Wishful Thinking by Jemma Harvey

tiptoe into the room next door and press the buttons on his mobile, feeling sly and slimy and suspicious and vile, and there it is. The evidence.
    â€˜2nite ws gr8. Luv u. xR’.
    You stare at it, and stare at it. In the end you go back to bed, because what else is there to do, and you lie on your back, not touching him, not even with your hair, not sleeping, and your mind goes round in circles and your heart churns, and in the morning you act normal, in a robotic sort of way, and he seems normal, and when he’s gone there’s this awful snide temptation to put your head in the sand and pretend none of it has happened, and then maybe it will just go away.
    I called the locksmith from the office. After work I went back with Georgie and a couple of bottles of wine (Lin had to get back to the children), packed his stuff into boxes and carrier bags and dumped them in the street. By the time Nigel put in an appearance I was pissed and floating in the air three feet above my emotions. I yelled out of the window; he yelled back. Neighbours peered out to watch the show.
    â€˜You’re crazy,’ he bawled. ‘What’ve I done?’
    â€˜You’ve only been seeing someone else. You were with her when I was away. Don’t bother to deny it. You were seen.’
    Well, he must’ve been seen. By somebody.
    â€˜Look, I can explain. It doesn’t mean what you think. She’s a regular customer – she’s keen on me – I can’t help that.’
    â€˜You brought her here . To my flat.’ I was guessing, guessing wildly, shooting arrows in the air and hitting the bull’s eye every time. I wanted him to tell me it was all lies, but he didn’t. ‘She rang me,’ I improvised. ‘I know everything.’
    â€˜Oh God . . . Cookie, please. She’s confused. She makes things up. I had to bring her here – she was suicidal – where else could I take her?’
    â€˜Her place?’
    â€˜Don’t be silly. There’s her husband.’ Panic was making him careless. ‘I couldn’t turn away from her pain. I’m not that kind of person. You know I care for you—’
    â€˜You care for my flat! You care for having an easy life! So much for left-wing ideals. You’re nothing but a – a gigolo !’
    â€˜Bullshit. It’s those bitches at Ransome, isn’t it? They’ve done this. They’ve been stirring shit for me, egging you on—’
    Georgie swept towards the window, but I pushed her back and took a restorative slug of wine. ‘I don’t need egging. You’ve scrambled my life. Just get out. Get out !’
    â€˜Where am I to go?’ He sounded pathetic now. ‘You can’t do this. It isn’t civilised. Where can I sleep?’
    â€˜Park bench!’
    Eventually, he went. I might have weakened and let him in, but Georgie kept me strong. I knew she would: that was why I’d asked her to come. The neighbours, show over, retreated back into their holes. Later, Nigel returned with a taxi and collected his stuff. I watched him from behind the curtain, but although he looked up at my window he didn’t call out any more. By then, I’d put whisky on top of the wine and I felt as high as the stockmarket when it hits an all-time record, just before it’s due to crash. I felt bold and decisive and in charge of my life. (And alone.) Later, I was sick. Georgie stayed over and put me to bed. The next night, I knew, I would have to deal with the emptiness, and the constant urge to phone him, and the feeling that if I could just find the right knob (no pun intended) and twist it, normal service would be resumed and I could be comfortable again. That, or turn to meths.
    Nowadays we recognise the problem of addiction and do everything we can to help addicts kick their habit, whatever that may be. Alcoholics have AA and other support groups, junkies have methadone and support