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‘I’m hot and bothered after yet another day of wild-goose chases,’ he snaps. ‘And I’m going to cool off.’ And without further ado, he takes off his jeans and T-shirt and wades into the water in his navy blue boxers. Automatically, I check out his physique. Not bad at all. ‘Bugger, my glasses,’ he says, wading back and putting them on the grass verge. He ducks under the water for a minute, then emerges, gasping with pleasure. ‘God, that’s good!’
Ben and Poppy, who have been involved in a game of frenetic splashing, greet him enthusiastically, Damian less so.
‘Well, I think I’ve done my cooling off,’ drawls Jilly. ‘And I’m gasping for a ciggie. See you back at the table, darlings.’ And she rises again from the waves, this time giving us an eyeful of her pertish buttocks, and strides languidly, brazenly, back to dry off in the sun.
Ben swims up behind me and grabs me round the waist, kissing the back of my neck. I think I might pass out from pleasure. Mother Duck swims right past us, followed by five little ducklings, which are beyond the fluffy yellow stage but pretty damn sweet nonetheless.
‘Oh my God, how adorable,’ I whisper. The scene is so idyllic that we all just watch them in silence for a minute or two, then burst into spontaneous applause and laughter.
‘Jesus, anyone would think we were American,’ says Poppy. ‘Well, for me that moment cannot be bettered, so I’m buggering back to the feast.’
As usual, Poppy has put into words what everybody else was thinking.
By the time it’s dark it’s also starting to get chilly. I have glamorously put one of Max’s old fleeces on over my bikini but still I give a little involuntary shiver.
‘Darling, you’re freezing,’ says Mum. ‘Why don’t we all go inside? I’ve got some lovely cheeses if anyone’s still hungry.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ grins Bernie, patting his paunch. ‘Hostess with the Mostest, that’s what you are, Princess.’
We troop into the sitting room, which Mum has done up like – you guessed it – a Moroccan souk. Ethnic throws and cushions in myriad shades of orange, red and pink cover up the old holey sofas and armchairs, kilims warm up the flagstoned floor and flea-market lanterns and candles give off a flattering soft light.
‘Oooh, I’d forgotten about your piano,’ Poppy says to Mum, who is lighting a joss stick. ‘Can I have a go, please?’ Poppy got up to Grade 8 at school and still plays beautifully. Well, she would, wouldn’t she?
‘Of course darling,’ says Mum. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Actually, I play the piano too,’ says Andy mildly. ‘Perhaps I could have a go once you’ve finished, Poppy?’
He and Alison surprised us this afternoon by being a lot more fun than usual, after a couple of drinks had loosened Alison up. Bernie has been bringing her out of her uptight shell, asking her about boring legal stuff, and she’s blossomed under the attention, waxing lyrical about the complexities of various landmark cases, all of which went right over my head.
‘Very bright young lady, that,’ I overheard Bernie saying to Mum, who looked as if she was still smarting from Alison’s earlier froideur. Then her good hostess gene kicked in and she rallied.
‘There’s plenty of room here if you two want to stay the night, Alison. It’s a long drive back and you’ve both been drinking.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Andy. ‘I was thinking we’d have to find a B and B.’ I remembered what Max told me about his parents’ death. Of course, there’s no way he’d drink and drive.
‘Oh no, what a ridiculous waste of boodle,’ said Mum. ‘You two can have the spare room and Jilly will be fine on the sofa. No Jilly, I’ve set up a camp bed for Max. Behave.’
Now we settle down comfortably as Poppy embarks on the first of several of Chopin’s études. She follows these with some spirited Scott Joplin ragtime, to which Mum, Jilly and I perform an impromptu Charleston. Ben, who has been riffling through the sheet music on top of the upright rosewood piano, suddenly exclaims, ‘The Noël Coward songbook! Can we? I played Elyot in Private Lives at RADA.’
‘Talking of Noël Coward,’ I say to Damian, who is watching Poppy proudly, ‘what the fuck—’
‘—does Simon Snell think he’s up to with the silk robe?’ Damian finishes my sentence, laughing. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, babe.’
