “Bloody hell, Beck. We just need to talk about this rationally, like adults. You didn’t have to bloody punch me. Fuck. That. Hurt.” Mandy looked at her hand again, then back up at Becky. “Jesus, Beck, you’re like some ninja chick.”

  “Good. It was meant to hurt! You just fucked my boyfriend.”

  “Jesus, Beck. What’s got into you?” Roger shouted, struggling to hold the stunned Mandy upright.

  “WHAT’S GOT INTO ME?” Becky shouted, rubbing her throbbing fist. Damn right it bloody hurt. How many times had her dad told her that if she was going to punch someone, to have her thumb on the outside, not tucked inside her fist. “Don’t you mean what’s got into Mandy? Oh wait, I know, your teeny, tiny, pathetic little dick, you cheating bastard!” She held up her fist to Roger, and he stepped backward, taking Mandy with him. “You’re not worth it, you piece of shit.”

  Then, feeling thoroughly humiliated, with her face burning and her heart pounding, Becky turned and bolted from the bathroom, slamming straight into a man carrying a loaded tray of glasses, sending him, and the glasses crashing to the floor. “I’m sorry, so very sorry,” she blurted apologetically. “I. They. Sorry!” She ran through the pub, throngs of people parting like the Red Sea to let her pass.

  She didn’t stop running until she was leaning up against the side of her Mazda. Bending down and clasping her knees, she drew in long, laboured breaths as tears streamed down her face. Each breath became shorter, more difficult. Mentally, she began listing her symptoms.

  Racing heartbeat, shortness of breath, dizziness, trembling, muscle tension. She ticked off all the boxes as she went. Christ! She was having a fucking panic attack. Relax, relax, relax, relax. This can’t be happening.

  The last time she’d had a panic attack was when her father had called her and said,” You’d better come to the hospital, Becky. It’s time…”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. How long had they been carrying on behind her back? How long had they been lying, stealing secret looks, remembering stolen, sordid moments? A day, a week, months… years? How could she have been so dense, so blind and ignorant to what was going on right under her very nose? She’d been so trusting that even if there had been signs, she would have ignored them, shrugged off any doubts she may have had as a bout of silly paranoia.

  She thought about the night she’d cooked the lamb roast for Roger, and how humiliated she’d felt at his blatant disinterest.

  She had dimmed the lights and set the table with white linen napkins and scented candles. He’d come home late from the pub, and she had tip-toed up behind him as he leaned down and peered into the oven to see what she’d been cooking for dinner.

  “Smells great,” he’d called out, not knowing she was standing right behind him. He stood up and closed the oven door.

  “Thank you,” she replied, slipping her hands over his eyes.

  He’d reached up and peeled her hands away, then turned to face her. The look on his face had made her blush and shrink away from him. “Why in God’s name are you dressed up like that?” he’d asked, shaking his head as he flicked on the kitchen light. He walked over to the refrigerator, peered inside, and grabbed a beer. Twisting the cap off, he leaned up against the kitchen bench and took a swig of his beer. “So, when’s dinner going to be ready? I’m starving.”

  The humiliating memory of it churned in her stomach. She fell onto her knees on the pavement, throwing up unceremoniously in the gutter beside her car. Dragging her hand across her mouth, she began thinking about the week they’d spent at the beach only a few weekends earlier, and how lovely it had been. How lovely she thought Roger had been for suggesting it. He’d even said it would be okay if Mandy and her brother, Clive, who’d just returned from working overseas in Japan for five years, wanted to come along. Okay, the weekend hadn’t been perfect, not the way it used to be between them, but it had still been fun, hadn’t it?

  “More the merrier, right?” he’d said, showing her the posh, upmarket accommodation he’d booked for them online. They would go to the annual Guy Fawkes Night at Porthminster beach, he’d said, that the last time he’d been to St Ives was when he was a teenager, and how great it had been with the whole family being there together. It had been the last family vacation Roger had shared with his family before his parents’ bitter divorce had split the family right down the middle only months later. Dad had got custody of Roger and his elder brother, and Mum had custody of his two sisters, who had all gone to live with his mother’s new boyfriend in Scotland. It was a shit deal, Roger had said, whenever the conversation about his parents’ divorce came up.

