Searching for Steven (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 1) Read online

He hadn’t, had he? Surely he hadn’t bought me a gym membership for my birthday. A joint membership. A gift for him too. That random speech about keeping fit and the great outdoors suddenly had a context. I felt sick.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jason shuffled in his seat with obvious excitement. ‘Is it the perfect gift or what?’

  ‘It’s great,’ I lied. ‘Thanks, Jase.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I knew you’d love it. Like I said, I wanted to get you something you really wanted and how many times have you said you wished you had your own locker so you didn’t have to remember to take your shampoo and stuff when you go for a swim or sauna?’

  Cue flashback of us leaving the gym a couple of weeks ago. I mustn’t have zipped my bag up properly and my shower gel clattered onto the tiled entrance floor, spurting citrus gunk everywhere. ‘Do you know what I wish for right now…?’ I had said.

  I nodded, numbly. ‘I did say that, didn’t I?’

  ‘I know six months is a big commitment, but as we’ve been living together for well over a year, I didn’t think it would be too big a step.’

  I felt my shoulders sag and the energy seep from my whole being. So that’s what he meant about plans for the future. A six-month gym contract. Not a lifetime together. Tears pricked my eyes and I rapidly blinked them away.

  ‘That’s not the only present I’ve got for you,’ Jason said.

  Maybe? He reached under his seat for something then pushed a Sports Direct carrier bag across the table with ‘Love, Jason’ scrawled across the front in marker pen. Maybe not. I peered into the bag and reluctantly pulled at the shiny leopard-print material. Oh. My. God. ‘A leotard?’

  ‘You’ll look fantastic in that.’ I really think he believed it.

  I tentatively dangled the offending article over one finger and clocked the size 8–10 label. I wanted to scream at him, ‘When have I ever been a size 8–10? When have I ever liked leopard-print? When have I ever indicated that I’d like to wear a leotard instead of a baggy T-shirt and leggings? After fifteen months together, don’t you know me at all?’ Yet all I said was, ‘Thanks, Jason. It’s lovely.’

  ‘I knew you’d like it. I was only going to get you the gym membership, but when I was in the shop the other day I saw it going cheap in the sale and thought it was so you.’

  How? How could he possibly think a leopard-print leotard was so me? I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as I hastily shoved the Devil’s gym kit back into the bag.

  ‘Firefighter Wilkes!’ A booming Italian voice startled me. ‘You come to my restaurant!’

  ‘Mr Crocetti!’ Jason stood up and embraced a large man wearing chef’s whites.

  ‘Luigi, please,’ he insisted. ‘And who is the bella donna? Your wife?’

  ‘God, no!’ Jason said. ‘We’re not married. She’s just my girlfriend, Sarah.’

  I stared at Jason, mouth open. ‘God, no!’ Did he really just say that? And ‘JUST my girlfriend’? He did. He said, ‘God, no!’ That would mean the idea of getting married to me was… I couldn’t finish the thought.

  ‘Buona sera, Sarah!’ Luigi reached for my hand and kissed it. ‘Your man here, he a hero. He save house. He save rabbit. He hero.’

  ‘He did what?’ My head felt fuzzy. I needed some air, but I had a wall on one side and a loud Italian on the other.

  ‘He save house. He save rabbit,’ Luigi repeated.

  ‘I was on a shout today,’ Jason explained. ‘Small fire in Luigi’s garage. Their pet rabbit was overcome by smoke but I did mouth-to-mouth and—’

  ‘He save rabbit. Bambini so happy. I say to him come to my restaurant any time. On the house. You chose anything. He suggest tonight. I say of course.’ Luigi backed away a couple of paces. ‘I leave. You enjoy meal. You have anything. On me.’ He thumped his chest and beamed at Jason.

  ‘Thanks Luigi,’ Jason said.

  ‘Enjoy.’ Luigi leaned over and patted my arm then pointed at Jason. ‘Hero,’ he said, bowing. Then he headed towards the kitchen.

  I felt the colour drain from my cheeks as I stared at Jason. ‘It’s free,’ I whispered. ‘The meal. Champagne. Tonight…?’

  ‘I know! How great is that? Don’t get mad at me, but I hadn’t got round to booking anywhere so the timing was perfect. Like I could afford to bring you here again if it wasn’t free.’