Then Ben embarks on ‘A Room with a View’, and we all watch, entranced. He is absolutely brilliant, capturing perfectly the clipped, patrician tones of the maestro himself. He runs through ‘I’ll See You Again’, ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’ and ‘Poor Little Rich Girl’, before declaring himself, still in character, ‘utterly pooped’.
‘Why don’t you take over, Andy?’ says Poppy. ‘I’m sure I’ve delighted you all enough.’
So Andy starts to play. Searing, jazzed-up rock ’n’ roll and boogie-woogie fill the air as his fingers race across the keyboard. With Poppy it’s always about the performance – she was laughing and joking with us, hamming it up as she trotted out our old favourites. Andy, by contrast, seems completely lost in the music.
‘Blimey, you’re a talented bunch,’ says Bernie. ‘I can’t listen to this without dancing. May I have the pleasure, Princess?’ And he and Mum take to the floor in a remarkably proficient jive. Soon we have all joined in, even Alison, wearing that unnatural grimace that passes for a smile, but that’s probably only as Ben has asked her to dance – Jilly has annoyingly claimed me as her partner. Just as Andy has come to a break, and the rest of us are out of breath and laughing, an unmistakeable sound jars through the air. It’s Ben’s ringtone.
‘I’ll take this outside,’ he says, as icy fear grips my heart. In the last few days I have come to view Ben’s phone with the utmost apprehension. The next few minutes are hell as I imagine all kinds of conversations with all kinds of people, all of them female. I light a fag, trying to appear nonchalant.
Ben races back in and swings me up in the air, twirling me round and round. ‘I’ve done it, my darling, I’ve done it! I’ve got the part! I’ve beaten five thousand actors to the lead in People Like Us, Channel 4’s most eagerly anticipated sitcom since This Life. Fame and fortune, here I come!’ As he punches the air, and everybody crowds around, congratulating him, I am ashamed of my reaction. I should be ecstatic he’s got his big break, I know I should. But I can’t help feeling very, very scared of what the future may now hold.
Chapter 11
Over the next few weeks, my fears seem largely unfounded. Ben’s due to start filming soon, so he spends most of the day holed up in my flat, learning his lines, ready for me to test him in the evening when I get in from work. The rest of his time is spent working out at the Third Space gym in Soho. It seems rather a lot of his body will be on show in People Like Us, and I try not to dwell on the sex scenes he’ll doubtless have to shoot. The weather continues to be glorious – it’s the best summer we’ve had for years – so we hang out on my balcony, ordering in sushi, as we don’t want to be cooped up in the kitchen, which gets unbearably hot. Sometimes I meet him in Hyde Park or Primrose Hill, with a picnic he’s chosen from a local deli. Sometimes friends join us; sometimes it’s just the two of us, going over his lines and snogging. There’s a lot of snogging. It’s a blissful, relaxed time, and I’m starting to feel like part of a real couple. Perhaps, just perhaps, I think with cautious optimism, we can make it work after all.
I’m still temping, but can just about tolerate it in the knowledge that I’ll be able to stop just as soon as Ben starts being paid for the sitcom. He’s promised me that. Plump Alison’s card burns a hole in my handbag. I still haven’t got around to showing her my work. All my spare time is taken up with Ben, but as soon as I can stop the bloody desktop publishing, I’ll call her, I assure myself.
The only real fly in the ointment is Poppy, who is being elusive in the extreme. Horribly aware that I’ve been neglecting her of late, I’m constantly suggesting meeting up, but there always seems to be some glamorous work do for her to attend. To be fair, she’s also travelling a lot with the new job and spending most weekends with her parents, trying to take some of the pressure off her mother. When I think of summers past, of the picnics and barbecues and beer gardens, the endless laughs and drinks we’ve shared, I feel terribly sad. We used to meet every Wednesday without fail, rain or shine, and generally most weekends and probably another week-night too. Obviously I understand the time she has to spend with her parents, and have offered to accompany her on her trips home, but she always says no, she has Damian for that. She is hugely protective over Ken and, I think, wants me to remember him as he used to be.
On the odd night we do meet, she seems completely wired, and I’m convinced it’s coke keeping her going from showbiz party to glamorous job to sick father and back again. One evening Ben and I decide to head east and see Max and the crowd at Divine Comedy. The Stadium boys are there – Damian, Mark and Simon Snell, who only wears his silk dressing gown in the office, I have subsequently learned. Today he appears to be channelling a South Kensington-dwelling French child, immaculate in navy blue Bermuda shorts and a Lacoste navy and white gingham shirt. The effect is ever so slightly disturbing on a fully grown man.
