The Road Trip(79)

‘All OK?’ I say.

‘I . . .’ He clicks through to read a full message.

I watch him, a forkful of grilled lettuce halfway to my mouth.

‘Marcus is . . . he sounds like he’s in trouble.’

My heart sinks. Marcus. Of course. He knows it’s our anniversary. What else would he do but get himself into some sort of trouble?

‘What’s happened?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Dylan’s shoulders are tensed. ‘He’s been drinking too much.’

I know this. We’ve talked about it a lot. Since moving to that weird jacuzzi house on the edge of Chichester, Marcus has spiralled. More drugs, more alcohol, more blackouts. Even Cherry’s worried about him, and Cherry is pretty relaxed when it comes to personal crises. She needs rescuing from drug-fuelled house parties now and then, but lately Marcus needs rescuing from roadside ditches.

‘I think he’s really drunk.’

I wait for Dylan to show me the message. He doesn’t.

‘OK? And you think he’s in trouble?’

‘It’s hard to understand the message,’ he says, frowning. Still not showing me.

My phone beeps. I wince. Clearly I’ve not put mine on silent either. But Dylan doesn’t even notice.



I’mon to you xx



From Marcus. I go cold.

‘What the hell is this?’ I show Dylan the message, and as I hold it out, the phone buzzes again in my hand.

Dylan sees the next message before I do. As I turn the phone back towards me I feel him watching me, the way he sometimes does. A little warily. Like he thinks I’m someone else pretending to be Addie.



Ive seen you with him. don’t think ii wont tell Dylan.



What the fuck?

‘I have no idea what he’s on about,’ I say immediately, looking up at Dylan. ‘But you’re right. He’s clearly drunk. This message is so . . . creepy.’

‘I’m going to go and get him,’ Dylan says, moving his napkin from his lap to the table.

‘What? Now?’

He hasn’t even finished his scrambled chicken entrails, or whatever.

‘Yeah, now,’ Dylan says shortly, already scraping back his chair. The beautiful women all look first. Alert to drama.

‘But . . .’

‘I’ll see you back at home.’

I have to put the meal on my credit card. Dylan ordered some stupidly expensive bottle of wine and even though we didn’t get as far as pudding, the bill is over a hundred and fifty pounds. Seeing the number makes my eyes sting with panicked tears. I can’t stand to see the rest of Dylan’s plateful going to waste, so I eat the scraps of his bullshit foamy dinner on my own and drink the wine. It’s all totally humiliating.

When I get home, Dylan’s on the sofa. He’s slumped and soft-eyed but I’m raging.

‘Sorry,’ he begins.

‘What for? The fact you ditched me at our anniversary dinner or that I just bankrupted myself to pay for it?’

‘Oh, shit,’ he says after a moment. ‘I didn’t think about . . .’

‘Of course you didn’t. Your precious Marcus was in trouble, wasn’t he?’ I move past as he tries to intercept me. ‘No, no,’ I say, and brush past him up the stairs.

‘Addie, come on, let’s talk,’ he says, as he always does. But I know the best way to punish him, now. He hates my silence.

‘I’m going to bed. Alone,’ I say. ‘You can sleep on the sofa. Or with Marcus. Whichever you prefer.’



When I come down in the morning he isn’t on the sofa. He isn’t anywhere. I sit down in the space where he was last night and try to remember to breathe. He’s left me. He’s gone, because I said that thing about sleeping with Marcus, or because I told him I wouldn’t talk, or because I’m the sort of girlfriend who gets angry when he goes to help his friend.

But – ugh. What about all the other times I said it was fine? When we went for a weekend away in the Cotswolds and he left early for Marcus. When he didn’t even make it to my sister’s birthday party because Marcus passed out somewhere. When I asked for a cosy night in and he said, Sorry, Marcus really wants some quality time.

It’s crossed my mind that Marcus might love Dylan. But he’s only ever shown an interest in women, and there’s nothing sexual in how he looks at Dyl. They’re just . . . bonded in some way I can’t understand.

The door clicks open and I sit up fast.

‘Dylan?’

‘Hey,’ he says quietly. He drops his keys in the hall and takes his shoes off. The sounds are so familiar I can tell exactly what he’s doing from the sofa.

‘Where did you go?’

‘I went to stay with Marcus.’

I swallow. ‘Oh.’

‘You said I could.’

‘You don’t need my permission, Dylan.’

‘It doesn’t feel that way, sometimes.’

He comes into the room. He’s wearing one of Marcus’s jumpers, a vintage one, patterned in olive-green diamonds. His hair is mussed and there are bags under his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’ I hug myself. ‘I hate that. I never want to make you feel like you can’t do anything. I just . . . I think he calls on you a lot.’ And at very interesting times, I want to say. Like whenever you’re doing something important with me.