  He looked so pleased with himself. I lowered my eyes to my hands, which were hanging limply in my lap. I focused on the bare engagement finger. It was never going to be a proposal. It was a last minute freebie. I was such a stupid fool! I covered my left hand with my right one.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jason asked. ‘You don’t look very well.’

  ‘I thought you were bringing me here to—’

  ‘To what?’

  I looked up from my hands. He genuinely looked flummoxed. He’d forgotten what happened here last time and what he said. Maybe it was just one of those in the moment comments that meant nothing. Maybe I’d just wanted to read something into it.

  ‘Sarah? To what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I muttered. ‘It doesn’t matter. Would you excuse me?’ I stood up slowly, holding on to the table, fearing my legs wouldn’t hold me. ‘Must go to the ladies before the food arrives.’

  Humiliation and disappointment burned at the back of my throat as I stumbled through the crowded restaurant. I fought hard to keep it together until I made it to the ladies, but I’d barely closed the cubicle door before the first heaving sob shook my body. Slumped on the toilet, I didn’t care who heard. Anguished cries echoed off the marble walls and cocooned me in my pain.

  Eventually the tears stopped flowing and the shaking subsided, but the pain in my heart remained. I blew my nose and wiped wearily at my wet cheeks. How stupid had I been to think he’d brought me here to propose? How could I have got it so wrong?

  I rose slowly, dropped the pile of soggy tissues into the toilet pan, flushed it, and watched the tissues disappear along with my hopes and dreams. The words he’d said to Luigi echoed in my mind. Not his wife; JUST his girlfriend? Where the hell could we go from here? Not up the aisle; that was for sure.

  But a nagging voice in my head said, ‘Don’t get angry at him, Sarah. This is your fault. You’ve had over a year to tell him you don’t love the gym or hiking or mountain biking like he does. What do you expect? The poor guy genuinely thought he’d bought you something you’d love because you led him to believe that you loved working out as much as him. This is your doing; not his.’

  I didn’t want to listen to that voice.

  Chapter 2

  I stood on the doorstep of the ground floor Victorian flat that Jason and I had rented for the last two years, three months and twenty-three days. The keys dug into my palm while I watched the changing light of the TV screen flickering through the voile-covered window. A cold wind tugged at my coat and tickled my nose. I shivered and sniffed. Then I sniffed again. What was that delicious smell? Like a Bisto Kid, I inhaled deeply. Hmmm, the unmistakeable aroma of a fresh, garlicky, homemade lasagne. Yummy. My stomach growled. Jason made a mean lasagne when we first met. He used to cook a lot in the early days, especially between shifts at the fire station. Now the freezer was packed with ready meals.

  I sniffed the air again. Garlic bread too. A feeling of nostalgia overcame me for those early happy days. Maybe the smell was coming from our flat. Maybe he’d have remembered it was my thirtieth and cooked as a birthday treat. Yeah, right. And he’d have done the washing up and vacuumed the flat. Was that a pig flying past? Jason was between shifts so I knew exactly how he’d have spent his day. After a long workout at the gym followed by a bike ride, he’d have retreated to the sofa, game controller practically welded to his hands. The kitchen would be a mess and the washing that I’d set going before leaving that morning wouldn’t have been hung up to dry, despite the A4 note I’d stuck to the front of the machine
stating in large marker pen capitals, ‘Please hang us up’. And, even though (1) he’d had all day to shop and prepare a meal; (2) it was way past teatime so he’d be famished, and; (3) it was my birthday, he’d ask me what was for tea.

  How had a whole year passed since the disastrous non-proposal? I’d returned to the table that night to find Jason tucking into his starter. If he noticed my red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, he never said a word. My sudden loss of appetite was embraced as more free food for him and my silence on the train home was put down to fatigue following a tough week at work. Had he really been that clueless?

  I sat down heavily on the courtyard wall, trying to muster the strength to go inside. I rummaged in my bag for my iPhone. Instead of making me smile, my Facebook newsfeed full of birthday wishes acted as a depressing reminder of all that was wrong in my life: ‘Happy 30th birthday. Hope Jason’s taking you somewhere nice.’ ‘Happy 30th Sarah. Can he top Luigi’s this year?’ ‘Hope you’ve had a fabulous day and that Jason has a weekend of pampering planned.’ Chances of that: zero. Especially as he hadn’t even acknowledged it was my birthday when I’d left for work that morning. Mind you, barely acknowledging each other had become our existence and I was completely and utterly exhausted from it.