  “It will be fun,” Mandy had gushed over the phone when she’d called Becky to talk about it. Mandy had bubbled over with excitement about the prospect of all four of them driving down to St Ives, and how much fun it would be catching up with her brother after all this time apart.

  “He’s so grown up now, Becky. And soooo handsome. You’ll just love him. Oh, wait… you already do love him,” she’d giggled.

  “Shut up,” Becky had snapped, putting her hand over the phone and hoping Roger hadn’t heard. “That was a million years ago, and I was just a kid.”

  “Well you’re not a kid anymore, are you?” Mandy said, tapping her fingernails against the phone.

  Becky glared, plonking herself down on the corner of her bed. “Roger and I are practically married.”

  The tapping sound of Mandy’s nail on the side of the phone fell silent.

  “Mandy? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Look, I have to go. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?” Mandy said, quickly hanging up the phone.

  Becky stared at the phone in her hand. What was going on with her friend? One moment she was all happy-go-lucky, and the next she was distant and moody.

  The memory had Becky’s head swimming dizzily. She dragged herself up out of the gutter, unlocked the car door, and fell in behind the steering wheel. She dumped her handbag onto the passenger seat and stared through the windscreen. One at a time, the pieces to the jigsaw puzzle were slowly falling into place.

  After a few unfocused moments, she twisted the rear view mirror and stared at her reflection, wondering how long she’d looked so miserable. So unlovable. And when exactly was it that her best friend had changed from being a lovely, loyal friend, who had punched bathroom bullies in the face for her, into this boyfriend-stealing bitch? Had she been so withdrawn from everyone and everything since her mother’s death that she had just never noticed what was going on right in front of her this entire time? She knocked her head on the steering wheel, thinking back over the weekend away.

  They’d all piled into her car before sunup the next morning, ensuring that they would have plenty of time to visit Bristol for some sightseeing and lunch.

  BECKY JENSEN’S FACEBOOK STATUS: All packed up and ready to go – First stop: Bristol, for sightseeing and lunch.

  Roger drove with Clive riding shotgun. Mandy and Becky had sat in the back, examining Mandy’s French manicured nails, which she’d had done especially for the mini break. At noon, Clive pulled off the motorway, following Roger’s directions, which inevitably sent them around in circles. Nearly an hour later, they eventually found the right exit and drove the rest of the way to Bristol with the music turned up loud, expressly to drown out Roger’s incessant declarations of, “I’m fucking starving to death. How much longer? Why didn’t you pack more snacks, Becky? Jesus.”

  When they eventually found somewhere to park, they forwent the sightseeing to seek out
a place to eat instead. It was the only legal option they could come up with to shut Roger up.

  Tucked away at the end of a small but bustling cul-de-sac in Clifton Village, they stumbled across the Primrose Café. The café was busy, customers were sitting around the little square tables scattered outside the café, enjoying the sunny day. Waitresses in crisp blue aprons wove in and out between the tables taking orders and serving food.

  “This looks lovely,” Becky said, taking in the surroundings, her mouth watering as a concoction of delicious aromas wafted around her. “But it looks really expensive.”

  Clive waved away her concerns. “Forget about that. Order whatever you want, okay? My shout,” he said, pulling out one of the blue plastic chairs and sitting down.

  Pretty terracotta flower boxes overflowing with primroses framed the windows of the café, perfuming the cool breeze with a hint of rose, fused with brewing coffee and scented teas. On the street, an old man was selling locally grown produce piled up artfully on a trolley. The man chatted and smiled at customers as he went about his business arranging boxes of cabbages, radishes, apples and baby carrots.

  “I’m bloody starving,” Roger had said enthusiastically, flicking through the menu. He’d ordered the deluxe fishfinger sandwich with salmon goujons, mayonnaise, chilli jam, tomato and spinach on farmhouse white bread. Mandy ordered the same.

