Nine Uses for an Ex-Boyfriend

  As she was getting ready to leave, though, she succumbed to a last-minute fit of nerves or pangs of conscience; she couldn’t tell the difference. Going for a quick drink with Wilson to talk about photographs for the Winter Pageant, she texted Jack. Is that OK? Hope xxx

  Jack texted her back ten minutes later: Cool. I’m working late on looks for the next cover shoot with Max & Celia. Honest! Jack x He’d even attached a picture of Max, Skirt’s Editor at Large, and Celia, one of the fashion team, pointing at a clock and grinning. Hope knew that Jack was only trying to lighten things up, but she didn’t see anything remotely funny about the way he hadn’t been where he said he’d been for months and months. And she didn’t appreciate the way his colleagues were in on the joke either. It was only because she liked Celia and they’d bonded about being redheads at several Skirt parties that Hope wasn’t instantly suspicious that she and Jack were getting up to no good in the fashion cupboard. As it was, she was only a little bit suspicious, and that made it easy to decide that yes, she was going to go and meet Wilson for a drink and, God damn it, she was going to enjoy herself.

  Hope even thrilled to the slight edge of nerves that made her jiggle from foot to foot as she looked through her wardrobe. Since Jeremy’s visit, not a single piece of chocolate or deep-fried anything had passed between her lips, and on the days when she couldn’t get to the gym, Hope tried to walk to and from work. She was too chicken to get on the scales, but her spare tyre seemed to be shrinking back down to a more manageable pot belly, and she could still get into her favourite winter dress – a black, empire-cut wool dress that ended mid-thigh – and thank God for black opaque tights, which hid a multitude of wobbly sins, and her black leather knee-high boots, which were unbearable to walk in until her toes went numb.

  Inevitably the comb-out had only lasted a scant forty-eight hours, so Hope gathered her wild curls into a loose plait, then sat down to do her make-up with proper brushes, and blended eyeshadow and applied lip-liner and lipstick. The finished effect was spoiled somewhat by hat, gloves, scarf and the old faux-leopard fur coat that had been ratty when Hope first bought it eight years ago with her first student-loan cheque, and now looked as if it had a bad case of mange.

  She had just enough time to hobble down to the Holloway Road to catch the bus to Camden, the slight edge of nerves now upgraded to a full-on wibble.

  THE YORK & ALBANY WAS situated in a beautiful John Nash building opposite Regent’s Park, and was a one-stop shop for fancypants organic living, featuring a hotel, two restaurants, a gourmet-food shop and the bar that Wilson had summoned her to. Even at the best of times, Hope hated meeting people in bars, because her mother always said that girls who went into licensed establishments on their own ran the risk of everyone thinking that they were prostitutes.

  Hope was sure that the clientele of the York & Albany would think no such thing, ratty fur coat notwithstanding. They were too cool to do more than flick an eyelid in her general direction. The room was dominated by a huge, steel-topped bar with a dazzling array of bottles lined up behind it. She decided against one of the plush velvet bar stools in favour of a sofa tucked away in the corner so she could rubberneck the diners going in and out of the Angela Hartnett-helmed restaurant.

  She’d barely had time to look at the menu when Wilson walked in. His concession to winter dressing was a bright-red cashmere scarf tucked into a leather jacket, which he began to unwind before catching sight of Hope.

  ‘You made it, then?’ he said, as he sat down beside her. She could feel the cold air still clinging to him, and shivered. ‘Wasn’t sure if you would.’

  It was a new experience to go out with someone who thought she was an unknown quantity. Jack knew everything about her, which was usually comforting, but lately it made Hope wonder if she was boring and predictable. At least to Wilson, she still had novelty value. ‘There was nothing on telly,’ she explained with a grin, then held up the menu. ‘I was thinking we should be really decadent and have champagne cocktails.’

  Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Are we celebrating something?’

  Tonight was absolutely not a celebration of anything. It was simply a drink between two sort-of friends, but Hope was determined to keep the mood light. ‘I just want to get you in a really good mood before I hit you up for a colossal favour,’ she said.

