Page 64 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘No, I get it, Sam.’ She is as poised as a shop mannequin, as if the frenetic kissing had only happened in a fever dream. He hugs her briefly and somewhat awkwardly to ensure that his still wine-drenched shirt doesn’t make contact, and leaves her flat. He virtually gallops down those four flights of stairs.

Out in the street, a cool breeze gusts and voices drift from the tables outside a nearby pub. As the cab pulls up and Sam climbs into it, it strikes him that something is clear to him now, in that he knows what he must do. It’s almost as if he’s had therapy.

Does she feel it too? Something had switched, certainly, these past few weeks. Something that tells him that perhaps there might just be the tiniest chance.

The thought of it scares him. It feels as if there is so much to lose. But after what’s happened with Eva, an awful lot has been lost anyway and it seems crucial to salvage something good out of this terrible situation. No, not ‘salvage’ – make is the term for it. ‘Make’ is a positive word and right now Sam is so brimming with positivity that it’s all he can do not to blurt out his plan to the driver.

He will make something wonderful and right. At least he’ll try. And whatever the consequences – whether she’s confused or appalled or perhaps even the tiniest bit pleased? – he is going to do it anyway.

Sam is going to give it his very best shot.

And so the next morning, still filled with optimism, he jumps off the bus in Hackney. He’d considered getting another Uber for speed but decided that trundling along on a double-decker would give him the chance to compose his thoughts. The sky is a wash of cloudless blue and it feels as if the entire world is bathed in sunshine.

First, happy to see that they are open on a Sunday, Sam stops at that fancy bakery. It’s the one she’s joked about – those Nordic loaves costing £85. An exaggeration of course but still, blimey! He buys one for laughs, plus two croissants, and with his heart fluttering like a sparrow trapped in his chest, he marches quickly towards her flat.

Sam is going to tell her. He is going to tell her the minute she opens the door. He is there now, outside her building, cradling the brown paper bag of baked goods in one arm as he presses the bell.

A moment passes. Then: ‘Hello?’

‘Andie, it’s me!’ It’s all he can do to keep his voice steady and normal and not shout into the intercom. To not blow it before he’s even told her.

‘Sam? Oh. Hi!’

He frowns. At 10.27 a.m., he wonders if she has just woken up. Maybe she had a big night out last night and hasn’t yet had her crucial first coffee of the day? That’s it, he decides as she buzzes him in. Andie is bleary, that’s all. Insufficiently caffeinated. Not put out and certainly not alarmed that he has turned up like this with no warning.

He trots up the stairs. It’ll be fine, he assures himself as he reaches her landing. Don’t panic. Everything’s fine⁠—

The door opens and she’s standing there in what look like massive pyjamas – hang on, are they men’s pyjamas? If so who’s the— ‘Hi!’ She fixes on a tight smile.

‘I was just, erm, I was just…’ he starts.

‘Yeah, no, it’s great to see you!’ she blusters. ‘Erm, come in…’

Sam knows that something isn’t right, and he feels like some foolish bakery delivery guy as he traipses after her into the flat. And just as he’s forming an explanation for his impromptu visit – that he was ‘in the area’, that he thought she might like some croissants and a loaf! – he sees that Andie is not alone, and that a man is here in her kitchen. A man in jeans and a sweatshirt who has jumped up from a chair and pulled him in for a matey hug.

‘Sam!’ Phil exclaims, flashing a huge smile. ‘So good to see you! It’s been way too long.’

36

WEDDING COUNTDOWN: 5 DAYS

Andie

Evidence that I am terrible at timing.

1. The day those Vinted barrel-legged jeans arrived I went online and read, ‘Barrel-legged jeans are over.’

2. The very day Phil told me about his affair I’d booked a surprise weekend for his birthday at a little hotel in Somerset.

3. Yesterday morning after I’d slept with Phil, Sam turned up without warning, which he never does. It’s not that I need to be ‘warned’ of his approach. He is not extreme weather or a new and extremely dangerous virus. But still, he’d never done that in his life before (in London, people don’t just turn up). So why then? ‘I was in the area,’ he babbled, despite the fact that Sam is never in Hackney unless he’s come to see me. What was that all about, showing up with croissants and a loaf? What else could he have been in the area for?

Okay, so that wasn’t my poor timing. It was Sam’s. He should have known, obviously, that I’d been so down about Eva that I’d gone out for dinner with Phil (who’d at least warned me he was coming!) and drunk too much in the restaurant and then more at home. Because of course, getting pissed with your ex-husband is always recommended in the self-help books.

Yet it had felt good, being with someone so familiar, who I didn’t feel I had to be cheerful for, or anything other than my grubbily depressed self. My hair was dirty and I didn’t have a scrap of make-up on and I was wearing an ancient, disgusting bra, and I didn’t care.

Talking about the kids had made me feel better. Just being together had started to lift me out of my gloom – of course, alcohol had helped too – and then he’d kissed me and the kiss had gone on and on. And next thing we were writhing about in our underwear in my living room, and the next next thing we were naked together in my bed, and I thought, Fuck it! Why not? He’d been so kind to me that day, and so useful around the house! We were kissing deeply and it felt so good to be touched by someone who knows my body, and whose body I know almost as well as my own.

It had been over a year since I’d been to bed with anyone. The last person was Gary, a cycling enthusiast I’d met on a brief foray on the apps. With Mum’s words still ringing in my head – that I was ‘too fussy’ – I tried to give him a proper chance, in the way that I’d told myself I’d eventually get along with the coat I’d bought on a whim, as an ‘investment’, that was too long and stiff and formal and would never be ‘me’.