You Know I'm No Good

My phone buzzed for what seemed like the fiftieth time that morning, and with a groan I decided I probably couldn’t avoid it any longer. When I unlocked the screen, I saw that I had eight unread messages. One was from Nick, telling me that we needed a few things from the store and he wondered if I would pick them up. I replied quickly telling him that I would, of course. The next seven were from Ben, a messy jumble of blue conversation clouds that never really added up to a full sentence, but I gathered that he was wondering where I was, and when I could come over to his place. I hit the edit button, deleting the conversation before throwing my phone into a pile of clothes on the floor of Nick’s guest bedroom. I didn’t feel comfortable calling it my room yet, though it looked like a tornado had ripped through it and I doubt that anyone else would want to live in here anyway.

I hadn’t seen much of Nick since I had moved in, but that was to be expected. It had been announced just before I’d arrived that he would be the new host of the Breakfast Show on Radio 1, a show that I couldn’t remember not listening to, and he was set to have his first show in a week’s time. I didn’t mind, I guess. We ate dinner together around three times a week. After three years of being MIA, I didn’t really have the any room to complain about him working too much. I’d really never seem him so happy, either, which was all that mattered.

I stood from the bed and fished through the mess for a pair of dark jeans, yawning as I pulled them on. I slipped my feet into a pair of black boots and pulled a baggy gray sweater over my head. I decided not even bother with my hair and twisted the mess of brunette waves into a topknot before stomping lazily down the stairs. My purse was on the front table along with a post-it note covered in Nick’s messy scrawl. I scanned the list before shoving it in my bag and heading out the door.

It was already four in the afternoon so the streets weren’t exactly crawling with people. Primrose Hill was fairly young and posh, so it was mostly young mothers with strollers or dogs enjoying the sun, the little of it there was. I hurried down the street toward Tesco, thankful that it was only three blocks from the house. Nick didn’t much like running to the store, but I didn’t mind it. It was an excuse for me to get out of the house really, so I found myself making the short walk quite frequently.

I began walking the aisles slowly, deciding that I would make dinner for us tonight. As much as I wanted to make something more elaborate, it had to be something that I could walk home with. So, pasta it was. My basket was still empty as I perused the produce section, trying to decide between pesto and red sauce. The tomatoes looked a bit rubbish in my opinion, so I took off toward the basil.

“Camden?” a voice came from behind me. “Camden Grimshaw?”

I cocked my head upward slightly, cursing whatever God controlled running into people at Tesco, before turning on the heel of my boot to face the source of the voice.

“Abby,” I smiled, as warmly as I could manage.

“My god, I didn’t even recognize you at first,” she laughed lightly. “You look great.”

I thanked her with a slight nod, though I knew she was lying. Abigail James had never been my biggest fan. She once had me sent to the dean’s office at thirteen because she saw me smoking a cigarette around the corner from school. Everyone claimed she didn’t like me because her parents thought I was bad seed. I thought it was because I refused to follow her around like some mindless twat, which was the reason that my best friend Emma and I had been the absolute bane of her existence in secondary. We didn’t mind Abby, but we didn’t worship her either.

“Look who’s talking,” I told her, before my eyes traveled to the carriage beside her. “You’ve got… a baby.”

I hadn’t meant for it to sound so forced or lackluster, but I was just stating a fact. She had a baby. Quite a lot of people have babies. I guess just not all of them graduated sixth form with me.

“Yeah,” she said, trying to hide her smile, “I do. Madeline, she’s four months.”

I smiled at the baby, and then up at her, my eyes stopping briefly on the large ring that adorned her left hand.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I asked.

“David Hillingsley,” she smiled, wincing as a way of asking me if I remembered.

Of course I remembered. David was Emma’s twin brother, and coincidentally my first crush ever, starting at some point during primary and ending when he and friends started some dumb rumor about my small breasts. I guess that wasn’t really much of a rumor, though. I had thought David Hillingsley was the second coming of Christ for the majority of my adolescence, and now he had a child. I still considered myself a child. Perspective, I suppose.

