Chapter Thirty-Two

      Cleo studied the top of Gray’s bent head; the harshness of the overhead strip lights threw a halo of paleness around his crown. He sat in quiet concentration, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth, click-click-clicking his pen absent-mindedly as he read through his student’s essay. He’d been doing this lately, bringing his marking along to breaks and lunch, a not-so-subtle but ever-so-polite barrier between them.

      For the millionth time in her life – and at least the hundredth time since she got back from Paris – Cleo reflected on how very, very much alcohol was not her friend. Oh, how she rued that message she’d sent him, that split second while she’d been spangled on champagne and frankly giddy from being at the Moulin Rouge, but most of all she rued the fact that she’d turned her phone off for the rest of the evening and missed the three attempted calls he’d made to her in response.

      A combination of hangover, embarrassment and dealing with the fall-out of the Bea / Cole big reveal had eaten up much of the next day, but – after bidding the rest of the (slightly subdued) hen party contingent goodbye at the Eurostar terminal – Cleo had sat on the tube back towards Acton, her phone heavy in her hands, a message to Gray resolutely undrafted. Copping out completely, dreaming of a chip butty and her blissful king-sized bed, Cleo had decided that a cheerful, face-to-face chat over coffee during Monday break time, where she could play down her slight Single White Female craziness, perhaps even distract Gray by telling him all the hen do gossip.

      As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Gray had appeared at their usual spot, armed with an over-done smile and a sheath of coursework. He’d gone through the motions all right, asking if Nora had enjoyed her spinsterhood send-off, making all the right noises as Cleo showed him some of the funniest snaps on her phone. He hadn’t mentioned Cleo’s particularly passive-aggressive beauty of a message, or how it could neatly be translated into a caterwauling WHY DON’T YOU FANCY MEEEE? And so Cleo didn’t bring it up.

      And here they were, three weeks later, still not talking about it, Gray still pretending to mark essays over his break (the end of term was approaching, he’d pointed out when she’d tentatively asked him what was up with the teachery diligence).

      And to think – she’d been so concerned about her stupid crush ruining a great friendship. Seems like it had always been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

      Cleo drained the lukewarm dregs of her coffee. Past Hallowe’en the staff room – along with everything inside it – retained absolutely no heat whatsoever. “Oh, man, I cannot wait for this term to be over!” she admitted, with feeling. With January and the mock exams looming just the other side of Christmas she’d found herself doing more marking, revision planning and tutoring than perhaps hours in the day strictly allowed.

      “Just got to get through the big party first,” Gray pointed out, looking up from his papers with a flash of his former smile. Was it really a year since they’d properly met, over a glass of too-strong Disaronno and cranberry and a queasy, protesting stomach too-full of questionable canapés? None of that this year, Cleo promised herself (reminder again: alcohol is not your friend). Going by her track record she’d probably hitch up her cocktail dress and rugby tackle him to the floor. She looked up and met Gray’s eye-contact; he was still smiling.

      In fact, maybe it would be better if she didn’t go to the Christmas party at all this year…

      The house still smelt and felt the same as Sarah let herself in the front door; she didn’t know why, but she realised that she’d been expecting some sort of discernible difference. She let out the breath that she’d been holding as she’d fumbled over-loudly with her keys at the lock – it was clear from the stillness of the air that her former home was indeed empty, as she’d hoped. It was 2pm on a Tuesday – Cole was sure to be at work – but she knew that for the first week or so after she’d moved out he’d taken sick leave and hung around the house, hoping to catch her. Obviously his bosses’ patience had run out.

      The pressure somewhat off her, Sarah lingered in the entrance hall, noting with a little satisfaction the furring of dust laying across the glass of the wall mirror, for all it was dim, the wintery mid-afternoon not allowing much light through the windows. She ran an experimental hand over the curl of the bannister – remembering idly that it was probably due its six-monthly oiling and varnishing. She supposed if she and Cole really did get divorced, then the house would have to