No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [5]
“Penn.” It was Adam.
Oh, God, no – go away. “What do you want?” she asked, pissed off that he’d caught her off guard.
“You,” he said, and she sensed his sheepish grin. She wanted to punch his face in.
“Is that what you told your wife?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm and just a hint of bitterness.
“Don’t.” He sighed, and she wanted to cry.
She remained silent. There was nothing left to say. He’d said it all the night before. He had to end it. He could never leave his wife. And, in fact, she had known this. Although she loved him – and she truly did – he wasn’t hers. He had three kids and ran his father-in-law’s business. He belonged to his wife. She’d earned him – at least, that was how he’d put it when he’d broken off their affair for the last time. It didn’t matter that Adam was her first love or that Penny was his passion. It didn’t matter that they had loved one another for more than half their lives. It didn’t matter that he had married his wife on the rebound. It didn’t matter that he didn’t love the woman. It didn’t even matter that they had turned into some soap-opera cliché. He was married to someone else and that meant Penny was leftovers and destined to remain on the periphery in the shadow of another woman’s marriage. But no more. She was well and truly sick of it.
“You were right to end it. I don’t want to be alone any more, Adam,” she said, tears tumbling again, much to her chagrin.
“I don’t want that for you either. I… I…” Clearly he didn’t know what to say – there was nothing to say.
She could hear him breaking down and now she wanted to hug him but she couldn’t. She was determined to be strong. “I have to go,” she said.
“Don’t,” he begged.
She hung up and sank to the floor, crying for the fifth time that day. She was going to cancel the stupid DVD evening, but then she became terrified that Adam would turn up at her door, and if he did, she would most certainly let him in, and once he was inside she wouldn’t be able to say no. But first she’d have a drink, just to settle her nerves.
Afternoon had passed into late evening and then to night. The town was silent, with few venturing out. Penny drove past the pubs, restaurants and shops, all brightly painted and featuring window-boxes, whose colourful contents absorbed the falling water thirstily. She had stopped crying, instead allowing the rain that coursed down the windscreen to do it for her. Sinéad O’Connor’s rendition of “Nothing Compares To You” had been playing on the radio and she’d broken a fingernail in her hasty attempt to change the station. Still, everything was fine now. She would go to Mary’s and they’d watch a DVD and she’d talk rubbish and forget about the sad, sorry, pathetic mess that was her world. Although she had often worried that her friend had given up on love, it was days like these that made her wonder if Mary was right. She wouldn’t admit it, though, not yet – she might be heartbroken but she still had hope.
At the window Mr Monkels stood up and barked hello to Mossy Leary from number three who had stopped to help Penny – she was battling to open her umbrella although she had to walk just ten paces from her car to the door. Mossy was in his late thirties with long dark hair in a pony-tail. He was skinnier than Kate Moss and had saucer eyes that Penny often joked made him look like a cartoon character. He was a part-time fisherman, part-time house-painter, part-time sculptor and full-time stoner.
Mary opened the door and waved at him. He gave her the thumbs-up, then headed off towards town on a quest for a few free pints. She smiled at her friend, who was cursing the umbrella and attempting to shield her head with a hand.
Mary had woken to Penny’s knock. Her watch revealed that hours had passed since her friend had agreed to come over. “I thought you were on your way?”
“I’m here, am I not?” Penny asked, with a playful grin.
“You live ten minutes not six hours away.”
“Sorry.” Penny pushed past her. “I got held up.” She didn’t elaborate.
Mary poured