The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch by Beth O'Leary (i have read the book .txt) 📗

I go still. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I really don’t know. But it is pretty strange, this whole situation, and I find it hard to believe the whole mess is all Marcus’s making. I know you think he’s evil, but that does seem a bit simplistic, doesn’t it?’

I know what she means. I’m putting all the problems of my relationship on Marcus because it’s easier than being disappointed in my boyfriend. I’ve thought that before. But then Marcus writes something barbed on his Instagram and I can’t help thinking it’s about me. Or he has a meltdown just when me and Dylan have got through an argument and things are better. Or Dylan comes home from seeing him and looks at me in that weird, wary way and won’t touch me for a little while. And I’ll think, This is Marcus’s doing.

‘I have to go, Deb,’ I say, checking the time again. ‘Thank you for talking me down.’

‘Come over this evening, if you want to. We can play board games with Dad.’

I close my eyes at the thought of it. The comfort of home.

‘Yeah. I’d love that. Thank you.’

When I walk out of the staff toilets, Etienne’s there. I almost go right into him. My heart does a little hiccup as I look up at him.

‘Are you all right?’ he says.

It’s the worst thing he could choose to say right now.

‘Yes.’ My lip is already quivering. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Just heading to . . .’

He takes my arm. ‘Addie,’ he says.

His voice is deep and sympathetic, and it tips me over the edge. My shoulders start shaking again.

‘Let’s step into my office,’ he says. ‘I’ll ask Jamie to see to your lot – 10B, is it, this afternoon?’

I nod, snuffling into my sleeve as he ushers me through into his office and closes the door gently behind me. I stand there in the middle of the rug and sob until he returns.

‘All sorted. Please, sit down,’ he says. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, reaching for a tissue from the box on his desk and wiping my face frantically. I’m red with shame.

‘Boyfriend?’

I nod, sitting down in the chair he’s indicated.

Etienne shakes his head. ‘Well. It’s not my place to interfere. But nobody’s boyfriend should make them cry in the toilets. It’s what I’d say to a student. I’m sure it’s what you’d say to a student, too.’ He meets my eyes then. ‘You deserve better, Addie.’

That makes me cry again. He moves around from behind the desk, rubbing my shoulder, ducking down to his haunches so he’s at my level. My body reacts to his touch, something flaring shamefully in my belly.

‘Take the afternoon off.’

‘I can’t – what about – Battle of the Boyne,’ I manage.

He smiles. ‘If necessary, I can step in, or Moira can. There’ll be someone who can stick on a DVD of something vaguely educational.’

I’m still crying. He’s still rubbing my arm, his hand warm and reassuring.

‘If you ever need to talk, Addie, I’m here. Anytime. OK? You have my mobile number. Just call me.’

I don’t go back to my parents’ house, in the end. Instead I lie in the bed I share with Dylan and stare up at the ceiling and think of Etienne. My skin feels too hot, like my body is too big for it. I touch myself and imagine my hand is Etienne’s, firm and steady. I feel sick afterwards. I can’t seem to forgive myself, and I pace around the flat, scratching at my arms, wishing I could go back in time to last summer, when everything was perfect.

By ten o’clock, Dylan still isn’t home. He’s stayed with Marcus all day. I wonder for the first time if that’s where he really is. What if Marcus is a cover-up? What if Dylan’s met somebody else? Someone who’s as perfect as he expects them to be. Someone clever and posh and poetic, someone who would never feel jealous of Dylan’s sick best friend.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I’ve been staring at it vacantly, with no clear idea of what I want it to do.

‘Hello?’

‘Wow, hello,’ Deb says. ‘That was prompt. So, can I get your take on an ethical conundrum?’

‘Sure?’ I say.

I’ve forgotten to eat. I get up and head to the fridge, scanning it for something in-date.

‘So if I know I want to have a baby, and I’ve thought of someone who is very willy-nilly with sperm distribution . . . Can I just have sex with him and get pregnant and then never tell him he’s the father?’

I blink at the lump of cheddar I’m examining.

‘Umm,’ I say.

‘It’s Mike,’ she supplies helpfully. ‘That bouncer I went back with after your birthday night out.’

I try to compose my thoughts.

‘He’s not big on condoms, basically,’ Deb says. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry,’ I say, closing the fridge. ‘Just absorbing.’

Deb waits patiently.

‘I think that might be really wrong,’ I say. ‘Yes. I think that’s one of the bad ones.’

‘Oh,’ Deb says, sounding crestfallen. ‘But if I’d done it by accident, it would be fine.’

‘Yeah, true. Only it wouldn’t be by accident if you did it now.’

‘Who’s to know?’

‘Well, me. You told me.’

‘Damn it. Why did you have to pick up the phone?’

I sigh. ‘Why don’t you ask Mike if he minds?’

‘He’d probably say he doesn’t mind,’ Deb says. ‘But then there’s the risk that when my child is seven or something and functioning really well in my lovely single-parent household he’ll come sweeping in demanding rights.’

It’s still so strange hearing Deb talk about having a child. I really thought she’d never come around. I should have known there’d be no grey area, no umming and ahhing. Deb is a yes-or-no sort of woman.

I wonder what she would do if she were me. Deb would never cry on the toilet over any man, and I feel a twinge of shame.

‘Why don’t you just get a donor? Aren’t there private companies that do that sort of thing for you?’ I ask.

‘That