The Booking

1.

I leave my flat in a hurry. 

The lights from Battersea Power Station illuminate my walk to the underground, and I board the Northern Line to Liverpool Street, the wind roaring in my face as the train emerges from the dark tunnel below London's busy streets. I balance my bags with two hands and my searing thoughts with the rest of me. 

I try not to think about storming out of the flat. I try not to think about why I left. 

When I arrive at the station, I check the flickering, orange and black departure board and see my train to Colchester has been delayed by 30 minutes. I take the escalator — up, up, up — and buy two bottles of wine from Marks & Spencers, zipping them tightly, snug, into my duffle bag. I lean over the railing, looking at the bustle of travellers consumed by their smartphones, flooded with football scores, Instagram likes, and e-tickets. London during the holidays: a beautiful nightmare. Just as my mind is settling and my hands have stopped shaking, my phone begins to ring. I look down and see Tom's name across the screen. I hit accept and brace myself for what's to come. For what I know is coming.

"What?" I say, digging my nails into my palm. Blood draws almost instantly.

"I was going to talk to you, Lottie" he replies. "I didn't know she was going to post it."

The lump in my throat feels like a boulder and I pull at the drawstrings on my jumper for a distraction. "She just got engaged. What did you think she was going to do, Tom? You knew she was going to post it and you knew I was going to see it."

"That's not what happened." He pauses and I hear the clicking of a laptop on the other end. "We said we were going to wait to tell people."

Despite my anger, hearing his voice makes my heart ache and I find myself nostalgic for the person that burned me. Love is like an opioid: when you're high, you're soaring; when you're not, the withdrawal leaves you drenched in sweat and up all night. 

And then I remember.

"Does she know I'm one of those people?" I ask, my voice loud and strong. I'm not falling for his game again. "Does she know you had to tell the woman you've been shagging for the last three years that you've proposed to your girlfriend of four?" The woman on the bench next to me looks over and grimaces, her blonde streaked fringe falling in her face, before losing herself again in her Kindle and Tesco meal deal: tuna sandwich, banana, bottled water. Infidelity is only interesting for so long — Tom's proving that right now.

"That's not fair" he says, his voice mimicking mine: resentful, temperamental. "I told you I was never going to leave Emma."

"But you didn't say you were going to propose either." A flash of guilt flits through me because I know he's right. If he wasn't going to break up with Emma, he was going to propose. It was inevitable. He wasn't the type of guy to date a woman for that long and not commit. He had a reputation to uphold. And she wasn't the type of woman you break up with.