‘Hello boys, what a nice surprise,’ I say, perching on one of the Victorian love seats. ‘Poppy’s not with you, is she, Damian?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ says Damian morosely. ‘Hardly ever see my missus any more.’
‘Probably shagging someone at work,’ says Mark in his usual sensitive manner. Damian rounds on him.
‘Don’t you dare fucking say that, you prick.’ Then he laughs slightly self-consciously and adjusts his shades, embarrassed at losing his cool. ‘Nah, she’s just doing really well with her job, which is great. Who says we have to be joined at the hip anyway?’
‘How’s her dad?’ I ask.
‘Worse than ever. He went AWOL the other night. Somehow managed to get out of the house and was found wandering round the village in his pyjamas. He has no concept of day and night any more, just looks at you blankly if you point out that it’s dark outside. Diana was out of her mind with worry.’
‘Oh Jesus, I can imagine. Poor Pops.’
‘Yeah, it’s hitting her hard.’
‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘There’s nothing anyone can do. That’s the tragedy of it.’
Damian sounds weary and for the first time I realize the strain he must be under too.
We hang out in the sunshine, chatting. I’ll give them one thing, these Stadium boys, they can be bloody good company. And, much though I’m missing Poppy, it is nice to be the only girl for once.
‘Those pictures of Heidi Klum made me feel sick,’ says Mark, of the supermodel who posed for the magazine shortly after giving birth. ‘She looked like a middle-aged, suburban housewife trying to act sexy.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ laughs Simon. ‘The woman had just had a baby’, just as I am marvelling at the absurdly high expectations of female beauty that working in such an environment bestows.
At that moment there is a commotion as a large crowd of fashion freaks and transvestites makes its way through the garden to the front door.
‘Poppy,’ I cry, spotting her at their centre. She is looking seriously sexy (if a little OTT) in a black peaked leather cap, Agent Provocateur black corset, skintight American Apparel PVC leggings, fingerless lace gloves and five-inch platform ankle boots by Christian Louboutin. She looks over at me for a moment before recognition crosses her face.
‘Belles!’ she cries, tottering over in her boots and flinging her arms around me.
‘It’s great to see you,’ I say. ‘It’s been ages. In fact, I think the last time was when we all went to Mum’s for the weekend.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ She doesn’t quite meet my eye. ‘There’s been so much on with work. Tonight we’re promoting a new series on Fashion TV. Damian,’ she says, suddenly noticing him, startled. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming here tonight.’
‘You were still asleep when I left for work this morning. And knowing how we like to keep each other updated with romantic little texts all day, I didn’t think I needed to.’ Uh-oh.
‘Hi Pops. Loving the get-up,’ says Ben.
‘Pure trash, isn’t it?’ she grins, suddenly sounding more like her old self. ‘Hi Mark, hi Simon. Listen guys, I’ve really got to go and schmooze, but I’ll give you a ring, Belles, and we’ll make a proper date, yeah?’ She gives me a brief hug and kisses Damian. ‘Bye babes, see you at home later.’
And she buggers off back to her fashion freaks and transvestites.
A few weeks later, I am at a loose end. It’s Saturday and Ben has flown to New York to be interviewed by Vanity Fair for a piece on new Brit talent. His profile really has shot up since he landed the part in People Like Us. I was meant to be spending the weekend at Mum’s but Bernie has swept her off on a surprise romantic getaway. Damian’s gone on a stag weekend to some Eastern European city where the girls are impossibly beautiful and the beers are impossibly cheap. Poppy, as a result, has taken herself off to Babington House for a weekend of ‘pampering and general detox. Christ do I need it,’ she told me on the phone a few days ago. In the old days she’d have asked me to join her, I think sadly.
Fumbling in my bag for my cigarettes, I come across Plump Alison’s business card. Clutching at straws – it’s Saturday, she’s probably got plans, but you never know – I dial the number on the card.
‘Hello?’
‘Alison, hi. It’s Bella, uh, from Ibiza, you know? Remember we met at Divine Comedy a month or so ago?’