  ‘Can you afford champagne on a teacher’s salary?’ Wilson asked, and he didn’t even sound as if he was being rude, just doubtful that her credit was that good.

  ‘That’s why God invented overdrafts,’ Hope said, and Wilson laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him really properly laugh, apart from at Latitude when they’d seen someone offering phone-charging services for ten quid a pop, which he’d found absolutely hysterical. For about half a minute he stopped looking stern and had a glint in his eye and a mischievous cast to his features.

  ‘I’ll let you buy me one glass of champagne, the cheapest one,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Then I’m switching to whisky and I’m buying. End of.’

  Hope, and her bank balance, were in no position to argue. She’d imagined that she’d get the big issue of the Winter Pageant photos out of the way immediately, but an hour and one champagne cocktail, two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and half a Rustic pizza later, she still hadn’t managed to spit it out.

  For the first time in their short but fraught relationship, the conversation was flowing as easily as the alcohol. Wilson told her about his latest job, which involved photographing sewage stations for a magazine, until Hope begged him to stop because she hurt from laughing at his impersonation of Alfie getting out of the car and catching his first whiff of raw sewage.

  ‘Thought I’d become a photographer and it would be all glamour and shooting models in their undies and I end up driving to Didcot to photograph a sewage plant.’ Wilson shook his head. ‘Never told me about that at college. I bet your week hasn’t been as exciting as mine.’

  That should have been Hope’s cue to ask about the photos, but then Wilson would say no and the evening might come to an abrupt end, so she found herself telling him about Blue Class’s plans for an X Factor-style judging panel to decide who’d perform their Lady Gaga medley.

  ‘So I told them that everyone would be performing, irrespective of their ability to bust a move.’ Hope rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what they call it. “But Miss, Stuart can’t bust a single move, and he’s going to ruin it for everyone, Miss.”’

  ‘Are they terrified you’re going to snatch back their stickers if they miss a step or fall behind the beat?’ Wilson asked.

  By now, there was a huge expanse of sofa on either side of them and they were sitting at a slight angle to each other so they could make eye contact without getting a crick in the neck, their knees bumping and Wilson’s arm slung over the back of the sofa so his fingers could brush against Hope’s shoulder. They were the slightest and most incidental of touches, but each time it happened, Hope had to catch her breath and squeeze her thighs tight together to stop that pulse of longing, which was wrong – because Hope loved Jack and she was only just starting to like Wilson.

  ‘I think it’s safe to say that I’m on the way to being half cut, so it’s probably the right time to ask me to lend you a million quid,’ Wilson flicked the end of her plait. ‘Such an extraordinary colour,’ he said softly, as if he was talking to himself. ‘Have you ever thought of being a hair model?’

  Things had been heading to a vaguely inappropriate place with the knee-bumping and the shoulder-brushing, but as soon as the words left Wilson’s mouth, Hope slapped his hand away from her hair and started to giggle.

  It was the kind of thing that she imagined photographers said all the time to get into girls’ pants. Except Wilson had said ‘hair model’ as if it was really pushing the limits of all credibility to imply that Hope had the potential to be a proper model.

  ‘Does that line ever work?’ she asked, twisting away from him so she could flop back on the sofa cushions.


  ‘It wasn’t a line,’ Wilson protested. ‘Your hair’s almost the exact same shade as a … a … what is it?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it! A red setter.’

  He sounded so proud of himself for comparing Hope to a dog that instead of being mortally offended, she shrieked with mirth. ‘A red setter?’ she repeated between giggles. ‘God, I should sue you for slander.’

  ‘Red setters are a beautiful colour. Seriously, I’d love to backlight you and then take some shots. What? What? Why are you laughing? I’m not trying to be funny.’

  Hope flapped a hand at him. ‘Nice hair, shame about the face,’ she snorted. ‘Way to kick a girl when she’s down.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Wilson said as he tilted his head so he could give Hope one those intense looks that he’d probably copyrighted. ‘Actually, I suppose you are quite pretty even though your face is very asymmetrical.’

  ‘Oh God, please stop,’ Hope begged him, clutching her aching sides. ‘Everything you say is worse than the last thing you said.’