  Clive had said he needed something far more manly, and had ordered the beefburger stacked with bacon, globs of melted cheese, fresh tomato and lashings of tomato and chilli relish.

  Becky had studied the menu a moment longer, and had eventually opted for a grilled tortilla wrap filled with butternut squash, gorgonzola, spinach, and caramelised onion with a mixed salad, and a side of sweet potato wedges, which Roger had casually helped himself to until they were all gone. Becky had wanted to slap his hand away when he reached for the last one and popped it into his mouth. She always found his annoying habit of just helping himself without asking so rude and disrespectful. Refraining from slapping his hand, she had just glared at him instead, which of course, he completely ignored.

  After Roger had finished his meal, he quickly wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw the napkin on top of his plate, and stood up, excusing himself from the table. He’d seen an ATM just around the corner from the café, and he wanted to take some cash out.

  A few seconds later, Mandy stood up, too, saying she’d go with him. She’d seen a newsagent, and wanted to buy a couple of magazines for the rest of the trip. Within moments, and without another word, they’d quickly disappeared down the street, leaving Becky and Clive alone.

  Clive swallowed a bite of his food. “I’m fine here by myself,” he said, “if you need to go get something, too?”

  Becky shook her head, still chewing a mouthful of food. After a moment, she said, “I don’t need anything.” She pointed at his chin with her fork. “You have a little…”

  “Oh,” Clive said, putting down his knife to pick up his napkin. He dragged it across his chin. “Thank you.” He smiled at her. Clive could not understand why she was still with Roger after all this time. He honestly believed she deserved someone so much better, like him, for example. Perhaps this trip would give them both an opportunity to get to know each other a little better.

  Becky shrugged. “No problem.” She studied his face with innocent interest as he smiled at her. His long lashes framed captivating blue eyes that sparkled with mischievous abandon. He really had grown into a very handsome man, with a killer smile and a gloriously sexy body. His once-gangly arms and legs were now muscular and toned. His fair hair was shorter, and most certainly cleaner. His chest was broader… Suddenly she blushed profusely, as though she’d just been caught perving at him in the shower.

  She quickly put down her knife and fork and grabbed her bag. Setting it on her lap, she began rummaging through its contents, looking for an imaginary, lost anything. You’re with Roger, she reminded herself. But Mandy had been correct. She positively still had a huge crush on Clive. So much so, that perhaps she was just a little bit more in love with him than she cared to admit. Lust, she thought, correcting herself. How could she possibly be in love with someone she’d only known as a gawky teenager?

  Seventeen years ago, she’d been just twelve. He’d been sixteen, and hadn’t taken a scrap of notice of her. What had he called them back then? Laurel and Hardy. She had been Laurel – tall, thin, shy and awkward. And Mandy had been Hardy – plump, outspoken and funny. Becky was still thin, but had eventually filled out in all the right places, and had lost all awkwardness that had come with being a skinny, flat-chested adolescent. Mandy had turned into a curvaceous woman early in her teens, and had got her period just shy of two years ahead of Becky, making Becky feel boyish and stupid alongside her amply-busted best friend. She remembered how stupid she’d felt changing in front of all the other girls after PE, when she’d been the only girl in the room still not wearing a bra. She’d heard the remark “you must have been hiding behind the door when boobs were being handed out” more times than she wished to remember.

  Mandy had been so kind to her, so nurturing, like a protective sibling, telling Becky not to worry about those stupid trolls, that she would probably grow up to be a famous model like Twiggy. “Just you wait and see,” Mandy had said. “They will all be so jealous of you when they are married, fat and pregnant. How envious they’ll be when they see you posing on the front of Vogue while they are stuck at home changing dirty nappies.”

  Becky had cringed, and wondered if she would ever want to have children. Perhaps with the right man she might. She’d thought about Clive, and how handsome he would look on their wedding day. They would have a romantic honeymoon in Paris, and stay in the most expensive hotel. So yes, she’d concluded. With the right man, she would. Maybe after a glamorous modelling career, she would make beautiful babies with Clive. Could life really turn out the way you wanted it to? Perhaps ignorance really was bliss.

