Page 91
Twenty-Six
Alex’s leg shimmied under the table, making their plates shake. The Cat and Mutton’s upstairs space was packed with loud groups of friends, young families, and wide-eyed tourists devouring the 300-year-old pub’s Sunday lunchtime specialty: heaping plates of roast sirloin, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, and a medley of honeyed carrots and parsnips.
“It’s too soon.”
“No, it’s time. You’ve been glued to that sofa for two bloody weeks.” Lucy dunked a piece of beef into the thick gravy. “Your wheelie bin goes out more than you do.”
“No. I mean—I didn’t expect Mark to move out today. Everything’s real, now it’s happening…”
“The faster he moves out, the sooner you can move on, do your Manchester thing, and come back to London…and can you please stop shaking the table?”
“He looked awful…”
Lucy impaled a potato with her fork. “Karma’s a bitch.”
“I look awful.” Alex glanced down at her sweatshirt and jeans which hung from her curves. “Splotchy, pale—I’m such a catch.” She rubbed her eye without fear. Her mascara and eyeliner hadn’t left her makeup bag since the afternoon she called time on their relationship.
“What the hell are you doing in his sweatshirt?” Lucy’s glare dropped to her plate as she sliced her Yorkshire pudding into pieces. “You’ve been sleeping in it, haven’t you?”
Alex slid her Vespa necklace underneath the shirt’s collar while Lucy wasn’t looking. “It’s comforting.”
“Yeah—for all the wrong reasons. Besides, it smells and it’s got a huge hole in it.” Lucy stabbed a baby carrot. “I could kill Freddie. Why couldn’t he just fucking LISTEN for once and follow simple instructions?”
Her loudness attracted furrowed brows from the next table.
“I told him to wait until we’d left but ohh, no! He had to bring Mark over an hour early. He did it on fucking purpose. You weren’t supposed to see him, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to see you, especially in that sweatshirt.”
“Mark looked green. Do you think he’s sick?”
Lucy exhaled with a huff.
“I could ask Freddie…”
“You could, but you shouldn’t. He’s not your concern anymore.”
“I can’t flip a switch and stop caring. It’s only been two weeks—”
“Fine,” Lucy interrupted. “Yes, he’s been out getting wrecked again in Dublin. Happy now?”
“Was Fallon—”
“No, according to Tom. Does it make a difference? It shouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Liar.” Lucy shoved aside her parsnips with her knife. “You are pining big time. You’re binge-watching Friends, haven’t started packing. There’s unopened mail, dust bunnies, unwashed clothes.”
Alex half-heartedly took a bite of her Yorkshire pudding. “I ran out of underwear. I’m wearing my bikini bottoms—”
“See? Neat Freak Lex would be horrified. And I love junk food, but your eating habits—”
“What?” Alex scooted untouched carrots around her plate. “Naomi brought casseroles—”
“That you don’t eat. She finds them morphing into science experiments in your fridge. And I know you read this morning’s Mail story. I saw it on your laptop.”
“Naomi said Tom was in some of the photos. I just wanted to see—”
“Don’t use Tom as your latest excuse. You’re the one who broke it off, not the other way ’round. It’s over. There’s no going back. Just stop, okay? Stop! Eat your lunch and quit shaking the table.”