‘Bella, how are you?’ Her voice is warm and friendly.
‘I’m fine thanks, never been better in fact. Um, are you still interested in seeing my paintings?’ I ask directly, hating having to sell myself but not knowing how to beat about the bush.
‘Yes, of course. When were you thinking?’
‘Um … today? Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice and you’re probably really busy, it’s a stupid idea …’ I tail off.
‘No, no, I’d love to see you. Why don’t you bring your portfolio to the gallery and then we can go and get some lunch?’
‘That sounds great. What time?’
‘Around two? The address is on the card, but I can give you directions if you like.’
‘No that’s OK, I’ll find it in the A–Z,’ I say. ‘Really looking forward to it.’ And I am.
I took the Hammersmith & City line from Ladbroke Grove to Aldgate East, so am wandering down Brick Lane. I always get lost around here, and find myself meandering through eighteenth-century Huguenot weavers’ terraces, their perfect proportions such an incongruous juxtaposition to the hideousness of Commercial Road, with its traffic and trade clothes shops that call themselves ‘fashion’. There’s a great buzz to the area, with its eclectic boutiques, cool bars and curry smells – as well as Spitalfields, of course. But a lot of it’s just ugly. Maybe I’m not cool enough to get it.
I walk for bloody ages, convinced I’m lost, around streets that have lovely names but horrid buildings – lots and lots of soulless concrete monstrosities, as far as I can see. Just call me Prince Charles. I am walking along Fashion Street when I ask an evident local (she is wearing neon green leggings and leopardskin) where Alison’s gallery is. I show her the card.
‘Just round the corner, babe.’
I find myself in yet another back street, with big nineteenth-century industrial buildings, old factories and the like that have been revamped. An awful lot easier on the eye than the last, modern lot. The biggest is very impressive. It’s Alison’s gallery.
I go in. Whitewashed (of course), its front windows span two floors, making it feel beautifully spacious. The top storey is suspended from steel girders, so both floors benefit from the wonderful light streaming through the skylight that is positioned directly over the spiral staircase that connects them. Alison is finishing some business with a Chinese man in bondage trousers and Jackie O shades, so I take a look around.
Somebody has had the inspired idea of making huge simulacra of the characters from The Magic Roundabout entirely out of dyed cotton wool, which I suppose is quite fun, though I’m not convinced my life is enriched by knowledge of their existence. Several pinball machines, depicting scenes of graphic sexual violence via Manga cartoons, are clearly making a very serious point indeed. There are some asymmetrical sculptures well within the grasp of anyone who’s done A level Art. But they’ve sold for around sixty grand, as far as I can make out by the red stickers. So far, so predictably preposterous.
I turn around and see a wall covered with some of the most brilliant abstract paintings I’ve seen for a long time. As I get closer, I recognize the name of a notoriously obnoxious, but incredibly successful New Yorker.
‘Bella, how lovely to see you,’ says Alison, kissing me on both cheeks. She looks cool and unruffled in rolled-up jeans, sequined flip-flops and a flattering wrapover tunic top, geometrically patterned in shades of blue. ‘What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Or there’s a rather nice bottle of Sancerre in the fridge, if you prefer …’
‘What are you going to have?’ I ask, not wanting to look like a lush in front of her, until I realize that after Ibiza she’s unlikely to be under any illusions.
‘Well, I’ve had quite a successful morning, so I think I deserve a glass of wine. Let’s live dangerously!’
‘Good idea,’ I smile.
We settle down onto a white suede cuboid sofa that must have cost a fortune. I am starting to feel extremely embarrassed at my presumption in coming here. Out of my depth doesn’t come close.
‘So …?’ she asks, smiling at me. ‘Aren’t you going to show me your portfolio?’
‘Actually,’ I cringe, ‘I really don’t think I want to show you after all. I mean, look at this place! Sorry, it was ridiculous of me to think that you’d be interested.’
‘Well, we won’t know until I’ve had a look, will we?’ she says reasonably. Then, as I hold on to the book stubbornly, she laughs. ‘I’m not going to bite. It’s me, Fat Alison from Ibiza.’ She takes advantage of my shocked horror to grab my book. ‘You should see your face,’ she laughs. ‘You were calling Alison Price Skinny Alison the other night, so it stands to reason I must be Fat Alison.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘I am such a git.’ Should I tell her she’s Plump, not Fat, or will that just dig me deeper into the hole?
