One Last Time

JULY

Would it have been better if we'd never met – better for him and for me? I've sometimes thought so, especially over the last few months. But there's no point living in the past. What's done is done. People move on – and we had.

It's Felix I'm talking about. We went out with each other before he met Bec – his partner of ten, twelve years? I rarely hear from him these days – just the odd text or email checking to see if I'm still alive. But that initmacy is always there. And we did love each other once – we still do. No one has ever doubted that.

As to what happened between us in July, I don't suppose I'll ever really get over it. But it doesn't matter how guilty I feel, it's not like it was my fault. What happened would surely have happened anyway. It's not like I murdered anyone. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to unburden myself, I'm trying to tell the story – to set the record straight.

It began with a phone call. I'd been surprsied to find the call was for me, it was usually Mark they wanted.

'It'll just be us,' Felix said. 'And you two, of course.'

'I'll have to check with Mark. It's nice of you to invite us.'

'I can't take the credit – it was Bec's idea…'

Of course it was. Why would I think it was his?

'…but it'd be good to see you both again. Sorry it's been so long, Sal. Call me back tonight if you can and let me know your thoughts.'

It was nine thirty on a Friday evening in late July and I was sitting in the spare room with a heap of unread magazines – Cosmo, Elle, Grazia, OK!, Hello! – on one side of my desk, a barely sipped Diet Coke on the other, and my laptop screen glowing in the middle. Friday nights used to be fun: Mark and I would stumble out of The Old Rose, grab a curry on the way home, then snuggle up in bed and watch a DVD. Now there was always work to do, especially for Mark, whose colleagues seemed to think Friday the perfect night to dump all their problems on him.

'Sure, I'll call you in a bit.'

I tried making small talk, but Felix wasn't really interested. Not that it bothered me. I was grateful for his invite – it would be good to finally get together. I'd begun to think that we might never see each other again.

'Who was that?' Mark called out.

'Felix.'

'Who?'

'Felix Hewitt.'

I swigged my Coke and took the six steps across the landing to our bedroom. Mark was sat at the desk with his laptop, the pine double bed covered in photocopies and print-outs he'd brought home from the office. The bedroom is larger than the spare room, but Mark reckons he needs the extra space as his job is bigger than mine – or so he reckons. I can't be bothered to argue with him.

'He called with an invite,' I said, leaning my shoulder against the frame of the doorway. I'd mentioned Felix's name once or twice when I'd first started seeing Mark, but that was almost nine years ago. I'd told him Felix and I went right back, but I hadn't said anything about us having a history together. I mean, what's the point? It was all over between us.

Mark looked up and stared at me blankly.

'He's a friend I met at uni. I've told you about him before,' I reminded him.

'Is that the one who's house warming we went to in Brick Lane?'

The occasion he's referring to happened five years ago – it was the last time we'd all met up. Felix and Bec were living in Hackney, and had asked us over for 'dinner and drinks with close friends.' They'd forgotten to mention that it was a huge party with at least sixty people there – and most of them wanker media types. Felix and Bec barely spoke to us all night, but I blamed Felix more than her. I'd felt neglected by him.