  “You okay?” Clive asked, looking quizzically at Becky, whose eyes had glazed over and appeared to be staring straight through him.

  Becky shook her head. “What?” she asked over the clatter of empty dishes being collected from the tables around them, her cheeks turning red.

  “Dessert?” a waitress asked, and Becky shook her head again.

  Clive shook his head and turned back to Becky. “You looked like you were a million miles away just now.”

  She zipped up her bag. “Yes. Sorry. Just thinking about things.” She shook her head. “It’s nothing really.”

  Clive fiddled with his napkin, studying it as though he couldn’t quite make out where he’d seen it before. “Becky?”

  Her eyes shifted from his strong hands to his lips, then up to those adorable, sparkling eyes. “Yes,” she replied hesitantly, swallowing, then holding her breath.

  “Well. Um. I was wondering-”

  “We all ready to go?” Roger asked, rubbing his hands together, a broad smile on his face, reminding Becky of the cat that caught the canary.

  Mandy was standing directly behind him, smiling and combing her fingers through her long fair hair. She looked as though she’d applied a fresh slick of lipstick without using the aid of a mirror.

  “No magazine?” Becky asked.

  Mandy shrugged, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag. “Yeah. No. Didn’t have anything I wanted. Anyway, I still haven’t finished the ones I’ve got. We going? I can’t wait to check into the hotel. It looked so freaking awesome online.”

  “Sure,” Clive said, quickly looking away from Becky. He tossed the napkin on the table and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  The rest of the journey to St Ives had been subdued, other than Roger and Clive singing along to Queen’s greatest hits on the stereo. They had played “We Will Rock You” five times in a row. Each time exchanging the words ‘rock you’ to ‘fuck you’ just as they had all done a million times as they had sung along to the song in their teens.

  Mandy had
lifted her head out of the magazine she’d been reading, glanced over at Becky, and shook her head before going back to her reading. Becky felt a little envious of Mandy’s ability to read in a moving vehicle. Every time Becky tried to read, she turned green, and wanted to throw up. She pushed a pillow up against the window instead, rested her head against the cool fabric and tried to sleep, but Queen was having none of that.

  She remembered how grateful she had been when she’d cracked open her eyes to look out of the car window and saw the blue sign that read, Welcome to ST IVES. TWINNED WITH CAMARET SUR MER.

  Guy Fawkes Night at Porthminster beach that evening had been a lot of fun, even romantic, as she held hands with Roger and rested her head on his shoulder. Afterwards, they’d all walked back with a group of partygoers to the Sloop Inn, and drunk Cripple Dick ale and shooters until closing time. They had staggered along the cobbled path towards their hotel, singing, giggling and laughing until their voices became hoarse.

  “We will, we will, FUCK YOU!”

  A short time later, Mandy stopped singing, stopped walking, and stood, rocking and swaying on the spot like a fishing boat moored in the harbour.

  “Way too much fresh air,” she mumbled, her hand shooting to her mouth.

  Clive laughed. “Yeah, right. That’s what it is. Too much fresh air. Nothing to do with the copious amounts of ale and shooters you consumed,” he said, shaking his head. “My little sister has morphed into a raging pisshead.”

  Mandy grinned sarcastically. She held up her other hand, ran over to a white stone wall, leaned up against it with her arms stretched out in front of her then, with her legs parted, threw up on the pavement. “Always carrots,” she groaned. “How is that even possible?” Mandy said, examining the pool of vomit at her feet. “I haven’t eaten carrots for weeks.” Becky ran to her side, holding back her hair.

  “Here,” she said, fetching a handkerchief from her bag and handing it too her friend.

  Mandy wiped her mouth, then studied the handkerchief in her hand. “One of your Mum’s,” she slurred, leaning her back up against the cold wall. “I really miss your Mum,” she whispered.