  Could I face another year like this? I didn’t want to die all alone like my Uncle Alan, but was this really better than being alone?

  My iPhone beeped, indicating a text message.

  * From Elise

  Hi Sarah. Just rung but Jason says you’re probably still at work. It’s Fri night. It’s your b’day. Go home! Guess what. Our Jess and Lee are back from Rome. Engaged!!! At Minty’s with them & Gary. Her diamond’s bigger than mine. Outrageous! Call you tomorrow with details xxx

  I gasped. Elise’s little sister was engaged? But she was six years younger than me. She couldn’t be getting married. Not before me. But she’d clearly met the right person whereas I… I looked up at the window. It was time.

  I stood up and brushed some brick-dust off my skirt. I unlocked the door, stepped inside the hall, took a deep breath, and announced as brightly as I could, ‘Jason? I’m home.’

  No answer. Just the sound of machine-gun fire. My hand moved towards the knob on the lounge door but I drew it back and headed for the kitchen instead. Perhaps a little Dutch courage first.

  Given that the flat smelled more of sweaty socks than lasagne, I was right in my prediction that he wouldn’t have prepared a meal. My shoulders sank even further and an overwhelming feeling of weariness took hold of my whole body as I slumped against the kitchen doorframe and surveyed the carnage. How did he do it? Useless, lazy, slobby… The damp washing festered in the machine. My note lay on the worktop covered in crumbs and a coffee cup stain. Mugs languished in dull beige liquid in the washing up bowl. Banana peels, empty crisp packets, and part-drunk glasses of squash obliterated the worktops.

  I grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine from the fridge and took a large swig. A little shocked with myself for drinking from a full-size bottle of wine — what next, vodka out of a paper bag? — I reached into the cupboard for a glass, poured the rest and took a long glug. ‘Happy thirtieth birthday, Sarah! Shaping up to be just as crap as your twenty-ninth.’

  Stomach rumbling, I opened the fridge again and began rummaging. What could I eat? Jar of mayonnaise? Bottle of sweet chilli sauce? Pack of out-of-date ham? Ooh — cheese slices! Within seconds, I’d unwrapped one and stuffed the tasteless item into my mouth. What else? I settled on a jar of crunchy peanut butter. I don’t even like the stuff. Spoon in hand, I heaved myself onto one of the uncomfortable bar stools at the narrow breakfast bar. Whoever designed the stupid things — undoubtedly a man — definitely didn’t have size sixteen to eighteen bottoms in mind.

  I gazed around the kitchen. A pile of cards and a couple of small packages lay next to the breadbin. I left them where they were.

  Twenty minutes later, Jason walked into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his bits. ‘You’re home!’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  I watched his eyes flick from me to the empty bottle of wine to the peanut butter. He didn’t pass comment anymore, but I knew what he was thinking when he caught me mid-binge: ‘No wonder you’re fat. You were slim when we met. You went to the gym. You cared about your appearance. Now look at the state of you.’

  ‘You’ve still got your coat on,’ he said.

  ‘Have I?’ I hadn’t realised. The only things I was aware of were how hungry I still was, how I had peanut butter welded to the roof of my mouth, how the wine had gone straight to my head, and how I’d lost all feeling in my left buttock. My right one probably wasn’t far behind.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nearly ten.’ I watched him as he reached for the fridge door and wondered why I used to think he was out of my league. He was certainly tall and dark but was he handsome? Not really. It was true what they said about personality. That fit body, which I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off, did nothing for me anymore. I was also blatantly aware that, after a year of bingeing, my body did nothing for him either… except perhaps repulse him. Working late for the past year to avoid facing up to the reality that Jason wasn’t The One after all meant I got home too late to cook so I lived on a diet of chocolate, crisps, doughnuts, and takeaways. This took its toll on my bank balance, my figure, my confidence, and our relationship. We argued constantly at first. Then we started ignoring each other so I ate more to comfort myself and… well, it was a pretty vicious circle.