  Wilson settled back down with an aggrieved sigh. ‘I’m never, ever going to pay you another compliment.’

  ‘Oh, you must. It really cheered me up,’ Hope told him, running the pads of her thumbs under her eyes to wipe away what was left of her mascara. And now that she’d stopped laughing and got Wilson to stop with the accidental touches and stroking, she really should get down to business. ‘So, this favour, well, compared to lending me a huge sum of money, it’s actually a really teensy favour,’ she began. ‘And I won’t be mad if you say no. In fact, feel free to say no.’

  ‘Believe me, if I want to say no, then I won’t have any problem with saying no.’ Wilson smiled when Hope scowled at him. ‘Come on, love, spit it out.’

  ‘It’s this stupid pageant. Mr Gonzales, the head, and Dorothy, who’s head of the infant school and a grade-one pain in my arse, seem to think you have nothing better to do with your time than take photos of the whole shebang and do it for absolutely no charge.’ Hope tipped her head back in annoyance and felt Wilson’s hand warm against the back of her neck again. ‘So, anyway, I can honestly say that I’ve asked you now. It was really cheeky of them.’

  ‘All right, I think I can muster up enough indignation on my own without you doing it for me,’ Wilson said. ‘When is it?’

  ‘Seventeenth of December. I know!’ Hope added, because once she was indignant it was very hard to rein it in. ‘Like you don’t have enough things to do the week before Christmas.’

  ‘Think I am going to be working every night that week,’ Wilson said, and bless him, he managed to make it seem as if he’d like nothing more than to photograph the Red Class doing an interpretive dance to ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘I could ask one of my assistants.’

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Christ, no! He’s not my assistant. He’s a minion,’ Wilson said in disgust. ‘But Dylan might be up for it. His girlfriend’s pregnant and he should probably see what he’s got to look forward to in a few years’ time.’ He shrugged. ‘You will have to bung him fifty quid, though.’

  Hope did feel the tiniest bit disappointed that she wouldn’t have an excuse to see Wilson after tonight, but she was just being silly. She couldn’t have her cake and eat it too; besides, she was meant to be swearing off cake. ‘I’m sure I can squeeze fifty pounds out of Mr Gonzales, if Dylan’s up for it.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Thanks, I really appreciate that.’

  ‘Bet you wish you hadn’t wasted champagne on me now.’ Wilson nudged her leg with his. ‘If I could, I would. Any time. You know that.’

  Hope hadn’t known that and just three terse sentences from Wilson moved her far more than she thought possible. Enough that she was nudging him back. ‘I’m still glad we met up tonight,’ she said rashly. ‘It’s been … you’ve been … it’s been fun.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to end now,’ Wilson said. ‘We could have one more for the road and then …’

  He didn’t say what would happen after ‘and then’, but Hope had a pretty good idea and ‘and then’ wasn’t ever going to happen. Not when Jack was the only person she wanted to ‘and then’ with, and her parents had just chipped in £250 towards six sessions with a relationship counsellor. ‘I’m up for one more for the road but the other … I can’t. It’s not right, because even though technically Jack and I aren’t together right at this very moment, it would still be cheating on him.’

  She hated herself for mentioning Jack’s name because it would break the spell. But then Wilson’s hand was on the back of her neck again and this time it was deliberate because he leaned in to whisper in her ear, ‘Remember what I said about options? What about keeping yours open?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ Wilson said, and she closed her eyes as she felt his teeth lightly graze her earlobe. She squeezed her thighs even tighter together. ‘Shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak.’

  What Wilson was suggesting violated the whole spirit of starting over and having counselling and putting in the hard work to make their relationship stronger. But it sounded like a lot more fun than all of that. Except …

  ‘I still love Jack,’ Hope insisted. ‘Maybe I love him a little bit less than I used to, but I do still love him with all my heart. And don’t you think you deserve something more than being just a friend with benefits?’

  ‘Right now, I’m not in the mood for anything more than being a friend with benefits.’ Wilson picked up her hand and traced the heartline. ‘You’re so obsessed with doing the right thing. Doing the right thing never gets you anywhere in life.’