‘Of course you’re not fat,’ I say desperately. ‘But you must admit she IS very skinny, and it was just a way of differentiating you: Skinny Alison and – er – Alison.’
‘Whatever,’ she says, and I wish the ground could swallow me up. ‘Let’s have a look at these paintings.’
I sit squirming on the soft suede as she goes through my book painfully slowly. Just say something, for fuck’s sake. Eventually she looks up and smiles at me.
‘I like it,’ she says, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself at her jewelled feet and shower them with kisses. ‘OK, some of it’s a bit raw, but there’s definite talent there, and it’s great to see such joyous use of colour. I love these ones – different interpretations of the same view, throughout the year.’ She’s talking about the view from my balcony. I laugh slightly wildly, unable to believe what I’m hearing.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Really, really, really?’
‘Really, really, really!’ she laughs back. ‘And I think if you worked on them, and painted a few more, there might even be scope for an exhibition here. In fact they’d look rather good over there, don’t you think?’ She points to the first wall you see as you enter the gallery, which is the one exhibiting the famous, obnoxious New Yorker’s work.
I take a huge gulp of my wine, my face breaking out in the most enormous grin. ‘In that case, lunch is on me.’
The late afternoon sun beats hot on my shoulders as I amble slowly in the direction of Hoxton. I am so excited about the possibility of something actually happening with my art that I can’t really take it in properly. This, this thing, this dream I’ve had ever since I was a little girl, but which has never really happened, suddenly looks within my grasp. I’ve tried calling Ben, Poppy, my mother, my father and Max, and none of them are answering their bloody phones. Typical.
Lunch was great, if expensive. Perhaps it was foolhardy of me to offer to pay, but soon I’ll be earning proper money, if the prices in Alison’s gallery are anything to go by. Alison is a member of Shoreditch House, so we sat on the roof terrace by the pool, eating pizzas from the wood-fired oven (which didn’t break the bank) and drinking Chablis (which did, but I could hardly order the cheapest plonk on the menu, as I normally would).
Alison is worlds away from the drip I took her for in Ibiza; she, in turn, admitted to having been a bit scared of me and Pops, which made me feel horrible. I mean, I’m glad to have finally been accepted as part of the cool gang, but scaring people was never part of the plan. I remember the bitchy girls at school and all my terrifying peers at Goldsmiths and cannot really believe that this is how I might be perceived these days, like one of the people I used to detest. Maybe I’ve gone a bit too far in the trying-to-be-trendy game. I still feel just as insecure inside.
Now I have decided to go to Poppy’s flat to pick up the canvases and paints I left there just before we went to Glastonbury. I still have her spare key, even though I haven’t once taken advantage of her offer to use the spare room as a studio. Great way to repay a friend’s kindness, Bella. But I needn’t worry about that any more, I think, cheering up instantly. Alison likes the view from my window!
Life really is looking up, I think, as I turn the corner into Hoxton Square, my mind reeling with images of me and Ben, the glamorous artist with her devastatingly handsome actor boyfriend. Oh, I can’t wait to tell him! I’ve missed him more than I thought possible in the last twenty-four hours. Still, it’ll be worth it for the look on his face as I tell him my news. I give a little skip.
Hoxton Square is a riot of multicoloured skinny jeans, cruelly exposing flat arses and skinny legs (the boys), and a variety of root-vegetable-shaped legs, from carrots to parsnips to one unfortunate turnip (the girls). There is little extraneous fat on either gender of course (turnip notwithstanding), but even so: of all the ubiquitous trends over the last ten years or so, the skinny jean has to be the least flattering. I stroll across the grass, happily taking in the large groups playing Frisbee and football, swigging from bottles of Magners and cans of Stella, probably bought from one of the many shops around the periphery of the square announcing CHEAP BOOZE in enormous letters.
