Dear Thing by Julie Cohen Page B

self-medicate with caffeine and sugar. Yesterday’s hangover still hadn’t disappeared. Or maybe it was pure, naked fear that was making her head ache and her stomach lurch.
    On Saturday night, Ben had been too preoccupied with thinking about having a baby to realize the true meaning of Romily’s offer. But he’d had time now, to think it through. And now he was meeting her to talk about it. From today, their friendship would be over. Or worse, it would be stilted. Every time they were together, she’d be wondering if he was thinking,
She’s in love with me
. Ben was decent; he’d be concerned. He’d be dismayed. He’d feel sorry for her. She’dwatch him being cautious with his words, with his gestures, so as not to lead her on. All of their easy comradeship, the way they could take the piss out of each other, the way they didn’t have to talk but could talk if they wanted to … it would be gone. He would be being kind, rather than being her friend.
    She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
    Maybe it was best not to go. If it was over, it was over; why talk about it? They could make a clean break. Never talk again. It would hurt, but she could move on. It would be better than drawing out the torture for years.
    But she couldn’t do that to Posie.
    Romily gulped down the rest of her extra-strong, extra-sweet instant coffee. It had gone cold. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall, which told her she had twenty minutes to get across the centre of town to the George.
    ‘Damn it,’ she said, and went to find her coat.
    It was raining, an icy February rain that trickled down the back of her scarfless neck. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets and tried not to think about the conversation that was awaiting her.
    The thing is
, he would say,
I’m so flattered, Romily
.
    The thing is, I love Claire.
    The thing is, I’ve never thought of you like that.
    He would say it kindly. He might touch her hand.
    The George was a functional red-brick slab on the west side of town. It housed business travellers and conferences and was unlikely to attract anyone she or Ben knew. Romily looked for Ben’s car outside, but either he hadn’t turned up yet or he’d parked it somewhere out of sight. She took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving door to the lobby.
    Inside, the hotel was entirely anonymous, modern in a waythat was clean and inoffensive. There were a few people at the desk and sitting in the scattered armchairs drinking coffee or reading their mobile phones, but none of them took any notice of Romily as she crossed the polished floor towards the bar. It was, she realized, the perfect place for a secret meeting. No one cared what anyone else was doing; everyone was quiet and discreet. It was just the sort of hotel you’d choose if you were carrying on an affair.
    On Saturday night he’d reached across the table, taken her head in his hands, and kissed her. Romily could still feel Ben’s lips on hers, the hard pressure, the heat of his skin.
    No. Surely not?
    She wiped her palms on her jeans and went into the bar. Here, the windows had been slightly tinted and the lights were turned low, presumably to give lunchtime drinkers the illusion of being in a sophisticated night spot. Ben was at a table in the far corner. He jumped up when he saw her enter and rushed over to her.
    ‘Rom. Thanks so much for coming. I wasn’t sure you would be able to get away at such short notice, but I didn’t know if I could find another spare hour during the day.’
    ‘Oh well, you know. Those insects have been dead for a long time; half an hour isn’t going to make much difference.’
    He laughed, but his face was worried. ‘How are you?’ he asked her. ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘Yes, fine.’
    He touched her lightly on her shoulder to guide her to the table. ‘I’ve ordered you a coffee, but maybe you’d prefer a pint?’
    ‘Coffee is good.’
    He’d already drunk half of his and as he sat across from her he seemed