  ‘But it’s still the right thing to do,’ Hope said, then scrunched up her face in irritation when Wilson softly chuckled because she’d just proved his point. ‘I mean, you can’t just ride roughshod over other people’s lives because it suits you. If more people exercised a bit of self-control …’

  Deep, deep down she knew Wilson was right. Jack and Susie had done exactly what they wanted without caring about the consequences. It was the same with her mother – what Hope wanted was immaterial if it got in the way of what her mother wanted. Even Justine, who’d taught the Red Class last year and had done a pretty poor job of it, was currently teaching in Sydney and sending Hope emails ‘from Bondi Beach. Finished teaching the little shits and now I’m working on my tan.’

  ‘The meek don’t inherit the earth,’ Wilson said, his fingers now sliding under the cuff of Hope’s dress so the sudden caress against the underside of her forearm felt shocking and wonderful at the same time. ‘They inherit sweet FA.’

  His mouth was so close to her ear that technically he was kissing it, and Hope couldn’t believe the havoc Wilson could cause just from stroking a patch of skin that couldn’t measure more than two square centimetres at most. All she had to do was turn her head ever so slightly and they wouldn’t be able not to kiss. ‘I couldn’t have a one-night stand,’ she whispered. ‘I’m just not like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be a one-night stand,’ Wilson said, but even though his hand was still on her arm, he was the one who moved his head so he was no longer murmuring sweet words of temptation into her ear. ‘Could be for however many nights we want, but if you really want to do the right thing by a bloke who’s treated you appallingly, well, more fool you. You say that you still love him, but surely love can’t be that blind.’

  Hope shook Wilson’s hand off her arm. ‘We were having a really nice time, please don’t spoil it.’

  Wilson didn’t say anything but looked at Hope as if she was the main exhibit on a Guess My Weight stall at a summer fête, then he signalled the waiter to bring the bill.

  Of course, then they had to quibble over who was paying for what, but much sooner than she would have liked, Hope was wrapped up, not in Wilson’s arms, but in winter woollies and her tatty faux-fur coat, and standing shivering on the pavement.

  She felt as if she might cry. Surely doing the right thing shoul
dn’t make her feel so wretched, she thought, as Wilson stepped out on to the street and braced himself against the sharp wind that was whipping around them. And if she loved Jack … No! There was no if. She did love Jack, so why was she having feelings for Wilson that she had no business to be having, when he’d made it plain that all he wanted was a brief affair, and Hope wasn’t made for no-strings-attached lack of commitment?

  ‘Well, it was nice to see you again,’ Hope said bravely, though her bottom lip felt very unsteady. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, can you pass my details on to your assistant?’

  ‘Hope?’

  She ignored him in favour of folding her arms for added protection against the wind and staring pensively at her feet.

  Wilson adjusted his scarf and sighed in exasperation. ‘Forget for one moment that I’d like to have sex with you – let’s just push that to one side and focus on the fact that we’re mates, and I’m trying to save you from making a terrible mistake. In the same way, I’d try to stop any of my mates from rushing into a burning building or playing with a loaded gun.’

  ‘OK, for starters, getting back with Jack is nothing like playing with a loaded gun and secondly, I don’t need you, or anyone else, to save me. I can save myself.’

  ‘Can you, though?’ Wilson obviously didn’t seem to think so. ‘When I first knew you I didn’t like you, because I thought you were a bolshie cow with more volume than sense.’

  Hope was incapable of doing anything other than opening and shutting her mouth but nothing came out, except a tiny, ‘Oh, you …’

  ‘When we went to that all-dayer in Stoke Newington and I queued up with you to get fish and chips and they’d run out of tartare sauce, you shouted at the woman about false advertising until she agreed to give you a quid back and some extra ketchup.’

  ‘I did not shout at her. I merely pointed out that she shouldn’t be charging a tenner for a tiny piece of cod and soggy chips when she didn’t have any tartare sauce left, and that lemon wedge she tried to fob me off with was so dry, it was practically petrified and …’