I love the ability of Londoners to turn any sunny day into an excuse for a proper piss-up. It’s been a boozy old summer so far. As I emerge from the grassy interior, I see a just-married couple outside the Church of St Monica, on the corner of the square. The bride is radiant in a net-petticoated scarlet Fifties prom dress, with an emerald green veiled pillbox hat and matching emerald platforms. Her make-up is proper Fifties starlet, all porcelain complexion and matte red lipstick. The groom sports an emerald green teddy boy suit and the guests applaud lustily as he takes his new wife in a classic Hollywood clinch. How Hoxton, yet how sweet, I think soppily.
I let myself into Poppy and Damian’s flat and look around with amusement. From the exposed pipes and brickwork interior walls to the lack of extraneous decoration and colour, it couldn’t be more of a contrast to mine. It’s a great place for a party though, I think, remembering Poppy’s thirtieth birthday, which went on for three days. Most of the flat is open plan, with the main bedroom housed in a state-of-the-art glass igloo-type thing in the corner of the living space. The spare bedroom is the exception. I make my way down the corridor towards it. A sudden sound stops me in my tracks. Is there someone in the flat?
Don’t be silly, Bella, everyone’s away. It’s probably just the traffic outside.
So I open the spare-room door, and the sight that confronts me will stay with me for the rest of my life. With her back to me, Poppy is straddling Ben, her perfect, slender torso moving backwards and forwards on top of him, her streaky blonde hair swishing against her lovely brown back. Ben, his eyes shut in ecstasy, is groaning and thrusting as he holds her firmly by the hips. They are both so beautiful and so clearly into each other that they resemble a Danish erotic art-house movie. Or something like that. My canvases, mocking me, are stacked up neatly in one corner with my easel and paints.
I must have made some kind of noise, as Ben suddenly opens his eyes.
‘Shit!’
Poppy turns to look at me over her shoulder and a look of utmost horror crosses her flushed face.
‘Bella!’
I am frozen to the spot for what seems like minutes, drinking in the scene with masochistic attention to detail, before turning on my heel and running as fast as I possibly can down the corridor and out of the flat. I can hear Poppy running after me, but even she can’t follow me outside with no clothes on.
Once I am outside, the tears start streaming down my face and I am gulping, coughing, sobbing so hard I can hardly breathe. The pain, betrayal and humiliation are so great I have absolutely no idea what to do. I let out an awful scream, much to the amusement of some cunting twenty-somethings (thanks for the adjective, Mark) sitting outside Zigfrid, then continue to run, head down, blindly, through the square, not caring who I bump into or send flying; in fact, wanting to cause as much fucking damage as I possibly can. Then …
‘Whoa whoa, stop that, babe, stop it.’ A pair of well-manicured, freckly hands has grabbed me by the shoulders. Their owner lifts my chin up to face him. I don’t know which of us is more surprised.
‘Bella,’ says Simon Snell, taking in my tear-stained face and lunatic lack of control. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’
I start sobbing even more heavily at this, and he leads me back to Zigfrid, where he orders two triple brandies. ‘Just fuck off,’ he says menacingly to the cunting twenty-somethings who laughed at me. They oblige.
Somehow I manage to tell him what has just happened.
‘Jesus,’ he says, giving me a huge hug and stroking my hair, which starts me off again. ‘Sssh, sssh … Here, do you smoke?’ He gets out a silver cigarette case and lights me a Gauloise. Through my tears I register that he is dressed to the nines in a beautifully cut cream linen suit, navy V-necked T-shirt and Panama hat with a navy and white striped band around it. He is carrying a silver-topped cane.
‘You look smart,’ I quiver. ‘Am I keeping you from some big do?’
‘Not at all. Just popped out to get a paper. Some of us,’ he sniffs, looking round the square at the be-jeaned masses, ‘like to uphold certain sartorial standards.’ I don’t reply, lost in my own misery once more, so Simon continues,
‘I must say I’m surprised at Poppy. Ben’s too good-looking to trust further than you can throw him, but I did think better of Damian’s bird.’
‘Christ!’ I look up in horror. ‘Damian!’
‘Yes. Christ, Damian, indeed. But for the moment let’s worry about you. Do you want me to take you home? I’ll stay with you if you want.’
Simon turns out to be an absolute star. He pays the bill, hails a cab, stops at one of the CHEAP BOOZE places for a bottle of brandy, and takes me home. Once I’m inside, the sight of Ben’s stuff sets me off sobbing again.
