Maybe if I’d done that, found a way to talk to Mum, I wouldn’t have so stupidly confided in ‘S’ instead . . . （Not saying his name!）
Oh my word. What’s the matter with me? I’m supposed to be intelligent. I’m supposed to be heading for a first . . . so why am I such a complete and utter disaster?
OK. So this is what happened. We had the lovely weekend, we caught the train home, and everything was fine. And then the second we got back to my room at the flat, Alex’s face changed right in front of me. No kidding – it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He started asking me why I felt it was OK to openly flirt with a waiter in front of him.
What waiter?
The one at the tea, he said. The waiter at the hotel. And don’t pretend to be innocent. You were practically eyeballing his crotch . . .
What? Shocked doesn’t even come close. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Sure, the waiter was friendly. He made a fuss because it was my birthday. He made it nice for all of us. But there was no flirting. No way.
At first I was too surprised to know what to do. Then I told Alex to leave but he wouldn’t. He walked right up close to me, banging on about the waiter. I remembered that time he grabbed my arm and I felt nervous. I didn’t feel completely safe so I went through to the kitchen and told him I would stay there and scream for help if he didn’t leave. I had my phone in my hand and I almost rang my mother. I wish I had. But in the end after about half an hour, when I threatened to knock on my flatmates’ doors, he finally left.
I didn’t sleep. I decided it was definitely over with Alex. I realised I should have finished it before the weekend away. I knew that I needed to stop worrying about pride, to make a clean break, and tell my parents. Face up to my mistake and my embarrassment too.
I had a meeting with ‘S’ – one of my English tutors – scheduled for ten thirty the next morning. I had this strange feeling in my stomach about it and I nearly cancelled. I realise now, yet again, that I should have listened to my instinct but I didn’t. Instead, I had a couple of strong coffees to try to wake myself up. But the problem was my brain was still really, really foggy. I had hoped to blag my way through the session. And here’s the thing. I always look forward to my sessions with him usually.
Everyone likes ‘S’。 He’s a bit older, maybe forties? But the coolest and smartest of the professors.
OK. Honest truth? Most of the undergrads have a bit of a crush. We joke about it. But I absolutely swear that I never in a million years imagined . . .
Anyway.
You can probably guess where this is going.
I don’t even know how it started. How it happened. What the hell I was thinking.
I was just sitting there in this sort of daze, and then he was looking at me in this weird way.
You don’t seem yourself, Gemma. You look pale. Is anything wrong? Is there anything I can help you with?
It’s the worst thing, isn’t it, for someone to ask if you are OK when you are not OK. It’s the last thing you need. And I’m just not used to it because that’s not how things roll in my family. Asking. Prodding. Talking about feelings . . .
I should have said I was fine, or pretended I was ill. I should have gone back to the flat. Or to Maddy’s – if she wasn’t so loved up with her new guy.
But I didn’t. I started crying. Of course. And everything after that is just this big and embarrassing and totally humiliating blur.
This was three weeks ago. And I have stupidly made things so much worse. I seriously can’t quite believe what I’ve done. Worst of all, I can’t even confide in anyone about Alex now, because of what I’ve done.
So, I’m staring at the title of this essay I haven’t even started, and I realise that I am her. For real. I am Alice down the rabbit hole, and I don’t see any way back for me now.
CHAPTER 13
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew has never seen Mel this agitated. At first, she won’t even look at him.
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drive straight to the hospital and arrest him for obstructing our inquiry.’ Mel Sanders is stirring her coffee vigorously as she speaks, the froth spilling on to the saucer and the teaspoon clink, clinking against the china.
‘His daughter’s in a coma, Mel. She’s lost a leg. He’s a father. He’s in agony.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Also – the tabloids will have a complete field day if you arrest him. Quite apart from the fact this is very much a long shot. I mean sure, it needs checking out. And yes – he should have told you about the first marriage; I made that crystal clear to him. But at this point, we’ve no idea if this first wife really is a suspect. Ed Hartley doesn’t think so. He’s just nervous about the cathedral coincidence—’