Judging by the rock on her finger, they were doing quite well, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t run away from England only to have the Real Housewives of Manchester consume my thoughts.

“Well, let me be probably the last to say congratulations,” I smiled, chewing on my lower lip as silence blanketed the produce section.

As if on cue, Madeline began to cry, drawing stares from the other patrons.

“It was so good seeing you,” she smiled, smoothing a thin lock of blonde hair against the baby’s forehead. “We should grab coffee some time, catch up.”

I nodded in agreement, upholding what I was sure was an empty promise as a means of getting out of the conversation socially unblemished.

“I’ll be seeing you, Mrs. Hillingsley,” I smiled at her, waving at the baby before making my way to the pasta aisle.

Part of me was sort of glad I had run into Abigail. But the other part of me knew that I would probably just become some subject of discussion at brunch with ladies on Sunday. I brushed it off and resumed my shopping, scanning over the list Nick had written and tossing various items into my basket. I hurried through the check-out and made my way back to the flat, bags in hand.

The door swung open at six and I heard Nick before I saw him. He was shouting along with the song pouring through the speakers that decorated the corners of each room.

“We only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times,” he grabbed my hand and motioned for me to twirl beneath his arm.

I snatched the wooden spoon from the stove, holding it up to my mouth like a microphone. “You go back to her, and I go back to black,” I smiled, my shoulders swaying back and forth dramatically as we giggled at each other.

I swatted his finger as he tried to test the sauce and shooed him away from the stovetop. He glared at me and took a seat at the island counter.

“How was work?” I asked, shaking some salt into the palm of my hand before dropping it into the pot in front of me.

“Standard,” he shrugged. “I watched them edit the television advert for my new show, so that was exciting, I s’pose.”

“Uh, yeah, I s’pose,” I mocked him as I turned the heat down. “Diva.”

I could make fun of Nick all I wanted, but when it came down to it, he was the most humble guy I knew. It was a quality that I had always admired in him.

“Yeah?” he laughed. “What did you do today my little housewife?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to face him. “Oh, it was a very glamorous day,” I mused sarcastically as I drained the pasta. “You’ll never guess who I saw at Tesco.”

I glanced over at him as he raised his eyebrows, urging for me to continue.

“Abigail James,” I told him, as if it was the most interesting gossip in the world. He laughed.

“Oooh,” he leaned across the counter and propped his chin on his right palm. “What did you lot talk about?”

“Oh you know, the usual, manis, pedis, Will and Kate,” I flipped my hair emphatically. “Sadly, our conversation was caught short because Madeline started fussing.”

Nick pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it on the counter. “Who’s Madeline?” he scowled.

“Oh, you know,” I said slowly, plating the pasta and dousing it with sauce, “just the eight month old baby that she has with David Hillingsley.”

“No way,” he said, his mouth slightly ajar. “Eight-year-old you must have died right there in Tesco.”

I tossed my head back with a laugh before setting his plate in front of him and sat down.

“Did you have a cat fight?” he mused, twirling his spaghetti. “Did you rip out her awful weave right there in the pasta aisle?”

“Yeah, Nick,” I rolled my eyes. “I pulled out her extensions at the grocery.”

Nick smiled at me before shoving a mess of food into his mouth. “Atta girl,” he mumbled, pesto spilling down his face.

“You’re foul, Grimshaw, you know that, right?” I asked.

“You love me.”

“I have to.”

“Oh,” his eyes lit up as he glanced at his phone, “that reminds me. Since you love me and all, do you want to come out with me tonight? I have this sort of event thing for work, but really it’ll just be Radio 1 twats and an open bar. I know it’s short notice but I’ll be so much less bored if you’re there, please,” he whined. “Please, please?”

“You haven’t been bored in ten years, Nicholas,” I countered with a roll of my eyes.

He stuck out his bottom lip.

“Nick,” I warned, shaking my head and pushing the food around on my plate.

“I’m sorry,” he set a hand on my shoulder gingerly, “did you miss the part where I said ‘open bar’?”

I glanced over at him, trying to bite back a smile, “fine.”