  He closed the fridge door. ‘What’s for tea?’ He flicked the top off a bottle of lager. It dropped to the floor where it lay on the tiles next to a tomato stalk and what looked like a blob of salad cream. He wouldn’t pick it up. He didn’t care. And, at that very moment, I realised that neither did I. I slid off the stool, reached for my post and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Jason.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Live like this.’

  ‘I haven’t had time to clear up.’

  ‘I don’t mean the mess. I mean our relationship. I want us to break up.’ The minute the words left my mouth, I felt liberated. I felt light as a feather. I felt… Oh crap, he was about to protest.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stay strong. Don’t say it was just a suggestion. Don’t agree to try again. You can do this. You may as well end it and be alone because what you have right now is not a relationship. You’re like flatmates who don’t even like each other. ‘We’re not right for each other. This last year hasn’t exactly been relationship heaven, has it?’

  Jason stared at me, completely poker-faced. I willed him to say something. Agree. Protest. Shout. Cheer. Just do something! He gulped the rest of his drink down and banged the empty bottle on the worktop. Then he flashed me a dazzling smile and said, ‘Well, thank God one of us finally had the guts to say it. Sarah, you’re a life-saver. Do you fancy getting last orders in down at The Griffin? Don’t look so shocked. Come on. I’ll buy you a birthday drink.’

  So that was that. Nearly two and a half years together had ended. No tears, no recriminations; just two drinks, a packet of Scampi Fries, an amicable conversation about what idiots we’d been to let it drag on so long, plus an agreement to give notice on the flat, sell the car, and give me custody of the cats.

  Jason kissed me goodnight — a gentle peck on the cheek — then hailed a cab to a friend’s house to avoid a night on the sofa and to give me some space to think.

  All alone, I lay awake most of the night thinking. And worrying. About the important stuff like where I’d live, how quickly we’d sell the car, and how we’d detangle our finances, as well as the little things that suddenly seemed important at three a.m. like who’d keep the tea-light holders we’d bought in Greenwich Market last summer and whether I’d have to pay Jason for his share of the cat scratching post.

  Rain tapped gently
on the window, then with more ferocity. The rhythmic drumming eventually sent me into a troubled sleep where I reverted to my thirteen-year-old self, shivering outside Uncle Alan’s flat.

  ‘Uncle Alan! It’s only me!’ I shouted through his letterbox.

  Drips of icy rain from the overflowing guttering splashed onto my head and trickled down my neck. I sniffed as a large drop ran down my nose, then instantly recoiled from the letterbox, clutching my nose, as a stench akin to rotting meat hit me. Urgh! He must have left the chicken out of the fridge again. I held my breath as I lifted the flap again. ‘I’m going to let myself in.’

  I tucked the carrier bag containing the Sunday papers under my arm, fished in my jeans pocket for the spare key and unlocked the door, bracing myself against the overpowering stench. My stomach lurched. I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth, thankful that I’d skipped breakfast. ‘Uncle Alan!’ I called through my fingers. ‘Don’t say you can’t smell it this time.’

  A few flies buzzed round my ears. I swatted at them with my hand. Flies? In late October? I put the paper down in the hall, slowly removed my waterproof, and hung it on the peg next to the beige mac that he never left home without. My hands shook slightly as I eased off my wellies and called again, ‘Uncle Alan? Are you being a grump again today? I won’t help you with the crossword if you are.’

  Heart thumping, I waited for his response. Nothing.

  I swatted a few more flies before creeping down the hall towards the lounge at the back of the flat. ‘Uncle Alan?’ I paused just before the lounge doorway and listened again. Over the rain, the thunder, and the flies, I could hear the thump, thump, thump of my heart. With my hand still over my nose and mouth, it took all my strength and courage to step from the hall into the lounge because the sinking feeling in my stomach told me that our regular Sunday routine was about to be broken forever.

  The curtains were partially closed so the lounge was in darkness. I tentatively felt along the blown vinyl for the light switch. As my fingers reached the plastic casing, a flash of lightning lit the room like a floodlight. And that’s when I saw him. Lying there. Over the thunder I heard a scream… A girl’s scream; a terrified, pained sound.