Punch-Drunk Love. Pernille Hughes

she couldn’t bear to venture deeper into it. Opening it all up, peering at what it had been, examining what it had done to her, would twist the knife in an already debilitating wound.

      She waited to see if he’d offer more.

      He did.

      ‘Ron, mate,’ he started, genuinely as if he’d known Ron forever, ‘this was the first and last girl to break my heart.’ He didn’t say it with any sense of wistful nostalgia; in fact, it felt as if Mike bore a grudge.

      He had a bloody nerve! He had a bloody nerve even showing up here in his fancy suit with his fancy girlfriend and coming up to her like this. Something shifted in her, something akin to anger that overrode the hurt.

      ‘Um, want me to leave you to it? Catch up, like?’ Ron was torn; he was sat with a boxing legend, but it was all feeling a bit … squirmy.

      ‘Stay put, Ron. I’m leaving after this drink,’ she said pointedly, refusing to be intimidated by a man who had no right to try to make her feel bad about the past. He was the one doing the heart-breaking, not her. Tiff tilted her chin at him. ‘It’s been a long week and I’ve got a killer headache.’ This was a whopping lie. She had packing to do, but nobody needed to know that.

      ‘You look different, Tiff,’ Mike said, ignoring her headache.

      ‘It’s been ten years, Mikey,’ she snapped, conscious that after the last week, she did not look her best. Sod’s law they’d meet when she was looking rough. ‘You’re hardly the fresh-faced teen.’

      ‘You should see the other guy, Angel,’ he countered. Angel. No-one had called her that in years. His tone was curt, and whereas ‘Angel’ had once made her feel special, it now sounded vaguely like a put-down. ‘And don’t let the bruises fool you. Every bruise I ever got brought experience, a lesson to protect myself better next time.’ Tiff knew he was making a point, but she wasn’t having any of it. He had let her down. She held his gaze, trying not to rise to the bait, but the simmering fury kept building.

      ‘I didn’t recognise you at the church. Maybe it was the blinding ego.’ He was different. He wasn’t that lanky lad anymore, whose body was growing in spurts his self-image couldn’t keep up with. He’d obviously got the muscles from the boxing, but they now balanced his limbs in a way they hadn’t when they were teens. They weren’t the arms she’d stroked and clearly not the chicken’s legs she’d once entwined with her own. She flushed at the thought, then looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the bloodrush.

      ‘Looking a smidge red there, Tiff. Maybe you aren’t used to seeing me with another woman,’ he said, ignoring her swipe. ‘I only had eyes for you back then.’

      Well, she definitely wasn’t rising to that. She didn’t give a stuff who he was with. That said, she couldn’t help but think about what his eyes must see now. Last he saw her, she was sixteen, confident – cocky even – the daughter of the local bank manager. Physically she still looked similar. She’d gained some weight, but who didn’t do that when they settled down with someone? That was happiness, right? And her hair could probably do with sorting, but Tiff had learned a long time ago to avoid hairdressers and the insatiable gossiping. But this was a funeral, so she was entitled to look weary and wan, if not slightly dishevelled. He could put it down to grief, rather than her life being a total shitstorm.

      Not that she cared what he thought either. Why would she care about his opinion? They’d known each other a long time ago, she reminded herself, for an intense but short time, and in the end, they’d crashed and burned. So why should it bother her, when she was deeply in the throes of losing Gavin, what Mikey bloody Fellner saw when he looked at her? After today she doubted they’d meet again, so, pulling herself up in her seat, Tiff decided she’d look him straight in the eye and not be cowed.

      ‘I’m not used to seeing you at all, Mike. It’s been ten years since you went. Ten years. And you’re long forgotten.’

      He made a show of looking around the room, where right on cue all the boxers who’d greeted him earlier looked over. Bastards.

      ‘Clearly not that forgotten.’

      ‘Oh, get a grip, Mike.’ She was finding it hard resisting the urge to punch him in the face. ‘They don’t remember you; they didn’t know you. They’re just celebrity gogglers. World champion or performing seal, same/same to them.’

      That garnered her another arched eyebrow. She’d once spent an hour trying to do the eyebrow thing, to no avail. She’d looked like she was experiencing some form of facial seizure. But his reaction now brought her back to the task in hand. She knocked back the remainder of her drink and pulled on her coat.

      ‘Been keeping an eye on my career, have you?’ he asked, with a particularly smug smile. He was patently enjoying winding her up. Infuriating tosser.

      ‘Hardly,’ she sneered. ‘Ron just insisted on updating me.’ Ron looked at her, appalled. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, and he definitely didn’t want to be complicit in disrespecting a legend.

      ‘Really?’ Mike drawled. Not just a git but an arrogant git.

      ‘Really,’ she shot back. ‘Not remotely interested; not in sport, not in you.’ She stood up, almost shaking from keeping the rage in. ‘And the nickname? Seriously? My best friend’s got a vibrator called “The Assassin”.’ She grabbed her bag and the packet of scampi fries before he could respond. ‘Thanks for dropping by. Blackie would have been touched you bothered.’ See? She could be composed and calm-ish – in spite of the way he’d behaved back then. She also managed ‘brave’ and ‘stoic’ as she stifled an agonised yelp having hit her shin leaving the table. Dammit.

      She left, trying not to hobble, aware of his eyes drilling into her back and that he hadn’t said goodbye.

      Well, she should be used to that.

       Chapter 4

      Packing was a bitter affair. Tiff’s playlist of Adele’s most heart-wrenching songs was enhanced by a litany of swearwords and pieces of mind she’d like to have sent Mike Fellner’s smug way. His appearing had been a gobsmacking blow, the cherry on this crappy cake of a week. If it hadn’t been happening to her she would’ve applauded the universe on its ingenuity.

      Pulling the zip across the last bag gave Tiff a feeling of finality that punched her in the solar plexus and slapped her around the chops for good measure. This was really it. The End. The realisation came close to demolishing her. Sitting on the edge of her bed with her face in her hands was the only thing she could do. She’d invested everything in this relationship, this flat, this life with Gavin and it was evaporating in front of her. All she saw before her now was a huge gaping void, which she hadn’t the first clue how to navigate.

      The trill of her phone didn’t raise her spirits; she didn’t believe this week was capable of good news. Morosely surveying the flat, she picked up. She hadn’t taken the piss in selecting what was hers, though she’d stifled numerous sobs as her fingers brushed over his things.

      ‘Babes.’

      ‘Shelbs.’

      ‘Small change of plan,’ Shelby began, and Tiffanie’s heart flattened a bit, having long since hit rock bottom. Conversations regularly started like that. Shelby was a demon for springing surprises; some crucial detail she’d forgotten to mention, or some impromptu something she’d committed them to.

      ‘I’ve got a date tonight. I know it’s your first night out of your flat, but we’d probably end up watching something shite on the box and that’s boring. You’d only spend the night wallowing, so I figured we should all go out.’

      ‘What, like tag along on your date?’ Only Shelby could imagine this was a good idea. Being